Chapter 1
Transcribed from the 1912 Times Book Club “Surrey Edition” by David Price, email [email protected]
[Picture: Book cover]
[Picture: Home cottage, Box Hill]
POEMS VOL. I
BY GEORGE MEREDITH
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SURREY EDITION
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LONDON THE TIMES BOOK CLUB 376–384 OXFORD STREET, W. 1912
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Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to his Majesty
CONTENTS
PAGE CHILLIANWALLAH, 1
Chillianwallah, Chillianwallah! THE DOE: A FRAGMENT, 3
And—‘Yonder look! yoho! yoho! BEAUTY ROHTRAUT, 9
What is the name of King Ringang’s daughter? THE OLIVE BRANCH, 11
A dove flew with an Olive Branch; SONG, 16
Love within the lover’s breast THE WILD ROSE AND THE SNOWDROP, 17
The Snowdrop is the prophet of the flowers; THE DEATH OF WINTER, 19
When April with her wild blue eye SONG, 21
The moon is alone in the sky JOHN LACKLAND, 21
A wicked man is bad enough on earth; THE SLEEPING CITY, 22
A Princess in the eastern tale THE POETRY OF CHAUCER, 27
Grey with all honours of age! but fresh-featured and ruddy THE POETRY OF SPENSER, 27
Lakes where the sunsheen is mystic with splendour and softness; THE POETRY OF SHAKESPEARE, 28
Picture some Isle smiling green ’mid the white-foaming ocean;— THE POETRY OF MILTON, 28
Like to some deep-chested organ whose grand inspiration, THE POETRY OF SOUTHEY, 29
Keen as an eagle whose flight towards the dim empyréan THE POETRY OF COLERIDGE, 29
A brook glancing under green leaves, self-delighting, exulting, THE POETRY OF SHELLEY, 30
See’st thou a Skylark whose glistening winglets ascending THE POETRY OF WORDSWORTH, 30
A breath of the mountains, fresh born in the regions majestic, THE POETRY OF KEATS, 31
The song of a nightingale sent thro’ a slumbrous valley, VIOLETS, 31
Violets, shy violets! ANGELIC LOVE, 32
Angelic love that stoops with heavenly lips TWILIGHT MUSIC, 34
Know you the low pervading breeze REQUIEM, 36
Where faces are hueless, where eyelids are dewless, THE FLOWER OF THE RUINS, 37
Take thy lute and sing THE RAPE OF AURORA, 40
Never, O never, SOUTH-WEST WIND IN THE WOODLAND, 42
The silence of preluded song— WILL O’ THE WISP, 46
Follow me, follow me, SONG, 49
Fair and false! No dawn will greet SONG, 50
Two wedded lovers watched the rising moon, SONG, 51
I cannot lose thee for a day, DAPHNE, 52
Musing on the fate of Daphne, LONDON BY LAMPLIGHT, 68
There stands a singer in the street, SONG, 73
Under boughs of breathing May, PASTORALS, 74
How sweet on sunny afternoons, TO A SKYLARK, 74
O skylark! I see thee and call thee joy! SONG—SPRING, 85
When buds of palm do burst and spread SONG—AUTUMN, 85
When nuts behind the hazel-leaf SORROWS AND JOYS, 86
Bury thy sorrows, and they shall rise SONG, 88
The Flower unfolds its dawning cup, SONG, 89
Thou to me art such a spring ANTIGONE, 90
The buried voice bespake Antigone. ‘SWATHED ROUND IN MIST AND CROWN’D WITH CLOUD,’ 92 SONG, 93
No, no, the falling blossom is no sign THE TWO BLACKBIRDS, 94
A Blackbird in a wicker cage, JULY, 96
Blue July, bright July, SONG, 98
I would I were the drop of rain SONG, 99
Come to me in any shape! THE SHIPWRECK OF IDOMENEUS, 100
Swept from his fleet upon that fatal night THE LONGEST DAY, 112
On yonder hills soft twilight dwells TO ROBIN REDBREAST, 114
Merrily ’mid the faded leaves, SONG, 115
The daisy now is out upon the green; SUNRISE, 117
The clouds are withdrawn PICTURES OF THE RHINE, 120
The spirit of Romance dies not to those TO A NIGHTINGALE, 123
O nightingale! how hast thou learnt INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY, 124
Now ’tis Spring on wood and wold, THE SWEET O’ THE YEAR, 126
Now the frog, all lean and weak, AUTUMN EVEN-SONG, 128
The long cloud edged with streaming grey THE SONG OF COURTESY, 129
When Sir Gawain was led to his bridal-bed, THE THREE MAIDENS, 131
There were three maidens met on the highway; OVER THE HILLS, 132
The old hound wags his shaggy tail, JUGGLING JERRY, 134
Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes: THE CROWN OF LOVE, 139
O might I load my arms with thee, THE HEAD OF BRAN THE BLEST, 141
When the Head of Bran THE MEETING, 145
