Part 2

They will not heed the warning Blown back on every wind, For hope is born with morning, The secret is behind. Whirled through in wild confusion, They pass the narrow strait, To the sea of disillusion That lies beyond the gate.

ON THE BORDER HILLS.

So the dark shadows deepen in the trees That crown the border mountains, all the air Is filled with mist-begotten phantasies Shaped and transfigured in the sunset glare. What wildly spurring warrior-wraiths are these? What tossing headgear, and what red-gold hair? What lances flashing, what far trumpet’s blare, That dies along the desultory breeze?

Slow night comes creeping with her misty wings Up to the hill’s crest, where the yew trees grow; About their shadow-haunted circle clings The rumour of an unrecorded woe, Old as the battle of those border kings Slain in the darkling hollow-lands below.

WHEN HE HAD FINISHED.

When He had finished, first his orbèd sun Blazed through the startled firmament, and all His hosts cried glory, and the stars each one Sang joy together,--then did there not fall A peace of solemn silence on His world, A moment’s hush before one leaf was stirred Or one wave o’er the ocean mirror curled! Lo! then it was the carol of a bird Gave the joy-note of being, up the sky Some lark’s song mounted and the young greenwood Woke to a matin of wild melody,-- And He looked down and saw that it was good.

THE LONELY BAY.

Hollowed and worn by tide on tide The rocks are steep, to the water’s side; Never a swimmer might hope to land With the sheer, sheer rocks upon either hand; Never a ship dare enter in For the sunken reefs are cruel and thin; Only at times a plaintive moan Comes from yon arch in the caverned stone, When the seals that dwell in the ocean cave Rise to look through the lifting wave; Only the gulls as they float or fly Answer the waves with their wind-borne cry.

Weeds of the waste uptossed lie there On the sandy space that the tide leaves bare, Ever at ebb some waif or stray That ever the flood wave washes away, And round and round in the lonely bay.

And one dwells there in the caves below That only the seals and the seagulls know, And the haunting spirit is passing fair With sea-flowers set in her grey-green hair, But she looks not oft to the daylight skies For the sunshine dazzles her ocean eyes; But now and again the sea-winds say, In the twilight hour of after-day, They have seen her look through her veil of spray.

Stilled are the waves when she lies asleep And the stars are mirrored along the deep, The gulls are at rest on the rifted rocks And slumbering round are the ocean flocks, Where the waving oarweeds lull and lull And the calm of the water is beautiful.

But ever and aye in the moonless night, When the waves are at war and the surf is white, When the storm-wind howls in the dreary sky, And the storm-clouds break as it whirls them by; When it tears the boughs from the churchyard tree And they think in the world of the folk at sea, When the great cliffs quake in the thunder’s crash And the gulls are scared at the lightning flash, You will hear her laugh in the depths below, Where the moving swell is a sheet of snow, Mocking the mariner’s shriek of woe.

Let us away, for the sky grows wild And the wind has the voice of a moaning child! And if she looked through her veil of spray, And called and beckoned, you might not stay; You would leap from the height to her cold embrace And drown in the smile of her wanton face! She would carry you under the mazy waves From deep to deep of her ocean caves, Hold you fast with the things that be Held in the drifts of the drifting sea, Round and round for eternity! The sun goes under, away, away! It’s dark and weird by the lonely bay.

MUSIC.

What angel viol, effortless and sure, Speaks through the straining silence, whence, ah whence That tremulous low joy, so keen, so pure That all existence narrows to one sense, Lapped round and round In rapture of sweet sound? Oh, how it wins along the steep, and loud and loud, Over the chasm and the cloud, Swells in its lordly tide Higher and higher, and undenied, Full throated to the star!-- Then lowlier, softer, dreaming dies and dies Over the closing eyes, Dies with my spirit away, afar, Swayed as on ocean’s breast Dies into rest.

“WHAT HOLDS THEE BACK?”

What holds thee back then? Hast thou aught to do, And fearest for the venture, art thou too, So light a thing that every wind blows through?

What hast thou envied in the lives of these, That thou should’st heed to please them or displease And fill thine own with mirrored mockeries?

This arm of thine is thine alone, and strong To thy free service through thy whole life long, Hear thine heart’s voice, it will not lead thee wrong!

WORDS FOR MUSIC.

I.

The autumn wind goes sighing Through the quivering aspen tree, The swallows will be flying Toward their summer sea; The grapes begin to sweeten On the trellised vine above, And on my brows have beaten The little wings of love. Oh wind if you should meet her You will whisper all I sing! Oh swallow fly to greet her, And bring me word in spring!

II.

