Chapter 1
Transcribed from the 1912 Times Book Club “Surrey” edition by David Price, email [email protected]
[Picture: Book cover]
[Picture: The South Wester]
POEMS VOL. III
BY GEORGE MEREDITH
* * * * *
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 A STAVE OF ROVING TIM, 1
The wind is East, the wind is West, JUMP-TO-GLORY JANE, 5
A revelation came on Jane, THE RIDDLE FOR MEN, 14
This Riddle rede or die, THE SAGE ENAMOURED AND THE HONEST LADY, 15
One fairest of the ripe unwedded left ‘LOVE IS WINGED FOR TWO,’ 30 ‘ASK, IS LOVE DIVINE,’ 30 ‘JOY IS FLEET,’ 31 THE LESSON OF GRIEF, 31
Not ere the bitter herb we taste, WIND ON THE LYRE, 32
That was the chirp of Ariel THE YOUTHFUL QUEST, 33
His Lady queen of woods to meet, THE EMPTY PURSE, 34
Thou, run to the dry on this wayside bank, TO THE COMIC SPIRIT, 56
Sword of Common Sense!— YOUTH IN MEMORY, 68
Days, when the ball of our vision PENETRATION AND TRUST, 75
Sleek as a lizard at round of a stone, NIGHT OF FROST IN MAY, 76
With splendour of a silver day, THE TEACHING OF THE NUDE, 79
A Satyr spied a Goddess in her bath, BREATH OF THE BRIAR, 81
O briar-scents, on yon wet wing EMPEDOCLES, 82
He leaped. With none to hinder, ENGLAND BEFORE THE STORM, 83
The day that is the night of days, TARDY SPRING, 85
Now the North wind ceases, THE LABOURER, 87
For a Heracles in his fighting ire there is never the glory that follows FORESIGHT AND PATIENCE, 89
Sprung of the father blood, the mother brain, THE WARNING, 99
We have seen mighty men ballooning high, OUTSIDE THE CROWD, 99
To sit on History in an easy chair, TRAFALGAR DAY, 100
He leads: we hear our Seaman’s call Odes in Contribution to the Song of French History THE REVOLUTION, 105
Not yet had History’s Aetna smoked the skies, NAPOLÉON, 116
Cannon his name, FRANCE, 140
We look for her that sunlike stood ALSACE-LORRAINE, 150
The sister Hours in circles linked, THE CAGEING OF ARES, 170
How big of breast our Mother Gaea laughed THE NIGHT-WALK, 175
Awakes for me and leaps from shroud AT THE CLOSE, 178
To Thee, dear God of Mercy, both appeal, A GARDEN IDYL, 179
With sagest craft Arachne worked A Reading of Life THE VITAL CHOICE, 185
Or shall we run with Artemis WITH THE HUNTRESS, 186
Through the water-eye of night, WITH THE PERSUADER, 189
Who murmurs, hither, hither: who THE TEST OF MANHOOD, 200
Like a flood river whirled at rocky banks, THE HUELESS LOVE, 208
Unto that love must we through fire attain, UNION IN DISSEVERANCE, 209
Sunset worn to its last vermilion he; SONG IN THE SONGLESS, 210
They have no song, the sedges dry, THE BURDEN OF STRENGTH, 210
If that thou hast the gift of strength, then know THE MAIN REGRET, 211
Seen, too clear and historic within us, our sins of omission ALTERNATION, 211
Between the fountain and the rill FOREST HISTORY, 212
Beneath the vans of doom did men pass in. Fragments of the Iliad in English Hexameter Verse THE INVECTIVE OF ACHILLES, 221
‘Heigh me! brazen of front, thou glutton for plunder, how can one,
‘Bibber besotted, with scowl of a cur, having heart of a deer, thou! MARSHALLING OF THE ACHAIANS, 225
Like as a terrible fire feeds fast on a forest enormous, AGAMEMNON IN THE FIGHT, 227
These, then, he left, and away where ranks were now clashing the thickest, PARIS AND DIOMEDES, 228
So he, with a clear shout of laughter, HYPNOS ON IDA, 230
They then to fountain-abundant Ida, mother of wild beasts, CLASH IN ARMS OF THE ACHAIANS AND TROJANS, 231
Not the sea-wave so bellows abroad when it bursts upon shingle, THE HORSES OF ACHILLES, 232
So now the horses of Aiakides, off wide of the war-ground, THE MARES OF THE CAMARGUE, 234
A hundred mares, all white! their manes ‘ATKINS’, 236
Yonder’s the man with his life in his hand, THE VOYAGE OF THE ‘OPHIR’, 237
Men of our race, we send you one THE CRISIS, 239
Spirit of Russia, now has come OCTOBER 21, 1905, 241
The hundred years have passed, and he THE CENTENARY OF GARIBALDI, 243
We who have seen Italia in the throes, THE WILD ROSE, 245
High climbs June’s wild rose, THE CALL, 247
Under what spell are we debased ON COMO, 250
A rainless darkness drew o’er the lake MILTON, 251
What splendour of imperial station man, IRELAND, 253
