Part 1

SONGS OF THREE COUNTIES

AND OTHER POEMS

With an Introduction by R. B. CUNNINGHAME-GRAHAM

By MARGUERITE RADCLYFFE-HALL

LONDON CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD. 1913.

Dedicated

to

The Marchioness of Anglesey

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION BY R. B. CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM ix RUSTIC COURTING: WALKING OUT 1 THE SHADOW OF RAGGEDSTONE 3 THE LONG GREEN LANES OF ENGLAND 5 THE HILLS 7 EASTNOR CHURCHYARD 8 THE MALVERN HILLS 9 THE FIRST CUCKOO 11 DUSK IN THE LANE 12 THE MEETING-PLACE 13 BY THE AVON 15 JEALOUSY 16 IN THE CITY 18 I BE THINKIN’ 19 SUNDAY EVENING 20 THE LEDBURY TRAIN 21 JILTED 22 CASEND HILL 23 THE LEDBURY ROAD 24 THE CALL TO LONDON 25 BREDON 27 OUR DEAD 28 PRIMROSE FLOWERS 29 TRAMPING 30 THE BLIND PLOUGHMAN 32 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS: WHEN THE WIND COMES UP THE HILL 35 PEACE 36 LIME-TREES 37 A LITTLE SONG 38 THE SONG OF THE WATCHER 39 BY THE RIVER 41 THE ROAD TO COLLA 42 PRAYER 43 DAWN 45 TO THE EARTH 46 DAWN AMONG THE OLIVE GROVES 48 SILENT PLACES 49 ONE EVENING NEAR NICE 50 THOUGHTS AT AJACCIO 51 THREE CHILD-SONGS: THE THRUSH’S SONG 52 WILLOW WAND 53 A WINTER SONG 55 AUTUMN IN SUSSEX 56 SI PARVA LICET COMPONERE MAGNIS 57 TO ITALY 59 SUNDAY IN LIGURIA 60 GEORGETOWN, U.S.A. 61 ON THE POTOMAC RIVER, U.S.A. 63 THE LOST WORD 65 COMPARISONS 66 A FRAGMENT 67 APPRECIATIONS 69 PRESS NOTICES 73

INTRODUCTION

WITH as much grace as if a monoplanist should attempt to write a preface to a book on flying for an albatross, so may a writer of mere prose attempt to pen an introduction to a book of poetry.

The bird and man both use the air, but with a difference. So do the poet and the man of prose use pen and ink.

Familiarity with tools, used in two branches of one art (or trade), is apt to prove a snare.

Music and poetry, the most ethereal of the arts upon the face of them, are in a way more mathematical than prose, for both have formulæ. Hence, their appeal goes quicker to men’s minds, and oversteps countries and languages to some degree, and makes it difficult to write about them. Of late, young poets, those who have bulked the largest in the public eye, those that the world has hailed as modern, have often been obscure. What is modernity? To be modern is to touch the senses of the age you write for. To me, a fool who owns a motor-car is just as great a fool as was a fool of the stone age.

The only true modernity is talent, and Lucian of Samosata was as modern to the full as Guy de Maupassant. The poet for whose verses I am writing this my introduction, preface, foreword, call it what you will, is one of those whose meaning he who runs may read.

Does she do well in making herself clear? I think so, for though there are those who prefer a mist of words, holding apparently that poetry should be written in Chinook, or Malagasy, this opinion must of necessity be of the nature of what Ben Jonson called a “humour.”

Few men to-day read Eupheus and fewer Gongora. Yet in their time their concepts were considered to be fine flowers of poetry. Those who wrote so that all men could understand, as Sapho, Campion, Jorge Maurique, Petrarca, Villon, and their fellow-singers in the celestial spheres where poets sing, crowned with the bays of the approval of countless generations, all wrote clearly. Their verses all were clear as is the water running over chalk in a south country trout-stream, such as the Itchin or the Test.

I take two specimens of Miss Radclyffe-Hall’s poetry to illustrate what I have said. She writes of a blind ploughman, whose prayer is to his friend to set him in the sun.

“Turn my face towards the East And praise be to God.”