The old coach-road through a common of furze, THE BEGGAR’S SOLILOQUY, 146
Now, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer, BY THE ROSANNA TO F. M., 151
The old grey Alp has caught the cloud, PHANTASY, 152
Within a Temple of the Toes, THE OLD CHARTIST, 158
Whate’er I be, old England is my dam! SONG, 163
Should thy love die; TO ALEX. SMITH, THE ‘GLASGOW POET,’ 164
Not vainly doth the earnest voice of man GRANDFATHER BRIDGEMAN, 165
‘Heigh, boys!’ cried Grandfather Bridgeman, ‘it’s time before dinner to-day.’ THE PROMISE IN DISTURBANCE, 180
How low when angels fall their black descent, MODERN LOVE, 181 I. By this he knew she wept with waking eyes: II. It ended, and the morrow brought the task. III. This was the woman; what now of the man? IV. All other joys of life he strove to warm, V. A message from her set his brain aflame. VI. It chanced his lips did meet her forehead cool. VII. She issues radiant from her dressing-room, VIII. Yet it was plain she struggled, and that salt IX. He felt the wild beast in him betweenwhiles X. But where began the change; and what’s my crime? XI. Out in the yellow meadows, where the bee XII. Not solely that the Future she destroys, XIII. ‘I play for Seasons; not Eternities!’ XIV. What soul would bargain for a cure that brings XV. I think she sleeps: it must be sleep, when low XVI. In our old shipwrecked days there was an hour, XVII. At dinner, she is hostess, I am host. XVIII. Here Jack and Tom are paired with Moll and Meg. XIX. No state is enviable. To the luck alone XX. I am not of those miserable males XXI. We three are on the cedar-shadowed lawn; XXII. What may the woman labour to confess? XXIII. ’Tis Christmas weather, and a country house XXIV. The misery is greater, as I live! XXV. You like not that French novel? Tell me why. XXVI. Love ere he bleeds, an eagle in high skies, XXVII. Distraction is the panacea, Sir! XXVIII. I must be flattered. The imperious XXIX. Am I failing? For no longer can I cast XXX. What are we first? First, animals; and next XXXI. This golden head has wit in it. I live XXXII. Full faith I have she holds that rarest gift XXXIII. ‘In Paris, at the Louvre, there have I seen XXXIV. Madam would speak with me. So, now it comes: XXXV. It is no vulgar nature I have wived. XXXVI. My Lady unto Madam makes her bow. XXXVII. Along the garden terrace, under which XXXVIII. Give to imagination some pure light XXXIX. She yields: my Lady in her noblest mood XL. I bade my Lady think what she might mean. XLI. How many a thing which we cast to the ground, XLII. I am to follow her. There is much grace XLIII. Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like XLIV. They say, that Pity in Love’s service dwells, XLV. It is the season of the sweet wild rose, XLVI. At last we parley: we so strangely dumb XLVII. We saw the swallows gathering in the sky, XLVIII. Their sense is with their senses all mixed in, XLIX. He found her by the ocean’s moaning verge, L. Thus piteously Love closed what he begat: THE PATRIOT ENGINEER, 231
‘Sirs! may I shake your hands? CASSANDRA, 236
Captive on a foreign shore, THE YOUNG USURPER, 240
On my darling’s bosom MARGARET’S BRIDAL EVE, 241
The old grey mother she thrummed on her knee: MARIAN, 248
She can be as wise as we, BY MORNING TWILIGHT, 249
Night, like a dying mother, UNKNOWN FAIR FACES, 249
Though I am faithful to my loves lived through, SHEMSELNIHAR, 250
O my lover! the night like a broad smooth wave A ROAR THROUGH THE TALL TWIN ELM-TREES, 252
A roar thro’ the tall twin elm-trees WHEN I WOULD IMAGE, 252
When I would image her features, THE SPIRIT OF SHAKESPEARE, 253
Thy greatest knew thee, Mother Earth; unsoured CONTINUED, 253
How smiles he at a generation ranked ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF EARTH IN AUTUMN, 254
Fair Mother Earth lay on her back last night, MARTIN’S PUZZLE, 261
There she goes up the street with her book in her hand,
CHILLIANWALLAH {1}
CHILLANWALLAH, Chillanwallah! Where our brothers fought and bled, O thy name is natural music And a dirge above the dead! Though we have not been defeated, Though we can’t be overcome, Still, whene’er thou art repeated, I would fain that grief were dumb.
