Part 1

MY LATTICE

AND OTHER POEMS

MY LATTICE

_AND OTHER POEMS_

BY

FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT

AUTHOR OF “THE SOUL’S QUEST, AND OTHER POEMS,” “ELTON HAZLEWOOD,” ETC.

TORONTO:

WILLIAM BRIGGS.

C. W. COATES, Montreal. S. F. HUESTIS, Halifax.

1894.

Entered according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-four, by WILLIAM BRIGGS, Toronto, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture, at Ottawa.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

MY LATTICE 1

SAMSON 4

IN VIA MORTIS 9

THOR 14

THE FEUD 31

THE FRENZY OF PROMETHEUS 34

NATURA VICTRIX 40

THE ABBOT 47

DION 61

LOVE SLIGHTED 72

ANDANTE 74

SORROW’S WAKING 75

ON AN OLD VENETIAN PORTRAIT 76

OLD LETTERS 78

VAN ELSEN 80

IN MEMORIAM 81

THE EVERLASTING FATHER 82

THE STING OF DEATH 84

TE JUDICE 86

THE TWO MISTRESSES 88

IN THE WOODS 89

CALVARY 90

AT LAUDS 93

IN THE CHURCHYARD 94

THE CRIPPLE 95

A NOCTURNE 96

SONNETS.

TO MY WIFE 101

A CYPRESS WREATH 102

COLUMBUS 105

IDOLS 106

SOLOMON 107

OUT OF THE STORM 108

MY LATTICE.

_MY LATTICE._

My lattice looks upon the North, The winds are cool that enter; At night I see the stars come forth, Arcturus in the centre.

The curtain down my casement drawn Is dewy mist, which lingers Until my maid, the rosy dawn, Uplifts it with her fingers.

The sparrows are my matin-bell, Each day my heart rejoices, When, from the trellis where they dwell, They call me with their voices.

Then, as I dream with half-shut eye, Without a sound or motion, To me that little square of sky Becomes a boundless ocean.

And straight my soul unfurls its sails That blue sky-sea to sever, My fancies are the noiseless gales That waft it on forever.

I sail into the depths of space And leave the clouds behind me, I pass the old moon’s hiding-place, The sun’s rays cannot find me.

I sail beyond the solar light, Beyond the constellations, Across the voids where loom in sight New systems and creations.

I pass great worlds of silent stone, Whence light and life have vanished, Which wander on to tracts unknown, In lonely exile banished.

I meet with spheres of fiery mist Which warm me as I enter, Where--ruby, gold and amethyst-- The rainbow lights concentre.

And on I sail into the vast, New wonders aye discerning, Until my mind is lost at last, And, suddenly returning,

I feel the wind which, cool as dew, Upon my face is falling, And see again my patch of blue And hear the sparrows calling.

_SAMSON._

Plunged in night, I sit alone Eyeless on this dungeon stone, Naked, shaggy and unkempt, Dreaming dreams no soul hath dreamt.

Rats and vermin round my feet Play unharmed, companions sweet; Spiders weave me overhead Silken curtains for my bed.

Day by day the mould I smell Of this fungus-blistered cell; Nightly in my haunted sleep O’er my face the lizards creep.

Gyves of iron scrape and burn Wrists and ankles when I turn, And my collared neck is raw With the teeth of brass that gnaw.

God of Israel, canst Thou see All my fierce captivity? Do Thy sinews feel my pains? Hearest Thou the clanking chains?

Thou who madest me so fair, Strong and buoyant as the air, Tall and noble as a tree, With the passions of the sea,

Swift as horse upon my feet, Fierce as lion in my heat, Rending, like a wisp of hay, All that dared withstand my way,

Canst Thou see me through the gloom Of this subterranean tomb,-- Blinded tiger in his den, Once the lord and prince of men?

Clay was I; the potter Thou With Thy thumb-nail smooth’dst my brow, Roll’dst the spittle-moistened sands Into limbs between Thy hands.

Thou didst pour into my blood Fury of the fire and flood, And upon the boundless skies Thou didst first unclose my eyes.

And my breath of life was flame, God-like from the source it came, Whirling round like furious wind, Thoughts upgathered in the mind.

Strong Thou mad’st me, till at length All my weakness was my strength; Tortured am I, blind and wrecked, For a faulty architect.

From the woman at my side, Was I woman-like to hide What she asked me, as if fear Could my iron heart come near?

Nay, I scorned and scorn again Cowards who their tongues restrain; Cared I no more for Thy laws Than a wind of scattered straws.

When the earth quaked at my name And my blood was all aflame, Who was I to lie, and cheat Her who clung about my feet?

