Chapter 2

All vain restrictions left behind, Frail bark! I loose my anchored mind And large, before the prosperous wind Desert the strand— A new Columbus sworn to find The morning land.

Nor too ambitious, friend. To thee I own my weakness. Not for me To sing the enfranchised nations’ glee, Or count the cost Of warships foundered far at sea And battles lost.

High on the far-seen, sunny hills, Morning-content my bosom fills; Well-pleased, I trace the wandering rills And learn their birth. Far off, the clash of sovereign wills May shake the earth.

The nimble circuit of the wheel, The uncertain poise of merchant weal, Heaven of famine, fire and steel When nations fall; These, heedful, from afar I feel— I mark them all.

But not, my friend, not these I sing, My voice shall fill a narrower ring. Tired souls, that flag upon the wing, I seek to cheer: Brave wines to strengthen hope I bring, Life’s cantineer!

Some song that shall be suppling oil To weary muscles strained with toil, Shall hearten for the daily moil, Or widely read Make sweet for him that tills the soil His daily bread.

Such songs in my flushed hours I dream (High thought) instead of armour gleam Or warrior cantos ream by ream To load the shelves— Songs with a lilt of words, that seem To sing themselves.

HAD I THE POWER THAT HAVE THE WILL

HAD I the power that have the will, The enfeebled will—a modern curse— This book of mine should blossom still A perfect garden-ground of verse.

White placid marble gods should keep Good watch in every shadowy lawn; And from clean, easy-breathing sleep The birds should waken me at dawn.

—A fairy garden;—none the less Throughout these gracious paths of mine All day there should be free access For stricken hearts and lives that pine;

And by the folded lawns all day— No idle gods for such a land— All active Love should take its way With active Labour hand in hand.

O DULL COLD NORTHERN SKY

O DULL cold northern sky, O brawling sabbath bells, O feebly twittering Autumn bird that tells The year is like to die!

O still, spoiled trees, O city ways, O sun desired in vain, O dread presentiment of coming rain That cloys the sullen days!

Thee, heart of mine, I greet. In what hard mountain pass Striv’st thou? In what importunate morass Sink now thy weary feet?

Thou run’st a hopeless race To win despair. No crown Awaits success, but leaden gods look down On thee, with evil face.

And those that would befriend And cherish thy defeat, With angry welcome shall turn sour the sweet Home-coming of the end.

Yea, those that offer praise To idleness, shall yet Insult thee, coming glorious in the sweat Of honourable ways.

APOLOGETIC POSTSCRIPT OF A YEAR LATER

IF you see this song, my dear, And last year’s toast, I’m confoundedly in fear You’ll be serious and severe About the boast.

Blame not that I sought such aid To cure regret. I was then so lowly laid I used all the Gasconnade That I could get.

Being snubbed is somewhat smart, Believe, my sweet; And I needed all my art To restore my broken heart To its conceit.

Come and smile, dear, and forget I boasted so, I apologise—regret— It was all a jest;—and—yet— I do not know.

TO MARCUS

YOU have been far, and I Been farther yet, Since last, in foul or fair An impecunious pair, Below this northern sky Of ours, we met.

Now winter night shall see Again us two, While howls the tempest higher, Sit warmly by the fire And dream and plan, as we Were wont to do.

And, hand in hand, at large Our thoughts shall walk While storm and gusty rain, Again and yet again, Shall drive their noisy charge Across the talk.

The pleasant future still Shall smile to me, And hope with wooing hands Wave on to fairy lands All over dale and hill And earth and sea.

And you who doubt the sky And fear the sun— You—Christian with the pack— You shall not wander back For I am Hopeful—I Will cheer you on.

Come—where the great have trod, The great shall lead— Come, elbow through the press, Pluck Fortune by the dress— By God, we must—by God, We shall succeed.

TO OTTILIE

YOU remember, I suppose, How the August sun arose, And how his face Woke to trill and carolette All the cages that were set About the place.

In the tender morning light All around lay strange and bright And still and sweet, And the gray doves unafraid Went their morning promenade Along the street.

