SONNET
Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare’s self!
No head,
save some world-genius, ought to rest
Above the treasures of that
perfect breast,
Or nightly draw fresh light from those keen stars
Through
which thy soul awes ours: yet thou art bound—
O waste of
nature!—to a craven hound;
To shameless lust, and childish
greed of pelf;
Athené to a Satyr: was that link
Forged
by The Father’s hand? Man’s reason bars
The bans
which God allowed.—Ay, so we think:
Forgetting, thou hadst
weaker been, full blest,
Than thus made strong
by suffering; and more great
In martyrdom, than
throned as Cæsar’s mate.
Eversley, 1851.
MARGARET TO DOLCINO
Ask if I love thee? Oh, smiles cannot tell
Plainer what
tears are now showing too well.
Had I not loved thee, my sky had
been clear:
Had I not loved thee, I had not been here,
Weeping
by thee.
Ask if I love thee? How else could I borrow
Pride from
man’s slander, and strength from my sorrow?
Laugh when they
sneer at the fanatic’s bride,
Knowing no bliss, save to toil
and abide
Weeping by thee.
Andernach on the Rhine,
August 1851.
DOLCINO TO MARGARET
The world goes up and the world goes down,
And
the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday’s sneer and
yesterday’s frown
Can never come over again,
Sweet
wife:
No, never come over again.
For woman is warm though man be cold,
And
the night will hallow the day;
Till the heart which at even was
weary and old
Can rise in the morning gay,
Sweet
wife;
To its work in the morning gay.
Andernach, 1851.
THE UGLY PRINCESS
My parents bow, and lead them forth,
For all
the crowd to see—
Ah well! the people might not care
To
cheer a dwarf like me.
They little know how I could love,
How I could
plan and toil,
To swell those drudges’ scanty gains,
Their
mites of rye and oil.
They little know what dreams have been
My
playmates, night and day;
Of equal kindness, helpful care,
A
mother’s perfect sway.
Now earth to earth in convent walls,
To earth
in churchyard sod:
I was not good enough for man,
And
so am given to God.
Bertrich in the Eifel, 1851.
SONNET
The baby sings not on its mother’s breast;
Nor nightingales
who nestle side by side;
Nor I by thine: but let us only part,
Then
lips which should but kiss, and so be still,
As having uttered
all, must speak again—
O stunted thoughts! O chill
and fettered rhyme
Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest,
Losing
its proper home, can find no rest:
So, like a
child who whiles away the time
With dance and carol till the eventide,
Watching
its mother homeward through the glen;
Or nightingale, who, sitting
far apart,
Tells to his listening mate within the nest
The
wonder of his star-entrancèd heart
Till all the wakened
woodlands laugh and thrill—
Forth all my
being bubbles into song;
And rings aloft, not
smooth, yet clear and strong.
Bertrich, 1851
THE SWAN-NECK
Evil sped the battle play
On the Pope Calixtus’ day;
Mighty
war-smiths, thanes and lords,
In Senlac slept the sleep of swords.
Harold
Earl, shot over shield,
Lay along the autumn weald;
Slaughter
such was never none
Since the Ethelings England won.
Thither
Lady Githa came,
Weeping sore for grief and shame;
How may
she her first-born tell?
Frenchmen stript him where he fell,
Gashed
and marred his comely face;
Who can know him in his place?
Up
and spake two brethren wise,
‘Youngest hearts have keenest
eyes;
Bird which leaves its mother’s nest,
Moults its
pinions, moults its crest.
Let us call the Swan-neck here,
She
that was his leman dear;
She shall know him in this stound;
Foot
of wolf, and scent of hound,
Eye of hawk, and wing of dove,
Carry
woman to her love.’
Up and spake the Swan-neck
high,
‘Go! to all your thanes let cry
How I loved him
best of all,
I whom men his leman call;
Better knew his body
fair
Than the mother which him bare.
When ye lived in wealth
and glee
Then ye scorned to look on me;
God hath brought the
proud ones low
After me afoot to go.’
Rousing
erne and sallow glede,
Rousing gray wolf off his feed,
Over
franklin, earl, and thane,
Heaps of mother-naked slain,
Round
the red field tracing slow,
Stooped that Swan-neck white as snow;
Never
blushed nor turned away,
Till she found him where he lay;
Clipt
him in her armés fair,
Wrapt him in her yellow hair,
Bore
him from the battle-stead,
Saw him laid in pall of lead,
Took
her to a minster high,
For Earl Harold’s soul to cry.
