The Englishman and Other Poems

The Muse said, Let us sing a little song
   Wherein no hint of wrong,
No echo of the great world need, or pain,
   Shall mar the strain.
Lock fast the swinging portal of thy heart;
   Keep sympathy apart.
Sing of the sunset, of the dawn, the sea;
   Of any thing or nothing, so there be
No purpose to thy art.
   Yea, let us make, art for Art’s sake.
And sing no more unto the hearts of men,
   But for the critic’s pen.
With songs that are but words, sweet sounding words,
   Like joyous jargon of the birds.
Tune now thy lyre, O Poet, and sing on.
   Sing of

The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams
   Of her belovèd Darkness, rose in fear,
   Feeling the presence of another near.
Outside her curtained casement shone the gleams
      Of burning orbs; and modestly she hid
   Her brow and bosom with her dusky hair.
   When lo! the bold intruder lurking there
      Leaped through the fragile lattice, all unbid,
And half unveiled her.  Then the swooning Night
Fell pale and dead, while yet her soul was white
   Before that lawless Ravisher, the Light.

The Muse said, Poet, nay; thou host not caught
My meaning.  For there lurks a thought
   Back of thy song.
   In art, all thought is wrong.
Re-string thy lyre; and let the echoes bound
To nothing but sweet sound.
   Strike now the chords
   And sing of

WORDS

Again the Muse:
      Thou dost not understand;
A thought within thy song is lingering yet.
Sing but of words; all else forget, forget.
   Nor let thy words convey one thought to men.
   Try once again.

Down through the dusk and dew there fell a word;
   Down through the dew and dusk.
And all the garments of the air it stirred
   Smelled sweet as musk;
And all the little waves of air it kissed
   Turned cold and amethyst.

The Muse said, Drop thy lyre.
      I tire, I tire.

I

Here are the orchard trees all large with fruit;
And yonder fields are golden with young grain.
In little journeys, branchward from the nest,
A mother bird, with sweet insistent cries,
Urges her young to use their untried wings.
A purring Tabby, stretched upon the sward,
Shuts and expands her velvet paws in joy,
While sturdy kittens nuzzle at her breast.

II

III

Yet do I understand; for Thou hast made
Something more subtle than this heart of me;
A finer part of me
To be obeyed.

Albeit I am a sister to the earth,
This nature self is not the whole of me;
The deathless soul of me
Has nobler birth.

The primal woman hungers for the man;
My better self demands the mate of me;
The spirit fate of me,
Part of Thy plan.

And if, in barren chastity, I must
Know but in dreams that perfect choice of me,
Still will the voice of me
Proclaim God just.

When in the even ways of life
   The old world jogs along,
Our little coloured flags we flaunt:
Our little separate selves we vaunt:
   Each pipes his native song.
And jealousy and greed and pride
   Join their ungodly hands,
And this round lovely world divide
   Into opposing lands.

But let some crucial hour of pain
   Sound from the tower of time,
Then consciousness of brotherhood
Wakes in each heart the latent good,
   And men become sublime.
As swarming insects of the night,
   Fly when the sun bursts in,
Self fades, before love’s radiant light,
   And all the world is kin.

A modern hour from London (as we spin
Into a silver thread the miles of space
Between us and our goal), there is a place
Apart from city traffic, dust, and din,
Green with great trees, where hides a quiet Inn.
Here Nelson last looked on the lovely face
Which made his world; and by its magic grace
Trailed rosy clouds across each early sin.
And, leaning lawnward, is the room where Keats
Wrote the last one of those immortal songs
(Called by the critics of his day ‘mere rhymes’).
A lark, high in the boxwood bough repeats
Those lyric strains, to idle passing throngs,
There by the little Tavern-of-Last-Times.

