Part 1

VERSES

=THE GARDEN OF KAMA=; and other Love Lyrics from India. Arranged in Verse by +Laurence Hope+. Square 8vo, 5_s._ net.

=STARS OF THE DESERT.= By +Laurence Hope+. Square 8vo, price 5_s._ net.

_Uniform with the above (shortly)_

=LAST POEMS.= By +Laurence Hope+.

+London+: WILLIAM HEINEMANN.

VERSES

BY

VIOLET JACOB

(MRS. ARTHUR JACOB)

AUTHOR OF ‘THE SHEEP-STEALERS,’ ‘THE INTERLOPER’

LONDON

WILLIAM HEINEMANN

1905

_All rights reserved._

TO

THE IDEAL CRITIC

I have to thank the Editors of the _Westminster Gazette_, _The English Illustrated Magazine_, and _Country Life_ for permission to reprint some of the following poems.--V. J.

CONTENTS

PAGE To H. M. C. 1 Half-way 2 White Magic 4 Serenade 5 The Shadow 6 The Mill-house 8 ‘I sleep but my Heart waketh’ 13 An Immortelle 14 The Two Queens 15 The Lost Track 16 At a Brookside 18 Revenant 18 To Aurelia, with a Pearl Necklace 19 Beyond the Walls 20 ‘Come on, come up, ye rovers’ 22 An Echo 24 A Young Moon 26 The Soul 27 The Ballad of Hakon 29 Ignis Fatuus 33 The Little Nightjar 34 Possession 36 Airlie Kirk 38 The Flute player 39 In Lower Egypt 42 Winter and Spring 44 A Tryst 45 The Call 47 Time and Space 49 A Translation 50 Glamour 52 Lenore in the Oliveyards 54 New Year’s Eve 55 Three Poems for Children-- I. The Lilacs 57 II. Dreams 58 III. The Snow Witch 61 The Valley of the Kings 62 The Lowland Ploughman 65 Late February 67 From a Train-window 68 Poems of India-- I. In a Mango-tope 70 II. Night in the Plains 73 III. The Resting-place 75 IV. Evening in the Opium Fields 77 V. ‘God is great’ 78 VI. A Mahommedan Graveyard 81 VII. Cherry-Blossom at Dagshai 83 VIII. ‘With Military Honours’ 85 IX. The Distant Temple 87

TO H. M. C.

A silence falls on us to-day, Our lips are closed, we do not speak, But, in each other’s eyes we seek And find the thing that each would say.

So deep it lies, a rock set fast, Washed hard by life, by love, by tears, Beneath the floods of time and years Built up and rooted in the past.

And sometimes, when the tide is low, A voice comes up the Northern sea; Across the sands to you and me It calls from lands left long ago.

By marshes lying dim and wide, Through wet, grey sea-fogs, creeping on, Back from that youth for ever gone It comes to us across the tide.

How shall we speak? What words can say The thing for which no words are known, That calls to us from places lone Through past, through present, through to-day?

❦

HALF-WAY

The world is not the dream of living gold We dreamed when we were young; Then, all the glory that the west could hold Burned, fold on fold, A molten veil across its portals flung Behind whose shade the years lay sleeping still, Like tales untold; But now, beyond the beeches bare and chill, Beyond the woods set far upon the hill, The clouds are cold.

And life is not the journey that we planned As we set out with morn; We said, ‘We will rest here and view the land, Or take our stand Upon these hills and see the ripening corn, Or step aside along the mere to mark The wild-fowl band;’ But now, we know we must tread swift and stark, If we would cross the desert ere the dark Creeps on the sand.

And death is not the dim and distant shade So far against the sky; The half-seen trap for others waiting laid, While we, arrayed In pride and plume of youth, go sweeping by. We thought to meet him with a spirit braced By conquests made; But now, we know, when half the road is traced, Our hope is but to reach him undisgraced And unafraid.

