All Stevensonians owe a debt of gratitude to the Bibliophile Society of Boston for having discovered the following poems and given them light in a privately printed edition, thus making them known, in fact, to the world at large.  Otherwise they would have remained scattered and hidden indefinitely in the hands of various collectors.  They will be found extraordinarily interesting in their self-revelation, and some, indeed, are so intimate and personal that one understands why Stevenson withheld them from all eyes save his own.  The love-poems in particular, though they are of very unequal merit, possess in common a really affecting sincerity.  That Stevenson should have preserved these poems through all the vicissitudes of his wandering life shows how dearly he must have valued them; and shows, too, I think, beyond any contradiction, that he meant they should be ultimately published.

LLOYD OSBOURNE.

I ask good things that I detest,
   With speeches fair;
Heed not, I pray Thee, Lord, my breast,
   But hear my prayer.

I say ill things I would not say—
   Things unaware:
Regard my breast, Lord, in Thy day,
   And not my prayer.

My heart is evil in Thy sight:
   My good thoughts flee:
O Lord, I cannot wish aright—
   Wish Thou for me.

O bend my words and acts to Thee,
   However ill,
That I, whate’er I say or be,
   May serve Thee still.

LO! IN THINE HONEST EYES I READ

Lo! in thine honest eyes I read
The auspicious beacon that shall lead,
After long sailing in deep seas,
To quiet havens in June ease.

Thy voice sings like an inland bird
First by the seaworn sailor heard;
And like road sheltered from life’s sea
Thine honest heart is unto me.

THOUGH DEEP INDIFFERENCE SHOULD DROWSE

Though deep indifference should drowse
The sluggish life beneath my brows,
And all the external things I see
Grow snow-showers in the street to me,
Yet inmost in my stormy sense
Thy looks shall be an influence.

Year following year shall only set
Fresh gems upon thy coronet;
And Time, grown lover, shall delight
To beautify thee in my sight;
And thou shalt ever rule in me
Crowned with the light of memory.

MY HEART, WHEN FIRST THE BLACK-BIRD SINGS

My heart, when first the blackbird sings,
   My heart drinks in the song:
Cool pleasure fills my bosom through
   And spreads each nerve along.

My bosom eddies quietly,
   My heart is stirred and cool
As when a wind-moved briar sweeps
   A stone into a pool

I DREAMED OF FOREST ALLEYS FAIR

I.

I dreamed of forest alleys fair
   And fields of gray-flowered grass,
Where by the yellow summer moon
   My Jenny seemed to pass.

I dreamed the yellow summer moon,
   Behind a cedar wood,
Lay white on fields of rippling grass
   Where I and Jenny stood.

I dreamed—but fallen through my dream,
   In a rainy land I lie
Where wan wet morning crowns the hills
   Of grim reality.

II.

I am as one that keeps awake
   All night in the month of June,
That lies awake in bed to watch
   The trees and great white moon.

III.

Last night I lingered long without
   My last of loves to see.
Alas! the moon-white window-panes
   Stared blindly back on me.

To-day I hold her very hand,
   Her very waist embrace—
Like clouds across a pool, I read
   Her thoughts upon her face.

And yet, as now, through her clear eyes
   I seek the inner shrine—
I stoop to read her virgin heart
   In doubt if it be mine—

O looking long and fondly thus,
   What vision should I see?
No vision, but my own white face
   That grins and mimics me.

Once more upon the same old seat
   In the same sunshiny weather,
The elm-trees’ shadows at their feet
   And foliage move together.

The shadows shift upon the grass,
   The dial point creeps on;
The clear sun shines, the loiterers pass,
   As then they passed and shone.

But now deep sleep is on my heart,
   Deep sleep and perfect rest.
Hope’s flutterings now disturb no more
   The quiet of my breast.

ST. MARTIN’S SUMMER

As swallows turning backward
   When half-way o’er the sea,
At one word’s trumpet summons
   They came again to me—
The hopes I had forgotten
   Came back again to me.

But be my hopes rewarded,
   Or be they but in vain,
I have dreamed a golden vision,
   I have gathered in the grain—
I have dreamed a golden vision,
   I have not lived in vain.

DEDICATION

My first gift and my last, to you
I dedicate this fascicle of songs—
The only wealth I have:
Just as they are, to you.

I speak the truth in soberness, and say
I had rather bring a light to your clear eyes,
Had rather hear you praise
This bosomful of songs

I write the finis here against my love,
This is my love’s last epitaph and tomb.
Here the road forks, and I
Go my way, far from yours.

THE OLD CHIMÆRAS, OLD RECEIPTS

The old Chimæras, old receipts
   For making “happy land,”
The old political beliefs
   Swam close before my hand.

The grand old communistic myths
   In a middle state of grace,
Quite dead, but not yet gone to Hell,
   And walking for a space,

Quite dead, and looking it, and yet
   All eagerness to show
The Social-Contract forgeries
   By Chatterton—Rousseau—

Full many a marsh-fire lured me on,
   I reached at many a star,
I reached and grasped them and behold—
   The stump of a cigar!