THIS GLOOMY NORTHERN DAY

THIS gloomy northern day, Or this yet gloomier night, Has moved a something high In my cold heart; and I, That do not often pray, Would pray to-night.

And first on Thee I call For bread, O God of might! Enough of bread for all,— That through the famished town Cold hunger may lie down With none to-night.

I pray for hope no less, Strong-sinewed hope, O Lord, That to the struggling young May preach with brazen tongue Stout Labour, high success, And bright reward.

And last, O Lord, I pray For hearts resigned and bold To trudge the dusty way— Hearts stored with song and joke And warmer than a cloak Against the cold.

If nothing else he had, He who has this, has all. This comforts under pain; This, through the stinging rain, Keeps ragamuffin glad Behind the wall.

This makes the sanded inn A palace for a Prince, And this, when griefs begin And cruel fate annoys, Can bring to mind the joys Of ages since.

THE WIND IS WITHOUT THERE AND HOWLS IN THE TREES

THE wind is without there and howls in the trees, And the rain-flurries drum on the glass: Alone by the fireside with elbows on knees I can number the hours as they pass. Yet now, when to cheer me the crickets begin, And my pipe is just happily lit, Believe me, my friend, tho’ the evening draws in, That not all uncontested I sit.

Alone, did I say? O no, nowise alone With the Past sitting warm on my knee, To gossip of days that are over and gone, But still charming to her and to me. With much to be glad of and much to deplore, Yet, as these days with those we compare, Believe me, my friend, tho’ the sorrows seem more They are somehow more easy to bear.

And thou, faded Future, uncertain and frail, As I cherish thy light in each draught, His lamp is not more to the miner—their sail Is not more to the crew on the raft. For Hope can make feeble ones earnest and brave, And, as forth thro’ the years I look on, Believe me, my friend, between this and the grave, I see wonderful things to be done.

To do or to try; and, believe me, my friend, If the call should come early for me, I can leave these foundations uprooted, and tend For some new city over the sea. To do or to try; and if failure be mine, And if Fortune go cross to my plan, Believe me, my friend, tho’ I mourn the design I shall never lament for the man.

A VALENTINE’S SONG

MOTLEY I count the only wear That suits, in this mixed world, the truly wise, Who boldly smile upon despair And shake their bells in Grandam Grundy’s eyes. Singers should sing with such a goodly cheer That the bare listening should make strong like wine, At this unruly time of year, The Feast of Valentine.

We do not now parade our “oughts” And “shoulds” and motives and beliefs in God. Their life lies all indoors; sad thoughts Must keep the house, while gay thoughts go abroad, Within we hold the wake for hopes deceased; But in the public streets, in wind or sun, Keep open, at the annual feast, The puppet-booth of fun.

Our powers, perhaps, are small to please, But even negro-songs and castanettes, Old jokes and hackneyed repartees Are more than the parade of vain regrets. Let Jacques stand Wert(h)ering by the wounded deer— We shall make merry, honest friends of mine, At this unruly time of year, The Feast of Valentine.

I know how, day by weary day, Hope fades, love fades, a thousand pleasures fade. I have not trudged in vain that way On which life’s daylight darkens, shade by shade. And still, with hopes decreasing, griefs increased, Still, with what wit I have shall I, for one, Keep open, at the annual feast, The puppet-booth of fun.

I care not if the wit be poor, The old worn motley stained with rain and tears, If but the courage still endure That filled and strengthened hope in earlier years; If still, with friends averted, fate severe, A glad, untainted cheerfulness be mine To greet the unruly time of year, The Feast of Valentine.

Priest, I am none of thine, and see In the perspective of still hopeful youth That Truth shall triumph over thee— Truth to one’s self—I know no other truth. I see strange days for thee and thine, O priest, And how your doctrines, fallen one by one, Shall furnish at the annual feast The puppet-booth of fun.