On a great cathedral window I have seen
A Summer sunset swoon and sink away,
Lost in the splendours of immortal art.
Angels and saints and all the heavenly hosts,
With smiles undimmed by half a thousand years,
From wall and niche have met my lifted gale.
Sculpture and carving and illumined page,
And the fair, lofty dreams of architects,
That speak of beauty to the centuries—
All these have fed me with divine repasts.
Yet in my mouth is left a bitter taste,
The taste of blood that stained that age of art.

God, what an age!  How was it that You let
Colossal genius and colossal crime
Walk for a hundred years across the earth,
Like giant twins?  How was it then that men,
Conceiving such vast beauty for the world,
And such large hopes of heaven, could entertain
Such hellish projects for their human kin?
How could the hand that, with consummate skill
And loving patience, limned the luminous page,
Drop pen and brush, and seize the branding-rod,
To scourge a brother for his differing faith?

If I were a raindrop, and you were a leaf,
   I would burst from the cloud above you,
And lie on your breast in a rapture of rest,
   And love you, love you, love you.

If I were a brown bee, and you were a rose,
   I would fly to you, love, nor miss you;
I would sip and sip from your nectared lip,
   And kiss you, kiss you, kiss you.

If I were a doe, dear, and you were a brook,
   Ah, what would I do then, think you?
I would kneel by the bank, in the grasses dank,
   And drink you, drink you, drink you.

They stood at the garden gate.
   By the lifting of a lid
She might have read her fate
   In a little thing he did.

He plucked a beautiful flower;
   Tore it away from its place
On the side of the blooming bower;
   And held it against his face.

Drank in its beauty and bloom,
   In the midst of his idle talk;
Then cast it down to the gloom
   And dust of the garden walk.

Ay, trod it under his foot,
   As it lay in his pathway there;
Then spurned it away with his boot,
   Because it bad ceased to be fair.

She looked in his eyes and blushed,
   She hid in his strong arms’ fold;
And the tale of the flower, crushed
   And spurned, was once more told.

Let me look always forward.  Never back.
Was I not formed for progress?  Otherwise
With onward pointing feet and searching eyes
Would God have set me squarely on the track
Up which we all must labour with life’s pack?
Yonder the goal of all this travel lies.
What matters it, if yesterday the skies
With light were golden, or with clouds were black?
I would not lose to-morrow’s glow of dawn
By peering backward after sun’s long set.
New hope is fairer than an old regret;
Let me pursue my journey and press on—
Nor tearful eyed, stand ever in one spot,
A briny statue like the wife of Lot.

In England there are wrongs, no doubt,
Which should be righted; so men say,
Who seek to weed earth’s garden out
And give the roses right of way.
Yes, right of way to fruit and rose,
Where now but poison ivy grows.

In England there is wide unrest
They tell me, who should know.  And yet
I saw but hedges gaily dressed,
And eyes, where love and kindness met.
Yes, love and kindness, met and made
Soft sunshine, even in the shade.

In England, centuries of art
Give common things a mellow tone,
And wake old memories in the heart
Of other lives the soul has known.
Yes, other lives in some past age
Start forth from canvas, or from page.

In England there are simple joys
The modern world has left all sweet;
In London’s heart are nooks, where noise
Has entered but with slippered feet;
Yes, entered softly.
      Friend, believe,
To part from England is to grieve.

I

We cannot choose our sorrows.  One there was
Who, reverent of soul, and strong with trust,
Cried, ‘God, though Thou shouldst bow me to the dust,
Yet will I praise thy everlasting laws.
Beggared, my faith would never halt or pause,
But sing Thy glory, feasting on a crust.
Only one boon, one precious boon I must
Demand of Thee, O opulent great Cause.
Let Love stay with me, constant to the end,
Though fame pass by and poverty pursue.’
With freighted hold her life ship onward sailed;
The world gave wealth, and pleasure, and a friend,
Unmarred by envy, and whose heart was true.
But ere the sun reached midday, Love had failed.