❦

WHITE MAGIC

I saw the moon come out and stand last night Above the plains of cloud, Like a lone chief, who, at his tented door, Looks down upon the forest’s silent floor From a far battlement upon the height, And drops his mantle proud Into the swimming vapours of the light.

O watcher on the planet-woven steep Whose shining feet are set Above the haunted glamour of the skies! Draw me, a slave, with thy compelling eyes, While the slow hours in soundless circle creep, Out through the world, while yet The world’s heart heaves beneath the veil of sleep.

O pale-faced chief! The earth and heaven are still And thou and I awake; I come, with outstretched arms and spirit bound, Forth through the scattered graves where, lying sound, The dead are sown by field and fold and hill And mist-entangled brake; O pale chief! Draw me up into the height, Into the swimming light.

❦

SERENADE

O roses, clustering on the sunny wall In fragrant groups of white and red together, Bend down, bend down your branches, one and all, Beneath the fair June sky and glowing weather; And say to her, I send her A message tender.

And thou, convolvulus, upon the gate, With pale white bells and trails of light leaves swinging, Tell her my love for her is strong as fate, For ever true and like thy tendrils clinging; And kiss her, soft and shy, As she goes by.

O jessamine, in wreaths of scented stars Across the balconies and stonework meeting, Climb up and enter at her window-bars And bear among your buds my loving greeting; Then whisper, sweet and slow, ‘He waits below.’

❦

THE SHADOW

What soul has swept your branches, cypress-tree, That you should point so high; That you, whose root among the graves may be, Look ever to the sky?

Dark warden of the long-untended tomb Seen o’er some mouldering wall, Or set where fountained gardens are abloom And roses blush and fall.

Scarcely the wind is voiceful as it sways Your column, dusk, austere; Scarcely the evening breeze that round you plays Brings music to the ear.

Your earth-bound foot mortality retains Imprisoned in the sod, Your earth-freed spirit to that ether strains Which is the breath of God.

The light o’er southern vineyards dying down Smiles on the landscape still, And lays the lengthening shadow of your crown On many a Tuscan hill.

And, nearer home, where memory’s deathless sun Enwraps some tear-sown mound, Your shade, at day’s decline, O silent one, Slants eastward on the ground.

By tomb or pleasance, convent-girdled height, In countries far or near, You bear a message from eternal light To us whose souls are here.

O silent witness! dark where yonder sky In saffron splendour burns, ’Tis but the shadow that on earth must lie, The substance heavenward turns.

❦

THE MILL-HOUSE

Beneath the drawbridge is the moat, On broadened leaves the lilies float, The white bud bursts its oozy coat.

Up from the fields of ripened corn There comes the sound of voices borne From where the stooks stand newly shorn.

Above her head the banner flies, A dragon blue with banded eyes, Grey in the sun the towers rise.

Within, the knights sit in a row, And ladies, with their hands of snow; The golden cup goes to and fro.

She heeds nor feast, nor song, nor wine, She only sees the weapons shine Upon the plains of Palestine.

She only hears the trumpets bray Their summons through the Eastern day, The tramp of horses far away.

Her heart sees all the far-off scene, And, with her heart, she hears the green Wild roll of waters in between.

The light from the horizon’s rim Strikes, like the wings of seraphim, Upon the fountain’s circled brim.

A shadow lies before her face, Sir Hugh has risen and left his place: “Elayne, the seasons march apace;

Lo, patience is a good knight’s stay, Yet comes the time when men may say ‘Who waits too long will lose the day.’

The dial by the swinging vane Marks how the long hours wax and wane-- ’Tis time the priest were brought, Elayne.

Yon knight who fights in Palestine, What is his love compared with mine? I will load your hair with jewels fine,

You shall lie on silk, you shall sit, a queen, In costly raiment blue and green With golden roses wrought in between.”

To where the crazy mill-house stands He has borne her with his iron hands, Her hair hangs down in russet bands;

He has shorn a long tress of her hair And bound her feet so slim and fair, He has borne her out on the mill-house stair.