Stand on your putrid ruins—stand, White neck-clothed bigot, fixedly the same, Cruel with all things but the hand, Inquisitor in all things but the name. Back, minister of Christ and source of fear— We cherish freedom—back with thee and thine From this unruly time of year, The Feast of Valentine.

Blood thou mayest spare; but what of tears? But what of riven households, broken faith— Bywords that cling through all men’s years And drag them surely down to shame and death? Stand back, O cruel man, O foe of youth, And let such men as hearken not thy voice Press freely up the road to truth, The King’s highway of choice.

HAIL! CHILDISH SLAVES OF SOCIAL RULES

HAIL! Childish slaves of social rules You had yourselves a hand in making! How I could shake your faith, ye fools, If but I thought it worth the shaking. I see, and pity you; and then Go, casting off the idle pity, In search of better, braver men, My own way freely through the city.

My own way freely, and not yours; And, careless of a town’s abusing, Seek real friendship that endures Among the friends of my own choosing. I’ll choose my friends myself, do you hear? And won’t let Mrs. Grundy do it, Tho’ all I honour and hold dear And all I hope should move me to it.

I take my old coat from the shelf— I am a man of little breeding. And only dress to please myself— I own, a very strange proceeding. I smoke a pipe abroad, because To all cigars I much prefer it, And as I scorn your social laws My choice has nothing to deter it.

Gladly I trudge the footpath way, While you and yours roll by in coaches In all the pride of fine array, Through all the city’s thronged approaches. O fine religious, decent folk, In Virtue’s flaunting gold and scarlet, I sneer between two puffs of smoke,— Give me the publican and harlot.

Ye dainty-spoken, stiff, severe Seed of the migrated Philistian, One whispered question in your ear— Pray, what was Christ, if you be Christian? If Christ were only here just now, Among the city’s wynds and gables Teaching the life he taught us, how Would he be welcome to your tables?

I go and leave your logic-straws, Your former-friends with face averted, Your petty ways and narrow laws, Your Grundy and your God, deserted. From your frail ark of lies, I flee I know not where, like Noah’s raven. Full to the broad, unsounded sea I swim from your dishonest haven.

Alone on that unsounded deep, Poor waif, it may be I shall perish, Far from the course I thought to keep, Far from the friends I hoped to cherish. It may be that I shall sink, and yet Hear, thro’ all taunt and scornful laughter, Through all defeat and all regret, The stronger swimmers coming after.

SWALLOWS TRAVEL TO AND FRO

SWALLOWS travel to and fro, And the great winds come and go, And the steady breezes blow, Bearing perfume, bearing love. Breezes hasten, swallows fly, Towered clouds forever ply, And at noonday, you and I See the same sunshine above.

Dew and rain fall everywhere, Harvests ripen, flowers are fair, And the whole round earth is bare To the moonshine and the sun; And the live air, fanned with wings, Bright with breeze and sunshine, brings Into contact distant things, And makes all the countries one.

Let us wander where we will, Something kindred greets us still; Something seen on vale or hill Falls familiar on the heart; So, at scent or sound or sight, Severed souls by day and night Tremble with the same delight— Tremble, half the world apart.

TO MESDAMES ZASSETSKY AND GARSCHINE

THE wind may blaw the lee-gang way And aye the lift be mirk an’ gray, An deep the moss and steigh the brae Where a’ maun gang— There’s still an hoor in ilka day For luve and sang.

And canty hearts are strangely steeled. By some dikeside they’ll find a bield, Some couthy neuk by muir or field They’re sure to hit, Where, frae the blatherin’ wind concealed, They’ll rest a bit.

An’ weel for them if kindly fate Send ower the hills to them a mate; They’ll crack a while o’ kirk an’ State, O’ yowes an’ rain: An’ when it’s time to take the gate, Tak’ ilk his ain.

—Sic neuk beside the southern sea I soucht—sic place o’ quiet lee Frae a’ the winds o’ life. To me, Fate, rarely fair, Had set a freendly company To meet me there.

Kindly by them they gart me sit, An’ blythe was I to bide a bit. Licht as o’ some hame fireside lit My life for me. —Ower early maun I rise an’ quit This happy lee.