One sees him sitting, wrinkled and bent, and ploughworn in the sun, and thanking God according to his faith, for light interior, for that interior vision which all the mystics claim.

“God who made His sun to shine On both you and me, God who took away my eyes, That my _soul_ might see.”

This shows the poet in an unusual light, for most poets write on far different subjects; but here is one which is eternal, and has been eternal since the time of Œdipus.

Again in the verses, “Thoughts at Ajaccio,” she shows a love of the earth and of its fulness, a feeling which has been the birthright of all English writers of good verse from the remotest times.

“Fill me with scent of upturned ground, Soft perfume from thy bosom drawn.”

This is the feeling that has inspired so many poets, and shows the writer not striving to be modern or filled with strange conceits; but with a love and trust of the brown earth, from which all poets take their birth, and into which they all return.

R. B. CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM.

RUSTIC COURTING

I

WALKING OUT

UPON a Sunday afternoon, When no one else was by, The little girl from Hanley way, She came and walked with I.

We climbed nigh to the Beacon top, And never word spoke we, But oh! we heard the thrushes sing Within the cherry tree.

The cherry tree was all a-bloom, And Malvern lay below, And far away the Severn wound— ’Twas like a silver bow.

She took my arm, I took her hand, And never word we said, But oh! I knew her eyes were brown, Her lips were sweet and red.

And when I brought her home again, The stars were up above, And ’twas the nightingale that swelled His little throat with love!

II

THE SHADOW OF RAGGEDSTONE

O RAGGEDSTONE, you darksome hill, Your shadow fell for sure Upon my own dear love and I, Across the purple moor.

For we were such a happy pair, The day we climbed your crest; And now my love she lays her head Upon another’s breast.

She sits beside another man, And walks abroad with he, And never sheds a single tear, Or thinks a thought o’ me!

My mind it seems a-fire like, My heart’s as cold as lead, My prayers they dry upon my lips And somehow won’t get said.

I wish that I could lay me down, Upon the dreary plain That stretches out to Raggedstone,* And never rise again!

* A legend is attached to Raggedstone Hill in Worcestershire. The Hill was cursed by a Benedictine Monk. From time to time a great shadow rises up from it, spreading across the surrounding country. Woe betide those on whom the shadow falls, as it brings with it terrible misfortune! Many of the people living near Raggedstone still firmly believe in this legend.

III

THE LONG GREEN LANES OF ENGLAND

OH! the long green lanes of England! They be very far away, And it’s there that I’d be walking, ’Mid the hawthorn and the may.

Where the trees are all in blossom, And the mating birds they sing Fit to bust their little bodies, Out of joy because it’s Spring.

I’d be courting of my true love, She’d be in her Sunday best, With my arm around her shoulder And her head upon my breast.

For the new land it’s a fine land, Where a man can get a start; But there’s that about the old land That will grip his very heart:

For he’ll mind him o’ the cowslips, Coming up all fresh and new In the fields of early mornings, Where the grass is white with dew.

Oh! it’s money, money, money, “Go and try to earn a bit;” And “America’s the country For the lad as doesn’t quit.”

Seems that folks go mad on money, Well, I’ll have enough some day, But the long green lanes of England They be Oh! so far away!

IV

THE HILLS

WHEN I the hills of Malvern see, There comes a sadness over me.

The reason why, I cannot tell, Perhaps I love those hills too well.

But this I know, when I behold Their springtime green, and autumn gold,

And see that year by year they bear Such witness that God’s earth is fair,

I’m happy for their beauty’s sake, And yet my heart begins to ache.

V

EASTNOR CHURCHYARD

I BE hopin’ you remember, Now the Spring has come again, How we used to gather violets By the little church at Eastnor, For we were so happy then!

O my love, do you remember Kisses that you took and gave? There be violets now in plenty By the little church at Eastnor, But they’re growing on your grave.

VI

THE MALVERN HILLS

THE Malvern Hills be green some days, And some days purple-blue, There never was the like of them The whole of England through.

From Hanley straight into the Wells The road runs long and white, And there the hills they meet your gaze Against the evening light.