“Elayne, Elayne, you are young to die, There is none to hear should you call or cry, Shall the water have you or shall I?”

She makes no sound; beneath the ledge An eddy swirls among the sedge, He takes a step to the stairs’ edge.

The mill-race, roaring far beneath, Seems like the sound of gloating death, She looks down and she holds her breath.

“Elayne, what think you? Which is best?” Against the black heart in his breast She keeps her pale face closely prest.

The mill-race, winding mile on mile, Sounds like an angry voice the while; He cannot see her drawn lips smile.

Like some slim beast, some snake or stoat, She meets her teeth upon his throat, Her fingers grasp his leathern coat.

On the top step they swing and sway, His breath comes short, his face is grey, The waters close with a splash of spray.

The mill-race runs till it nears the moat, What thing does the water raise and float? --A drowned dead man with a mark on his throat.

❦

‘I SLEEP BUT MY HEART WAKETH’

Here in the winding coil of waterways, Apart among the trees, where no feet pass, And little woodland rabbits on the grass Sit lightly cropping through the Autumn days, The troubling world, with all its weary moods, Is far away outside the circling woods.

A golden rain of leaf is on the beech And red and gold the maze of branches glow To drop their wealth upon the grass below, As golden silence falls on golden speech; In long, wet flats, wherein the heron feeds, A golden sky is mirrored through the reeds.

No voices come to still that other voice Which breathes along the labyrinth of trees To tell the tired soul to dwell at ease Among the best-loved visions of its choice: ‘Sleep in these groves,’ it says, ‘by spirits trod, While thine heart waketh to the sound of God.’

❦

AN IMMORTELLE

There is a secret garden where I dwell Hedged round about with thorn and Judas-tree, Barred in with iron like a prison cell And known to none but me.

Black rocks encircle it; the nightshade wreath Twines in the bush its leaden-purple spray And the rank hellebore, with poisoned breath, Sighs on the air all day.

I loved it not, yet I was wont to go To gaze my fill and all my plants compare, To taste the bitter herbs that thrive and grow, Spreading a carpet there.

* * * * *

But now, ’tis years, since, in that sorry place, I swung the wicket; for, all gloriously, A wingèd figure came with radiant face And bore away the key.

And still--I have a little poison-flower I gathered there; and, though I would forget, I take it out in some friend-haunted hour To find it living yet.

❦

THE TWO QUEENS

A man went down the path of life, And, where the vines were thick and green And grapes hung waiting for the knife, There smiled to him a queen. Love lit the eyes beneath her brow, His lips met hers a moment’s span; He said, ‘My heart is glad, for now I know I am a man.’

And, further on, among the corn, Another queen whose eyes made dim The very glory of the morn, Held out her hand to him. There was no time for speech or vow, He kissed it, kneeling on the sod, He said, ‘My soul is high, for now I feel I am a god.’

❦

THE LOST TRACK

When you have passed, and earth, grown dim behind you, Lies far upon the outworn verge of time, When my hand, searching, shall no longer find you In any clime;

If I but dream your step, by hill or hollow, Has left some echo falling on the wind, I will arise and gird myself and follow Though I be blind.

Or if, clear-sighted, I may but discover That, in the dew at dawn, your footsteps lie, Where, through long fields, the whistling of the plover Comes like a sigh;

And, if they lead me down to Death’s black river, And, by the rocks, I hear the whirlpools spin, Though heart and soul may faint and body quiver I will wade in.

O heart! beyond the tumult of the crossing, If there should be no sign, nor any trace, Only strange winds upon the grasses tossing And the wide space,

Only eternity, with worlds to wander, A soul among the unknown souls of men, And, O my heart, no voice, no footstep yonder, What then? What then?