I see your white arms gliding, In music o’er the keys, Long drooping lashes hiding A blue like summer seas: The sweet lips wide asunder, That tremble as you sing, I could not choose but wonder, You seemed so fair a thing.

For all these long years after The dream has never died, I still can hear your laughter, Still see you at my side; One lily hiding under The waves of golden hair; I could not choose but wonder, You were so strangely fair.

I keep the flower you braided Among those waves of gold, The leaves are sere and faded, And like our love grown old. Our lives have lain asunder, The years are long, and yet, I could not choose but wonder. I cannot quite forget.

III.

All through the golden weather Until the autumn fell, Our lives went by together So wildly and so well.--

But autumn’s wind uncloses The heart of all your flowers, I think as with the roses, So hath it been with ours.

Like some divided river Your ways and mine will be, --To drift apart for ever, For ever till the sea.

And yet for one word spoken, One whisper of regret, The dream had not been broken And love were with us yet.

IV.

I remember low on the water They hung from the dripping moss, In the broken shrine of some streamgod’s daughter Where the north and south roads cross; And I plucked some sprays for my love to wear, Some tangled sprays of maidenhair.

So you went north with the swallow Away from this southern shore, And the summers pass, and the winters follow, And the years, but you come no more, You have roses now in your breast to wear, And you have forgotten the maidenhair.

And the sound of the echoing laughter, The songs that we used to sing, To remember these in the years long after May seem but a foolish thing,-- Yet I know to me they are always fair My withered sprays of maidenhair.

V.

The wide seas lay before us The moon was late to rise, The skies were starry o’er us And Love was in our eyes; And “like those stars, abiding,” You whispered “Love shall be,” Then one great star went gliding Right down into the sea.

Since then beyond recalling How many moons have set! And still the stars keep falling, But the sky is starry yet: And I look up and wonder If they can hear and know, For still we walk asunder, And that was years ago.

BELLA DONNA.

Two tear-drops of the bluest seas Were prisoned in those laughing eyes, And soft as wind in summer trees The music of her low replies; A sunbeam caught entangled there Makes light in all her golden hair;

The wild rose where the wild bees sip Is not so delicate as this, And yet that little rose-curled lip Is very poisonous to kiss, And they were stars of wintry skies That lit the lustre in her eyes.

And she will smile and bid you stay And love a little at her will, And love a little--and betray But smile as ever sweetly still; She knows that roses fade away, To-morrows turn to yesterday.

She walks the smooth and easy ways Apparelled in her queenly dress, She hears no word that is not praise, And ever of her loveliness; And she will kill, that cannot hate, Dispassionately passionate.

JOSEPH BARA.

In the year of battles, ninety-three, In Vendée, by the westward sea, The word was whispered--_Liberty_.

There was a child that would not stay, When he watched them arm and ride away, For the sword was bared in la Vendée.

Thirteen years, and girl-like fair, With blue wide eyes and yellow hair-- And the word had moved him unaware.

“Mother,” he said, “if I were old, My arm should win the young ones gold-- A boy’s life may be dearly sold.

“Mother, the hearts of the children bleed, There are lips enough for one hand to feed, And the youngest born have the greater need.”

In the year of battles, ninety-three, In Vendée by the westward sea, He rode to fight for liberty.

They wondered how his stedfast eye Could see the strong men bleed and die, His shrill lips shape the battle cry.

At Chollet, in the month Frimaire They found the lion in his lair, And long the struggle wavered there.

Till wide and scattered, man with man, The bloody waves of battle ran, The boy was leading in the van.

His bugle at his waist he wore, His sword-arm pointing straight before, And on his brow the tricolore.

Horse and rider overthrown, Lay about him stark as stone, The bugle boy stood all alone.

They closed about him menacing, To strike him seemed a murderous thing; “Take life, cry homage to the King!”

Fearless their bayonets he eyed, The dead he loved were at his side, And “Vive la République,” he cried.

Sword thrust and bayonet In his young heart’s-blood met, The groan died in his lips hard set, And through his eyes shone life’s regret.

O’er his torn and bleeding breast All the storm of battle pressed,-- He lay lowly with the rest.

When the bitter fight was done There they found their little one, Stark and staring at the sun.

Freedom, let thy banners wave, Where he lies among the brave, For that young fresh life he gave!

Song above the names that die Shrine his name in memory!

IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL.

Through yonder windows stained and old, Four level rays of red and gold Strike down the twilight dim, Four lifted heads are aureoled Of the sculptured cherubim, And soft like sounds on faint winds blown Of voices dying far away, The organ’s dreamy undertone, The murmur while they pray; And I sit here alone, alone, And have no word to say; Cling closer shadows, darker yet, And heart be happy to forget.

