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Title: Sea Spray: Verses and Translations
Author: T. W. Rolleston
Release date: April 7, 2014 [eBook #45346]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEA SPRAY: VERSES AND TRANSLATIONS ***
SEA SPRAY: VERSES
AND TRANSLATIONS
BY T. W. ROLLESTON
MAUNSEL AND CO., LIMITED,
96, MID. ABBEY ST., DUBLIN
1909
All rights reserved
TO
THE LADY OF THE RING
Thanks are due to Messrs. Harrap & Co., London, for permission to include in this volume three poems which are introduced into the writer’s forthcoming prose book, “The High Deeds of Finn and other Bardic Romances of Ancient Ireland.” The poems in question are Cois na Teineadh, Midir the Proud, and the Song of Finn. Some others have appeared in the Spectator, the Irish Homestead, and the Westminster Gazette, to the editors of which acknowledgments are due.
CONTENTS
| PAGE | |
|---|---|
| SEA SPRAY | 7 |
| MARCH WINDS | 10 |
| MIDIR THE PROUD INVITES QUEEN ETAIN TO FAIRYLAND | 12 |
| THE SPELL-STRUCK | 14 |
| COIS AN TEINEADH | 15 |
| WILLIAM MORRIS | 17 |
| TO JOHN O’LEARY | 18 |
| THE GRAVE OF RURY | 19 |
| SONG OF MAELDUIN | 21 |
| THE SHANNON AT FOYNES | 22 |
| SONNET | 23 |
| A RAILWAY JOURNEY | 24 |
| CYCLING SONG | 28 |
| BALLADE OF THE “CHESHIRE CHEESE” | 31 |
| DORA | 33 |
| A RING’S SECRET | 34 |
| MOONRISE IN THE ELSTER TANNEN-WALD | 35 |
| AFTER ALL | 36 |
| EVENSONG | 37 |
| IN MEMORIAM: J. T. C. H. | 39 |
TRANSLATIONS
| PAGE | |
|---|---|
| THE BATTLE OF SALAMIS | 43 |
| THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS | 47 |
| SONG OF FINN IN PRAISE OF MAY | 48 |
| WENN ICH AN DEINEM HAUSE | 50 |
| EIN FICHTENBAUM STEHT EINSAM | 51 |
| ZWEI KAMMERN HAT DAS HERZ | 52 |
| LADY ISLAND | 53 |
| THE THREE RINGS | 54 |
What shall we do with our day? you ask—
A June day fair to the heart’s desire—
Lie in the meadow, and lounge and bask
Over books and tobacco? Or do you aspire
To conquer the summit that yesterday
We marked for our own ere your visit end?
Or shall we go riding, or fishing? Nay,
For the scent of the sea’s on the air, my friend.
We shall go to the head of the reedy lake,
And there, in a brake by a fir-grove, find
Two long canoes with arching deck,
Sea-riders, strong for a day of wind;
And oh, what a song shall the bright wind sing us
When clear of the shallows and clear of the sedge,
While the narrowing stream and the ebb-tide swing us
’Twixt sea and mountain to Wicklow Bridge!
A June day fair to the heart’s desire—
Lie in the meadow, and lounge and bask
Over books and tobacco? Or do you aspire
To conquer the summit that yesterday
We marked for our own ere your visit end?
Or shall we go riding, or fishing? Nay,
For the scent of the sea’s on the air, my friend.
We shall go to the head of the reedy lake,
And there, in a brake by a fir-grove, find
Two long canoes with arching deck,
Sea-riders, strong for a day of wind;
And oh, what a song shall the bright wind sing us
When clear of the shallows and clear of the sedge,
While the narrowing stream and the ebb-tide swing us
’Twixt sea and mountain to Wicklow Bridge!
But here beware! for the ebb goes roaring
Through half the arches, and half are dry,
And stakes and stones are ready for goring
Your Rob-Roy’s timbers as down you fly.
And beyond the Bridge, in the deep sea-current,
Where the rope-maze crosses from quay to quay,
You’ll need your head and your arm I warrant,
To fight the eddies and find your way.
There lifts your prow with the long pulsation
That tells how near us the glad seas are!
There lifts the heart with the old elation,
To meet the surf at the harbour-bar!