❦

AT A BROOKSIDE

A running melody is in the noon Of grass-bound rivulet and tangled showers, Of sunlight, glancing through the cuckoo-flowers To mingle golden ripples with the tune; In the wide light my senses seem to swoon, Drugged by the monotone of rhythmic hours And voice of spring-fed watercourse that dowers This winding meadow-land with music’s boon.

Caught in a shimmering net of sight and sound, And drawn, I know not whither, yet aware Am I of some soft touch, and, blown around My face, the plenitude of waving hair-- Nay, let me lie and dream this wondrous thing; My hand, one moment, held the hand of Spring!

❦

REVENANT

In the dark hours I woke and heard the trees That tossed and buffeted before the blast, Straining and sighing while the gale went past; And, as a scourge whose wrath might none appease, The raindrops smote the pane and ran in seas, Gurgling against the frame; now thick and fast, And now like pebbles at the window cast By some lost spirit that could find no ease.

And from the blackness of the dripping night I turned me, weary of its sodden gloom, Smiling to see the glow within the room And the red embers on the hearth alight; Then sudden ceased, and bowed my head again, Thinking of that one gravestone in the rain.

❦

TO AURELIA, WITH A PEARL NECKLACE

Aurelia, think not to refuse Or scorn my gift, although These jewels must their lustre lose Upon thy neck of snow.

But, if thine eyes should glance aside And deign to mark their shine, Deem them as emblems of the pride That fills this heart of mine.

And if, for mine unworthy sake, The pearls neglected be, Still keep them; and the bauble make Into a rosary.

And when, perchance, desiring grace, In prayer thy spirit pleads, String thou thy kisses in their place And I will tell the beads.

❦

BEYOND THE WALLS

The firelight plays since dusk began To gather in the room, Beyond the pane the daylight’s span Grows to the evening gloom; But my heart is out with the gipsy man In his lair among the broom.

Beside the farm both barn and stack Dark in the steading rise, Up in the loaning green, the track Along the firwood lies, Where the gipsy sits with his brows of black, And the black light in his eyes.

He marks the swift owl skim the trees When twilight turns to grey, He hears the whisper up the leas Before the coming day, And the secret hours of the world he sees And the soul of night at play.

His ceiling is the drooping bough, The fir-trees’ ragged limb, When from the hills the western sough Sings o’er the lowlands dim; And the polestar, hanging above the Plough, Is the lantern-flame for him.

O weary roof and crowding wall That bar the scented air! O chain and key whose ceaseless thrall Lies on a world of care, There are no bolts shot in the firwood tall But the joy of life is there!

O to be out when spring has drest The green moss for a bed, To roam by plain and wooded crest Till the rose-hips turn to red; And to lay me down for the last long rest, With the great sky overhead!

❦

‘COME ON, COME UP, YE ROVERS’

Come on, come up, ye rovers Whose ships at anchor ride, The west wind stirs the clovers, And O! the world is wide: So, up with your chains as the sun goes down And out upon the tide!

There drives on the Atlantic The torn scud of the rain, And lines of foam leap frantic Against the coast of Spain, Where the air is full of the souls of men Who sailed the Spanish Main.

Where Rocca’s light is burning On plunging miles of sea, Eastward and eastward turning, By Crete and Tripoli, There is a spirit abroad in the wind That cries aloud to me.

The coast drops low behind you, The gull swoops round the spars; Shall small men’s limits bind you Whose milestones are the stars? Whose signposts stand where Orion swings Above earth’s locks and bars?

Come up, ye sons of morning, This world was built for you! Far off, Heaven’s light’s adorning The lands where dreams come true; And the Angel that sits at the Gates of the East Shall open and let you through.

❦

AN ECHO

When all the world is young and apple-bloom Is rose and white upon the orchard tree, When all the threads of Spring’s ethereal loom Weave a green garment for her phantasy; That voice of youth and growth and vanished years Comes through all time, in floating cadence, still, Through mists of life and long-forgotten tears, The cuckoo calling faintly from the hill.