And now, the mystic silence--and they kneel, A young priest lifts a star of gold,-- And then the sudden organ peal! Ave and Ave! and the music rolled Along the carven wonder of the choir, Thrilled canopy and spire, Up till the echoes mingled with the song; And now a boy’s flute note that rings Shrill sweet and long, Ave and Ave, louder and more loud, Rises the strain he sings, Upon the angel’s wings! Right up to God!

And you that sit there in the lowliest place, With lips that hardly dare to move; You with the old sad furrowed face, Dream on your dream of love! For you, glide down the music’s swell The folding arms of peace, For me wild thoughts, I dare not tell Desires that never cease. For you the calm, the angel’s breast, Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest; For me the beat of broken wings, The old unanswered questionings.

BY THE ANNIO.

(PASTORAL.)

Here where shallows ripple by, And the woody banks are high, Every little wind that frets Waves the scent of violets; Here the greening beech has made Such a palace of cool shade, You and I would rather sit Silent in the shade of it, Seeking questions and replies Only through each other’s eyes. Sweet, than climb the thorny ways Up their barren hills of praise. In the gloom of yonder glen Hides the crimson cyclamen, And the tall narcissus still Lingers near the reedy rill, In the ooze the rushes grow Pipes for merry lips to blow; Here the songs that we shall sing Shall be all of love or spring; Here the emerald dragon-fly Flits and stays and passes by, While the bird that overhead Mocked our song, grows unafraid, Splashing till his breast be cool At the margin of the pool. In my hand the hand I hold Lies more daintily than gold; On your lips is all the praise I would barter for my lays, In your eyes I look to see Witness of my sovereignty. They that long for high estate Turn to look for love too late, Climbing on at last they find Love has long been left behind; Sweet, we do not envy these In our riverland of trees.

Seldom feet of mortals pass Here along the dewy grass; Only in the loneliest spot, Where the woodman enters not, Spirits of these groves and springs Make their nightly wanderings. Never now they walk at day Since the Satyrs fled away, Only when the fireflies gleam Up the winding wooded stream, You may hear low silver tones, Like the ripple on the stones, Asking some familiar star Where their olden lovers are. Listen, listen, up above All the branches sing of love! When the world is tired of May, When the springtide fades away, When the clouds draw over head, And the moon of love is dead, When the joy is no more new, Seek we other work to do! Only while the heart is young Let no other song be sung!

BY THE CRUCIFIX.

He tells his story with his young sad eyes, The rags are drooping from his sunburnt breast, He had sat down a little while to rest, Far off the country of his longing lies;

He sits there looking at his bare bruised feet And sees the rich man and the priest pass by, There where the crucifix is planted high On the grass bank outside the village street.

Beside him lies his little flageolet-- The children danced that morning when he played, Laughed loud to hear the music that he made;-- Now the day closes and he wanders yet.

Oh, if some one of all the folk who pass, Would turn and speak one word and hear him though, And help! It were so small a thing to do; And all they see him lying in the grass.

So the day ended, and the evening sun Cast the long shadows down; he turned and saw The crucifix blood-red, and in mute awe, He crossed himself, and shuddered, and went on.

And then, it seemed that the pale form above Moved slowly, lifting up the thorn-crowned head, And the drooped eyelids opened, and he said, “Oh, ye who make profession of your love,

“With voices echoing a hollow cry, My name is ever on your lips, and yet I wander wearily and ye forget, I am as nothing to you passers by,

“I had no heed of any shame or loss, And will ye leave me tired and homeless still Oh, call my name by any name ye will, But leave me not for ever on my cross!”

“UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA.”

It was a tomb in Flanders, old and grey, A knight in armour, lying dead, unknown Among the long-forgotten, yet the stone Cried out for vengeance where the dead man lay;

No name was chiselled at his side to say What wrongs his spirit thirsted to atone, Only the armour with green moss o’ergrown, And those grim words no years had worn away.

It may be haply in the songs of old His deeds were wonders to sweet music set, His name the thunder of a battle call, Among the things forgotten and untold; His only record is the dead man’s threat-- “An hour will come that shall atone for all!”

IN THE ALPS.

It is spring by now in the world, but here The doom of winter on all the year; A little brown bird flits to and fro, Watching perhaps for a rift of blue Where the mists divide and the sky looks through, Or a crocus-bell in the half-thawed snow.

Little brown bird, have you no nest here When winds blow cold in the long starlight? Never a tree, and the fields so white-- And are you ever a wayfarer? It is spring by now in the vales below, And why do you stay in the world of snow?

IN NOTRE DAME DE....