All through the sultry sweltering day
   The sweat ran down my brow,
The still plains heard my distant strokes
   That have been silenced now.

This way and that, now up, now down,
   I hailed full many a blow.
Alas! beneath my weary arm
   The thicket seemed to grow.

I take the lesson, wipe my brow
   And throw my axe aside,
And, sorely wearied, I go home
   In the tranquil eventide.

And soon the rising moon, that lights
   The eve of my defeat,
Shall see me sitting as of yore
   By my old master’s feet.

By sunny market-place and street
Wherever I go my drum I beat,
And wherever I go in my coat of red
The ribbons flutter about my head.

I seek recruits for wars to come—
For slaughterless wars I beat the drum,
And the shilling I give to each new ally
Is hope to live and courage to die.

I know that new recruits shall come
Wherever I beat the sounding drum,
Till the roar of the march by country and town
Shall shake the tottering Dagons down.

For I was objectless as they
And loitering idly day by day;
But whenever I heard the recruiters come,
I left my all to follow the drum.

I have left all upon the shameful field,
   Honour and Hope, my God, and all but life;
Spurless, with sword reversed and dinted shield,
   Degraded and disgraced, I leave the strife.

From him that hath not, shall there not be taken
   E’en that he hath, when he deserts the strife?
Life left by all life’s benefits forsaken,
   O keep the promise, Lord, and take the life.

TO THE COMMISSIONERS OF NORTHERN LIGHTS

I send to you, commissioners,
A paper that may please ye, sirs
(For troth they say it might be worse
      An’ I believe’t)
And on your business lay my curse
      Before I leav’t.

I thocht I’d serve wi’ you, sirs, yince,
But I’ve thocht better of it since;
The maitter I will nowise mince,
      But tell ye true:
I’ll service wi’ some ither prince,
      An’ no wi’ you.

I kent on cape and isle, a light
Burnt fair an’ clearly ilka night;
But at the service I took fright,
      As sune’s I saw,
An’ being still a neophite
      Gaed straucht awa’.

Anither course I now begin,
The weeg I’ll cairry for my sin,
The court my voice shall echo in,
      An’—wha can tell?—
Some ither day I may be yin
      O’ you mysel’.

The relic taken, what avails the shrine?
The locket, pictureless?  O heart of mine,
Art thou not worse than that,
Still warm, a vacant nest where love once sat?

Her image nestled closer at my heart
Than cherished memories, healed every smart
And warmed it more than wine
Or the full summer sun in noon-day shine.

This was the little weather gleam that lit
The cloudy promontories—the real charm was
That gilded hills and woods
And walked beside me thro’ the solitudes.

The sun is set.  My heart is widowed now
Of that companion-thought.  Alone I plough
The seas of life, and trace
A separate furrow far from her and grace.

About the sheltered garden ground
   The trees stand strangely still.
The vale ne’er seemed so deep before,
   Nor yet so high the hill.

An awful sense of quietness,
   A fulness of repose,
Breathes from the dewy garden-lawns,
   The silent garden rows.

As the hoof-beats of a troop of horse
   Heard far across a plain,
A nearer knowledge of great thoughts
   Thrills vaguely through my brain.

I lean my head upon my arm,
   My heart’s too full to think;
Like the roar of seas, upon my heart
   Doth the morning stillness sink.

As when the hunt by holt and field
   Drives on with horn and strife,
Hunger of hopeless things pursues
   Our spirits throughout life.

The sea’s roar fills us aching full
   Of objectless desire—
The sea’s roar, and the white moon-shine,
   And the reddening of the fire.

Who talks to me of reason now?
   It would be more delight
To have died in Cleopatra’s arms
   Than be alive to-night.

I KNOW NOT HOW, BUT AS I COUNT

I know not how, but as I count
   The beads of former years,
Old laughter catches in my throat
   With the very feel of tears.

The air was full of sun and birds,
   The fresh air sparkled clearly.
Remembrance wakened in my heart
   And I knew I loved her dearly.

The fallows and the leafless trees
   And all my spirit tingled.
My earliest thought of love, and Spring’s
   First puff of perfume mingled.

In my still heart the thoughts awoke,
   Came lone by lone together—
Say, birds and Sun and Spring, is Love
   A mere affair of weather?

THE SUMMER SUN SHONE ROUND ME

The summer sun shone round me,
   The folded valley lay
In a stream of sun and odour,
   That sultry summer day.

The tall trees stood in the sunlight
   As still as still could be,
But the deep grass sighed and rustled
   And bowed and beckoned me.

YOU LOOKED SO TEMPTING IN THE PEW

You looked so tempting in the pew,
   You looked so sly and calm—
My trembling fingers played with yours
   As both looked out the Psalm.

Your heart beat hard against my arm,
   My foot to yours was set,
Your loosened ringlet burned my cheek
   Whenever they two met.

O little, little we hearkened, dear,
   And little, little cared,
Although the parson sermonised,
   The congregation stared.