Chillianwallah, Chillianwallah! ’Tis a name so sad and strange, Like a breeze through midnight harpstrings Ringing many a mournful change; But the wildness and the sorrow Have a meaning of their own— Oh, whereof no glad to-morrow Can relieve the dismal tone!
Chillianwallah, Chillianwallah! ’Tis a village dark and low, By the bloody Jhelum river Bridged by the foreboding foe; And across the wintry water He is ready to retreat, When the carnage and the slaughter Shall have paid for his defeat.
Chillianwallah, Chillianwallah! ’Tis a wild and dreary plain, Strewn with plots of thickest jungle, Matted with the gory stain. There the murder-mouthed artillery, In the deadly ambuscade, Wrought the thunder of its treachery On the skeleton brigade.
Chillianwallah, Chillianwallah! When the night set in with rain, Came the savage plundering devils To their work among the slain; And the wounded and the dying In cold blood did share the doom Of their comrades round them lying, Stiff in the dead skyless gloom.
Chillianwallah, Chillianwallah! Thou wilt be a doleful chord, And a mystic note of mourning That will need no chiming word; And that heart will leap with anguish Who may understand thee best; But the hopes of all will languish Till thy memory is at rest.
THE DOE: A FRAGMENT (_FROM_ ‘_WANDERING WILLIE_’)
AND—‘Yonder look! yoho! yoho! Nancy is off!’ the farmer cried, Advancing by the river side, Red-kerchieft and brown-coated;—‘So, My girl, who else could leap like that? So neatly! like a lady! ‘Zounds! Look at her how she leads the hounds!’ And waving his dusty beaver hat, He cheered across the chase-filled water, And clapt his arm about his daughter, And gave to Joan a courteous hug, And kiss that, like a stubborn plug From generous vats in vastness rounded, The inner wealth and spirit sounded: Eagerly pointing South, where, lo, The daintiest, fleetest-footed doe Led o’er the fields and thro’ the furze Beyond: her lively delicate ears Prickt up erect, and in her track A dappled lengthy-striding pack.
Scarce had they cast eyes upon her, When every heart was wagered on her, And half in dread, and half delight, They watched her lovely bounding flight; As now across the flashing green, And now beneath the stately trees, And now far distant in the dene, She headed on with graceful ease: Hanging aloft with doubled knees, At times athwart some hedge or gate; And slackening pace by slow degrees, As for the foremost foe to wait. Renewing her outstripping rate Whene’er the hot pursuers neared, By garden wall and paled estate, Where clambering gazers whooped and cheered. Here winding under elm and oak, And slanting up the sunny hill: Splashing the water here like smoke Among the mill-holms round the mill.
And—‘Let her go; she shows her game, My Nancy girl, my pet and treasure!’ The farmer sighed: his eyes with pleasure Brimming: ‘’Tis my daughter’s name, My second daughter lying yonder.’ And Willie’s eye in search did wander, And caught at once, with moist regard, The white gleams of a grey churchyard. ‘Three weeks before my girl had gone, And while upon her pillows propped, She lay at eve; the weakling fawn— For still it seems a fawn just dropt A se’nnight—to my Nancy’s bed I brought to make my girl a gift: The mothers of them both were dead: And both to bless it was my drift, By giving each a friend; not thinking How rapidly my girl was sinking. And I remember how, to pat Its neck, she stretched her hand so weak, And its cold nose against her cheek Pressed fondly: and I fetched the mat To make it up a couch just by her, Where in the lone dark hours to lie: For neither dear old nurse nor I Would any single wish deny her. And there unto the last it lay; And in the pastures cared to play Little or nothing: there its meals And milk I brought: and even now The creature such affection feels For that old room that, when and how, ’Tis strange to mark, it slinks and steals To get there, and all day conceals. And once when nurse who, since that time, Keeps house for me, was very sick, Waking upon the midnight chime, And listening to the stair-clock’s click, I heard a rustling, half uncertain, Close against the dark bed-curtain: And while I thrust my leg to kick, And feel the phantom with my feet, A loving tongue began to lick My left hand lying on the sheet; And warm sweet breath upon me blew, And that ’twas Nancy then I knew. So, for her love, I had good cause To have the creature “Nancy” christened.’
He paused, and in the moment’s pause, His eyes and Willie’s strangely glistened. Nearer came Joan, and Bessy hung With face averted, near enough To hear, and sob unheard; the young And careless ones had scampered off Meantime, and sought the loftiest place To beacon the approaching chase.
