Part 4

Hung, as you see--upon the line-- But when I laid the varnish on And left my two--Fate laughed, malign, "Farewell to that last hope of thine, Thy chance of painting them is gone!"

A DIRGE IN GRAY.

Larranagas! Thank you, thank you! Not a knife. I never use one-- I've the right thing on my watch-chain Which some fool or other gave me-- Takes the end off in a second-- Sharp as life bites off our pleasures.

See! The soft wreath upward curling, Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows; Blue as skies in mild October; Vague, elusive as delight is. Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow to When they're looked at by a dreamer!

Waves that moan--cold, gray, and curling, On a shore where gray rocks break them; Skies where gray and blue are blended As our life blends joy and sorrow. Angel wings, and smoke of battles, Lines of beauty, curved perfection!

Half-shut eyes see many marvels; Gazed at through one's half-closed lashes Wreaths of smoke take shapes uncanny-- Beckoning hands and warning fingers-- But the gray cloud always somehow Ends by looking like a woman.

Like a woman tall and slender, Gowned in gray, with eyes like twilight, Soft, and dreamy, and delicious. Through my half-shut eyes I see her-- Through my half-dead life am conscious Of her pure, perpetual presence.

Then the gray wreaths spread out broadly Till they make a level landscape, Toneless, dull, and very rainy-- And an open grave--I saw it. Through the rain I heard the falling Of the tears the heart sheds inly.

Oh, I saw it! I remember Leafless branches, dripping, dripping, Through a chill not born of Autumn. To that grave tends all my dreaming-- Oh, I saw it, I remember ... By that grave all dreaming ended!

THE WOMAN'S WORLD.

Oh! to be alone! To escape from the work, the play, The talking, everyday; To escape from all I have done, And all that remains to do. To escape, yes, even from you, My only love, and be Alone, and free.

Could I only stand Between gray moor and gray sky Where the winds and the plovers cry, And no man is at hand. And feel the free wind blow On my rain-wet face, and know I am free--not yours--but my own. Free--and alone!

For the soft fire-light And the home of your heart, my dear, They hurt--being always here. I want to stand up--upright And to cool my eyes in the air And to see how my back can bear Burdens--to try, to know, To learn, to grow!

I am only you! I am yours--part of you--your wife! And I have no other life. I cannot think, cannot do, I cannot breathe, cannot see; There is "us," but there is not "me"-- And worst, at your kiss, I grow Contented so.

THE LIGHTHOUSE.

Above the rocks, above the waves Shines the strong light that warns and saves. So you, too high for storm or strife, Light up the shipwreck of my life.

The lighthouse warns the wise, but these Not only sail the stormy seas; Towards the light the foolish steer And, drowning, read its meaning, dear.

And, if the lamp by chance allure Some foolish ship to death, be sure The lamp will to itself protest: "His be the blame! I did my best!"

TO A YOUNG POET.

Tired of work? Then drop away From the land of cheerful day! Pen the muse, and drive the pen If you'd stay with living men.

Fancy fails? Then pluck from those Gardens where her blossom blows; Trim the buds and wire them well, And your bouquet's sure to sell.

Write, write, write! Produce, produce! Write for sale, and not for use. This is a commercial age! Write! and fill your ledger page.

If your soul should droop and die, Bury it with undimmed eye. Never mind what memory says-- Soul's a thing that never pays!

THE TEMPTATION.

Let me go! I cannot be All you think me, pure and true: Those brave jewel-names crown you, They were trampled down by me.

Horrid ghosts rise up between You and me; I dare not pass! What might be is dead; what was Is its poison, O my Queen!

I should wither up your life, Blacken, blight its maiden flower; You would live to curse the hour When you made yourself my wife.

Yet, your hand held out, your eyes Pleading, longing, brimmed with tears ... I have lived in hell for years: Do not show me Paradise.

Lest I answer: "Take me, then! Take me, save me if you can, Worse than any other man, Loving more than other men."

THE BALLAD OF SIR HUGH.

The castle had been held in siege, While thrice three weeks went past, And still the foe no vantage gained And still our men stood fast.

We held the castle for our king Against our foes and his; Stout was our heart, as man's must be In such brave cause as this.

But Sir Hugh walked the castle wall, And oh! his heart was sore, For the foe held fast the only son His dead wife ever bore.

The castle gates were firm and fast, Strong was the castle wall, Yet bore Sir Hugh an aching heart For the thing that might befal.

He looked out to the pearly east, Ere day began to break: "God save my boy till evensong," He said, "for Mary's sake!"