Thus fell Harold, bracelet-giver;
Jesu rest
his soul for ever;
Angles all from thrall deliver;
Miserere
Domine.
Eversley, 1851.
A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE
I heard an Eagle crying all alone
Above the vineyards through
the summer night,
Among the skeletons of robber towers:
Because
the ancient eyrie of his race
Was trenched and walled by busy-handed
men;
And all his forest-chace and woodland wild,
Wherefrom
he fed his young with hare and roe,
Were trim with grapes which
swelled from hour to hour,
And tossed their golden tendrils to
the sun
For joy at their own riches:—So, I thought,
The
great devourers of the earth shall sit,
Idle and impotent, they
know not why,
Down-staring from their barren height of state
On
nations grown too wise to slay and slave,
The puppets of the few;
while peaceful lore
And fellow-help make glad the heart of earth,
With
wonders which they fear and hate, as he,
The Eagle, hates the vineyard
slopes below.
On the Rhine, 1851.
THE LONGBEARDS’ SAGA. A.D. 400
Over the camp-fires
Drank I with heroes,
Under the Donau
bank,
Warm in the snow trench:
Sagamen heard I there,
Men
of the Longbeards,
Cunning and ancient,
Honey-sweet-voiced.
Scaring
the wolf cub,
Scaring the horn-owl,
Shaking the snow-wreaths
Down
from the pine-boughs,
Up to the star roof
Rang out their song.
Singing
how Winil men,
Over the ice-floes
Sledging from Scanland
Came
unto Scoring;
Singing of Gambara,
Freya’s belovèd,
Mother
of Ayo,
Mother of Ibor.
Singing of Wendel men,
Ambri
and Assi;
How to the Winilfolk
Went they with war-words,—
‘Few
are ye, strangers,
And many are we:
Pay us now toll and fee,
Cloth-yarn,
and rings, and beeves:
Else at the raven’s meal
Bide
the sharp bill’s doom.’
Clutching the dwarfs work then,
Clutching
the bullock’s shell,
Girding gray iron on,
Forth fared
the Winils all,
Fared the Alruna’s sons,
Ayo and Ibor.
Mad
at heart stalked they:
Loud wept the women all,
Loud the Alruna
wife;
Sore was their need.
Out of the morning land,
Over
the snow-drifts,
Beautiful Freya came,
Tripping to Scoring.
White
were the moorlands,
And frozen before her:
Green were the
moorlands,
And blooming behind her.
Out of her gold locks
Shaking
the spring flowers,
Out of her garments
Shaking the south
wind,
Around in the birches
Awaking the throstles,
And
making chaste housewives all
Long for their heroes home,
Loving
and love-giving,
Came she to Scoring.
Came unto Gambara,
Wisest
of Valas,—
‘Vala, why weepest thou?
Far in the
wide-blue,
High up in the Elfin-home,
Heard I thy weeping.’
‘Stop
not my weeping,
Till one can fight seven.
Sons have I, heroes
tall,
First in the sword-play;
This day at the Wendels’
hands
Eagles must tear them.
Their mothers, thrall-weary,
Must
grind for the Wendels.’
Wept the Alruna wife;
Kissed
her fair Freya:—
‘Far off in the morning land,
High
in Valhalla,
A window stands open;
Its sill is the snow-peaks,
Its
posts are the waterspouts,
Storm-rack its lintel;
Gold cloud-flakes
above
Are piled for the roofing,
Far up to the Elfin-home,
High
in the wide-blue.
Smiles out each morning thence
Odin Allfather;
From
under the cloud-eaves
Smiles out on the heroes,
Smiles on
chaste housewives all,
Smiles on the brood-mares,
Smiles on
the smiths’ work:
And theirs is the sword-luck,
With
them is the glory,—
So Odin hath sworn it,—
Who
first in the morning
Shall meet him and greet him.’
Still
the Alruna wept:—
‘Who then shall greet him?
Women
alone are here:
Far on the moorlands
Behind the war-lindens,
In
vain for the bill’s doom
Watch Winil heroes all,
One
against seven.’
Sweetly the Queen laughed:—
‘Hear
thou my counsel now;
Take to thee cunning,
Belovèd
of Freya.
