PART VI.

THE APOLOGIA.

O Bridget! whose white skin is like to petals of the gladiola flower, Remember this, that from that destined hour When thou was christened, thou was named “POWER.” Power thou hast—and that a wonderous awful gift— Under whose diction thou can’st sink or lift Souls, spirits, hearts, from mirky cleft and rift To higher ways. But also thou can’st drive Creatures so deep, that few can ever dive Down to the depths and bring them up alive, Power thy sister e’er will be through life. “POWER” will rise victorious from every worldly strife. Power is “POWER’S” heritage, manifest and rife, Beware of Power—two edged—a double-bladed knife. Dreams and haunting visions by thy name alone I oft-times have conquered; trusting in thee I’ve gone Through perils gaunt and numerous ground on Passion’s stone. Bridget, although it ere may be thy mission To play at games with Power’s mate—Ambition— See! hidden at her back stands Sinuous Sedition! Loving perhaps too much thy tenderer, truer side I to my inward passion have at length complied, Lest in the smothering of it, I to myself had lied. Crudely and roughly shaken from Euterpe’s sieve These frail halting stanzas now to thy care I give, Feeling that every letter by thee wast made to live. Scorn not then this limping, poor, procession Of rhythmic lines; nor treat with proud aggression These faulty verses; waiting at thy session For tempered judgment; merciful then be Ever with kindness keeping within thy memory, That every written sentiment, is a living part of me.

Written at “Stagsden,” Bournemouth, 1915.

TO BRIDGET.

“CARMEN TRISTIS.”

How can I sing a song, love, when my heart is full of woe? Grief that is hard to bear, love; grief that is gnawing and slow Crimson rimmed are my eyes, love; bitter my soul within; Bid me to mope and mourn, love, for I haven’t the mind to sing.

Though the Sun may shine in the skies, dear, Though the day be blithesome and gay; When the Mirth of my heart quietly dies, dear, Poor homage to joy can I pay.

For I am far from thy love, dear, From thee who my heart feeds with smiles; More fair than the blossoms above, dear, Or the Pearls of the fairy isles.

How then can I sing a song, love? How then may I carol a lay? When thee, for whom my eyes long, love, Art far from my sight away.

Bournemouth, April 10th, 1915.

“CARMEN LAETI.”

When Mirth and Joy come flitting in, The heart with glee is filled within. When I shall journey back to thee My soul will dance in gaiety.

Merriment shall reign supreme, In every eye a joyous beam; Mirth shall caper all day long, In every heart an airy song.

Bid me to sing a round-a-lay And I will trill to break of day A Ballad, pastorale, stave or air Or roulade to my Lady’s hair.

As blithesome lark from Morn’s pearl dew Is lost to sight in Heaven’s blue Rising with carol to the skies So am I lost in my lady’s eyes.

Bournemouth, April 11th, 1915.

NOTE: The form of these two Songs was suggested from reading a book of Elizabethan verse.

SONNET TO A BOWL OF GOLD AND SCARLET TULIPS.

O blossoms! when I gaze Down into your fair, radiant faces, Glowing up at me from verdant graces; Your rarities amaze. The very gold-bars of the Summer Sun May well give place to your more candent hue. For sunshine yet, I still can seek in you; E’en when the Orb’s illuminèd course is run. Your damask pinions, furled about your form Give subtle sheen and incense to the air; Your gold-dust tongues kiss to the winds pale care Alone for peace and pleasure were ye borne. Whilst to my mind ye bring me, by your grace, A yet more lovely and more radiant face.

Bournemouth, April 12th, 1915.