From Thy open nostrils blow Wind and tempest, rain and snow; Dost Thou curse them on their course, For the fury of their force?

Tortured am I, wracked and bowed, But the soul within is proud; Dungeon fetters cannot still Forces of the tameless will.

Israel’s God, come down and see All my fierce captivity; Let Thy sinews feel my pains, With Thy fingers lift my chains.

Then, with thunder loud and wild, Comfort Thou Thy rebel child, And with lightning split in twain Loveless heart and sightless brain.

Give me splendour in my death-- Not this sickening dungeon breath, Creeping down my blood like slime, Till it wastes me in my prime.

Give me back for one blind hour, Half my former rage and power, And some giant crisis send, Meet to prove a hero’s end.

Then, O God, Thy mercy show-- Crush him in the overthrow At whose life they scorn and point, By its greatness out of joint.

_IN VIA MORTIS._

O ye great company of dead that sleep Under the world’s green rind, I come to you, With warm, soft limbs, with eyes that laugh and weep, Heart strong to love, and brain pierced through and through With thoughts whose rapid lightnings make my day-- To you my life-stream courses on its way Through margin-shallows of the eternal deep.

And naked shall I come among you, shorn Of all life’s vanities, its light and power, Its earthly lusts, its petty hate and scorn, The gifts and gold I treasured for an hour; And even from this house of flesh laid bare,-- A soul transparent as heat-quivering air, Into your fellowship I shall be born.

I know you not, great forms of giant kings, Who held dominion in your iron hands, Who toyed with battles and all valorous things, Counting yourselves as gods when on the sands Ye piled the earth’s rock fragments in an heap To mark and guard the grandeur of your sleep, And quaffed the cup which death, our mother, brings.

I know you not, great warriors, who have fought When blood flowed like a river at your feet, And each death which your thunderous sword-strokes wrought, Than love’s wild rain of kisses was more sweet. I know you not, great minds, who with the pen Have graven on the fiery hearts of men Hopes that breed hope and thoughts that kindle thought.

But ye are there, ingathered in the realm Where tongueless spirits speak from heart to heart, And eyeless mariners without a helm Steer down the seas where ever close and part The windless clouds; and all ye know is this, Ye are not as ye were in pain or bliss, But a strange numbness doth all thought o’erwhelm.

And I shall meet you, O ye mighty dead, Come late into your kingdom through the gates Of one fierce anguish whitherto I tread, With heart that now forgets, now meditates Upon the wide fields stretching far away Where the dead wander past the bounds of day, Past life, past death, past every pain and dread.

Oft, when the winter sun slopes down to rest Across the long, crisp fields of gilded white, And without sound upon earth’s level breast The grey tide floods around of drowning night, A whisper, like a distant battle’s roll Heard over mountains, creeps into my soul, And there I entertain it like a guest.

It is the echo of your former pains, Great dead, who lie so still beneath the ground; Its voice is as the night wind after rains, The flight of eagle wings which once were bound, And as I listen in the starlit air My spirit waxeth stronger than despair, Till in your might I break life’s prison chains.

Then mount I swiftly to your dark abodes, Invisible, beyond sight’s reach, where now ye dwell In houses wrought of dreams on dusky roads Which lead in mazes whither none may tell, For they who thread them faint beside the way. And ever as they pass through twilight grey Doubt walks beside them and a terror goads.

And there the great dead welcome me and bring Their cups of tasteless pleasure to my mouth; Here am I little worth, there am I king, For pulsing life still slakes my spirit’s drouth, And he who yet doth hold the gift of life Is mightier than the heroes of past strife Who have been mowed in death’s great harvesting.

And here and there along the silent streets I see some face I knew, perchance I loved; And as I call it each blank wall repeats The uttered name, and swift the form hath moved And heedless of me passes on and on, Till lo, the vision from my sight hath gone Softly as night at touch of dawn retreats.

Yet must life’s vision fade and I shall come, O mighty dead, into your hidden land, When these eyes see not and these lips are dumb, And all life’s flowers slip from this nerveless hand; Then will ye gather round me like a tide And with your faces the strange scenery hide, While your weird music doth each sense benumb.

So would I live this life’s brief span, great dead, As ye once lived it, with an iron will, A heart of steel to conquer, a mind fed On richest hopes and purposes, until Well pleased ye set for me a royal throne, And welcome as confederate with your own The soul gone from me on my dying bed.

_THOR._

Here stood the great god Thor, There he planted his foot, And the whole world shook, from the shore To the circle of mountains God put For its crown in the days of yore.