He looked out on the western sky When the sun sank, blood-red: "God keep my son till morning light For His son's sake," he said.

And morn and eve, and noon and night, His heart one prayer did make: "God keep my boy, my little one, For his dear dead mother's sake!"

At last, worn out with bootless siege-- Our walls being tall and stout-- The rebel captain neared our gates With a flag of truce held out.

"A word, Sir Hugh, a word with you, Ere yet it be too late; We have a prisoner and would know What is to be his fate.

"Yield up your castle, or he dies! 'Tis thus the bargain stands: His body in our hands we hold, His life is in your hands!"

Sir Hugh looked down across the moat And, in the sunlight fair, He saw the child's blue, frightened eyes And tangled golden hair.

He saw the little arms held out; The little voice rang thin: "O father dear, undo the gates! O father--let me in!"

Sir Hugh leaned on the battlements; His voice rang strong and true: "My son--I cannot let thee in, As my heart bids me do;

"If I should open and let thee in, I let in, with thee, shame: And that thing never shall be done By one who bears our name!

"For honour and our king command And we must needs obey; So bear thee as a brave man's son, As I will do this day."

The boy looked up, his shoulders squared, Threw back his bright blond hair: "Father, I will not be the one To shame the name we bear.

"And, whatsoever they may do, Whether I live or die, I'll bear me as a brave man's son, For that, thank God, am I!"

Then spake Sir Hugh unto the foe, He spake full fierce and free: "Ye cowards, deem ye, ye have affair With cowards such as ye be?

"What? I must yield my castle up, Or else my son be slain? I trow ye never had to do Till now with honest men!

"'Tis but by traitors such as you That such foul deeds be done; Not to betray his king and cause Did I beget my son!

"My son was bred to wield the sword And hew down knaves like you, Or, at the least, die like a man, As he this day shall do!

"And, since ye lack a weapon meet To take so good a life (For your coward steel would stain his blood), Here--take his father's knife!"

With that he flung the long knife down From off the castle wall, It glimmered and gleamed in the brave sunlight, Full in the sight of all.

Sir Hugh passed down the turret stair, We held our breath in awe ... May my tongue wither ere it tell The damnèd work we saw!

* * * * *

When all was done, a shout went up From that accursèd crew, And from the chapel's silence dim Came forth in haste Sir Hugh.

"And what may mean this clamour and din?" "Sir Hugh, thy son is dead!" "I deemed the foe had entered in, But God is good!" he said.

We stood upon the topmost tower, Full in the setting sun; Shamed silence grew in the traitor's camp Now that foul deed was done.

See! on the hills the gleam of steel, Hark! threatening clarions ring, See! horse and foot and spear and shield And the banner of the king!

And in the camp of those without, Hot tumult and cold fear, For the traitor only dares be brave, Until his king be near!

We armed at speed, we sallied forth, Sir Hugh was at our head; He set his teeth and he marked his path By a line of traitors, dead.

He hacked his way straight to the churl Who did the boy to death, He swung his sword in his two strong hands And clove him to the teeth.

And while the blade was held in the bone, The caitiffs round him pressed, And he died, as one of his line should die, With three blades in his breast.

And when they told the king these things, He turned his head away, And said: "A braver man than I Has fallen for me this day!"

FEBRUARY.

The Spring's in the air-- Here, there, Everywhere! Though there's scarce a green tip to a bud, Spring laughs over hill and plain, As the sunlight turns the lane's mud To a splendour of copper one way, of silver the other; And longings one cannot smother, And delight that sings through the brain, Turn all one's life into glory-- 'Tis the old new ravishing story-- The Spring's here again!

When the leaves grew red And dead, We said: "See how much more fair Than the green leaves shimmering Are the mists and the tints of decay!" In the dainty dreamings that lighted the gray November, Did our hearts not remember The green woods--and linnets that sing? Ah, we knew Spring was lost, and pretended 'Twas Autumn we loved. Lies are ended; Thank God for the Spring!

APRIL.

Who calls the Autumn season drear? It was in Autumn that we met, When under foot dead leaves lay wet In the black London gardens, dear. The fog was yellow everywhere, And very thick in Finsbury Square, Where in those days we used to meet. I used to buy you violets sweet From flower-girls down by Moorgate Street. 'Twas Autumn then--can we forget?-- When first we met.

Who says that Spring is dear and fair? It is in Spring-time that we part, And weary heart from weary heart Turns, as the birds begin to pair. The sun shines on the golden dome, The primroses in baskets come, With daffodils in sheaves, to cheer The town with dreams of the crownèd year. We're both polite and insincere: Though neither says it, yet--at heart-- We mean to part.

