Part 2

So here with your bays be the dear head crowned, Lay flowers where the dear dust lies, And wreathe his column with laurel round To point his fame to the skies; But the greenest laurel that ever grew Is the laurel that’s yet to win; Crowned with his laurels he waits for You To bring Your laurels in!

WATERLOO DAY

[JUNE 18]

This is the day of our glory; this is our day to weep. Under her dusty laurels England stirs in her sleep; Dreams of her days of honour, terrible days that are dead, Days of the making of story, days when the sword was red,

When all her fate and her future hung on the naked blade, When by the sword of her children her place in the world was made, When Honour sounded the trumpet and Valour leapt to obey, And Heroes bought us the Empire that statesmen would sell to-day.

England, wanton and weary, sunk in a slothful ease, Has slain in her wars her thousands, but her tens of thousands in peace: And the cowards grieve for her glory; their glory is in their shame; They are glad of the moth in her banners, and the rust on her shining name.

Oh, if the gods would send us a balm for our sick, sad years, Let them send us a sight of the scarlet, and the sound of the guns in our ears! For valour and faith and honour--these grow where the red flower grows, And the leaves for the Nation’s healing must spring from the blood of her foes.

A SONG OF PEACE AND HONOUR

[DECEMBER, 1895]

TO THE QUEEN

Lady and Queen, for whom our laurels twine, Upon whose head the glories of our land In one immortal diadem are met, Embodied England, in whose woman-hand The sceptre of Imperial sway is set, Receive this song of mine! For you are England, and her bays grow green To deck your brow, your goodness lends her grace, And in our hearts your face is as Her face; The Mother-Country is the Mother-Queen.

* * * * *

We, men of England, children of her might, With all our Mother’s record-roll of glory, Great with her greatness, noble by her name, Drank with our mothers’ milk our Mother’s story, And in our veins the splendour of her fame Made strong our blood and bright; And to her absent sons her name has been Familiar music heard in distant lands, Heart of our heart and sinews of our hands, England, our Mother, our Mistress and our Queen!

Out of the thunderous echoes of the past Through the gold-dust of centuries we hear Her voice, “O children of a royal line, Sons of her heart, whom England holdeth dear, Mine was the Past--make ye the future mine All glorious to the last!” And, as we hear her, cowards grow to men, And men to heroes, and the voice of fear Is as a whisper in a deaf man’s ear, And the dead past is quick in us again.

Her robe is woven of glory and renown, Hers are the golden-laden Argosies, And lordship of the wild and watery ways, Her flag is blown across the utmost seas: Dead nations built her throne, and kingdoms blaze For jewels in her crown. Her Empire like a girdle doth enfold The world; her feet upon her foes are set; She wears the steel-wrought, blood-bright amulet Won by her children in the days of old.

Yet in a treasury of such gems as these Which power and sovereignty and kingship fill To the vast limit of the circling sun, England, our Mother, in her heart holds still, As her most precious jewel, save only one, The priceless pearl of peace-- Peace plucked from out the very heart of war Through the long agony of strenuous years, Made pure by blood and sanctified by tears, A pearl to lie where England’s treasures are.

O peaceful English lanes all white with may, O English meadows where the grass grows tall, O red-roofed village, field and farm and fold Where the long shadows of the elm-trees fall On the wide pastures which the sun calls gold And twilit dew calls gray;-- These are the home, the happy cradle-place Of every man who has our English tongue, Sprung from those loins from which our sires have sprung, Heirs of the glory of our mighty race!

Brothers, we hold the pearl of priceless worth: Shall Peace, our pearl, by us be cast aside? Is it not more to us than all things are? Nay, Peace is precious as the world is wide, But England’s honour is more precious far Than all the heavens and earth. Were honour outcast from her supreme place Our pearl of Peace no more a pearl would shine, But, trampled under-foot of cowards and swine, Rot in the mire of a deserved disgrace.

Know then, O ye our brothers over sea, We will not cast our pearl of Peace away, But, holding it, we wait; and if, at last, The whole world came against us in array, If all our glory into darkness passed, Our Empire ceased to be, Yet should we still have chosen the better part Though in the dust our kingdoms were cast down, Though lost were every jewel in our crown We still should wear our jewel in our heart.

So, for our Mother’s honour, if it must Let Peace be lost, but lost the worthier way; Not trampled down, but given, for her sake Who forged of many an iron yesterday The golden song that gold-tongued fame shall wake When we are dust, in dust: For brotherhood and strife and praise and blame And all the world, even to our very land, Weighed in the balance, are as a grain of sand Against the honour of our English name!

II

THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE LADY

Sir Geoffrey met the white lady Upon his marriage morn, Her eyes were blue as cornflowers are, Her hair was gold like corn.