Against the evening light they stand, So proud, and dark, and old, The Raggedstone and Hollybush, And Worcester Beacon bold.

No matter where you chance to be, However far away, You’ll see the hills awaiting you At close of every day.

Oh! it’s a lovely sight to see The twilight stealing down Their steepish banks and little paths, Along to Malvern town.

And maybe on the Severn side, Hung low on Bredon’s mound, The big red harvest moon will rise, So lazy-like and round.

They talks a lot o’ foreign parts, Them as has seen them do, But give me Malvern Hills at dusk All green or purple-blue!

VII

THE FIRST CUCKOO

TO-DAY I heard the cuckoo call, Atop of Bredon Hill, I heard him near the blackthorn bush, And Oh! my heart stood still!

For it was just a year ago, That to my love I said, “When next we hear the cuckoo call, Then you and I will wed.”

My love and I we still be two, And will be, many Springs; I think the saddest sound on earth Is when the cuckoo sings.

VIII

DUSK IN THE LANE

COME, put yer little hand in mine, And let it be at rest, It minds me of a tired bird Within a warm brown nest; And bend that pretty head o’ your’n, And lay it on my breast.

The lambs they all be wearied out, I penned them in the fold; The lights along the Malvern Hills They shine like stars o’ gold; And yonder rises up the moon, All round, and big, and bold.

There’s not a single passer-by, Nor sound along the lane, And Oh! the earth be smelling sweet, Like meadows after rain. Then come a little closer, maid, And kiss me once again.

IX

THE MEETING-PLACE

I MIND me of the hawthorn trees, With cuckoos flying near; The hawthorn blossoms smelt so sweet, The cuckoo called so clear!

The hill was steep enough to climb, It seemed to touch the sky! You saw two valleys from the top, The Severn and the Wye.

The Severn and the Wye you saw, And they were always green; I think it was the prettiest sight That I have ever seen.

And there, so far above the town, With not a soul to see, Whenever she could slip away My love would come to me!

I never smell the hawthorn bloom, Or hear the cuckoo sing, But I am minded of my love, And Malvern Hills in Spring!

X

BY THE AVON

IN the meadows by the Avon, Underneath the slope of Bredon, There we often used to wander, My girl and I.

All around the thrushes singing, And on Sunday, church bells ringing, Overhead the soft clouds floating, White in the sky.

Still the waters of the Avon Flow so gently under Bredon, And on Sunday bells be ringing, Clouds floating high.

But I’m sick at heart and lonely, Nothing here has changed, save only Just we two, who once were courting, My girl and I.

XI

JEALOUSY

I SEE’D yer turn the other day To watch a chap go by, Because he wore a uniform, And held his shoulders high. And then yer wouldn’t even smile, Or say a word to I!

A kid he was, all pink and white, And strutting like a chick, A tassel at his silly side, And carrying a stick. And yet yer thought the world o’ him, And started breathin’ quick—

The same as when I kissed yer first, Oh! maybe you forget! But you was desperate sweet on I, I mind yer blushes yet. But now yer says me hands are rough, Me coat will never set.

Me hands they bean’t lily white, Me coat may not be trim, But you may know, if fightin’ comes, I’ll fight as well as him, Although they pad his shoulders out To make his waist look slim.

I haven’t got no buttons on A showy coat of red; I haven’t got no soldier’s cap To wear upon me head. But I can love yer just the same, When all be done and said!

XII

IN THE CITY

OH! City girls are pale-like, And proud-like, and cold-like, And nineteen out of twenty Have never been our way. I tells them of the tall hills, The green hills, the old hills, Where hawthorns are a-blossoming, And thrushes call all day.

Oh! London is a fine place, A big place, a rich place, Where nineteen out of twenty Of all the girls are fair. But well I knows a white road, A long road, a straight road, That leads me into Bosbury; I’m wishing I was there!

XIII

I BE THINKIN’

THE hillside green with bracken, And the red plough land, The brownish hurrying rivers, Where the willows stand. The thickets and the meadows, And the strong oak trees; O, tell me traveller, have yer Seen the like o’ these?

