Chapter 4
THE beach was crowded. Pausing now and then, He groped and fiddled doggedly along, His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng The stony peevishness of sightless men. He seemed scarce older than his clothes. Again, Grotesquing thinly many an old sweet song, So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong, You hardly could distinguish one in ten. He stopped at last, and sat him on the sand, And, grasping wearily his bread-winner, Stared dim towards the blue immensity, Then leaned his head upon his poor old hand. He may have slept: he did not speak nor stir: His gesture spoke a vast despondency.
ATTADALE WEST HIGHLANDS
_To_ A. J.
A BLACK and glassy float, opaque and still, The loch, at furthest ebb supine in sleep, Reversing, mirrored in its luminous deep The calm grey skies; the solemn spurs of hill; Heather, and corn, and wisps of loitering haze; The wee white cots, black-hatted, plumed with smoke; The braes beyond—and when the ripple awoke, They wavered with the jarred and wavering glaze. The air was hushed and dreamy. Evermore A noise of running water whispered near. A straggling crow called high and thin. A bird Trilled from the birch-leaves. Round the shingled shore, Yellow with weed, there wandered, vague and clear, Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, idly heard.
FROM A WINDOW IN PRINCES STREET
_To_ M. M. M‘B.
ABOVE the Crags that fade and gloom Starts the bare knee of Arthur’s Seat; Ridged high against the evening bloom, The Old Town rises, street on street; With lamps bejewelled, straight ahead, Like rampired walls the houses lean, All spired and domed and turreted, Sheer to the valley’s darkling green; Ranged in mysterious disarray, The Castle, menacing and austere, Looms through the lingering last of day; And in the silver dusk you hear, Reverberated from crag and scar, Bold bugles blowing points of war.
IN THE DIALS
TO _Garryowen_ upon an organ ground Two girls are jigging. Riotously they trip, With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip, As in the tumult of a witches’ round. Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound. Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip. The artist’s teeth gleam from his bearded lip. High from the kennel howls a tortured hound. The music reels and hurtles, and the night Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags, Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags Look on dispassionate—critical—something ’mused.
THE GODS ARE DEAD
THE gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows? Living at least in Lemprière undeleted, The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose, Are one and all, I like to think, retreated In some still land of lilacs and the rose.
Once higeh they sat, and high o’er earthly shows With sacrificial dance and song were greeted. Once . . . long ago. But now, the story goes, The gods are dead.
It must be true. The world, a world of prose, Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted, Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze! Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows Who will may hear the sorry words repeated:— ‘The Gods are Dead!’
_To_ F. W.
LET us be drunk, and for a while forget, Forget, and, ceasing even from regret, Live without reason and despite of rhyme, As in a dream preposterous and sublime, Where place and hour and means for once are met.
Where is the use of effort? Love and debt And disappointment have us in a net. Let us break out, and taste the morning prime . . . Let us be drunk.
In vain our little hour we strut and fret, And mouth our wretched parts as for a bet: We cannot please the tragicaster Time. To gain the crystal sphere, the silver dime, Where Sympathy sits dimpling on us yet, Let us be drunk!
WHEN YOU ARE OLD
WHEN you are old, and I am passed away— Passed, and your face, your golden face, is gray— I think, whate’er the end, this dream of mine, Comforting you, a friendly star will shine Down the dim slope where still you stumble and stray.
So may it be: that so dead Yesterday, No sad-eyed ghost but generous and gay, May serve you memories like almighty wine, When you are old!
Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the sway Of death the past’s enormous disarray Lies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign, Live on well pleased: immortal and divine Love shall still tend you, as God’s angels may, When you are old.
BESIDE THE IDLE SUMMER SEA
BESIDE the idle summer sea And in the vacant summer days, Light Love came fluting down the ways, Where you were loitering with me.
Who has not welcomed, even as we, That jocund minstrel and his lays Beside the idle summer sea And in the vacant summer days?
We listened, we were fancy-free; And lo! in terror and amaze We stood alone—alone at gaze With an implacable memory Beside the idle summer sea.
I. M. R. G. C. B. 1878
THE ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. From camp and church, the fireside and the street, She beckons forth—and strife and song have been.
A summer night descending cool and green And dark on daytime’s dust and stress and heat, The ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.
O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien And radiant faces look upon, and greet This last of all your lovers, and to meet Her kiss, the Comforter’s, your spirit lean . . . The ways of Death are soothing and serene.
WE SHALL SURELY DIE
WE shall surely die: Must we needs grow old? Grow old and cold, And we know not why?
O, the By-and-By, And the tale that’s told! We shall surely die: Must we needs grow old?