Sir Geoffrey gave the white lady A posy of roses seven, “You are the fairest May,” said he, “That ever strayed from Heaven.”

Sir Geoffrey by the white lady Was lured away to shame, For seven long years of prayers and tears No tidings of him came.

Then she who should have been his bride A mighty oath she swore, “For seven long years I have wept and prayed, Now I will pray no more.

“Since God and all the saints of Heaven Bring not my lord to me, I will go down myself to hell And bring him back,” said she.

* * * * *

She crept to the white lady’s bower, The taper’s flame was dim, And there Sir Geoffrey lay asleep, And the white witch sat by him.

Her arm was laid across his neck, Her gold hair on his face, And there was silence in the room As in a burial-place.

And there were gems and carven cups, And ’broidered bridal gear-- “Whose bridal is this?” the lady said, “And what knight have ye here?”

“The good knight here ye know full well, He was your lord, I trow, But I have taken him from your side, And I am his lady now.

“This seven year with right good cheer We twain our bridal keep, So take for your mate another knight And let my dear lord sleep.”

Then up and spake Sir Geoffrey’s bride, “What bridal cheer is this? I would think scorn to have the lips Who could not have the kiss!

“I would think scorn to take the half Who could not have the whole; I would think scorn to steal the body Who could not take the soul!

“For, though ye hold his body fast This seven weary year, His soul walks ever at my side And whispers in my ear.

“I would think scorn to hold in sleep What, if it waked, would flee, So let his body join his soul And both fare forth with me; “For I have learned a spell more strong Than yours that laid him low, And I will speak it for his sake Because I love him so!”

The white lady threw back her hair, Her eyes began to shine-- “His soul is thine these seven years?-- To-night it shall be mine!

“I have been brave to hold him here While seven long years befell, Rather than let a bridal be Whose seed should flower in hell.

“I have not looked into his eyes Nor joined my lips to his, For fear his soul should spring to flame And shrivel at my kiss.

“I have been brave to watch his sleep While the long hours come and go, To hold the body without the soul, Because I love him so.

“But since his soul this seven year Has sat by thee,” she said, “His body and soul to-night shall lie Upon my golden bed.

“Thou hast no need to speak the spell That thou hast learned,” said she, “For I will wake him from his sleep And take his soul from thee.”

She stooped above him where he lay, She laid her lips on his; He stirred, he spake: “These seven long years I have waited for thy kiss.

“My soul has hung upon thy lips And trembled at thy breath, Thou hast given me life in a cup to drink, As God will give me death.

“Why didst thou fear to kill my soul Which only lives for thee? Thou hast put seven wasted years, O love, ’twixt thee and me.”

THE GHOST BEREFT

The poor ghost came through the wind and rain And passed down the old dear road again.

Thin cowered the hedges, the tall trees swayed Like little children that shrank afraid.

The wind was wild and the night was late When the poor ghost came to the garden gate;

Dank were the flower-beds, heavy and wet, The weeds stood up where the rose was set.

The wind was angry, the rain beat sore When the poor ghost came to its own house-door.

“And shall I find her a-weeping still To think how alone I lie and chill?

“Or shall I find her happy and warm With her dear head laid on a new love’s arm?

“Or shall I find she has learned to pine For another’s love, and not for mine?

“Whatever chance, I have this to my store, She is mine, my own, for evermore!”

So the poor ghost came through the wind and rain Till it reached the square bright window pane.

“Oh! what is here in the room so bright? Roses and love, and a hid delight?

“What lurks in the silence that fills the room? A cypress wreath from a dead man’s tomb?

“What sleeps? What wakes? And oh! can it be Her heart that is breaking--and not for me?”

Then the poor ghost looked through the window pane, Though all the glass was wrinkled with rain.

“Oh, there is light, at the feet and head Twelve tall tapers about the bed.

“Oh, there are flowers, white flowers and rare, But not the garland a bride may wear.

“Jasmine white and a white white rose, But its scent is gone where the lost dream goes.

“Straight lilies laid on the strait white bier-- But the room is empty--she is not here!

“Her body lies here, deserted, cold; And the body that loved it creeps in the mould.

“Was there ever an hour when my Love, set free, Would not have hastened and come to me?

“Can the soul that loved mine long ago Be hence and away, and I not know?

“Oh, then God’s judgment is on me sore, For I have lost her for evermore!”

And the poor ghost fared through the wind and rain To its own appointed place again.

* * * * *

But up in Heaven, where memories cease Because the blessed have won to peace,

One pale saint shivered, and closer wound The shining raiment that wrapped her round.

“Oh, fair is Heaven, and glad am I, Yet I fain would remember the days gone by.