The mists along the common, At the close of day, They’re lovely when the twilight Makes the vale look grey. The lanes be long and lonely, But they all lead home; I be thinkin’ lads are foolish When they wants to roam!

XIV

SUNDAY EVENING

THE noontide showers have drifted past, The sunset’s on the hill, The lights be gleaming through the dusk, Adown by Clincher’s Mill.

It’s such a pretty evening, maid, All quiet-like, and blue; With here and there a darksome cloud That lets the silver through.

The folk be all in Sunday best, I see’d ’em passing by; Then come along the quiet lane, And walk a bit with I.

XV

THE LEDBURY TRAIN

FROM Wind’s Point hill at eventide, I see the train go by; The train that goes to Ledbury, Along the vale of Wye.

It wanders through the clustered hops, And through the green hedgerows, It minds me of a fairy thing, So gliding-like it goes.

And standing there on Wind’s Point hill, Within the sunset glow, The purple shadows over Wales, The little train below.

With all the pine trees whispering, And turning softly blue; I feel as though I were a child, With fairy tales come true!

XVI

JILTED

OH! golden is the gorse-bush, Beneath an April sky, The lark is full of singing, The clouds are white and high; But my love, my love is faithless, And she cares no more for I!

Then what’s the good of living, With the bright sun overhead, When the earth is always ready And will give a kinder bed, Where no vows be made or broken, And no bitter words are said!

XVII

CASEND HILL

O CASEND HILL, I be so heavy-hearted, So lonesome-like since from my love I parted, That when the bracken on your sides is springing, And all the mating thrushes start a-singing, A kind of fear across my mind comes creeping, I feel as though I’d surely fall a-weeping!

O Casend Hill, the Spring does not forsake you, At winter’s close the sun comes back to wake you; And year by year the same sweet wind it passes, To stir the lark that’s nesting in your grasses; But no one comes to ask me how I’m faring, In all the world there’s not a soul that’s caring!

XVIII

THE LEDBURY ROAD

THE road that leads to Ledbury Oh! it be such a pretty way, As far as Wales you’ll likely see, Suppose the month be May.

The little birds they sing and sing, The blackbirds and the thrushes do, And after rain in early Spring The grass looks green and new.

I wish that I were walking there, Along that road so still and wide, A lad without a thought or care, My true-love at my side!

XIX

THE CALL TO LONDON

OH! come to London, young lad, Lots is to be seen! But he said: “I cannot come, maid, Till the cuckoos all be dumb, maid, On the hills of green.”

Oh! come to London, brave lad, Come and leave the plough. But he said: “The blackthorn’s springing, And a mottled thrush is singing In the cherry bough.”

Oh! come to London, fine lad, Here’s where money flows. But he said: “There’s gold in plenty, Gold enough and more for twenty, Where the kingcup grows.”

Oh! come to London, strong lad, I am wanting you. But he said: “It be a grand sight, When the stars at midnight Stretch along the blue.”

Oh! come to London, dear lad, I am fair to see! But he said: “Along of our way Trees are thick with white may, Wonderful they be!”

XX

BREDON

BREDON is a lonesome hill, It hasn’t any brothers; It stands within the Severn vale, Apart from all the others.

The Cotswold Hills go hand in hand, The Malverns touching shoulder; But Bredon all alone does stand, More proud than they, and bolder.

Then it’s on Bredon I will roam The livelong summer through; For I’ve no brothers, I’ve no mate, And I be lonesome too!

XXI

OUR DEAD

THE day our dead are laid to rest We heap the earth upon their breast; Upon the earth we set a stone, And then we leave them all alone.

Some folks they weep, and some they pray, But from the grave they’ll turn away. There’s wood to chop, and fires to make, And food to cook, and bread to bake.

Another takes the empty seat, For men who live must drink and eat; And work is waiting to be done, The work of two, that’s now for one.

We sometimes speak of folks that’s dead, Of what they did, and what they said; We sometimes think of them at night, But sometimes we forget them quite.

XXII

PRIMROSE FLOWERS

I RODE through Eastnor woods to-day, And all the air did promise May, Did promise May till every tree Found voice to make much melody.