Take thou thy women-folk,
Maidens and wives:
Over
your ankles
Lace on the white war-hose;
Over your bosoms
Link
up the hard mail-nets;
Over your lips
Plait long tresses with
cunning;—
So war-beasts full-bearded
King Odin shall
deem you,
When off the gray sea-beach
At sunrise ye greet
him.’
Night’s son was driving
His golden-haired horses up;
Over
the eastern firths
High flashed their manes.
Smiled from the
cloud-eaves out
Allfather Odin,
Waiting the battle-sport:
Freya
stood by him.
‘Who are these heroes tall,—
Lusty-limbed
Longbeards?
Over the swans’ bath
Why cry they to me?
Bones
should be crashing fast,
Wolves should be full-fed,
Where
such, mad-hearted,
Swing hands in the sword-play.’
Sweetly laughed Freya:—
‘A name thou hast given
them,
Shames neither thee nor them,
Well can they wear it.
Give
them the victory,
First have they greeted thee;
Give them
the victory,
Yokefellow mine!
Maidens and wives are these,—
Wives
of the Winils;
Few are their heroes
And far on the war-road,
So
over the swans’ bath
They cry unto thee.’
Royally laughed he then;
Dear was that craft to him,
Odin
Allfather,
Shaking the clouds.
‘Cunning are women all,
Bold
and importunate!
Longbeards their name shall be,
Ravens shall
thank them:
Where women are heroes,
What must the men be?
Theirs
is the victory;
No need of me!’
Eversley, 1852.
From Hypatia.
SAINT MAURA. A.D. 304
Thank God! Those gazers’ eyes are gone at last!
The
guards are crouching underneath the rock;
The lights are fading
in the town below,
Around the cottage which this morn was ours.
Kind
sun, to set, and leave us here alone;
Alone upon our crosses with
our God;
While all the angels watch us from the stars.
Kind
moon, to shine so clear and full on him,
And bathe his limbs in
glory, for a sign
Of what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord!
Look,
and remember how he saved thy lamb!
Oh listen
to me, teacher, husband, love,
Never till now loved utterly!
Oh say,
Say you forgive me! No—you must not speak:
You
said it to me hours ago—long hours!
Now you must rest, and
when to-morrow comes
Speak to the people, call them home to God,
A
deacon on the Cross, as in the Church;
And plead from off the tree
with outspread arms,
To show them that the Son of God endured
For
them—and me. Hush! I alone will speak,
And while
away the hours till dawn for you.
I know you have forgiven me;
as I lay
Beneath your feet, while they were binding me,
I
knew I was forgiven then! When I cried
‘Here am I,
husband! The lost lamb returned,
All re-baptized in blood!’
and you said, ‘Come!
Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife
once more!’
From that same moment all my pain was gone;
And
ever since those sightless eyes have smiled
Love—love!
Alas, those eyes! They made me fall.
I could not bear to
see them, bleeding, dark,
Never, no never to look into mine;
Never
to watch me round the little room
Singing about my work, or flash
on me
Looks bright with counsel.—Then they drove me mad
With
talk of nameless tortures waiting you—
And I could save you!
You would hear your love—
They knew you loved me, cruel men!
And then—
Then came a dream; to say one little word,
One
easy wicked word, we both might say,
And no one hear us, but the
lictors round;
One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains,
And
both, both free! And life had just begun—
Only three
months—short months—your wedded wife
Only three months
within the cottage there—
Hoping I bore your child. . . .
Ah!
husband! Saviour! God! think gently of me!
I am forgiven!
. . .
And then another dream;
A flash—so
quick, I could not bear the blaze;
I could not see the smoke among
the light—
To wander out through unknown lands, and lead
You
by the hand through hamlet, port, and town,
On, on, until we died;
and stand each day
To glory in you, as you preached and prayed
From
rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words,
Mingled with
fire and honey—you would wake,
Bend, save whole nations!
would not that atone
For one short word?—ay, make it right,
to save
You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord?
And so—and
so—alas! you knew the rest!
You answered me. . . .
Ah
cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words.
You had done
nobly had you struck me dead,
Instead of striking me to life!—the
temptress! . . .
‘Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!’—
‘The
smell of death upon me?’—so it was!
True! true! well
spoken, hero! Oh they snapped,
Those words, my madness, like
the angel’s voice
Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs.
All was clear.