Grow old and sigh, Grudge and withhold, Resent and scold? . . . Not you and I? We shall surely die!
WHAT IS TO COME
WHAT is to come we know not. But we know That what has been was good—was good to show, Better to hide, and best of all to bear. We are the masters of the days that were: We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered . . . even so.
Shall we not take the ebb who had the flow? Life was our friend. Now, if it be our foe— Dear, though it spoil and break us!—need we care What is to come?
Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow, Or the gold weather round us mellow slow: We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare And we can conquer, though we may not share In the rich quiet of the afterglow What is to come.
ECHOES
1872–1889
_Aquí está encerrada el alma del licenciado Pedro Garcías_.
GIL BLAS _AU LECTEUR_.
I TO MY MOTHER
CHIMING a dream by the way With ocean’s rapture and roar, I met a maiden to-day Walking alone on the shore: Walking in maiden wise, Modest and kind and fair, The freshness of spring in her eyes And the fulness of spring in her hair.
Cloud-shadow and scudding sun-burst Were swift on the floor of the sea, And a mad wind was romping its worst, But what was their magic to me? Or the charm of the midsummer skies? I only saw she was there, A dream of the sea in her eyes And the kiss of the sea in her hair.
I watched her vanish in space; She came where I walked no more; But something had passed of her grace To the spell of the wave and the shore; And now, as the glad stars rise, She comes to me, rosy and rare, The delight of the wind in her eyes And the hand of the wind in her hair.
1872
II
LIFE is bitter. All the faces of the years, Young and old, are grey with travail and with tears. Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep? In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers, Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours . . . Let me sleep.
Riches won but mock the old, unable years; Fame’s a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears; Love must wither, or must live alone and weep. In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers, While we slumber, death approaches though the hours! . . . Let me sleep.
1872
III
O, GATHER me the rose, the rose, While yet in flower we find it, For summer smiles, but summer goes, And winter waits behind it!
For with the dream foregone, foregone, The deed forborne for ever, The worm, regret, will canker on, And Time will turn him never.
So well it were to love, my love, And cheat of any laughter The fate beneath us and above, The dark before and after.
The myrtle and the rose, the rose, The sunshine and the swallow, The dream that comes, the wish that goes, The memories that follow!
1874
IV I. M. R. T. HAMILTON BRUCE (1846–1899)
OUT of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
1875
V
I AM the Reaper. All things with heedful hook Silent I gather. Pale roses touched with the spring, Tall corn in summer, Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms— Reaping, still reaping— All things with heedful hook Timely I gather.
I am the Sower. All the unbodied life Runs through my seed-sheet. Atom with atom wed, Each quickening the other, Fall through my hands, ever changing, still changeless Ceaselessly sowing, Life, incorruptible life, Flows from my seed-sheet.
Maker and breaker, I am the ebb and the flood, Here and Hereafter. Sped through the tangle and coil Of infinite nature, Viewless and soundless I fashion all being. Taker and giver, I am the womb and the grave, The Now and the Ever.
1875
VI
PRAISE the generous gods for giving In a world of wrath and strife With a little time for living, Unto all the joy of life.
At whatever source we drink it, Art or love or faith or wine, In whatever terms we think it, It is common and divine.
Praise the high gods, for in giving This to man, and this alone, They have made his chance of living Shine the equal of their own.
1875
VII
FILL a glass with golden wine, And the while your lips are wet Set their perfume unto mine, And forget, Every kiss we take and give Leaves us less of life to live.
Yet again! Your whim and mine In a happy while have met. All your sweets to me resign, Nor regret That we press with every breath, Sighed or singing, nearer death.
1875
VIII
WE’LL go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. November glooms are barren beside the dusk of June. The summer flowers are faded, the summer thoughts are sere. We’ll go no more a-roving, lest worse befall, my dear.
We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. The song we sang rings hollow, and heavy runs the tune. Glad ways and words remembered would shame the wretched year. We’ll go no more a-roving, nor dream we did, my dear.
We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. If yet we walk together, we need not shun the noon. No sweet thing left to savour, no sad thing left to fear, We’ll go no more a-roving, but weep at home, my dear.
1875
IX _To_ W. R.
MADAM Life’s a piece in bloom Death goes dogging everywhere: She’s the tenant of the room, He’s the ruffian on the stair.
You shall see her as a friend, You shall bilk him once and twice; But he’ll trap you in the end, And he’ll stick you for her price.
With his kneebones at your chest, And his knuckles in your throat, You would reason—plead—protest! Clutching at her petticoat;
But she’s heard it all before, Well she knows you’ve had your fun, Gingerly she gains the door, And your little job is done.