And oh, the primrose flowers! they glowed In thousands all along the road, Spreading their magic through the grove, Like countless hoards of treasure-trove.

I said, “Perchance ’tis God who threw These golden coins from out the blue, That with such bounty He might buy The thoughts of one so poor as I!”

XXIII

TRAMPING

OH! it’s good to be alive, man, Good to take the road and tramp, When the morning smells of meadows, And the lanes are cool and damp.

And the little furry creatures Think the world is theirs for play, Sitting still to watch you coming, Half afraid to run away.

There’s just light enough to see by, Growing stronger as you go; And the air is sort o’ hushed-like, Breathing very long and slow.

And the mountains near by Monmouth Seem to melt into the sky; And the banks along of Ross way Seem to melt into the Wye.

And there’s not a human stirring, To disturb the field or fen. Oh! you’ll never find your God, man, If you do not find Him then!

XXIV

THE BLIND PLOUGHMAN

SET my hands upon the plough, My feet upon the sod; Turn my face towards the east, And praise be to God!

Every year the rains do fall, The seeds they stir and spring; Every year the spreading trees Shelter birds that sing.

From the shelter of your heart, Brother—drive out sin, Let the little birds of faith Come and nest therein.

God has made His sun to shine On both you and me; God, who took away my eyes, That my _soul_ might see!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

WHEN THE WIND COMES UP THE HILL

OH! the wind among the trees, How it stirs their wood to song! Little whispered melodies, All the winding road along.

Was there ever such a sound, Breaking through a noontide still, As this tune the trees have found, When the wind comes up the hill!

PEACE

(Sidmouth)

EVENING upon the calm sweet sea, A little wind asleep, Dim sails that drift as tranquilly As dreams in slumber deep. A seagull on the water’s breast Folds up his wings of white; As peaceful and as much at rest As is my heart to-night.

LIME-TREES

LIME-TREES meeting overhead, Many lovers cold and dead, Kissed and loved, and kissed again, In the sunshine and the rain, Underneath your scented green.

When we two, in Earth’s kind breast, Fall a-sleeping with the rest, Then to us, who loved our fill, Sweet to know you whisper still, Happy leaves—of all that’s been!

A LITTLE SONG

A RIPPLE and a rush, and a mating thrush, And, oh! the month must be at May. A blossom and a tree, and a honey-bee, And, oh! it’s such a perfect day!

A meeting and a smile, and a sunlit mile, And, oh! the world is very young. Come winter, storm or cold, Love never can grow old, And oh! my little song is sung!

THE SONG OF THE WATCHER

AT the early break of day, When the river mists grow pink, And the moon begins to sink, Down along the southern way; When the gold mimosa tree Rustles low and pleasantly, To the little singing bird That within her heart has stirred; I, the watcher at the window, Thank the gods who made dawn lovely, By creating you for me!

When the stately night steps down, Silent footed, from the west, With the moon against her breast Folded in her cloudy gown; When the endless, sighing sea Stretches to eternity, Yearning for the pale-eyed star, Long beloved, and yet so far; I, the watcher at the window, Thank the gods who made night lovely, By creating you for me!

BY THE RIVER

THROUGH the rustling river grasses Warm and sweet the young wind passes, Blowing shyly soft caresses To their dewy emerald tresses.

All along the silver sands Little ripples joining hands, Dance a quaint fantastic measure, Making liquid sounds of pleasure.

While away beyond the weir Calls the cuckoo loud and clear, Something mystic and remote, Ringing in his fairy note.

How I wish that I were small, Swinging on the rushes tall, Just a humble happy thing, Born to live a while in Spring!

THE ROAD TO COLLA

THE blossoms of a Judas tree Deep pink against an azure sea, A silver moth on thoughtless wing, A hidden bird that lights to sing, A little cloud that wanders by, Across the endless field of sky.

A city in the far away, Upon the hills beyond the bay, And over all, the sun divine, Pouring his stream of burning wine Like nectar strong with youth and mirth, Into this goblet of the earth!

PRAYER