Through half the arches, and half are dry,
And stakes and stones are ready for goring
Your Rob-Roy’s timbers as down you fly.
And beyond the Bridge, in the deep sea-current,
Where the rope-maze crosses from quay to quay,
You’ll need your head and your arm I warrant,
To fight the eddies and find your way.
There lifts your prow with the long pulsation
That tells how near us the glad seas are!
There lifts the heart with the old elation,
To meet the surf at the harbour-bar!
The North wind marshals the ranks of ocean,
And on they sweep with a strength serene,
Till the tide-race ruffles the mighty motion
And curls the crests of the rollers green.
The breakers flash on the sand-bank yonder,
And the cavern’d curve of the rock-walled bay
Is loud with clamour of hoarse sea-thunder
As the wave recoils in a blast of spray.
And on they sweep with a strength serene,
Till the tide-race ruffles the mighty motion
And curls the crests of the rollers green.
The breakers flash on the sand-bank yonder,
And the cavern’d curve of the rock-walled bay
Is loud with clamour of hoarse sea-thunder
As the wave recoils in a blast of spray.
And I know a cleft among grim rock-masses,
Where if wind blow strong and the light come fair,
When the sea-cave roars and the spray-jet flashes,
A rainbow floats in the sunny air.
Where if wind blow strong and the light come fair,
When the sea-cave roars and the spray-jet flashes,
A rainbow floats in the sunny air.
At the Head’s wild verge, where the tideways quicken,
And eddies hollow the smooth sea-caves,
Our Rob-Roys plunge as the breakers thicken,
And bury their decks in the rearing waves.
We round the Point in the surge and welter
Of clashing billows and blinding foam—
Then mile on mile, in the cliff-wall’s shelter,
In calm new seas to the South we roam.
And eddies hollow the smooth sea-caves,
Our Rob-Roys plunge as the breakers thicken,
And bury their decks in the rearing waves.
We round the Point in the surge and welter
Of clashing billows and blinding foam—
Then mile on mile, in the cliff-wall’s shelter,
In calm new seas to the South we roam.
O bays of Wicklow, and gorse-crown’d headlands
Whose scent blows far on the seaward breeze,
How oft have I yearned in the tranquil midlands
For one brave shock of your lifting seas!
How oft it may be in days hereafter
Shall rise the thought of you, phantom-fair,
Shall steal the sound of the sea-waves’ laughter
On ears grown dull with time and care!
Waves, wash my spirit, and lonely places,
If well I loved you, and aught you knew,
Mark deep my heart with immortal traces
Of shining days when I dwelt with you!
Whose scent blows far on the seaward breeze,
How oft have I yearned in the tranquil midlands
For one brave shock of your lifting seas!
How oft it may be in days hereafter
Shall rise the thought of you, phantom-fair,
Shall steal the sound of the sea-waves’ laughter
On ears grown dull with time and care!
Waves, wash my spirit, and lonely places,
If well I loved you, and aught you knew,
Mark deep my heart with immortal traces
Of shining days when I dwelt with you!
MARCH WINDS
Wind, O wind of the Spring, thine old enchantment renewing,
How at the shock of thy might wakens within me a cry!
Out of what wonderful lands, never trodden by man, never told of,
Lands where never a ship anchored or trafficker fared,
Comest thou, breathing like flame till the brown earth flames into blossom,
Quick’ning the sap of old woods swayed in thy stormy embrace,
Rousing in depths of the heart wild waves of an infinite longing,
Longing for freedom and life, yearning for Springs that are dead!
Surely the far blue sea, foam-fleck’d with the speed of thy coming
Brighten’d in laughter abroad, sang at the feet of the isles,
Sang in a tumult of joy as my soul sings trembling with passion,
Trembling with passion and hope, wild with the spirit of Spring.
Ah, what dreams re-arise, half pain half bliss to remember,
Hearing the storm of thy song blown from the height of the skies:—
Something remains upon earth to be done, to be dared, to be sought for,
Up with the anchor once more—out with the sails to the blast!
Out to the shock of the seas that encircle the Fortunate Islands,
Vision that burns in the blood, home of the Wind of the Spring.
How at the shock of thy might wakens within me a cry!