“The past is veiled, and I may not know, But I think there was sorrow, long ago;

“The sun of Heaven is warm and bright, But I think there is rain on the earth to-night.

“O Christ, because of Thine own sore pain Help all poor souls in the wind and rain.”

THE VAIN SPELL

The house sleeps dark and the moon wakes white, The fields are alight with dew; “Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night? I have waited the whole night through, For I knew, O Heart of my heart, I knew by my heart, That the night of all nights is this, When elm shall crack and lead shall part, When moulds shall sunder and shot bolts start To let you through to my kiss.”

So spake she alone in the lonely house. She had wrapped her round with the spell, She called the call, she vowed the vow, And the heart she had pledged knew well That this was the night, the only night, When the moulds might be wrenched apart, When the living and dead, in the dead of the night, Might clasp once more, in the grave’s despite, For the price of a living heart.

But out in the grave the corpse lay white And the grave clothes were wet with dew; “Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night, I have waited the whole night through, For I knew That I dared not leave my grave for an hour Since the hour of all hours is near, When you shall come to the hollow bower, In a cast of the wind, in a waft of the Power, To the heart that to-night beats here!”

The moon grows pale and the house sleeps still; Ah, God! do the dead forget? The grave is white and the bed is chill, But a guest may be coming yet. But the hour has come and the hour has gone That never will come again; Love’s only chance is over and done, And the quick and the dead are twain, not one, And the price has been paid in vain.

THE ADVENTURER

The land of gold was far away, The sea a challenge roared between; I left my throne, my crown, my queen, And sailed out of the quiet bay.

I met the challenge of the wave, The curses of the winds I mocked: The conquered wave my galley rocked, The wind became my envious slave.

I brought much treasure from afar, Spices, and shells, and rich attire; Red rubies, fed with living fire, To lie where all my longings are.

Heavy with spoil my keel ploughed low As slow we sailed into the bay, And long ago seemed yesterday And yesterday looked long ago.

I came in triumph from the sea; Bent was my crown, my courts grown mean, And on my throne a faded queen Raised alien eyes, and looked at me.

“My queen! These rubies let me lay Upon thy heart, as once my head ...” She smiled pale scorn: “My heart!” she said, And turned her weary eyes away.

IN THE ENCHANTED TOWER

The waves in thunderous menace break Upon the rocks below my tower, And none will dare the Sea-king’s power And venture shipwreck for my sake.

Yet once,--my lamp a path of light Across the darkling sea had cast-- I saw a sail; at last, at last, It came towards me through the night.

My lamp had been the beacon set To lead the ship through mist and foam, The ship that came to take me home, To that far land I half forget.

But since my tower is built so high, And surf-robed rocks curl hid below, I quenched my lamp--and, weeping low I saw my ship go safely by!

FAITH

Through the long night, the deathlong night, Along the dark and haunted way, I knew your hidden face was bright-- More bright than any day.

And when the faint, insistent moan Rose from some weed-grown wayside grave, I said, “I do not walk alone; ’Tis easy to be brave.”

I never turned to speak with you, For all the way was dark and long, But all the shadows’ menace through Your silence was my song.

I never sought to take your hand, For all the way was long and rough; I taught my soul to understand That love was strength enough.

Then, suddenly, the ghosts drew near, A ghastly, gliding, tomb-white band; I called aloud for you to hear, My hand besought your hand.

No voice, no touch--the thin ghosts glide Where in my dream I dreamed you were-- Night, night, you are not by my side, You never have been there!

THE REFUSAL

Mine is a palace fair to see, All hung with gold and silver things, It is more glorious than a king’s, And crownèd queens might envy me.

Ah, no, I will not let you in! Stay rather at the gates and weep For all the splendour that I keep, The treasures that you cannot win.

While you desire and I refuse, For both the palace still is here-- Its turrets gold, its silver gear Are yours to wish for--mine to use.

But if I let you in, I know The spell would break, the palace fade, And we stand, trembling and afraid, Lost in the dark where chill winds blow.

PRELUDE

Out of the west when the sun was dying Clouds of white wings came flying, flying, Wheeling and whirling they swept away Into the heart of the eastern gray; But one white dove came straight to my breast Out of the west.

Into the west when the dawn was pearly Clouds of white wings went, dewy-early, Straight from the world of the waning stars; O beating pinions! O prison bars! My dove flies free no more with the rest Into the west.

AT THE SOUND OF THE DRUM

Are you going for a soldier with your curly yellow hair, And a scarlet coat instead of the smock you used to wear? Are you going to drive the foe as you used to drive the plough? Are you going for a soldier now?

I am going for a soldier, and my tunic is of red And I’m tired of woman’s chatter, and I’ll hear the drum instead; I will break the fighting line as you broke your plighted vow, For I’m going for a soldier now.