JUNE.

Oh, I'm weary of the town, Where life's too hard for smiling--and the dreary houses frown, And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats Upon the miles of dusty roofs--the dreary squares and streets; This sun that gilds the great St. Paul's--the golden cross and dome, Is this the same that shines upon our little church at home?

Our little church is gray, It stands upon a hill-side--you can see it miles away, The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor. I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door, When all the wood and meadow with June's sunshine were ablaze,-- Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn't nowadays.

There are elm trees all around Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound, And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar, And you hear the low of cattle--where the red farm buildings are; Oh! on that grass to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune, And forget the cruel city--on this first blue day of June!

The grass is high--I know; And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow; But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day-- It would only be to count my dead--whom God has taken away. That graveyard where the daisies grow--not yet my heart can bear To pass that way--but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there!

JULY.

The night hardly covers the face of the sky, But the darkness is drawn Like a veil o'er the heaven these nights in July, A veil rent at dawn, When with exquisite tremors the poplar leaves quiver, And a breeze like a kiss wakes the slumbering river, And the light in the east keener grows--clearer grows, Till the edge of the clouds turn from pearl into rose, And o'er the hill's shoulder--the night wholly past-- The sun peeps at last!

Come out! there's a freshness that thrills like a song, That soothes like a sleep; And the scent of wild thyme on the air borne along, Where the downs slope up steep. There's such dew on the earth and such lights in the heaven, Lost joys are forgotten, old sorrows forgiven, And the old earth looks new--and our hearts seem new-born, And stripped of the cere-clothes which long they have worn-- And hope and brave purpose awaken anew 'Mid the sunshine and dew.

NOVEMBER.

Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by Across the gold sun and blue sky, Which still are there eternally. Above the sodden garden-bed Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead, Where the tall lily bent its head Over carnations white and red.

The leafless poplars, straight and tall, Stand by the gray-green garden wall, From which such rare fruit used to fall. In the verandah, where of old Sweet August spent the roses' gold, Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold.

And we, by cosy fireside, muse On what the Fates grant, what refuse; And what we waste and what we use. Summer returns--despite the rain That weeps against the window-pane. Who'd weep--'mid fame and golden gain-- For youth, that does not come again?

ROCHESTER CASTLE.

Blue sky, gray arches, and white, white cloud; Gray eyes, white hands, and a free, white crowd Of wheeling, whirling, fluttering things-- Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings. Thousands of pigeons all the year Fly in and out of the arches here.

What prisoned hands have torn at the stone Where your soft hand lies--oh my heart!--alone? What prisoned eyes have grown blind with tears To see what we see after all these years-- The free, broad river go smoothly by And the free, blithe birds 'neath the free, blue sky?

And now--O Time, how you work your will! --The pitiless walls are standing still, But the wall-flowers blossom on every ledge, And the wild rose garlands the walls' sheer edge, And where once the imprisoned heart beat low, The beautiful pigeons fly to and fro!

In the sad, stern arches they build and pair, As happy as dreams and as free as air, And sorrow and longing and life-long pain Man brings not into these walls again; And yet--O my love, with the face of flowers-- What do we bring in these hearts of ours?

RUCKINGE CHURCH.

"And we said how dreary and desolate and forlorn the church was, and how long it was since any music but that of the moth-eaten harmonium and the heartless mixed choir had sounded there. And we said: 'Poor old church! it will never hear any true music any more'. Then she turned to us from the door of the Lady Chapel, which was plastered and whitewashed, and had a stove and the Evangelical Almanac in it, and her eyes were full of tears. And, standing there, she sang 'Ave Maria'--it was Gounod's music, I think--with her voice and her face like an angel's. And while she sang a stranger came to the church door and stood listening, but he did not see us. Only we saw that he loved her singing. And he went away as soon as the hymn was ended, we also soon following, and the church was left lonely as before."--_Extract from our Diary._

The boat crept slowly through the water-weeds That greenly cover all the waterways, Between high banks where ranks of sedge and reeds Sigh one sad secret all their quiet days, Through grasses, water-mint and rushes green And flags and strange wet blossoms, only seen Where man so seldom comes, so briefly stays.

From the high bank the sheep looked calmly down, Unscared to see my boat and me go by; The elm trees showed their dress of golden brown To winds that should disrobe them presently; And a marsh sunset flamed across the wold, And the still water caught the lavished gold, The primrose and the purple of the sky.