Out of what wonderful lands, never trodden by man, never told of,
Lands where never a ship anchored or trafficker fared,
Comest thou, breathing like flame till the brown earth flames into blossom,
Quick’ning the sap of old woods swayed in thy stormy embrace,
Rousing in depths of the heart wild waves of an infinite longing,
Longing for freedom and life, yearning for Springs that are dead!
Surely the far blue sea, foam-fleck’d with the speed of thy coming
Brighten’d in laughter abroad, sang at the feet of the isles,
Sang in a tumult of joy as my soul sings trembling with passion,
Trembling with passion and hope, wild with the spirit of Spring.
Ah, what dreams re-arise, half pain half bliss to remember,
Hearing the storm of thy song blown from the height of the skies:—
Something remains upon earth to be done, to be dared, to be sought for,
Up with the anchor once more—out with the sails to the blast!
Out to the shock of the seas that encircle the Fortunate Islands,
Vision that burns in the blood, home of the Wind of the Spring.
Come with me, Etain, O come away,
To that Oversea Land of mine!
Where music haunts the happy day,
And rivers run with wine.
Careless we live, and young and gay,
And none saith ’mine’ or ’thine.’
To that Oversea Land of mine!
Where music haunts the happy day,
And rivers run with wine.
Careless we live, and young and gay,
And none saith ’mine’ or ’thine.’
Golden curls on the proud young head,
And pearls in the tender mouth—
Manhood, womanhood, white and red,
And love that grows not loth
When all the world’s desires are dead,
And all the dreams of youth.
And pearls in the tender mouth—
Manhood, womanhood, white and red,
And love that grows not loth
When all the world’s desires are dead,
And all the dreams of youth.
Away from the cloud of Adam’s sin!
Away from grief and care!
This flowery land thou dwellest in
Seems rude to us and bare,
For the naked strand of the Happy Land
Is twenty times as fair.
Away from grief and care!
This flowery land thou dwellest in
Seems rude to us and bare,
For the naked strand of the Happy Land
Is twenty times as fair.
Come, Etain, come to thine ancient home,
And let these mortals be,
Whose world is a glimmer of rainbow foam
On the breast of a boundless Sea!
We shall watch it go, as we watch’d it come,
From the Kingdom of Faëry.
And let these mortals be,
Whose world is a glimmer of rainbow foam
On the breast of a boundless Sea!
We shall watch it go, as we watch’d it come,
From the Kingdom of Faëry.
[1] This poem is based on an Irish original in “The Courtship of Etain.” See Leahy’s Heroic Romances of Ireland, vol. i., p. 26.
She walks as she were moving
Some mystic dance to tread,
So falls her gliding footstep,
So leans her list’ning head;
For once to fairy harping
She danced upon the hill,
And through her brain and bosom
The music pulses still.
Some mystic dance to tread,
So falls her gliding footstep,
So leans her list’ning head;
For once to fairy harping
She danced upon the hill,
And through her brain and bosom
The music pulses still.
Her eyes are bright and tearless,
But wide with yearning pain:
She longs for nothing earthly,
But oh, to hear again
The sound that held her breathless
Upon her moonlit path—
The golden fairy music
That filled the lonely rath!
But wide with yearning pain:
She longs for nothing earthly,
But oh, to hear again
The sound that held her breathless
Upon her moonlit path—
The golden fairy music
That filled the lonely rath!
Her lips have felt strange kisses
And drunk the wine of death,
Nor earthly love nor laughter
Shall stir their tender breath.
She’s dead to all things living
Since that November Eve,
And when They call her earthward,
No living thing will grieve.
And drunk the wine of death,
Nor earthly love nor laughter
Shall stir their tender breath.
She’s dead to all things living
Since that November Eve,
And when They call her earthward,
No living thing will grieve.
Where glows the Irish hearth with peat
There lives a subtle spell—
The faint blue smoke, the gentle heat
The moorland odours tell
There lives a subtle spell—
The faint blue smoke, the gentle heat
The moorland odours tell
Of white roads winding by the edge
Of bare untamèd land,
Where dry stone wall or ragged hedge
Runs wide on either hand
Of bare untamèd land,
Where dry stone wall or ragged hedge
Runs wide on either hand
To cottage lights that lure you in
From rainy Western skies;
And by the friendly glow within
Of simple talk, and wise,
From rainy Western skies;
And by the friendly glow within
Of simple talk, and wise,
And tales of magic, love or arms
From days when princes met
To listen to the lay that charms
The Connacht peasant yet.