There was but one right thing in the world to do;
And
I must do it. . . . Lord, have mercy! Christ!
Help
through my womanhood: or I shall fail
Yet, as I failed before!
. . . I could not speak—
I could not speak for shame
and misery,
And terror of my sin, and of the things
I knew
were coming: but in heaven, in heaven!
There we should meet, perhaps—and
by that time
I might be worthy of you once again—
Of
you, and of my God. . . . So I went out.
. . . . . .
Will
you hear more, and so forget the pain?
And yet I dread to tell
you what comes next;
Your love will feel it all again for me.
No!
it is over; and the woe that’s dead
Rises next hour a glorious
angel. Love!
Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are
dry!
To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat,
And they
will give you water. One to-day,
A soldier, gave me water
in a sponge
Upon a reed, and said, ‘Too fair! too young!
She
might have been a gallant soldier’s wife!’
And then
I cried, ‘I am a soldier’s wife!
A hero’s!’
And he smiled, but let me drink.
God bless him for it!
So
they led me back:
And as I went, a voice was in my ears
Which
rang through all the sunlight, and the breath
And blaze of all
the garden slopes below,
And through the harvest-voices, and the
moan
Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above,
And round the shining
rivers, and the peaks
Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west,
And
round the ancient stones about my feet.
Out of all heaven and earth
it rang, and cried,
‘My hand hath made all these. Am
I too weak
To give thee strength to say so?’ Then my
soul
Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast,
While
all the people made a ring around,
And in the midst the judge spoke
smilingly—
‘Well! hast thou brought him to a better
mind?’
‘No! He has brought me to a better mind!’—
I
cried, and said beside—I know not what—
Words which
I learnt from thee—I trust in God
Nought fierce or rude—for
was I not a girl
Three months ago beneath my mother’s roof?
I
thought of that. She might be there! I looked—
She
was not there! I hid my face and wept.
And when I looked
again, the judge’s eye
Was on me, cold and steady, deep in
thought—
‘She knows what shame is still; so strip her.’
‘Ah!’
I shrieked, ‘Not that, Sir! Any pain!
So young
I am—a wife too—I am not my own,
But
his—my husband’s!’ But they took my shawl,
And
tore my tunic off, and there I stood
Before them all. . . .
Husband! you love me still?
Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out,
kind moon,
And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed,
While
some cried ‘Shame!’ and some, ‘She is too young!’
And
some mocked—ugly words: God shut my ears.
And yet no earthquake
came to swallow me.
While all the court around, and walls, and
roofs,
And all the earth and air were full of eyes,
Eyes,
eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame,
Until my brain
seemed bursting from my brow:
And yet no earthquake came!
And then I knew
This body was not yours alone, but God’s—
His
loan—He needed it: and after that
The worst was come, and
any torture more
A change—a lightening; and I did not shriek—
Once
only—once, when first I felt the whip—
It coiled so
keen around my side, and sent
A fire-flash through my heart which
choked me—then
I shrieked—that once. The foolish
echo rang
So far and long—I prayed you might not hear.
And
then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes,
Swam by me, and a murmur
in my ears
Of humming bees around the limes at home;
And I
was all alone with you and God.
And what they did to me I hardly
know;
I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back,
It
was not after all so very sharp:
So do not pity me. It made
me pray;
Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you,
And you
in God: and once, when I looked down,
And saw an ugly sight—so
many wounds!
‘What matter?’ thought I. ‘His
dear eyes are dark;
For them alone I kept these limbs so white—
A
foolish pride! As God wills now. ’Tis just.’
But
then the judge spoke out in haste: ‘She is mad,
Or fenced
by magic arts! She feels no pain!’
He did not know
I was on fire within:
Better he should not; so his sin was less.
Then
he cried fiercely, ‘Take the slave away,
And crucify her
by her husband’s side!’
And at those words a film came
on my face—
A sickening rush of joy—was that the end?
That
my reward? I rose, and tried to go—
But all the eyes
had vanished, and the judge;
And all the buildings melted into
mist:
So how they brought me here I cannot tell—
Here,
here, by you, until the judgment-day,
And after that for ever and
for ever!
Ah! If I could but reach that hand! One touch!
One
finger tip, to send the thrill through me
I felt but yesterday!—No!
I can wait:—
Another body!—Oh, new limbs are ready,
Free,
pure, instinct with soul through every nerve,
Kept for us in the
treasuries of God.