The waves of the sea uprose, The trees of the wood were uptorn, Down from the Alps’ crown of snows The glacial avalanche borne Thundered at daylight’s close.

But the moon-lady curled at his feet, Like a smoke which will not stir, When the summer hills swoon with the heat, Till his passion was centred on her, And the shame of his yielding grew sweet.

Empty the moon-lady’s car, And idly it floated away, Tipped up as she left it afar, Pale in the red death of day, With its nether lip turned to a star.

Fearful the face of the god, Stubborn with sense of his power, The seas would roll back at his nod And the thunder-voiced thunder-clouds lower, While the lightning he broke as a rod.

Fearful his face was in war, Iron with fixed look of hate, Through the battle-smoke thick and the roar He strode with invincible weight Till the legions fell back before Thor.

But the white thing that curled at his feet Rose up slowly beside him like mist, Indefinite, wan, incomplete, Till she touched the rope veins on his wrist And love pulsed to his heart with a beat.

Then he looked, and from under her hair, As from out of a mist grew her eyes, And firmer her flesh was and fair With the tint of the sorrowful skies, Sun-widowed and veiled with thin air.

She seemed of each lovable thing The soul that infused it with grace, Her thoughts were the song the birds sing, The glory of flowers was her face And her smile was the smile of the spring.

Madly his blood with a bound Leaped from his heart to his brain, Till his thoughts and his senses were drowned In the ache of a longing like pain, In a hush that was louder than sound.

Then the god, bending his face, “Loveliest,” said he, “if death Mocked me with skulls in this place And age and spent strength and spent breath, Yet would I yield to thy grace; “Yet would I circle thee, love, With these arms which are smoking from wars, Though the father up-gathered above, In his anger, each ocean that roars, Each boulder the cataracts shove,

“To hurl at me down from his throne, Though the flood were as wide as the sky. Yea, love, I am thine, all thine own, Strong as the ocean to lie Slave to thy bidding alone.”

Folds of her vesture fell soft, As she lifted her eyes up to his: “Nay, love, for a man speaketh oft In words that are hot as a kiss, But man’s love may be donned and be doft.”

“Love would have life for its field-- Love would have death for its goal; And the passion of war must yield To the passion of love in the soul, And the eyes that Love kisses are sealed.”

“Wouldst thou love if the scorn of the world Covered thy head with its briars; When, soft as an infant curled In its cradle, thou, chained with desires, Lay helpless when flags were unfurled?”

Fiercely the god’s anger broke, Fired with the flames in his blood: “Who careth what words may be spoke? For the feet of this love is a flood, And its finger the weight of a yoke.

“I bow me, sweet, under its power, I, who have stooped to none; I bring thee my strength for a dower, And deeds like the path of the sun; I am thine for an age or an hour.”

Then the moon-lady softly unwound The girdle of arms interlaced, And the gold of her tresses unbound, Till it fell from her head to her waist, And then from her waist to the ground.

“Love, thou art mine, thou art mine,” Softly she uttered a spell; “Under the froth is the wine, Under the ocean is hell, Over the ocean stars shine.

“Lull him, ye winds of the South, Charm him, ye rivers that sing, Flowers be the kiss on his mouth, Let his heart be the heart of the spring, And his passion the hot summer drouth.”

Swiftly extending her hands, She made a gold dome of her hair; Dumb with amazement he stands, Till down, without noise in the air, The moon-car descends to the sands.

He taketh her fingers in his, Shorn of his strength and his will; His brave heart trembles with bliss-- Trembles and will not be still, Mad with the wine of her kiss.

They mount in the car, and its beams Shoot over the sea and the earth, And clothe in a net-work of dreams The mountains where rivers have birth, And the lakes that are fed by the streams.

Swiftly ascending, the car Silvers the clouds in its flight, Piercing the ether afar Up to a bridge out of sight That skirteth the path of a star.

One end of the bridge lay on land, The other hung over the deep; It was fashioned of ropes of grey sand, And cemented together with sleep, With its undergirths formed like a hand.

Pleasant the land to the sight, Laden with blossoms and trees, And the grasses to left and to right Waved in the wind like the seas, When the blue day is high in the height.

Under the breezy bowers Cushions of moss were laid, And ever through sultry hours Fairy-like fountains played, Cooling the earth with their showers.

The horizon was crowned with blue hills, And woodland and meadowland lay Lit with the glory which thrills Souls in some dreamland way, Where the nightingales sing to the rills.

Deer and the white kine feed On the foam-fretted shores of the lake, And through many a flowery mead, And from many a forest and brake, The gold birds of paradise speed.

The lissome moon-lady led on Up to a bower on a hill With the flowers at its door rained upon By a fountain as constant and still As the bow in the cloud that has gone.