Fire in her ashes Ireland feels THE YEARS HAD WORN THEIR SEASONS’ BELT, 255
The years had worn their seasons’ belt, FRAGMENTS, 257
Open horizons round,
A wilding little stubble flower
From labours through the night, outworn,
This love of nature, that allures to take IL Y A CENT ANS, 259
That march of the funereal Past behold; YOUTH IN AGE, 261
Once I was part of the music I heard Epitaphs TO A FRIEND LOST, 265
When I remember, friend, whom lost I call, M. M., 265
Who call her Mother and who calls her Wife THE LADY C. M., 266
To them that knew her, there is vital flame ON THE TOMBSTONE OF JAMES CHRISTOPHER WILSON, 266
Thou our beloved and light of Earth hast crossed GORDON OF KHARTOUM, 266
Of men he would have raised to light he fell: J. C. M., 267
A fountain of our sweetest, quick to spring THE EMPEROR FREDERICK OF OUR TIME, 267
With Alfred and St. Louis he doth win ISLET THE DACHS, 267
Our Islet out of Helgoland, dismissed ON HEARING THE NEWS FROM VENICE, 268
Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak, HAWARDEN, 269
When comes the lighted day for men to read AT THE FUNERAL, 270
Her sacred body bear: the tenement ANGELA BURDETT-COUTTS, 270
Long with us, now she leaves us; she has rest THE YEAR’S SHEDDINGS, 270
The varied colours are a fitful heap:
A STAVE OF ROVING TIM (ADDRESSED TO CERTAIN FRIENDLY TRAMPS.)
I
THE wind is East, the wind is West, Blows in and out of haven; The wind that blows is the wind that’s best, And croak, my jolly raven! If here awhile we jigged and laughed, The like we will do yonder; For he’s the man who masters a craft, And light as a lord can wander. So, foot the measure, Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
II
You live in rows of snug abodes, With gold, maybe, for counting; And mine’s the beck of the rainy roads Against the sun a-mounting. I take the day as it behaves, Nor shiver when ’tis airy; But comes a breeze, all you are on waves, Sick chickens o’ Mother Carey! So, now for next, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
III
Sweet lass, you screw a lovely leer, To make a man consider. If you were up with the auctioneer, I’d be a handsome bidder. But wedlock clips the rover’s wing; She tricks him fly to spider; And when we get to fights in the Ring, It’s trumps when you play outsider. So, wrench and split, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
IV
Along my winding way I know A shady dell that’s winking; The very corner for Self and Co To do a world of thinking. And shall I this? and shall I that? Till Nature answers, ne’ther! Strike match and light your pipe in your hat, Rejoicing in sound shoe-leather! So lead along, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
V
A cunning hand ’ll hand you bread, With freedom for your capers. I’m not so sure of a cunning head; It steers to pits or vapours. But as for Life, we’ll bear in sight The lesson Nature teaches; Regard it in a sailoring light, And treat it like thirsty leeches. So, fly your jib, cries Roving Tim, And top your boom, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
VI
She’ll take, to please her dame and dad, The shopman nicely shaven. She’ll learn to think o’ the marching lad When perchers show they’re craven. You say the shopman piles a heap, While I perhaps am fasting; And bless your wits, it haunts him in sleep, His tin-kettle chance of lasting! So hail the road, cries Roving Tim, And hail the rain, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
VII
He’s half a wife, yon pecker bill; A book and likewise preacher. With any soul, in a game of skill, He’ll prove your over-reacher. The reason is, his brains are bent On doing things right single. You’d wish for them when pitching your tent At night in a whirly dingle! So, off we go, cries Roving Tim, And on we go, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
VIII
Lord, no, man’s lot is not for bliss; To call it woe is blindness: It’ll here a kick, and it’s there a kiss, And here and there a kindness. He starts a hare and calls her joy; He runs her down to sorrow: The dogs within him bother the boy, But ’tis a new day to-morrow. So, I at helm, cries Roving Tim, And you at bow, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.