The boat pressed ever through the weeds and sedge Which, rustling, clung her steadfast prow around; The iris nodded at the water's edge, Bats in the elm trees made a ghostly sound; With whirring wings a wild duck sprang to sight And flew, black-winged, towards the crimson light, Leaving my solitude the more profound.

We moved towards the church, my boat and I-- The church that at the marsh edge stands alone; It caught the reflex of the sunset sky On golden-lichened roof and gray-green stone. Through snow and shower and sunshine it had stood In the thronged graveyard's infinite solitude, While many a year had come, and flowered, and gone.

From the marsh-meadow to the field of graves But just a step, across a lichened wall. Thick o'er the happy dead the marsh grass waves, And cloudy wreaths of marsh mist gather and fall, And the marsh sunsets shed their gold and red Over still hearts that once in torment fed At Life's intolerable festival.

The plaster of the porch has fallen away From the lean stones, that now are all awry, And through the chinks a shooting ivy spray Creeps in--sad emblem of fidelity-- And wreathes with life the pillars and the beams Hewn long ago--with, ah! what faith and dreams!-- By men whose faith and dreams have long gone by.

The rusty key, the heavy rotten door, The dead, unhappy air, the pillars green With mould and damp, the desecrated floor With bricks and boards where tombstones should have been And were once; all the musty, dreary chill-- They strike a shudder through my being still When memory lights again that lightless scene.

And where the altar stood, and where the Christ Reached out His arms to all the world, there stood Law-tables, as if love had not sufficed To all the world has ever known of good! Our Lady's chapel was a lightless shrine; There was no human heart and no divine, No odour of prayer, no altar, and no rood.

There was no scent of incense in the air, No sense of all the past breathed through the aisle, The white glass windows turned to mocking glare The lovely sunset's gracious rosy smile. A vault, a tomb wherein was laid to sleep All that a man might give his life to keep If only for an instant's breathing while!

Cold with my rage against the men who held At such cheap rate the labours of the dead, My heart within me sank, while o'er it swelled A sadness that would not be comforted; An awe came on me, and I seemed to face The invisible spirit of the dreary place, To hear the unheard voice of it, which said:--

"Is love, then, dead upon earth? Ah! who shall tell or be told What my walls were once worth When men worked for love, not for gold? Each stone was made to hold A heartful of love and faith; Now love and faith are dead, Dead are the prayers that are said, Nothing is living but Death!

"Oh for the old glad days, Incense thick in the air, Passion of thanks and of praise, Passion of trust and of prayer! Ah! the old days were fair, Love on the earth was then, Strong were men's souls, and brave: Those men lie in the grave, They will live not again!

"Then all my arches rang With music glorious and sweet, Men's souls burned as they sang, Tears fell down at their feet, Hearts with the Christ-heart beat, Hands in men's hands held fast; Union and brotherhood were! Ah! the old days were fair, Therefore the old days passed.

"Then, when later there came Hatred, anger and strife, The sword blood-red and the flame And the stake and contempt of life, Husband severed from wife, Hearts with the Christ-heart bled: Through the worst of the fight Still the old fire burned bright, Still the old faith was not dead.

"Though they tore my Christ from the cross, And mocked at the Mother of Grace, And broke my windows across, Defiling the holy place-- Children of death and disgrace! They spat on the altar stone, They tore down and trampled the rood, Stained my pillars with blood, Left me lifeless, alone--

"Yet, when my walls were left Robbed of all beauty and bare, Still God cancelled the theft, The soul of the thing was there. In my damp, unwindowed air Fugitives stopped to pray, And their prayers were splendid to hear, Like the sound of a storm that is near-- And love was not dead that day.

"Then the birds of the air built nests In these empty shadows of mine, And the warmth of their brooding breasts Still warmed the untended shrine. His creatures are all divine; He is praised by the woodland throng, And my old walls echoed and heard The passionate praising word, And love still lived in their song.

"Then came the Protestant crew And made me the thing you have known-- Whitewashed and plastered me new, Covered my marble and stone-- Could they not leave me alone? Vain was the cry, for they trod Over my tombs, and I saw Books and the Tables of Law Set in the place of my God.

"And love is dead, so it seems! Shall I never hear again The music of heaven and of dreams, Songs of ideals of men? Great dreams and songs we had then, Now I but hear from the wood Cry of a bat or a bird. Oh for love's passionate word Sent from men's hearts to the Good!

"Sometimes men come, and they sing, But I know not their song nor their voice; They have no hearts they can bring, They have no souls to rejoice, Theirs is but folly and noise. Oh for a voice that could sing Songs to the Queen of the blest, Hymns to the Dearest and Best, Songs to our Master, her King!"