But our heart knows the word;
Caresses that seem
Like love’s lips in a dream;
Yet we know she is here,
The desirèd, the dear,
The love of the year!
In the murmur of boughs,
In the softening of skies,
In the sun on the house,
In the daffodil’s green
(Half an inch, half-unseen
Mid the mournful brown mould
Where the rotten leaf lies)
Her story is told.
O sweet days of blue weather!
The thrushes shall sing,
Fields shall grow green again,
Daisies be seen again,
Hedges grow white;
Then down the lane,
Grown leafy again,
Shall go lovers together—
Lovers who see again
Sunshine and showers,
Perfume and flowers,
Dewy dear hours,
Dream and delight.
Winter’s behind us;
Springtime shall find us,
Taking our hands,
Lead us away from the cold and the snow,
Into the green world where primroses grow.
Winter, hard winter, forgotten, forgiven;
All the old pain paid, to seventy times seven,
All the new glory a-glow.
Love, when Spring calls, will you still turn away?
Winter has wooed you in vain, and shall May?
Love, when Spring calls, will you go?
MEDWAY SONG
(Air: Carnaval de Venise)
Of Thames let Arnold sing,
But we will sing no river more
Save this where crowbars ring.
Let others sing of Henley,
Of fashion and renown,
But we will sing the thirteen locks
That lead to Tonbridge town!
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
The evening sunshine lies,
The little voles among the reeds
Look out with wondering eyes.
The patient anglers linger
The placid stream beside,
Where still with towering tarry prow
The stately barges glide.
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
The wild rose blossoms fair,
O’er meadow-sweet and loosestrife bright,
For water nymphs to wear.
And mid the blowing rushes
Pan pipes a joyous song,
And woodland things peep from the shade
As soft we glide along.
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
Of fashions fine and rare,
But happy men in shabby coats,
And girls with wind-kissed hair.
The world’s a pain forgotten,
And very far away,
The stream that flows, the boat that goes—
These are our world to-day.
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
CHAINS INVISIBLE
Wide meadows ring my garden round,
In that green copse wild violets blow,
And pale, frail cuckoo flowers are found.
For all you see and all you hear,
The city might be miles away,
And yet you feel the city near
Through all the quiet of the day.
Sweet lilac waves in moonlight pale,
And from the wood beyond the lane
I hear the hidden nightingale.
Though field and wood about me lie,
Hushed soft in dew and deep delight,
Yet can I hear the city’s sigh
Through all the silence of the night.
For me the vine her garland weaves;
The swallow folds her glossy wings
To build beneath my cottage eaves.
But I can feel the giant near,
Can hear his slaves by daylight weep,
And, when at last the night is here,
I hear him moaning in his sleep.
AT EVENING TIME THERE SHALL BE LIGHT
One grey wrapped sky and sea and shore,
It seemed our marsh would never again
Wear the rich robes that once it wore.
The scattered farms looked sad and chill,
Their sheltering trees writhed all awry,
And waves of mist broke on the hill
Where once the great sea thundered by.
This little land that is our own,
He caught the rain up in His hand,
He hid the winds behind His throne,
He soothed the fretful waves to rest,
He called the clouds to come away,
And, by blue pathways, to the west,
They went, like children tired of play.
Its holy vestment of fine gold;
From marge to marge the glory shone
On lichened farm and fence and fold;
In the gold sky that walled the west,
In each transfigured stone and tree,
The glory of God was manifest,
Plain for a little child to see!
MAIDENHOOD
Veiled with her maiden innocence, she goes;
Not all the splendour of the waxing light
She sees, nor all the colour of the rose;
And yet who knows what finer hues she sees,
Hid by our wisdom from our longing eyes?
Who knows what light she sees in skies and seas
Which is withholden from our seas and skies?
And feels not yet the treachery of the thorn,
Her crown of lilies still its perfume sheds
Where Love, the thorny crown, not yet is borne.
Yet in the mystery of her peaceful way
Who knows what fears beset her innocence,
Who, trembling, learns that thorns will wound some day,
And wonders what thorns are, and why, and whence?
V
THE MONK
The long day’s penance done at last,
I see the ghosts of days gone by,
And hear the voices of the past.
From hearths where life has rhymed to love,
I see the kingdoms of the world—
The glory and the power thereof,
And cry, “Ah, vainly have I striven!”
And then a voice calls, soft and low:
“Thou gavest My Earth to win My Heaven;
But Heaven-on-Earth thou mayest not know!”
That I renounced Thy pleasant earth—
The ship, the furrow, and the sword—
The dreams of death, the dreams of birth!
Weak in my hope and in my faith—
O Christ, for whom this cross I bear,
Meet me beside the gate of Death!
(O Christ, who sanctifiest pain!)
Falling asleep upon Thy breast,
And, if Thou wilt, wake never again!
THE CROWN OF LIFE
Are over, not to come again,
And from the menace of the night
Has dawned the day-star of delight:
My baby lies against me pressed—
Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed!
His little body soft and warm,
His little feet that cannot stand
Held in the heart of this, my hand.
His little mouth close on my breast—
Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed.
Are very faint and far away,
Yet you some day will stand upright
And fight God’s foes, in manhood’s might,
You—tiny, worshipped, clasped, caressed—
Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.
This hour divine goes on for me.
All glorious is my little span,
Since I, like God, have made a man,
A little image of God’s best—
Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed.
Come endless chain of empty years;
They cannot take away the hour
That gives me You—my bird, my flower!
Thank God for this! Leave God the rest!—
Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.
MAGNIFICAT
He lay upon His Mother’s knee,
Who kissed and blessed Him soft and low—
God’s gift to her, as you to me.