They will not mar the love they try to speak,
They
will not fail my soul, as these have done!
. . . . .
Will
you hear more? Nay—you know all the rest:
Yet those
poor eyes—alas! they could not see
My waking, when you hung
above me there
With hands outstretched to bless the penitent—
Your
penitent—even like The Lord Himself—
I gloried in you!—like
The Lord Himself!
Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown
Of
thorns which they had put on that dear brow
To make you like Him—show
you as you were!
I told them so! I bid them look on you,
And
see there what was the highest throne on earth—
The throne
of suffering, where the Son of God
Endured and triumphed for them.
But they laughed;
All but one soldier, gray, with many scars;
And
he stood silent. Then I crawled to you,
And kissed your bleeding
feet, and called aloud—
You heard me! You know all!
I am at peace.
Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon
Upon
your limbs, came on me at your smile,
And kept me happy, when they
dragged me back
From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross,
And
bound my wrists and ankles—Do not sigh:
I prayed, and bore
it: and since they raised me up
My eyes have never left your face,
my own, my own,
Nor will, till death comes! . . .
Do
I feel much pain?
Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot
bear.
It has become like part of my own life,
Or part of God’s
life in me—honour—bliss!
I dreaded madness, and instead
comes rest;
Rest deep and smiling, like a summer’s night.
I
should be easy, now, if I could move . . .
I cannot stir.
Ah God! these shoots of fire
Through all my limbs! Hush,
selfish girl! He hears you!
Who ever found the cross a pleasant
bed?
Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil
Unless
it conquers us. These little wrists, now—
You said,
one blessed night, they were too slender,
Too soft and slender
for a deacon’s wife—
Perhaps a martyr’s:—You
forgot the strength
Which God can give. The cord has cut
them through;
And yet my voice has never faltered yet.
Oh!
do not groan, or I shall long and pray
That you may die: and you
must not die yet.
Not yet—they told us we might live three
days . . .
Two days for you to preach! Two days to speak
Words
which may wake the dead!
. . . . .
Hush!
is he sleeping?
They say that men have slept upon the cross;
So
why not he? . . . Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe:
And
he will preach Thy word to-morrow!—save
Souls, crowds, for
Thee! And they will know his worth
Years hence—poor
things, they know not what they do!—
And crown him martyr;
and his name will ring
Through all the shores of earth, and all
the stars
Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see
His
triumph—Preacher! Martyr!—Ah—and me?—
If
they must couple my poor name with his,
Let them tell all the truth—say
how I loved him,
And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord!
Returning
good for evil! and was this
The payment I deserved for such a sin?
To
hang here on my cross, and look at him
Until we kneel before Thy
throne in heaven!
Eversley, 1852.
ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN JOURNAL {282}
So die, thou child of stormy dawn,
Thou winter flower, forlorn
of nurse;
Chilled early by the bigot’s curse,
The pedant’s
frown, the worldling’s yawn.
Fair death, to fall in teeming June,
When every seed which drops
to earth
Takes root, and wins a second birth
From steaming
shower and gleaming moon.
Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain;
Thou rain of God, make
fat the land;
That roots which parch in burning sand
May bud
to flower and fruit again.
To grace, perchance, a fairer morn
In mightier lands beyond
the sea,
While honour falls to such as we
From hearts of heroes
yet unborn,
Who in the light of fuller day,
Of purer science, holier laws,
Bless
us, faint heralds of their cause,
Dim beacons of their glorious
way.
Failure? While tide-floods rise and boil
Round cape and
isle, in port and cove,
Resistless, star-led from above:
What
though our tiny wave recoil?
Eversley, 1852.
DOWN TO THE MOTHERS
Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral;
Mourn
not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father,
Weeping
with fast and scourge, when the bridegroom was taken from them.
Drop
back awhile through the years, to the warm rich youth of the nations,
Childlike
in virtue and faith, though childlike in passion and pleasure,
Childlike
still, and still near to their God, while the day-spring of Eden
Lingered
in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian mountains.
Down to the
mothers, as Faust went, I go, to the roots of our manhood,
Mothers
of us in our cradles; of us once more in our glory.
New-born, body
and soul, in the great pure world which shall be
In the renewing
of all things, when man shall return to his Eden
Conquering evil,
and death, and shame, and the slander of conscience—
Free
in the sunshine of Godhead—and fearlessly smile on his Father.