JUMP-TO-GLORY JANE
I
A REVELATION came on Jane, The widow of a labouring swain: And first her body trembled sharp, Then all the woman was a harp With winds along the strings; she heard, Though there was neither tone nor word.
II
For past our hearing was the air, Beyond our speaking what it bare, And she within herself had sight Of heaven at work to cleanse outright, To make of her a mansion fit For angel hosts inside to sit.
III
They entered, and forthwith entranced, Her body braced, her members danced; Surprisingly the woman leapt; And countenance composed she kept: As gossip neighbours in the lane Declared, who saw and pitied Jane.
IV
These knew she had been reading books, The which was witnessed by her looks Of late: she had a mania For mad folk in America, And said for sure they led the way, But meat and beer were meant to stay.
V
That she had visited a fair, Had seen a gauzy lady there, Alive with tricks on legs alone, As good as wings, was also known: And longwhiles in a sullen mood, Before her jumping, Jane would brood.
VI
A good knee’s height, they say, she sprang; Her arms and feet like those who hang: As if afire the body sped, And neither pair contributed. She jumped in silence: she was thought A corpse to resurrection caught.
VII
The villagers were mostly dazed; They jeered, they wondered, and they praised. ’Twas guessed by some she was inspired, And some would have it she had hired An engine in her petticoats, To turn their wits and win their votes.
VIII
Her first was Winny Earnes, a kind Of woman not to dance inclined; But she went up, entirely won, Ere Jump-to-glory Jane had done; And once a vixen wild for speech, She found the better way to preach.
IX
No long time after, Jane was seen Directing jumps at Daddy Green; And that old man, to watch her fly, Had eyebrows made of arches high; Till homeward he likewise did hop, Oft calling on himself to stop!
X
It was a scene when man and maid, Abandoning all other trade, And careless of the call to meals, Went jumping at the woman’s heels. By dozens they were counted soon, Without a sound to tell their tune.
XI
Along the roads they came, and crossed The fields, and o’er the hills were lost, And in the evening reappeared; Then short like hobbled horses reared, And down upon the grass they plumped: Alone their Jane to glory jumped.
XII
At morn they rose, to see her spring All going as an engine thing; And lighter than the gossamer She led the bobbers following her, Past old acquaintances, and where They made the stranger stupid stare.
XIII
When turnips were a filling crop, In scorn they jumped a butcher’s shop: Or, spite of threats to flog and souse, They jumped for shame a public-house: And much their legs were seized with rage If passing by the vicarage.
XIV
The tightness of a hempen rope Their bodies got; but laundry soap Not handsomer can rub the skin For token of the washed within. Occasionally coughers cast A leg aloft and coughed their last.
XV
The weaker maids and some old men, Requiring rafters for the pen On rainy nights, were those who fell. The rest were quite a miracle, Refreshed as you may search all round On Club-feast days and cry, Not found!
XVI
For these poor innocents, that slept Against the sky, soft women wept: For never did they any theft; ’Twas known when they their camping left, And jumped the cold out of their rags; In spirit rich as money-bags.
XVII
They jumped the question, jumped reply; And whether to insist, deny, Reprove, persuade, they jumped in ranks Or singly, straight the arms to flanks, And straight the legs, with just a knee For bending in a mild degree.
XVIII
The villagers might call them mad; An endless holiday they had, Of pleasure in a serious work: They taught by leaps where perils lurk, And with the lambkins practised sports For ’scaping Satan’s pounds and quarts.
XIX
It really seemed on certain days, When they bobbed up their Lord to praise, And bobbing up they caught the glance Of light, our secret is to dance, And hold the tongue from hindering peace; To dance out preacher and police.
XX
Those flies of boys disturbed them sore On Sundays and when daylight wore: With withies cut from hedge or copse, They treated them as whipping-tops, And flung big stones with cruel aim; Yet all the flock jumped on the same.