TO MADAME GARSCHINE

WHAT is the face, the fairest face, till Care, Till Care the graver—Care with cunning hand, Etches content thereon and makes it fair, Or constancy, and love, and makes it grand?

MUSIC AT THE VILLA MARINA

FOR some abiding central source of power, Strong-smitten steady chords, ye seem to flow And, flowing, carry virtue. Far below, The vain tumultuous passions of the hour Fleet fast and disappear; and as the sun Shines on the wake of tempests, there is cast O’er all the shattered ruins of my past A strong contentment as of battles won.

And yet I cry in anguish, as I hear The long drawn pageant of your passage roll Magnificently forth into the night. To yon fair land ye come from, to yon sphere Of strength and love where now ye shape your flight, O even wings of music, bear my soul!

Ye have the power, if but ye had the will, Strong-smitten steady chords in sequence grand, To bear me forth into that tranquil land Where good is no more ravelled up with ill; Where she and I, remote upon some hill Or by some quiet river’s windless strand, May live, and love, and wander hand in hand, And follow nature simply, and be still.

From this grim world, where, sadly, prisoned, we Sit bound with others’ heart-strings as with chains, And, if one moves, all suffer,—to that Goal, If such a land, if such a sphere, there be, Thither, from life and all life’s joys and pains, O even wings of music, bear my soul!

FEAR NOT, DEAR FRIEND, BUT FREELY LIVE YOUR DAYS

FEAR not, dear friend, but freely live your days Though lesser lives should suffer. Such am I, A lesser life, that what is his of sky Gladly would give for you, and what of praise. Step, without trouble, down the sunlit ways. We that have touched your raiment, are made whole From all the selfish cankers of man’s soul, And we would see you happy, dear, or die. Therefore be brave, and therefore, dear, be free; Try all things resolutely, till the best, Out of all lesser betters, you shall find; And we, who have learned greatness from you, we, Your lovers, with a still, contented mind, See you well anchored in some port of rest.

LET LOVE GO, IF GO SHE WILL

LET love go, if go she will. Seek not, O fool, her wanton flight to stay. Of all she gives and takes away The best remains behind her still.

The best remains behind; in vain Joy she may give and take again, Joy she may take and leave us pain, If yet she leave behind The constant mind To meet all fortunes nobly, to endure All things with a good heart, and still be pure, Still to be foremost in the foremost cause, And still be worthy of the love that was. Love coming is omnipotent indeed, But not Love going. Let her go. The seed Springs in the favouring Summer air, and grows, And waxes strong; and when the Summer goes, Remains, a perfect tree.

Joy she may give and take again, Joy she may take and leave us pain. O Love, and what care we? For one thing thou hast given, O Love, one thing Is ours that nothing can remove; And as the King discrowned is still a King, The unhappy lover still preserves his love.

I DO NOT FEAR TO OWN ME KIN

I DO not fear to own me kin To the glad clods in which spring flowers begin; Or to my brothers, the great trees, That speak with pleasant voices in the breeze, Loud talkers with the winds that pass; Or to my sister, the deep grass.

Of such I am, of such my body is, That thrills to reach its lips to kiss. That gives and takes with wind and sun and rain And feels keen pleasure to the point of pain.

Of such are these, The brotherhood of stalwart trees, The humble family of flowers, That make a light of shadowy bowers Or star the edges of the bent: They give and take sweet colour and sweet scent; They joy to shed themselves abroad; And tree and flower and grass and sod Thrill and leap and live and sing With silent voices in the Spring.

Hence I not fear to yield my breath, Since all is still unchanged by death; Since in some pleasant valley I may be, Clod beside clod, or tree by tree, Long ages hence, with her I love this hour; And feel a lively joy to share With her the sun and rain and air, To taste her quiet neighbourhood As the dumb things of field and wood, The clod, the tree, and starry flower, Alone of all things have the power.