1877
X
THE sea is full of wandering foam, The sky of driving cloud; My restless thoughts among them roam . . . The night is dark and loud.
Where are the hours that came to me So beautiful and bright? A wild wind shakes the wilder sea . . . O, dark and loud’s the night!
1876
XI _To_ W. R.
THICK is the darkness— Sunward, O, sunward! Rough is the highway— Onward, still onward!
Dawn harbours surely East of the shadows. Facing us somewhere Spread the sweet meadows.
Upward and forward! Time will restore us: Light is above us, Rest is before us.
1876
XII
TO me at my fifth-floor window The chimney-pots in rows Are sets of pipes pandean For every wind that blows;
And the smoke that whirls and eddies In a thousand times and keys Is really a visible music Set to my reveries.
O monstrous pipes, melodious With fitful tune and dream, The clouds are your only audience, Her thought is your only theme!
1875
XIII
BRING her again, O western wind, Over the western sea: Gentle and good and fair and kind, Bring her again to me!
Not that her fancy holds me dear, Not that a hope may be: Only that I may know her near, Wind of the western sea.
1875
XIV
THE wan sun westers, faint and slow; The eastern distance glimmers gray; An eerie haze comes creeping low Across the little, lonely bay; And from the sky-line far away About the quiet heaven are spread Mysterious hints of dying day, Thin, delicate dreams of green and red.
And weak, reluctant surges lap And rustle round and down the strand. No other sound . . . If it should hap, The ship that sails from fairy-land! The silken shrouds with spells are manned, The hull is magically scrolled, The squat mast lives, and in the sand The gold prow-griffin claws a hold.
It steals to seaward silently; Strange fish-folk follow thro’ the gloom; Great wings flap overhead; I see The Castle of the Drowsy Doom Vague thro’ the changeless twilight loom, Enchanted, hushed. And ever there She slumbers in eternal bloom, Her cushions hid with golden hair.
1875
XV
THERE is a wheel inside my head Of wantonness and wine, An old, cracked fiddle is begging without, But the wind with scents of the sea is fed, And the sun seems glad to shine.
The sun and the wind are akin to you, As you are akin to June. But the fiddle! . . . It giggles and twitters about, And, love and laughter! who gave him the cue?— He’s playing your favourite tune.
1875
XVI
WHILE the west is paling Starshine is begun. While the dusk is failing Glimmers up the sun.
So, till darkness cover Life’s retreating gleam, Lover follows lover, Dream succeeds to dream.
Stoop to my endeavour, O my love, and be Only and for ever Sun and stars to me.
1876
XVII
THE sands are alive with sunshine, The bathers lounge and throng, And out in the bay a bugle Is lilting a gallant song.
The clouds go racing eastward, The blithe wind cannot rest, And a shard on the shingle flashes Like the shining soul of a jest;
While children romp in the surges, And sweethearts wander free, And the Firth as with laughter dimples . . . I would it were deep over me!
1875
XVIII _To_ A. D.
THE nightingale has a lyre of gold, The lark’s is a clarion-call, And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, But I love him best of all.
For his song is all of the joy of life, And we in the mad, spring weather, We two have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together.
1876
XIX
YOUR heart has trembled to my tongue, Your hands in mine have lain, Your thought to me has leaned and clung, Again and yet again, My dear, Again and yet again.
Now die the dream, or come the wife, The past is not in vain, For wholly as it was your life Can never be again, My dear, Can never be again.
1876
XX
THE surges gushed and sounded, The blue was the blue of June, And low above the brightening east Floated a shred of moon.
The woods were black and solemn, The night winds large and free, And in your thought a blessing seemed To fall on land and sea.
1877
XXI
WE flash across the level. We thunder thro’ the bridges. We bicker down the cuttings. We sway along the ridges.
A rush of streaming hedges, Of jostling lights and shadows, Of hurtling, hurrying stations, Of racing woods and meadows.
We charge the tunnels headlong— The blackness roars and shatters. We crash between embankments— The open spins and scatters.
We shake off the miles like water, We might carry a royal ransom; And I think of her waiting, waiting, And long for a common hansom.
1876
XXII
THE West a glimmering lake of light, A dream of pearly weather, The first of stars is burning white— The star we watch together. Is April dead? The unresting year Will shape us our September, And April’s work is done, my dear— Do you not remember?
O gracious eve! O happy star, Still-flashing, glowing, sinking!— Who lives of lovers near or far So glad as I in thinking? The gallant world is warm and green, For May fulfils November. When lights and leaves and loves have been, Sweet, will you remember?
O star benignant and serene, I take the good to-morrow, That fills from verge to verge my dream, With all its joy and sorrow! The old, sweet spell is unforgot That turns to June December; And, tho’ the world remembered not, Love, we would remember.