XXI
For what could persecution do To worry such a blessed crew, On whom it was as wind to fire, Which set them always jumping higher? The parson and the lawyer tried, By meek persistency defied.
XXII
But if they bore, they could pursue As well, and this the Bishop too; When inner warnings proved him plain The chase for Jump-to-glory Jane. She knew it by his being sent To bless the feasting in the tent.
XXIII
Not less than fifty years on end, The Squire had been the Bishop’s friend: And his poor tenants, harmless ones, With souls to save! fed not on buns, But angry meats: she took her place Outside to show the way to grace.
XXIV
In apron suit the Bishop stood; The crowding people kindly viewed. A gaunt grey woman he saw rise On air, with most beseeching eyes: And evident as light in dark It was, she set to him for mark.
XXV
Her highest leap had come: with ease She jumped to reach the Bishop’s knees: Compressing tight her arms and lips, She sought to jump the Bishop’s hips: Her aim flew at his apron-band, That he might see and understand.
XXVI
The mild inquiry of his gaze Was altered to a peaked amaze, At sight of thirty in ascent, To gain his notice clearly bent: And greatly Jane at heart was vexed By his ploughed look of mind perplexed.
XXVII
In jumps that said, Beware the pit! More eloquent than speaking it— That said, Avoid the boiled, the roast; The heated nose on face of ghost, Which comes of drinking: up and o’er The flesh with me! did Jane implore.
XXVIII
She jumped him high as huntsmen go Across the gate; she jumped him low, To coax him to begin and feel His infant steps returning, peel His mortal pride, exposing fruit, And off with hat and apron suit.
XXIX
We need much patience, well she knew, And out and out, and through and through, When we would gentlefolk address, However we may seek to bless: At times they hide them like the beasts From sacred beams; and mostly priests.
XXX
He gave no sign of making bare, Nor she of faintness or despair. Inflamed with hope that she might win, If she but coaxed him to begin, She used all arts for making fain; The mother with her babe was Jane.
XXXI
Now stamped the Squire, and knowing not Her business, waved her from the spot. Encircled by the men of might, The head of Jane, like flickering light, As in a charger, they beheld Ere she was from the park expelled.
XXXII
Her grief, in jumps of earthly weight, Did Jane around communicate: For that the moment when began The holy but mistaken man, In view of light, to take his lift, They cut him from her charm adrift!
XXXIII
And he was lost: a banished face For ever from the ways of grace, Unless pinched hard by dreams in fright. They saw the Bishop’s wavering sprite Within her look, at come and go, Long after he had caused her woe.
XXXIV
Her greying eyes (until she sank At Fredsham on the wayside bank, Like cinder heaps that whitened lie From coals that shot the flame to sky) Had glassy vacancies, which yearned For one in memory discerned.
XXXV
May those who ply the tongue that cheats, And those who rush to beer and meats, And those whose mean ambition aims At palaces and titled names, Depart in such a cheerful strain As did our Jump-to-glory Jane!
XXXVI
Her end was beautiful: one sigh. She jumped a foot when it was nigh. A lily in a linen clout She looked when they had laid her out. It is a lily-light she bears For England up the ladder-stairs.
THE RIDDLE FOR MEN
I
THIS Riddle rede or die, Says History since our Flood, To warn her sons of power:— It can be truth, it can be lie; Be parasite to twist awry; The drouthy vampire for your blood; The fountain of the silver flower; A brand, a lure, a web, a crest; Supple of wax or tempered steel; The spur to honour, snake in nest: ’Tis as you will with it to deal; To wear upon the breast, Or trample under heel.
II
And rede you not aright, Says Nature, still in red Shall History’s tale be writ! For solely thus you lead to light The trailing chapters she must write, And pass my fiery test of dead Or living through the furnace-pit: Dislinked from who the softer hold In grip of brute, and brute remain: Of whom the woeful tale is told, How for one short Sultanic reign, Their bodies lapse to mould, Their souls behowl the plain.
THE SAGE ENAMOURED AND THE HONEST LADY
I
ONE fairest of the ripe unwedded left Her shadow on the Sage’s path; he found, By common signs, that she had done a theft. He could have made the sovereign heights resound With questions of the wherefore of her state: He on far other but an hour before Intent. And was it man, or was it mate, That she disdained? or was there haply more?