For a soldier, for a soldier are you sure that you will go, To hear the drums a-beating and to hear the bugles blow? I’ll make you sweeter music, for I’ll swear another vow-- Are you going for a soldier now?

I am going for a soldier if you’d twenty vows to make; You must get another sweetheart, with another heart to break, For I’m sick of lies and women and the harrow and the plough, And I’m going for a soldier now!

THE GOOSE-GIRL

I wandered lonely by the sea, As is my daily use, I saw her drive across the lea The gander and the goose. The gander and the gray, gray goose, She drove them all together; Her cheeks were rose, her gold hair loose, All in the wild gray weather.

“O dainty maid who drive the geese Across the common wide, Turn, turn your pretty back on these And come and be my bride. I am a poet from the town, And, ’mid the ladies there, There is not one would wear a crown With half your charming air!”

She laughed, she shook her pretty head. “I want no poet’s hand; Go read your fairy-books,” she said, “For this is fairy-land. My Prince comes riding o’er the leas; He fitly comes to woo, For I’m a Princess, and my geese Were poets, once, like you!”

THE PEDLAR

Fly, fly, my pretty pigeon, fly! And see if you can find him; He has blue eyes--you’ll know him by,-- He wears a pack behind him. He’s gone away--ah! many a mile Because he could not please me, And, oh! ’twill be a weary while Ere next he comes to tease me.

He carries wares of every kind, Fine ribbons, silks, and laces, Bargains to rhyme with every mind, And hues to suit all faces. He has gold rings and pretty things That other maids will throng for, Ah, pigeon! spread your pretty wings, And fly to him I long for.

Tell him to turn and come again, For once I sent him packing; He offered me a bargain then, But wit and price were lacking. I have the price he asked of me, The wit that will not weigh it; Ah! bid him come again and see How gladly I will pay it.

A heart of gold he offered me As ’twere a penny fairing, And only asked a worthless fee, This heavy heart I’m wearing. I would not then--now long and drear The white way winds behind him; Ah! seek him, seek him, Pigeon dear, But you will never find him!

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL

When my good-nights and prayers are said And I am safe tucked up in bed, I know my guardian angel stands And holds my soul between his hands.

I cannot see his wings of light Because I keep my eyes shut tight, For, if I open them, I know My pretty angel has to go.

But through the darkness I can hear His white wings rustling very near; I know it is his darling wings, _Not_ Mother folding up my things!

III

“SHEPHERDS ALL AND MAIDENS FAIR”

Pipe, shepherds, pipe, the summer’s ripe; So wreathe your crooks with flowers; The world’s in tune to Love and June, The days are rich in hours, In rosy hours, in golden hours-- Love’s crown and fortune fair, So gather gold for Love to hold, And flowers for Love to wear!

Sing, maidens, sing! A dancing ring Of pleasures speed your way; Too harsh and dry is fierce July, Too maiden-meek was May; But Love and June their old sweet tune Are singing at your ear: So learn the song and troop along To meet your shepherds dear!

Oh, Chloris fair, a rose to wear, And gold to spend have I-- When all are gay on this June day You would not bid me sigh? You would not scorn a swain forlorn-- Each shepherd far and near Hastes to his sweet, with flying feet, As I towards my dear.

No maids there be in Arcady But have their shepherds true; Must you alone despise the one Who only pipes for you? You have no ear my pipe to hear Though all for you it be; And I no eyes for her who sighs And only sings for me!

A PORTRAIT

Like the sway of the silver birch in the breeze of dawn Is her dainty way; Like the gray of a twilight sky or a starlit lawn Are her eyes of gray; Like the clouds in their moving white Is her breast’s soft stir; And white as the moon and bright Is the soul of her.

Like murmur of woods in spring ere the leaves be green, Like the voice of a bird That sings by a stream that sings through the night unseen, So her voice is heard. And the secret her eyes withhold In my soul abides, For white as the moon and cold Is the heart she hides.

THE OFFERING

What will you give me for this heart of mine, No heart of gold--and yet my dearest treasure? It has its graces--it can ache and pine, And beat true time to your sweet voice’s measure; It bears your name, it lives but for your pleasure: What will you give me for this heart I bring, That holds my life, my joy, my everything?

How can I ask a price, when all my prayer Is that, without return, you will but take it-- Feed it with hope, or starve it to despair, Keep it to play with, mock it, crush it, break it, And, if your will lies there, at last forsake it? Its epitaph shall voice its deathless pride: “She held me in her hands until I died.”

ENTREATY

O love, let us part now! Ours is the tremulous, low-spoken vow, Ours is the spell of meeting hands and eyes. The first, involuntary, sacred kiss Still on our lips in benediction lies. O Love, be wise! Love at its best is worth no more than this-- Let us part now!