Down
to the mothers I go—yet with thee still!—be with me, thou
purest!
Lead me, thy hand in my hand; and the dayspring of God
go before us.
Eversley, 1852.
TO MISS MITFORD: AUTHORESS OF ‘OUR VILLAGE’
The single eye, the daughter of the light;
Well pleased to recognise
in lowliest shade
Some glimmer of its parent beam, and made
By
daily draughts of brightness, inly bright.
The taste severe, yet
graceful, trained aright
In classic depth and clearness, and repaid
By
thanks and honour from the wise and staid—
By pleasant skill
to blame, and yet delight,
And high communion with the eloquent
throng
Of those who purified our speech and song—
All
these are yours. The same examples lure,
You in each woodland,
me on breezy moor—
With kindred aim the same sweet path along,
To
knit in loving knowledge rich and poor.
Eversley, 1853.
BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN’S DAUGHTER
It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,
She
looked across the sea;
She looked across the
water;
And long and loud laughed
she:
‘The locks of six princesses
Must
be my marriage fee,
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Who
comes a wooing me?’
It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,
She
walked along the sand;
When she was aware of
a knight so fair,
Came sailing
to the land.
His sails were all of velvet,
His
mast of beaten gold,
And ‘Hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Who
saileth here so bold?’
‘The locks of five princesses
I
won beyond the sea;
I clipt their golden tresses,
To
fringe a cloak for thee.
One handful yet is wanting,
But
one of all the tale;
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Furl
up thy velvet sail!’
He leapt into the water,
That
rover young and bold;
He gript Earl Haldan’s
daughter,
He clipt her locks
of gold:
‘Go weep, go weep, proud maiden,
The
tale is full to-day.
Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Sail
Westward ho! away!’
Devonshire, 1854
From Westward Ho!
FRANK LEIGH’S SONG. A.D. 1586
Ah tyrant Love, Megæra’s serpents bearing,
Why
thus requite my sighs with venom’d smart?
Ah ruthless dove,
the vulture’s talons wearing,
Why flesh
them, traitress, in this faithful heart?
Is this my meed?
Must dragons’ teeth alone
In Venus’ lawns by lovers’
hands be sown?
Nay, gentlest Cupid; ’twas my pride undid me;
Nay,
guiltless dove; by mine own wound I fell.
To worship, not to wed,
Celestials bid me:
I dreamt to mate in heaven,
and wake in hell;
For ever doom’d, Ixion-like, to reel
On
mine own passions’ ever-burning wheel.
Devonshire, 1854.
From Westward Ho!
ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND
Welcome, wild North-easter.
Shame it is to
see
Odes to every zephyr;
Ne’er a
verse to thee.
Welcome, black North-easter!
O’er
the German foam;
O’er the Danish moorlands,
From
thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,
Tired
of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot
and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
Through
the lazy day:
Jovial wind of winter
Turns
us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds;
Crisp
the lazy dyke;
Hunger into madness
Every
plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild-fowl;
Fill
the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely
curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest
Thunder
harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snow-flakes
Off
the curdled sky.
Hark! The brave North-easter!
Breast-high
lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
Over
heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through
the sleet and snow.
Who can over-ride you?
Let
the horses go!
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Down
the roaring blast;
You shall see a fox die
Ere
an hour be past.
Go! and rest to-morrow,
Hunting
in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O’er
the frozen streams.
Let the luscious South-wind
Breathe
in lovers’ sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask
in ladies’ eyes.
What does he but soften
Heart
alike and pen?
’Tis the hard gray weather
Breeds
hard English men.
What’s the soft South-wester?
’Tis
the ladies’ breeze,
Bringing home their true-loves
Out
of all the seas:
But the black North-easter,
Through
the snowstorm hurled,
Drives our English hearts of oak
Seaward
round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
Heralded
by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords
by land and sea.
Come; and strong within us
Stir
the Vikings’ blood;
Bracing brain and sinew;
Blow,
thou wind of God!
1854.
A FAREWELL: TO C. E. G.
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No
lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;
Yet, if you will, one
quiet hint I’ll leave you,
For
every day.
I’ll tell you how to sing a clearer carol
Than
lark who hails the dawn or breezy down
To earn yourself a purer
poet’s laurel
Than Shakespeare’s
crown.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
Do
lovely things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make Life,
and Death, and that For Ever,
One
grand sweet song.