“O love, thou art weary,” she said, “Who erst wast so valiant and strong, And here will I make thee a bed, And here will I sing thee a song To the tune of the leaves overhead.

“And here will thy great strength flow, Melted away in the sweet, Soft touch of ineffable woe, Which is heart of the joy made complete, And the taste of the pleasure we know.”

Where the mosses were piled in a heap, He laid his giant form down, And she charmed all his senses to sleep, With her hands on his head like a crown, Till the sound of his breathing was deep.

With a noise like a serpent’s hiss, The moon-lady bent her head, And she sucked out his breath with a kiss-- A kiss that was subtle and dread, Like the sorrow which lurks in a bliss.

Then she rose and waved her hands In circles over the sod, And her gold hair wove in strands Round the limbs of the sleeping god, With the strength of adamant bands.

She opened the great, clenched fist, And softly the lady withdrew, Was it only a serpent that hissed? For her face is transparent as dew, And her garments are thin as the mist.

Spell-bound on the dreamland floor, Chained with the golden hair, Weak as a babe lay Thor, While the fountain played soft in the air, And the nightingales sang evermore.

Like a babe in its cradle curled, He was chained with his chain of desires, Though they needed his arm in the world, For the battle-strife raged, and its fires And the flags of the gods were unfurled.

Then Odin, the father of Heaven, Called a council of gods on high, To each was a white cloud given At the foot of his throne in the sky, And the steps of his throne were seven.

“Children,” the father cried, “Lost is the great god Thor, Lost is the sword at his side, Lost is his arm in the war, And the fury which all things defied.

“In the heart of a dreamland bower, Sleepeth he under a spell, For he yielded his strength for an hour, And under the meshes of Hell He is chained by invincible power.

“None may the meshes unbind; Strength must return to his will, And himself must unshackle his mind From the dreams he is dreaming still, In the moon-lady’s tresses entwined.

“Over the mountains the road, Dismal and drear to return, Face it he must with his load, Though the underbrakes crackle and burn, Though the serpent-bites blister and goad.

“Not a mere shadow is sin, Clinging like wine to the lip, To be wiped from the mouth and the chin After man taketh a sip; But a poison that lurketh within.

“The forces that hold back the sea, That grapple the earth from beneath, Are not older than those which decree The marriage of sin unto death In the sinner, whoever he be.

“Who of our numbers will go Up to the death-tainted land, Braving the dangers, and so Reaching the heart and the hand And the form of the god lying low?”

“Sire,” answered Balder the fair, “Rugged the journey and long, Manifold dangers are there, But my heart and my arms are strong, And my soul is as pure as the air.

“I will go, for we need him in war, And without him we struggle and die; I will put on the armour he bore And gird on his sword to my thigh; I will sit by and say, ‘I am Thor.’

“Perchance when he opens his eyes, Shorn of his own armour-plate, Smitten with rage and surprise, Burning with anger and hate, He will burst from the bed where he lies.

“Swift as the kiss of the fire, Knowledge shall flash to his brain, And the thought of his past self inspire His spirit with valour again, Till he shatter the bonds of desire.”

So Balder, the fairest of all, And purest of gods by the throne, Went from the heavenly hall Into the darkness alone, To loosen the god from his thrall.

Black was the charger he rode, Winged, and its eye-balls of fire; From mountain to mountain it trode, Spurning the valleys as mire, Till it sprang into air with its load.

Then swift, with its neck side-curled, Half hid in the smoke of its breath, Upward it bounded, and hurled Volleys and splinters of death From the fire of its hoofs on the world.

The moon-lady leaned from her car And beheld the fierce course of the god, For, as though with the birth of a star, A fire track as straight as a rod Burnt in the heavens afar.

Then she trembled and sickened with fear, Till her face grew as white as the mist When at day-dawn the stars disappear, And her body did coil and untwist Like a serpent’s folds caught in a weir.

Her heart was a fire that was spent, Her lips could not utter a charm, And she cowered from his sight as he went, While Balder flew by without harm, ’Neath the shield of a pure intent.

He came to the moon-lady’s bower, And girded the sword to his thigh, And put on the cincture of power, Unbound from the god lying by, Nor waited a day nor an hour;

For, startled, the sleeper awoke, Black-visaged, like storm on the skies; But Balder sat upright, nor spoke, Till the flames darted out of Thor’s eyes, And the passionate silence he broke.

“Who is it, when dreaming is o’er, Mocks me with helm like to mine, Ungirding the armour I bore, From the sweet silken nets that entwine?” Quoth Balder, “Behold! I am Thor.