There were two had died one day So they told me by the way; “One, ah well, poor soul,” they said, “Better off that he is dead, Such a poor man!--but the other He was our good prefect’s brother; Rich! And surely of great worth;--” Both at one now--earth and earth!-- “Half the town is deep in prayer; Round him at our Lady’s there; But the poor man’s funeral Is in the church outside the wall; Aye, our Lady’s nave is wide, Would you lay them side by side?” So I followed both these dead;-- Where the poor man’s pall was spread, Boarded in his box of deal, There were only six to kneel, And a priest that hurried through Such quick office as would do. _Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine, Et lux perpetua luceat ei._

Oh, but here how good to see The great sable canopy! All the columns shrouded o’er, The rich curtains at the door, And the purple velvet pall, And the high catafalque o’er all, Where a hundred tapers glow On the same pale face of death below.-- All the good town’s folk are there, Some to weep and some to stare; Little recks _he_ how ye weep, Very sound he lies asleep; Little recks _he_ how ye pray, For his ears are sealed alway! Many a monk to thumb his beads, Chant his canticles and creeds; Aye and here with quivering lips O’er his meagre finger-tips Prays the priest, and all the while Drones the deep organ thrill; and then Along the gloomy curtained aisle, Swells the full chant again; _Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine, Et lux perpetua luceat ei._

Now beyond the city wall Winds his pomp of funeral; Feebly do those tapers flare In the sunshine’s summer glare, Loud above their chanting swells The horror of the tolling bells, Tapers burn where light is needed For the living, not the dead! Aye, and if your chants be heeded, For the living be they said! Where were all this folk who pray When the poor man passed this way?

Long ago the spirit fled, All of him that was of worth, In his sojourning on earth; Wherefore o’er a body dead, Need long litanies be said?

Shall the jewelled cross he presses In those bony hands of his, Aught avail, when death caresses With his equal mouldering kiss? Shall the rosary they twined Round and round his stiffened wrists, Hold his body sanctified From the worms, the socialists? _Gaudea sempiterna possideat!_

So the two that died one day Travelled down the selfsame way, One in simple coffin board Painted cross along it scored, One with all his high estate Graven on the silver plate, All the pomp that he could save To adorn him in the grave, Lily wreaths of eucharis To cover those poor bones of his, From the graveyard’s mouldy sod,-- But the poor man’s soul and this Went the same way up to God! _In Paradisum deducant te angeli, Æternam habeas requiem!_ By the sable shrouded door, Of our Lady’s church once more! Softly came low music floating from above, And a voice seemed to breathe its cadence through; “Peace, peace! Lo this we did it of our love, There was so little we could do!” _Requiem æternam dona iis, Domine, Et lux æterna luceat iis._

TWO SONNETS.

I.--ACTEA.

When the last bitterness was past, she bore Her singing Cæsar to the Garden Hill, Her fallen pitiful dead emperor. She lifted up the beggar’s cloak he wore --The one thing living that he would not kill-- And on those lips of his that sang no more, That world-loathed head which she found lovely still, Her cold lips closed, in death she had her will.

Oh wreck of the lost human soul left free To gorge the beast thy mask of manhood screened! Because one living thing, albeit a slave, Shed those hot tears on thy dishonoured grave, Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea, Because she loved, thou art not wholly fiend.

II.--IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS.

Is this the man by whose decree abide The lives of countless nations, with the trace Of fresh tears wet upon the hard cold face? --He wept, because a little child had died.

They set a marble image by his side, A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase; It wore the dead boy’s features, and the grace Of pretty ways that were the old man’s pride.

And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tired Of too much empire, and it seemed a joy Fondly to stroke and pet the curly head, The smooth round limbs so strangely like the dead, To kiss the white lips of his marble boy And call by name his little heart’s-desired.

AT LANUVIUM.

“_Festo quid potius die Neptuni faciam._” HORACE, _Odes_, iii. 28.

Spring grew to perfect summer in one day, And we lay there among the vines, to gaze Where Circe’s isle floats purple, far away Above the golden haze;

And on our ears there seemed to rise and fall The burden of an old world song we knew, That sang, “To-day is Neptune’s festival, And we, what shall we do?”

Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine, And bring again the earthen jar that lies With three years’ dust above the mellow wine; And while the swift day dies.

You first shall sing a song of waters blue, Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas, And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot through The white-shored Cyclades;

And I will take the second turn of song, Of floating tresses in the foam and surge Where Nereid maids about the sea-god throng; And night shall have her dirge.

A ROMAN MIRROR.

They found it in her hollow marble bed, There where the numberless dead cities sleep, They found it lying where the spade struck deep, A broken mirror by a maiden dead.

These things--the beads she wore about her throat Alternate blue and amber all untied, A lamp to light her way, and on one side The toll-men pay to that strange ferry-boat.