From days when princes met
To listen to the lay that charms
The Connacht peasant yet.
There Honour shines through passions dire,
There beauty blends with mirth—
Wild hearts, ye never did aspire
Wholly for things of earth!
There beauty blends with mirth—
Wild hearts, ye never did aspire
Wholly for things of earth!
Cold, cold this thousand years—yet still
On many a time-stained page
Your pride, your truth, your dauntless will,
Burn on from age to age.
On many a time-stained page
Your pride, your truth, your dauntless will,
Burn on from age to age.
And still around the fires of peat
Live on the ancient days;
There still do living lips repeat
The old and deathless lays.
Live on the ancient days;
There still do living lips repeat
The old and deathless lays.
And when the wavering wreaths ascend,
Blue in the evening air,
The soul of Ireland seems to bend
Above her children there.
Blue in the evening air,
The soul of Ireland seems to bend
Above her children there.
† Oct. 4, 1896
Singer of Jason’s quest and Sigurd’s doom!
Teller of vision-haunted wanderings!
Who touched a strange new music from the strings
Of old Romance—a space amidst the gloom
Of cloudy centuries thou didst illume;
And there thy word a dreamlike splendour flings
On crown and helm—and even the tears of things
Brighten thy morning world’s immortal bloom.
Teller of vision-haunted wanderings!
Who touched a strange new music from the strings
Of old Romance—a space amidst the gloom
Of cloudy centuries thou didst illume;
And there thy word a dreamlike splendour flings
On crown and helm—and even the tears of things
Brighten thy morning world’s immortal bloom.
Yet some, great Craftsman, reverence thee more
That Beauty, coldly throned among the stars,
Came at thy lure to tread the homely earth:
And, sweet and kindly as in days of yore,
Played with our children, graced our household cares,
And knelt content by many a quiet hearth.
That Beauty, coldly throned among the stars,
Came at thy lure to tread the homely earth:
And, sweet and kindly as in days of yore,
Played with our children, graced our household cares,
And knelt content by many a quiet hearth.
Dedication of a Book of Irish Verses by various hands[2]
Because you suffered for the Cause;
Because you strove with voice and pen
To serve a Law above all laws
That purifies the hearts of men;
Because you strove with voice and pen
To serve a Law above all laws
That purifies the hearts of men;
Because you failed, and grew not slack,
Not sullen, not disconsolate,
Nor stooped to seek a lower track,
But showed your soul a match for Fate;
Not sullen, not disconsolate,
Nor stooped to seek a lower track,
But showed your soul a match for Fate;
Because you hated all things base,
And held your country’s honour high;
Because you wrought in Time and Space
Not heedless of Eternity;
And held your country’s honour high;
Because you wrought in Time and Space
Not heedless of Eternity;
Because you loved the nobler part
Of Erinn,—so we bring you here
Words such as once the Irish heart
On Irish lips rejoiced to hear:
Of Erinn,—so we bring you here
Words such as once the Irish heart
On Irish lips rejoiced to hear:
Strains that have little chance to live
With those that Davis’ clarion blew,
But all the best we have to give
To Mother Erinn and to you.
With those that Davis’ clarion blew,
But all the best we have to give
To Mother Erinn and to you.
[2] “Poems and Ballads of Young Ireland, 1888.”
Clear as air, the western waters
evermore their sweet unchanging song
Murmur in their stony channels
round O’Conor’s sepulchre in Cong.
evermore their sweet unchanging song
Murmur in their stony channels
round O’Conor’s sepulchre in Cong.
Crownless, hopeless, here he lingered;
felt the years go by him like a dream,
Heard the far-off roar of conquest
murmur faintly like the singing stream.
felt the years go by him like a dream,
Heard the far-off roar of conquest
murmur faintly like the singing stream.
Here he died, and here they tomb’d him,
men of Fechin, chanting round his grave.