I AM LIKE ONE THAT FOR LONG DAYS HAD SATE

I AM like one that for long days had sate, With seaward eyes set keen against the gale, On some lone foreland, watching sail by sail, The portbound ships for one ship that was late; And sail by sail, his heart burned up with joy, And cruelly was quenched, until at last One ship, the looked-for pennant at its mast, Bore gaily, and dropt safely past the buoy; And lo! the loved one was not there—was dead. Then would he watch no more; no more the sea With myriad vessels, sail by sail, perplex His eyes and mock his longing. Weary head, Take now thy rest; eyes, close; for no more me Shall hopes untried elate, or ruined vex.

For thus on love I waited; thus for love Strained all my senses eagerly and long; Thus for her coming ever trimmed my song; Till in the far skies coloured as a dove, A bird gold-coloured flickered far and fled Over the pathless waterwaste for me; And with spread hands I watched the bright bird flee And waited, till before me she dropped dead. O golden bird in these dove-coloured skies How long I sought, how long with wearied eyes I sought, O bird, the promise of thy flight! And now the morn has dawned, the morn has died, The day has come and gone; and once more night About my lone life settles, wild and wide.

VOLUNTARY

HERE in the quiet eve My thankful eyes receive The quiet light. I see the trees stand fair Against the faded air, And star by star prepare The perfect night.

And in my bosom, lo! Content and quiet grow Toward perfect peace. And now when day is done, Brief day of wind and sun, The pure stars, one by one, Their troop increase.

Keen pleasure and keen grief Give place to great relief: Farewell my tears! Still sounds toward me float; I hear the bird’s small note, Sheep from the far sheepcote, And lowing steers.

For lo! the war is done, Lo, now the battle won, The trumpets still. The shepherd’s slender strain, The country sounds again Awake in wood and plain, On haugh and hill.

Loud wars and loud loves cease. I welcome my release; And hail once more Free foot and way world-wide. And oft at eventide Light love to talk beside The hostel door.

ON NOW, ALTHOUGH THE YEAR BE DONE

ON now, although the year be done, Now, although the love be dead, Dead and gone; Hear me, O loved and cherished one, Give me still the hand that led, Led me on.

IN THE GREEN AND GALLANT SPRING

IN the green and gallant Spring, Love and the lyre I thought to sing, And kisses sweet to give and take By the flowery hawthorn brake.

Now is russet Autumn here, Death and the grave and winter drear, And I must ponder here aloof While the rain is on the roof.

DEATH, TO THE DEAD FOR EVERMORE

DEATH, to the dead for evermore A King, a God, the last, the best of friends— Whene’er this mortal journey ends Death, like a host, comes smiling to the door; Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shore Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn Disturbs the eternal sleep, But in the stillness far withdrawn Our dreamless rest for evermore we keep.

For as from open windows forth we peep Upon the night-time star beset And with dews for ever wet; So from this garish life the spirit peers; And lo! as a sleeping city death outspread, Where breathe the sleepers evenly; and lo! After the loud wars, triumphs, trumpets, tears And clamour of man’s passion, Death appears, And we must rise and go.

Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears Weary of utterance, seeing all is said; Soon, racked by hopes and fears, The all-pondering, all-contriving head, Weary with all things, wearies of the years; And our sad spirits turn toward the dead; And the tired child, the body, longs for bed.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

_On the death of their common friend_, _Mr. John Adam_, _Clerk of court_.

OUR Johnie’s deid. The mair’s the pity! He’s deid, an’ deid o’ Aqua-vitæ. O Embro’, you’re a shrunken city, Noo Johnie’s deid! Tak hands, an’ sing a burial ditty Ower Johnie’s heid.

To see him was baith drink an’ meat, Gaun linkin’ glegly up the street. He but to rin or tak a seat, The wee bit body! Bein’ aye unsicken on his feet Wi’ whusky toddy.

To be aye tosh was Johnie’s whim, There’s nane was better teut than him, Though whiles his gravit-knot wad clim’ Ahint his ear, An’ whiles he’d buttons oot or in The less ae mair.