February 1, 1856.
TO G. A. G.
A hasty jest I once let fall—
As jests
are wont to be, untrue—
As if the sum of
joy to you
Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball.
Your eyes met mine: I did not blame;
You saw
it: but I touched too near
Some noble nerve;
a silent tear
Spoke soft reproach, and lofty shame.
I do not wish those words unsaid.
Unspoilt
by praise and pleasure, you
In that one look
to woman grew,
While with a child, I thought, I played.
Next to mine own beloved so long!
I have not
spent my heart in vain.
I watched the blade;
I see the grain;
A woman’s soul, most soft, yet strong.
Eversley, 1856.
THE SOUTH WIND: A FISHERMAN’S BLESSINGS
O blessed drums of Aldershot!
O blessed South-west
train!
O blessed, blessed Speaker’s clock,
All
prophesying rain!
O blessed yaffil, laughing loud!
O blessed
falling glass!
O blessed fan of cold gray cloud!
O
blessed smelling grass!
O bless’d South wind that toots his horn
Through
every hole and crack!
I’m off at eight to-morrow morn,
To
bring such fishes back!
Eversley, April 1, 1856.
THE INVITATION: TO TOM HUGHES
Come away with me, Tom,
Term and talk are done;
My poor
lads are reaping,
Busy every one.
Curates mind the parish,
Sweepers
mind the court;
We’ll away to Snowdon
For our ten days’
sport;
Fish the August evening
Till the eve is past,
Whoop
like boys, at pounders
Fairly played and grassed.
When they
cease to dimple,
Lunge, and swerve, and leap,
Then up over
Siabod,
Choose our nest, and sleep.
Up a thousand feet, Tom,
Round
the lion’s head,
Find soft stones to leeward
And make
up our bed.
Eat our bread and bacon,
Smoke the pipe of peace,
And,
ere we be drowsy,
Give our boots a grease.
Homer’s heroes
did so,
Why not such as we?
What are sheets and servants?
Superfluity!
Pray
for wives and children
Safe in slumber curled,
Then to chat
till midnight
O’er this babbling world—
Of the
workmen’s college,
Of the price of grain,
Of the tree
of knowledge,
Of the chance of rain;
If Sir A. goes Romeward,
If
Miss B. sings true,
If the fleet comes homeward,
If the mare
will do,—
Anything and everything—
Up there in
the sky
Angels understand us,
And no ‘saints’
are by.
Down, and bathe at day-dawn,
Tramp from lake to lake,
Washing
brain and heart clean
Every step we take.
Leave to Robert
Browning
Beggars, fleas, and vines;
Leave to mournful Ruskin
Popish
Apennines,
Dirty Stones of Venice
And his Gas-lamps Seven—
We’ve
the stones of Snowdon
And the lamps of heaven.
Where’s
the mighty credit
In admiring Alps?
Any goose sees ‘glory’
In
their ‘snowy scalps.’
Leave such signs and wonders
For
the dullard brain,
As æsthetic brandy,
Opium and cayenne.
Give
me Bramshill common
(St. John’s harriers by),
Or the
vale of Windsor,
England’s golden eye.
Show me life
and progress,
Beauty, health, and man;
Houses fair, trim gardens,
Turn
where’er I can.
Or, if bored with ‘High Art,’
And
such popish stuff,
One’s poor ear need airing,
Snowdon’s
high enough.
While we find God’s signet
Fresh on English
ground,
Why go gallivanting
With the nations round?
Though
we try no ventures
Desperate or strange;
Feed on commonplaces
In
a narrow range;
Never sought for Franklin
Round the frozen
Capes;
Even, with Macdougall, {295}
Bagged
our brace of apes;
Never had our chance, Tom,
In that black
Redan;
Can’t avenge poor Brereton
Out in Sakarran;
Tho’
we earn our bread, Tom,
By the dirty pen,
What we can we will
be,
Honest Englishmen.
Do the work that’s nearest,
Though
it’s dull at whiles,
Helping, when we meet them,
Lame
dogs over stiles;
See in every hedgerow
Marks of angels’
feet,
Epics in each pebble
Underneath our feet;
Once
a year, like schoolboys,
Robin-Hooding go,
Leaving fops and
fogies
A thousand feet below.
Eversley, August 1856.