Did they know, ah, did they know it,
what they buried by the babbling wave?
men of Fechin, chanting round his grave.
Did they know, ah, did they know it,
what they buried by the babbling wave?
Now above the sleep of Rury
holy things and great have passed away;
Stone by stone the stately Abbey
falls and fades in passionless decay.
holy things and great have passed away;
Stone by stone the stately Abbey
falls and fades in passionless decay.
Darkly grows the quiet ivy,
pale the broken arches glimmer through;
Dark upon the cloister-garden
dreams the shadow of the ancient yew.
pale the broken arches glimmer through;
Dark upon the cloister-garden
dreams the shadow of the ancient yew.
Through the roofless aisles the verdure
flows, the meadow-sweet and foxglove bloom;
Earth, the mother and consoler,
winds soft arms about the lonely tomb.
flows, the meadow-sweet and foxglove bloom;
Earth, the mother and consoler,
winds soft arms about the lonely tomb.
Peace and holy gloom possess him,
last of Gaelic monarchs of the Gael,
Slumbering by the young, eternal
river-voices of the western vale.
last of Gaelic monarchs of the Gael,
Slumbering by the young, eternal
river-voices of the western vale.
Ruraidh O’Conchobhar, last High King of Ireland, spent the closing fifteen years of his life in the monastery of St. Fechin at Cong, Co. Mayo. His grave is still shown in that most beautiful and pathetic of Irish ruins. Some accounts have it that his remains were afterwards transferred to Clonmacnois by the Shannon.
There are veils that lift, there are bars that fall,
There are lights that beckon and winds that call—
Goodbye!
There are hurrying feet, and we dare not wait;
For the hour is on us, the hour of Fate,
The circling hour of the flaming Gate—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
There are lights that beckon and winds that call—
Goodbye!
There are hurrying feet, and we dare not wait;
For the hour is on us, the hour of Fate,
The circling hour of the flaming Gate—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Fair, fair they shine through the burning zone,
Those rainbow gleams of a world unknown—
Goodbye!
And oh, to follow, to seek, to dare,
When step by step in the evening air
Floats down to meet us the cloudy stair—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Those rainbow gleams of a world unknown—
Goodbye!
And oh, to follow, to seek, to dare,
When step by step in the evening air
Floats down to meet us the cloudy stair—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
The cloudy stair of the Brig o’ Dread
Is the dizzy path that our feet must tread—
Goodbye!
O all ye children of Nights and Days
That gather and wonder and stand at gaze,
And wheeling stars in your lonely ways—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Is the dizzy path that our feet must tread—
Goodbye!
O all ye children of Nights and Days
That gather and wonder and stand at gaze,
And wheeling stars in your lonely ways—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
The music calls and the Gates unclose,
Onward and upward the wild way goes—
Goodbye!
We die in the bliss of a great new birth.
O fading phantoms of pain and mirth,
O fading loves of the old green Earth,
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Onward and upward the wild way goes—
Goodbye!
We die in the bliss of a great new birth.
O fading phantoms of pain and mirth,
O fading loves of the old green Earth,
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Into the West, where o’er the wide Atlantic
The lights of sunset gleam,
From its high sources in the heart of Erinn
Flows the great stream.
The lights of sunset gleam,
From its high sources in the heart of Erinn
Flows the great stream.
Yet back in stormy cloud or viewless vapour
The wandering waters come,
And faithfully across the trackless heaven
Find their old home.
The wandering waters come,
And faithfully across the trackless heaven
Find their old home.
But ah, the tide of life that flows unceasing
Into the luring West
Returns no more, to swell with kindlier fulness
The Mother’s breast!
Into the luring West
Returns no more, to swell with kindlier fulness
The Mother’s breast!
On reading a Dublin newspaper in the train,
April 16, 1904
Night falls: the emerald pastures turn to grey,
Young stars appear, a mystic beauty thrills
The dusk above the line of far-off hills,
Where late the splendours of the end of Day,
Sad and majestic, flamed and passed away.
In dust and thunder speeding to the Sea
The train flies on, yet eve’s serenity,
Great and untroubled, holds the world in sway.
Young stars appear, a mystic beauty thrills
The dusk above the line of far-off hills,
Where late the splendours of the end of Day,
Sad and majestic, flamed and passed away.