1876
XXIII
THE skies are strown with stars, The streets are fresh with dew A thin moon drifts to westward, The night is hushed and cheerful. My thought is quick with you.
Near windows gleam and laugh, And far away a train Clanks glowing through the stillness: A great content’s in all things, And life is not in vain.
1877
XXIV
THE full sea rolls and thunders In glory and in glee. O, bury me not in the senseless earth But in the living sea!
Ay, bury me where it surges A thousand miles from shore, And in its brotherly unrest I’ll range for evermore.
1876
XXV
IN the year that’s come and gone, love, his flying feather Stooping slowly, gave us heart, and bade us walk together. In the year that’s coming on, though many a troth be broken, We at least will not forget aught that love hath spoken.
In the year that’s come and gone, dear, we wove a tether All of gracious words and thoughts, binding two together. In the year that’s coming on with its wealth of roses We shall weave it stronger, yet, ere the circle closes.
In the year that’s come and gone, in the golden weather, Sweet, my sweet, we swore to keep the watch of life together. In the year that’s coming on, rich in joy and sorrow, We shall light our lamp, and wait life’s mysterious morrow.
1877
XXVI
IN the placid summer midnight, Under the drowsy sky, I seem to hear in the stillness The moths go glimmering by.
One by one from the windows The lights have all been sped. Never a blind looks conscious— The street is asleep in bed!
But I come where a living casement Laughs luminous and wide; I hear the song of a piano Break in a sparkling tide;
And I feel, in the waltz that frolics And warbles swift and clear, A sudden sense of shelter And friendliness and cheer . . .
A sense of tinkling glasses, Of love and laughter and light— The piano stops, and the window Stares blank out into the night.
The blind goes out, and I wander To the old, unfriendly sea, The lonelier for the memory That walks like a ghost with me.
XXVII
SHE sauntered by the swinging seas, A jewel glittered at her ear, And, teasing her along, the breeze Brought many a rounded grace more near.
So passing, one with wave and beam, She left for memory to caress A laughing thought, a golden gleam, A hint of hidden loveliness.
1876
XXVIII _To_ S. C.
BLITHE dreams arise to greet us, And life feels clean and new, For the old love comes to meet us In the dawning and the dew. O’erblown with sunny shadows, O’ersped with winds at play, The woodlands and the meadows Are keeping holiday. Wild foals are scampering, neighing, Brave merles their hautboys blow: Come! let us go a-maying As in the Long-Ago.
Here we but peak and dwindle: The clank of chain and crane, The whir of crank and spindle Bewilder heart and brain; The ends of our endeavour Are merely wealth and fame, Yet in the still Forever We’re one and all the same; Delaying, still delaying, We watch the fading west: Come! let us go a-maying, Nor fear to take the best.
Yet beautiful and spacious The wise, old world appears. Yet frank and fair and gracious Outlaugh the jocund years. Our arguments disputing, The universal Pan Still wanders fluting—fluting— Fluting to maid and man. Our weary well-a-waying His music cannot still: Come! let us go a-maying, And pipe with him our fill.
When wanton winds are flowing Among the gladdening glass; Where hawthorn brakes are blowing, And meadow perfumes pass; Where morning’s grace is greenest, And fullest noon’s of pride; Where sunset spreads serenest, And sacred night’s most wide; Where nests are swaying, swaying, And spring’s fresh voices call, Come! let us go a-maying, And bless the God of all!
1878
XXIX _To_ R. L. S.
A CHILD, Curious and innocent, Slips from his Nurse, and rejoicing Loses himself in the Fair.
Thro’ the jostle and din Wandering, he revels, Dreaming, desiring, possessing; Till, of a sudden Tired and afraid, he beholds The sordid assemblage Just as it is; and he runs With a sob to his Nurse (Lighting at last on him), And in her motherly bosom Cries him to sleep.
Thus thro’ the World, Seeing and feeling and knowing, Goes Man: till at last, Tired of experience, he turns To the friendly and comforting breast Of the old nurse, Death.
1876
XXX
KATE-A-WHIMSIES, John-a-Dreams, Still debating, still delay, And the world’s a ghost that gleams— Wavers—vanishes away!
We must live while live we can; We should love while love we may. Dread in women, doubt in man . . . So the Infinite runs away.
1876
XXXI
O, HAVE you blessed, behind the stars, The blue sheen in the skies, When June the roses round her calls?— Then do you know the light that falls From her belovèd eyes.
And have you felt the sense of peace That morning meadows give?— Then do you know the spirit of grace, The angel abiding in her face, Who makes it good to live.