THE FIND
Yon sound’s neither sheep-bell nor bark,
They’re
running—they’re running, Go hark!
The
sport may be lost by a moment’s delay;
So
whip up the puppies and scurry away.
Dash down through the cover
by dingle and dell,
There’s a gate at the bottom—I
know it full well;
And they’re running—they’re
running,
Go hark!
They’re running—they’re running,
Go hark!
One fence and we’re out of the
park;
Sit down in your saddles and race at the
brook,
Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for
a look;
Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;
He’s
away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,
And they’re
running—they’re running,
Go
hark!
They’re running—they’re running,
Go hark!
Let them run on and run till it’s
dark!
Well with them we are, and well with them
we’ll be,
While there’s wind in our
horses and daylight to see:
Then shog along homeward, chat over
the fight,
And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night
Of—They’re
running—they’re running,
Go
hark!
Eversley, 1856.
FISHING SONG: TO J. A. FROUDE AND TOM HUGHES
Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and
good,
To
point us out this way to glory—
They’re
no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,
And
all their pounders myth and story.
Blow Snowdon! What’s
Lake Gwynant to Killarney,
Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney,
blarney, blarney?
So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you
choose,
I’ll
tell you where we think of going,
To
swate and far o’er cliff and scar,
Hear
horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon! There’s
a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh caught salmon daily, frying,
frying, frying.
Geology and botany
A
hundred wonders shall diskiver,
We’ll
flog and troll in strid and hole,
And
skim the cream of lake and river,
Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland
for my pennies,
Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and—Dennis, Dennis,
Dennis!
Eversley, 1856
THE LAST BUCCANEER
Oh England is a pleasant place for them that’s rich and high,
But
England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;
And such a port
for mariners I ne’er shall see again
As the pleasant Isle
of Avès, beside the Spanish main.
There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,
All
furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;
And a thousand
men in Avès made laws so fair and free
To choose their valiant
captains and obey them loyally.
Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and
gold,
Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;
Likewise
the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,
Who flog men
and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.
Oh the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like
gold,
And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;
And
the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee,
To welcome
gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.
Oh sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze,
A-swing
with good tobacco in a net between the trees,
With a negro lass
to fan you, while you listened to the roar
Of the breakers on the
reef outside, that never touched the shore.
But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;
So
the King’s ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were
we.
All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at
night;
And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.
Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,
Till
for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;
But
as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by,
And brought me home
to England here, to beg until I die.
And now I’m old and going—I’m sure I can’t
tell where;
One comfort is, this world’s so hard, I can’t
be worse off there:
If I might but be a sea-dove, I’d fly
across the main,
To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at
it once again.
Eversley, 1857,
THE KNIGHT’S RETURN
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
The
were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,
The raven croaks from
the Raven-stone;
What care I for his boding groan,
Riding
the moorland to come to mine own?
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark
sings high in the dark.
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Long
have I wander’d by land and by sea,
Long have I ridden by
moorland and lea;
Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee,
Sits
at the window and watches for me!
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark
sings high in the dark.
Written for music, 1857.
PEN-Y-GWRYDD: TO TOM HUGHES, ESQ.
There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear,
Excepting
Pen-y-gwrydd (you can’t pronounce it, dear),
Which standeth
in the meeting of noble valleys three—
One is the vale of
Gwynant, so well beloved by me,
One goes to Capel-Curig, and I
can’t mind its name,
And one it is Llanberris Pass, which
all men knows the same;
Between which radiations vast mountains
does arise,
As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish
will rise,
That is, just one day in the year, if you be there,
my boy,
Just about ten o’clock at night; and then I wish
you joy.
Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write,
(Axing
the post town out of Froude, for I can’t mind it quite),
And
to engage a room or two, for let us say a week,
For fear of gents,
and Manichees, and reading parties meek,
And there to live like
fighting-cocks at almost a bob a day,
And arterwards toward the
sea make tracks and cut away,
All for to catch the salmon bold
in Aberglaslyn pool,
And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and will,
or I’m a fool.
And that’s my game, which if you like,
respond to me by post;
But I fear it will not last, my son, a thirteen
days at most.
Flies is no object; I can tell some three or four
will do,
And John Jones, Clerk, he knows the rest, and ties and
sells ’em too.
Besides of which I have no more to say, leastwise
just now,
And so, goes to my children’s school and ’umbly
makes my bow.
Eversley, 1857.