In dust and thunder speeding to the Sea
The train flies on, yet eve’s serenity,
Great and untroubled, holds the world in sway.
Then, turning from that realm of lofty life,
Again my eyes upon the printed page
Fall, and again I hear but cries of rage,
Brawlers and bigots, every word a knife;
While Thought, the fair land’s fairest heritage,
Lies drowned in clamour of ignoble strife.
Again my eyes upon the printed page
Fall, and again I hear but cries of rage,
Brawlers and bigots, every word a knife;
While Thought, the fair land’s fairest heritage,
Lies drowned in clamour of ignoble strife.
We’ve cleared the station—free at last
From darkness, din, and worry;
By red-brick villas, shady roads
And garden-plots we hurry.
And now green miles of pasture-land
Flit by, with budding hedges,
And far to Southward I can see
The purple mountain ridges.
From darkness, din, and worry;
By red-brick villas, shady roads
And garden-plots we hurry.
And now green miles of pasture-land
Flit by, with budding hedges,
And far to Southward I can see
The purple mountain ridges.
My fellow-travellers pretermit,
Seeing there is no danger,
That anxious glance with which we greet
The presence of a stranger.
Whom have we? First, some man of means
(I guess), brow-wrinkled, dull-eyed,
His face the index of a soul
By cares unworthy sullied.
Seeing there is no danger,
That anxious glance with which we greet
The presence of a stranger.
Whom have we? First, some man of means
(I guess), brow-wrinkled, dull-eyed,
His face the index of a soul
By cares unworthy sullied.
And then a lady, whom I deem
Some mask of Fashion merely;
And last, a maid of nineteen years,
Who, since I’ve seen her clearly,
Has won the careless glance I gave
To linger, as delighted
As with some green-rimmed waterspring
In midst of deserts blighted.
Some mask of Fashion merely;
And last, a maid of nineteen years,
Who, since I’ve seen her clearly,
Has won the careless glance I gave
To linger, as delighted
As with some green-rimmed waterspring
In midst of deserts blighted.
What is her charm? Not very fair,
Nor luring to the senses—
And yet her frank and girlish grace,
Her lack of small pretences,
Her clear, unconscious hazel eyes,
Pure lips, and simple neatness,
Fill my heart as I gaze on her
With deep and tender sweetness.
······
Nor luring to the senses—
And yet her frank and girlish grace,
Her lack of small pretences,
Her clear, unconscious hazel eyes,
Pure lips, and simple neatness,
Fill my heart as I gaze on her
With deep and tender sweetness.
······
The train has rolled without a break
For half an hour or more, perhaps;
My wealthy cit has fall’n asleep,
Will soon begin to snore, perhaps;
Kind Morpheus touch’d him as he scanned
The last returns of traffic—
The lady clad in furs and silks
Is trifling with her Graphic.
For half an hour or more, perhaps;
My wealthy cit has fall’n asleep,
Will soon begin to snore, perhaps;
Kind Morpheus touch’d him as he scanned
The last returns of traffic—
The lady clad in furs and silks
Is trifling with her Graphic.
The maiden looks with dreaming eyes
As wood and field and river
Flash past our roaring carriage-wheels
In whirling dance forever.
What are the thoughts that smooth her brows
To such content, I wonder,
While clangs about our silent group
The railroad’s rhythmic thunder?
As wood and field and river
Flash past our roaring carriage-wheels
In whirling dance forever.
What are the thoughts that smooth her brows
To such content, I wonder,
While clangs about our silent group
The railroad’s rhythmic thunder?
But now more slow the landscape moves—
We reach a little station—
And how the maiden’s face has changed,
Lit up with expectation!
A brother, with his sister’s eyes,
Brown-cheeked from sun and heather,
Awaits her; and with half a sigh
I watch them leave together.
We reach a little station—
And how the maiden’s face has changed,
Lit up with expectation!
A brother, with his sister’s eyes,
Brown-cheeked from sun and heather,
Awaits her; and with half a sigh
I watch them leave together.
The heavy train regathers speed,
And minute after minute
The country station drops behind—
Some spell is surely in it!