The love that rocks this cradling breast
Is such as Mary gave her Son:
She was more honoured, not more blest.
Than your eyes were those eyes of His,
And just such little hands and feet
As yours Our Lady used to kiss.
She held a King upon her knee:
O King of all my world, and more
Than all the world’s desire to me!
For He has given me all things good:
This body which a child has borne,
This breast, made holy for his food.
Beside her Son’s stands up apart:
I sit on heaven’s steps alone
And hold my king against my heart.
She sees your smile, through worlds of blue
Who was a mother, even as I,
And loved her Child, as I love you.
Because she bore the Babe Divine,
And all my soul to hers draws near,
And loves Him for the sake of mine!
EVENING PRAYER
Whose altars struck their roots in flame and blood,
Not to the jealous God, whose merciless might
The infamy of unclean years withstood;
But to the God who lit the evening star,
Who taught the flower to blossom in delight,
Who taught His world what love and worship are
We pray, we two, to-night.
To no enthronèd King too great to care,
To no strange Spirit human needs above
We bring our little, intimate, heart-warm prayer;
But to the God who is a Father too,
The Father who loved and gave His only Son
We pray across the cradle, I and you,
For ours, our little one!
CHRISTMAS HYMN
I have no gift to give my King;
No flowers grow by my weary way;
I have no birthday song to sing.
Who never saw Thy face divine;
Who walk in darkness all my days,
And see no Eastern stars a-shine?
How can I leave Thy praise unsung?
How stay from homage to the King,
And hold a silent, grudging tongue?
And many a humble hymn of praise
For Thy great Miracle of Spring,
The wonder of the waxing days.
Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth?
The moons of love, the years of tears,
The mysteries of death and birth?
While soul and song were mine to yield,
Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control,
The dewy clover of Thy field?
Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade;
Have I not made me holy feasts
Of all the beauty Thou hast made?
Won never grace Thy face to see?
I heard Thy footstep on the grass,
Thy voice in every wind-blown tree.
Yet, Lord, remember I have been
The lover of Thy world, wherein
I found nought common or unclean.
Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong,
Yet take the songs I made of yore
For echoes to Thy birthday song.
ABSOLUTION
Look on the sins that made thy life unclean,
Behold how poor thy vaunted virtues were,
How weak thy faith, thy deeds how small and mean,
How far from thy high dreams thy life hath been,
How poor thy use of all thou hast received,
How little of all God’s glory thou hast seen,
How misconstrued that which thou hast perceived.
The cup of shame drink to the bitter lees;
And when thou art lowerèd to the least on earth,
And in the dust makest common cause with these,
Then shall kind arms enfold thee, bringing peace,
The Earth, thy Mother, shall assuage thy pain,
Her woods and fields, Her quiet streams and seas
Shall touch thy soul, and make thee whole again.
If one vile script thy soul shrinks to erase,
The mighty Mother cannot bring thee in
Unto the happy, holy, healing place;
But thou shalt weep in darkness, out of grace,
And miss the light of beauty undefiled;
For he who would behold Her, face to face,
Must be in spirit as a little child.
NOW BEING PUBLISHED
The New Popular Edition
OF THE
Works of
George Meredith
Crown 8vo, 6s. each.
With Frontispieces by Bernard Partridge, Harrison Miller, and others.
| THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL |
| EVAN HARRINGTON |
| SANDRA BELLONI |
| VITTORIA |
| RHODA FLEMING |
| THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY RICHMOND |
| BEAUCHAMP’S CAREER |
| THE EGOIST |
| DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS |
| ONE OF OUR CONQUERORS |
| LORD ORMONT AND HIS AMINTA |
| THE AMAZING MARRIAGE |
| THE SHAVING OF SHAGPAT |
| THE TRAGIC COMEDIANS |
| SHORT STORIES |
| SELECTED POEMS |
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AND OTHER ITEMS
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“Mr. Sykes served as a trooper in the M.R.F., and depicts with much point and piquancy the life of the rank and file of that corps as it presented itself to him throughout the campaign. Still more delightful is the racy vein in which the humours of the situation are recounted. Mr. Sykes’ narrative of ‘Massacres and Escapes’ is a noble record. Many incidents not hitherto mentioned of pluck and heroism are alluded to. His book is one of the best of its class we have yet had the pleasure of reviewing.”—South Africa.
“The chapter on the Religion of the Matabele is well worth reading, so from first page to last is Mr. Sykes’ book.”—Daily News.
“The best illustrated and most generally interesting volume.... Frank, catholic, fearless, and generous. I congratulate him, and also his assistants on a notable volume.”—African Critic.
Imperial Defence
By Sir CHARLES DILKE and SPENSER WILKINSON
New and Revised Edition. 2s. 6d.
“To urge our countrymen to prepare, whilst there is yet time, for a defence that is required alike by interest, honour, and duty, and by the best traditions of the nation’s history.”—Daily Mail.
ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO
2 WHITEHALL GARDENS WESTMINSTER
The Paston Letters,
1422-1509
Edited by JAMES GAIRDNER
OF THE PUBLIC RECORD OFFICE
3 Vols. Fcap. 8vo. With 3 Photogravure Frontispieces,
cloth gilt extra, or paper label uncut, 16s. net.
These letters are the genuine correspondence of a family in Norfolk during the Wars of the Roses. As such, they are altogether unique in character; yet the language is not so antiquated as to present any serious difficulty to the modern reader. The topics of the letters relate partly to the private affairs of the family, and partly to the stirring events of the time: and the correspondence includes State papers, love letters, bailiff’s accounts, sentimental poems, jocular epistles, etc.