As Love and Hope together
   Walk by me for a while,
Link-armed the ways they travel
   For many a pleasant mile—
Link-armed and dumb they travel,
   They sing not, but they smile.

Hope leaving, Love commences
   To practise on the lute;
And as he sings and travels
   With lingering, laggard foot,
Despair plays obligato
   The sentimental flute.

Until in singing garments
   Comes royally, at call—
Comes limber-hipped Indiff’rence
   Free stepping, straight and tall—
Comes singing and lamenting,
   The sweetest pipe of all.

DUDDINGSTONE

With caws and chirrupings, the woods
   In this thin sun rejoice.
The Psalm seems but the little kirk
   That sings with its own voice.

Once more my whole heart leaps and swells
   And gushes o’er with glee;
The fingers of the sun and shade
   Touch music stops in me.

Now fancy paints that bygone day
   When you were here, my fair—
The whole lake rang with rapid skates
   In the windless winter air.

You leaned to me, I leaned to you,
   Our course was smooth as flight—
We steered—a heel-touch to the left,
   A heel-touch to the right.

We swung our way through flying men,
   Your hand lay fast in mine:
We saw the shifting crowd dispart,
   The level ice-reach shine.

I swear by yon swan-travelled lake,
   By yon calm hill above,
I swear had we been drowned that day
   We had been drowned in love.

Stout marches lead to certain ends,
We seek no Holy Grail, my friends—
That dawn should find us every day
Some fraction farther on our way.

The dumb lands sleep from east to west,
They stretch and turn and take their rest.
The cock has crown in the steading-yard,
But priest and people slumber hard.

We two are early forth, and hear
The nations snoring far and near.
So peacefully their rest they take,
It seems we are the first awake!

—Strong heart! this is no royal way,
A thousand cross-roads seek the day;
And, hid from us, to left and right,
A thousand seekers seek the light.

AWAY WITH FUNERAL MUSIC

Away with funeral music—set
   The pipe to powerful lips—
The cup of life’s for him that drinks
   And not for him that sips.

Not thine where marble-still and white
Old statues share the tempered light
And mock the uneven modern flight,
   But in the stream
Of daily sorrow and delight
   To seek a theme.

I too, O friend, have steeled my heart
Boldly to choose the better part,
To leave the beaten ways of art,
   And wholly free
To dare, beyond the scanty chart,
   The deeper sea.

All vain restrictions left behind,
Frail bark! I loose my anchored mind
And large, before the prosperous wind
   Desert the strand—
A new Columbus sworn to find
   The morning land.

Nor too ambitious, friend.  To thee
I own my weakness.  Not for me
To sing the enfranchised nations’ glee,
   Or count the cost
Of warships foundered far at sea
   And battles lost.

The nimble circuit of the wheel,
The uncertain poise of merchant weal,
Heaven of famine, fire and steel
   When nations fall;
These, heedful, from afar I feel—
   I mark them all.

But not, my friend, not these I sing,
My voice shall fill a narrower ring.
Tired souls, that flag upon the wing,
   I seek to cheer:
Brave wines to strengthen hope I bring,
   Life’s cantineer!

Some song that shall be suppling oil
To weary muscles strained with toil,
Shall hearten for the daily moil,
   Or widely read
Make sweet for him that tills the soil
   His daily bread.

HAD I THE POWER THAT HAVE THE WILL

Had I the power that have the will,
   The enfeebled will—a modern curse—
This book of mine should blossom still
   A perfect garden-ground of verse.

White placid marble gods should keep
   Good watch in every shadowy lawn;
And from clean, easy-breathing sleep
   The birds should waken me at dawn.

—A fairy garden;—none the less
   Throughout these gracious paths of mine
All day there should be free access
   For stricken hearts and lives that pine;

And by the folded lawns all day—
   No idle gods for such a land—
All active Love should take its way
   With active Labour hand in hand.

O dull cold northern sky,
   O brawling sabbath bells,
O feebly twittering Autumn bird that tells
   The year is like to die!

O still, spoiled trees, O city ways,
   O sun desired in vain,
O dread presentiment of coming rain
   That cloys the sullen days!

Thee, heart of mine, I greet.
   In what hard mountain pass
Striv’st thou?  In what importunate morass
   Sink now thy weary feet?

Thou run’st a hopeless race
   To win despair.  No crown
Awaits success, but leaden gods look down
   On thee, with evil face.

And those that would befriend
   And cherish thy defeat,
With angry welcome shall turn sour the sweet
   Home-coming of the end.

Yea, those that offer praise
   To idleness, shall yet
Insult thee, coming glorious in the sweat
   Of honourable ways.

If you see this song, my dear,
   And last year’s toast,
I’m confoundedly in fear
You’ll be serious and severe
   About the boast.

Blame not that I sought such aid
   To cure regret.
I was then so lowly laid
I used all the Gasconnade
   That I could get.

Being snubbed is somewhat smart,
   Believe, my sweet;
And I needed all my art
To restore my broken heart
   To its conceit.

Come and smile, dear, and forget
   I boasted so,
I apologise—regret—
It was all a jest;—and—yet—
   I do not know.