For now my fellow-travellers seem
No mark for peevish scorning—
Those withered lives had surely once
The innocence of morning.
And minute after minute
The country station drops behind—
Some spell is surely in it!
For now my fellow-travellers seem
No mark for peevish scorning—
Those withered lives had surely once
The innocence of morning.
But ah, the world’s use, soon or late,
Dispels the early glamour,
And faint the spheral music rings
In this incessant clamour!
Save when, at times, in some strange lull
Of tyrannous self-seeking,
The heart of memory is thrilled
By ancient voices speaking.
Dispels the early glamour,
And faint the spheral music rings
In this incessant clamour!
Save when, at times, in some strange lull
Of tyrannous self-seeking,
The heart of memory is thrilled
By ancient voices speaking.
And then the cloud in which we walk
Rolls by us, and from dreaming
We wake to see the primal world
In beauty round us gleaming;
Then common things to common eyes
Their secret life surrender,
And glow beneath the light of day
With visionary splendour.
Rolls by us, and from dreaming
We wake to see the primal world
In beauty round us gleaming;
Then common things to common eyes
Their secret life surrender,
And glow beneath the light of day
With visionary splendour.
·······
What wrought me so? I only know
I bowed in homage ardent
Before some high mysterious Power
A heart a little hardened.
That glory flashed upon a soul
By doubt and self o’erladen,
When all I saw in very sooth
Was but a simple maiden.
I bowed in homage ardent
Before some high mysterious Power
A heart a little hardened.
That glory flashed upon a soul
By doubt and self o’erladen,
When all I saw in very sooth
Was but a simple maiden.
In the airy whirling wheel is the springing strength of steel,
And the sinews grow to steel, day by day,
Till you feel your pulses leap at the easy swing and sweep
As the hedges flicker past upon the way.
Then it’s out to the kiss of the morning breeze,
And the rose of the morning sky,
And the long brown road, where the tired spirit’s load
Slips off as the leagues go by!
And the sinews grow to steel, day by day,
Till you feel your pulses leap at the easy swing and sweep
As the hedges flicker past upon the way.
Then it’s out to the kiss of the morning breeze,
And the rose of the morning sky,
And the long brown road, where the tired spirit’s load
Slips off as the leagues go by!
Black-and-silver, swift and strong, with a pleasant undersong
From the steady rippling murmur of the chain—
Half a thing of life and will, you may feel it start and thrill
With a quick elastic answer to the strain,
As you ride to the kiss of the morning breeze,
And the rose of the morning sky,
And the long brown road, where the tired spirit’s load
Slips off as the leagues go by!
From the steady rippling murmur of the chain—
Half a thing of life and will, you may feel it start and thrill
With a quick elastic answer to the strain,
As you ride to the kiss of the morning breeze,
And the rose of the morning sky,
And the long brown road, where the tired spirit’s load
Slips off as the leagues go by!
Miles a hundred you may run from the rising of the sun
To the gleam of the first white star;
You may ride through twenty towns, meet the sun upon the downs
And the wind on the mountain scaur.
Then it’s out to the kiss of the morning breeze
And the rose of the morning sky,
And the long brown road, where the tired spirit’s load
Slips off as the leagues go by!
To the gleam of the first white star;
You may ride through twenty towns, meet the sun upon the downs
And the wind on the mountain scaur.
Then it’s out to the kiss of the morning breeze
And the rose of the morning sky,
And the long brown road, where the tired spirit’s load
Slips off as the leagues go by!
Down the fragrant country-side, through the woodland’s summer pride
You have come in your forenoon spin;
And you never would have guessed how delicious is the rest
In the shade by the wayside inn,
When you’ve sought the kiss of the morning breeze
And the rose of the morning sky,
And the long brown road, where the tired spirit’s load
Slips off as the leagues go by!
You have come in your forenoon spin;
And you never would have guessed how delicious is the rest
In the shade by the wayside inn,
When you’ve sought the kiss of the morning breeze
And the rose of the morning sky,
And the long brown road, where the tired spirit’s load
Slips off as the leagues go by!
Oh, there’s many a one who teaches that the shining river-reaches
Are the place to spend a long June day;
But give me the whirling wheel and a boat of air and steel
To float upon the King’s highway!