‘Daily upon the meads to browse, Goes Nancy with those dairy cows You see behind the clematis: And such a favourite she is, That when fatigued, and helter skelter, Among them from her foes to shelter, She dashes when the chase is over, They’ll close her in and give her cover, And bend their horns against the hounds, And low, and keep them out of bounds! From the house dogs she dreads no harm, And is good friends with all the farm, Man, and bird, and beast, howbeit Their natures seem so opposite. And she is known for many a mile, And noted for her splendid style, For her clear leap and quick slight hoof; Welcome she is in many a roof. And if I say, I love her, man! I say but little: her fine eyes full Of memories of my girl, at Yule And May-time, make her dearer than Dumb brute to men has been, I think. So dear I do not find her dumb. I know her ways, her slightest wink, So well; and to my hand she’ll come, Sidelong, for food or a caress, Just like a loving human thing. Nor can I help, I do confess, Some touch of human sorrowing To think there may be such a doubt That from the next world she’ll be shut out, And parted from me! And well I mind How, when my girl’s last moments came, Her soft eyes very soft and kind, She joined her hands and prayed the same, That she “might meet her father, mother, Sister Bess, and each dear brother, And with them, if it might be, one Who was her last companion.” Meaning the fawn—the doe you mark— For my bay mare was then a foal, And time has passed since then:—but hark!’
For like the shrieking of a soul Shut in a tomb, a darkened cry Of inward-wailing agony Surprised them, and all eyes on each Fixed in the mute-appealing speech Of self-reproachful apprehension: Knowing not what to think or do: But Joan, recovering first, broke through The instantaneous suspension, And knelt upon the ground, and guessed The bitterness at a glance, and pressed Into the comfort of her breast The deep-throed quaking shape that drooped In misery’s wilful aggravation, Before the farmer as he stooped, Touched with accusing consternation: Soothing her as she sobbed aloud:— ‘Not me! not me! Oh, no, no, no! Not me! God will not take me in! Nothing can wipe away my sin! I shall not see her: you will go; You and all that she loves so: Not me! not me! Oh, no, no, no!’ Colourless, her long black hair, Like seaweed in a tempest tossed Tangling astray, to Joan’s care She yielded like a creature lost: Yielded, drooping toward the ground, As doth a shape one half-hour drowned, And heaved from sea with mast and spar, All dark of its immortal star. And on that tender heart, inured To flatter basest grief, and fight Despair upon the brink of night, She suffered herself to sink, assured Of refuge; and her ear inclined To comfort; and her thoughts resigned To counsel; her wild hair let brush From off her weeping brows; and shook With many little sobs that took Deeper-drawn breaths, till into sighs, Long sighs, they sank; and to the ‘hush!’ Of Joan’s gentle chide, she sought Childlike to check them as she ought, Looking up at her infantwise. And Willie, gazing on them both, Shivered with bliss through blood and brain, To see the darling of his troth Like a maternal angel strain The sinful and the sinless child At once on either breast, and there In peace and promise reconciled Unite them: nor could Nature’s care With subtler sweet beneficence Have fed the springs of penitence, Still keeping true, though harshly tried, The vital prop of human pride.
BEAUTY ROHTRAUT (_FROM MÖRICKE_)
WHAT is the name of King Ringang’s daughter? Rohtraut, Beauty Rohtraut! And what does she do the livelong day, Since she dare not knit and spin alway? O hunting and fishing is ever her play! And, heigh! that her huntsman I might be! I’d hunt and fish right merrily! Be silent, heart!
And it chanced that, after this some time,— Rohtraut, Beauty Rohtraut,— The boy in the Castle has gained access, And a horse he has got and a huntsman’s dress, To hunt and to fish with the merry Princess; And, O! that a king’s son I might be! Beauty Rohtraut I love so tenderly. Hush! hush! my heart.
Under a grey old oak they sat, Beauty, Beauty Rohtraut! She laughs: ‘Why look you so slyly at me? If you have heart enough, come, kiss me.’ Cried the breathless boy, ‘kiss thee?’ But he thinks, kind fortune has favoured my youth; And thrice he has kissed Beauty Rohtraut’s mouth. Down! down! mad heart.
Then slowly and silently they rode home,— Rohtraut, Beauty Rohtraut! The boy was lost in his delight: ‘And, wert thou Empress this very night, I would not heed or feel the blight; Ye thousand leaves of the wild wood wist How Beauty Rohtraut’s mouth I kiss’d. Hush! hush! wild heart.’
THE OLIVE BRANCH
A DOVE flew with an Olive Branch; It crossed the sea and reached the shore, And on a ship about to launch Dropped down the happy sign it bore.
‘An omen’ rang the glad acclaim! The Captain stooped and picked it up, ‘Be then the Olive Branch her name,’ Cried she who flung the christening cup.