The hidden streams in many a marshy place Their chains of little standing pools unfold, Like silver mirrors for Spring’s wanton face Tossed at her feet and framed in marigold. Hark to her footsteps down the sloping fields Dancing in measure to the music shrill, That, from its budding depth, the coppice yields, The cuckoo calling faintly from the hill.

O Youth, O Time, O Change--O haunting note! When from our life we shed mortality, When all our joys and passions are remote, All that the ear could hear or eye could see; Haply, across the gulf where Time lies bound, Some shadow of a voice may reach us still, Like that long echo from enchanted ground, The cuckoo calling faintly from the hill.

❦

A YOUNG MOON

A crescent hung above the trees, A sweep of fading sky; A parting shiver in the breeze, And day lies down to die.

A silver curve above the murk Where weary cities slave And heart and hand are seamed with work Whose goal is but the grave.

Within the young moon’s slender arm The old moon’s shadow lies, That wraith whose evanescent charm Melts back to Paradise.

O’er one, o’er all, the wonder swings; A gleam sad eyes may see; A lamp that flies on hidden wings To light my love and me;

A vigil-taper, lone, apart, High above field and town O’er many a spot where some poor heart Has laid its burden down.

❦

THE SOUL

I laid a rose upon my loved one’s bier Beside her quiet face; A red rose, scented with the fadeless year When Love’s eyes met us in the noonday clear In a fair place.

I set it very softly down to lie Amid her heavy hair; And then, methought, the Soul that hovered by Looked towards me through the dimness with a sigh As I stood there.

I laid my empty world upon the pyre, Beside her open hand; A world that life had stocked with youth and fire, Fortune and fame and wealth and world’s desire, And strength to stand.

She knew each aim, fulfilled or unfulfilled, That ever had been mine; And then, methought, the Soul above her willed Towards me through the dusk, a whisper stilled, Whisper or sign?

I laid my heart upon my loved one’s breast, Beside her silent heart; Sorrow and vigil shared, the worst, the best, All, all it held she knew who lay at rest, Till we did part.

Ah me! it seemed as if her pale lips shook With pity as she lay, As though she wore that unforgotten look; And then, methought, the Soul came down and took My heart away.

❦

THE BALLAD OF HAKON

Across the stretching reed-beds The dusk and twilight flee, And thick the sea-fog covers The roaring Northern Sea.

O Hakon, grey-eyed Hakon With tawny yellow hair, Why are you standing all alone? Why are you waiting there?

Across the stretching reed-beds, Amid the falling light, Comes tripping fair maid Mettelil Among the bents to-night.

‘O Mettelil, you have tarried, The dark is drawing on, Were you with young Herr Axel This long long hour that’s gone?

I watched him by the reed-beds, I saw him pause and wait, Till twilight came I looked for you-- O Mettelil, it is late!

Goodbye, goodbye, Maid Mettelil, The raven cries o’erhead, A stormy wind rolls in from sea, Mettelil, my heart is dead!’

* * * * *

Across the roaring ocean The plunging war-ships go, And Hakon, armed to battle, Sails out to meet the foe.

Where’er the press is thickest, Upon the prow he stands; Around him fly the arrows Shot by the foeman’s hands.

The air is wild with shrieking Of those that fight and drown. The blows fall thick round Hakon But none can strike him down.

‘O Death that I am seeking, Why com’st thou not to me? I would my heart lay cold and still Beneath the rolling sea!’

At home sits fair Maid Mettelil, The tears are in her eyes, And, ere a month is come and gone, In kirkyard ground she lies.

And sadly home comes Hakon, Weary his face has grown, All through the night he wanders Beside the kirkyard lone.

‘Mettelil, the leaves are falling, The north wind whistles free, The chill mist wraps me in its shroud, Come back, come back to me!’

Between the glimmering headstones, Beneath the branches black, A form comes quickly gliding And stands at Hakon’s back.

‘Turn round, turn round now, Hakon, And hold me to your breast And touch my cold lips once with yours, For then my soul can rest.’