Oh, give me the kiss of the morning breeze
And the rose of the morning sky,
And the long brown road, where the tired spirit’s load
Slips off as the leagues go by!
Are the place to spend a long June day;
But give me the whirling wheel and a boat of air and steel
To float upon the King’s highway!
Oh, give me the kiss of the morning breeze
And the rose of the morning sky,
And the long brown road, where the tired spirit’s load
Slips off as the leagues go by!
I know a home of antique ease
Within the smoky city’s pale,
A spot wherein the spirit sees
Old London through a thinner veil.
The modern world, so stiff and stale,
You leave behind you, when you please,
For long clay pipes and great old ale
And supper in the “Cheshire Cheese.”
Within the smoky city’s pale,
A spot wherein the spirit sees
Old London through a thinner veil.
The modern world, so stiff and stale,
You leave behind you, when you please,
For long clay pipes and great old ale
And supper in the “Cheshire Cheese.”
Beneath this board, Burke’s, Goldsmith’s knees
Were often thrust—so runs the tale—
’Twas here the Doctor took his ease,
And wielded speech that, like a flail,
Thresh’d out the golden truth: All hail
Great souls! that met on nights like these,
For talk and laughter, pipes and ale,
And supper in the “Cheshire Cheese.”
Were often thrust—so runs the tale—
’Twas here the Doctor took his ease,
And wielded speech that, like a flail,
Thresh’d out the golden truth: All hail
Great souls! that met on nights like these,
For talk and laughter, pipes and ale,
And supper in the “Cheshire Cheese.”
By kindly sense, and old decrees
Of England’s use you set your sail—
We press to never-furrow’d seas,
For vision-worlds we breast the gale;
And still we seek, and still we fail,
For still the “glorious phantom” flees4—
Ah, well! no phantoms are the ale
And suppers of the “Cheshire Cheese.”
Of England’s use you set your sail—
We press to never-furrow’d seas,
For vision-worlds we breast the gale;
And still we seek, and still we fail,
For still the “glorious phantom” flees4—
Ah, well! no phantoms are the ale
And suppers of the “Cheshire Cheese.”
Envoi
If doubts or debts thy soul assail,
If Fashion’s forms its current freeze,
Try a long pipe, a glass of ale,
And supper at the “Cheshire Cheese.”
If Fashion’s forms its current freeze,
Try a long pipe, a glass of ale,
And supper at the “Cheshire Cheese.”
I know not whether I love you, Dora:
Your beauty moves me, I know not how—
Your eyes that shine with a joy unspoken,
Your pride and sweetness of bosom and brow.
But I had not deemed that our earth could fashion
Of flesh and spirit so rare a thing—
And you lift my heart with the nameless passion
That stirs young blood in the dawn of spring.
Your beauty moves me, I know not how—
Your eyes that shine with a joy unspoken,
Your pride and sweetness of bosom and brow.
But I had not deemed that our earth could fashion
Of flesh and spirit so rare a thing—
And you lift my heart with the nameless passion
That stirs young blood in the dawn of spring.
I know not whether I love you, Dora,
Nor if you be what a man may wed.
Whence came that glory of ancient Hellas
That seems to hover about your head?
Have you roamed with Artemis, talked with Pallas?
Did Hera lend you that look sublime?
Did Bacchus give in a rose-wreathed chalice
That conquering charm of the youth of Time?
Nor if you be what a man may wed.
Whence came that glory of ancient Hellas
That seems to hover about your head?
Have you roamed with Artemis, talked with Pallas?
Did Hera lend you that look sublime?
Did Bacchus give in a rose-wreathed chalice
That conquering charm of the youth of Time?
I know not whether I love you, Dora,
But well I know you are not for me,
So darken’d and marr’d with the bitter travail
Of things that are not, and fain would be.
Keep, keep for ever your grace and gladness,
Bend once to bless me your brow of snow—
Then meet me next like some far-off sadness,
Some dead ambition of long ago.
But well I know you are not for me,
So darken’d and marr’d with the bitter travail
Of things that are not, and fain would be.
Keep, keep for ever your grace and gladness,
Bend once to bless me your brow of snow—
Then meet me next like some far-off sadness,
Some dead ambition of long ago.