Then from the depths, in bitterness she cried,
‘Hell is on earth, and heaven is but a dream;
And human life a troubled aimless stream;
And God is nowhere.  Would God so deride
A loving creature’s faith?’  A voice replied,
‘The stream flows onward to the Source Supreme,
Where things that ARE replace the things that SEEM,
And where the deeds of all past lives abide.
Once at thy door Love languished and was spurned.
Who sorrow plants, must garner sorrow’s sheaf.
No prayers can change the seedling in the sod.
By thine own heart Love’s anguish must be learned.
Pass on, and know, as one made wise by grief,
That in thyself dwells heaven and hell and God.’

A rose in my garden, the sweetest and fairest,
   Was hanging her head through the long golden hours;
And early one morning I saw her tears falling,
   And heard a low gossiping talk in the bowers.

The yellow Nasturtium, a spinster all faded,
   Was telling a Lily what ailed the poor Rose:
‘That wild, roving Bee, who was hanging about her
   Has jilted her squarely, as every one knows.

‘I knew when he came, with his singing and sighing,
   His airs and his speeches, so fine and so sweet,
Just how it would end; but no one would believe me,
   For all were quite ready to fall at his feet.’

‘Now, now, that’s not true,’ cried the tall Oleander.
   ‘He has travelled and seen every flower that grows;
And one who has supped in the garden of princes,
   We all might have known would not wed with the Rose.’

‘But wasn’t she proud when he showed her attention?
   And she let him caress her,’ said sly Mignonette.
‘And I used to see it and blush for her folly.
   The silly thing thinks he will come to her yet.’

‘I thought he was splendid,’ said pretty, pert Larkspur.
   ‘So dark and so grand, with that gay cloak of gold;
But he tried once to kiss me, the impudent fellow,
   And I got offended; I thought him too bold.’

‘He cared nothing for her, he only was flirting
   To while away time, as every one knew;
So I turned a cold shoulder to all his advances,
   Because I was certain his heart was untrue.’

‘The Rose it served right for her folly in trusting
   An oily-tongued stranger,’ quoth proud Columbine.
‘I knew what he was, and thought once I would warn her.
   But, of course, the affair was no business of mine.’

‘Oh, well,’ cried the Peony, shrugging her shoulders,
   ‘I saw all along that the Bee was a flirt;
But the Rose has been always so praised and so petted,
   I thought a good lesson would do her no hurt.’

And the dark, handsome Bee, with his cloak o’er his shoulder,
   Came swift through the sunlight and kissed the sad Rose,
And whispered: ‘My darling, I’ve roved the world over,
   And you are the loveliest blossom that grows.’

We two in the fever and fervour and glow
   Of life’s high tide have rejoiced together;
We have looked out over the glittering snow,
   And known we were dwelling in Summer weather,
For the seasons are made by the heart I hold,
And not by outdoor heat or cold.

We two, in the shadows of pain and woe,
   Have journeyed together in dim, dark places,
Where black-robed Sorrow walked to and fro,
   And Fear and Trouble, with phantom faces,
Peered out upon us and froze our blood,
Though June’s fair roses were all in bud.

If they took my soul into Paradise,
   And told me I must be content without you,
I would weary them so with my lonesome cries,
   And the ceaseless questions I asked about you,
They would open the gates and set me free,
Or else they would find you and bring you to me.

God, may Thy loving Spirit work,
In heart of Russian, and of Turk,
Until throughout each clime and land,
Armenian and Jew may stand,
And claim the right of every soul
To seek by its own path, the goal.
Parts of the Universal Force,
Rills from the same eternal Source
Back to that Source, all races go.
God, help Thy world to see it so.

A waft of perfume from a bit of lace
   Moved lightly by a passing woman’s hand;
And on the common street, a sensuous grace
   Shone suddenly from some lost time and land.

Tall structures changed to dome and parapet;
   The stern-faced Church an oracle became;
In sheltered alcoves marble busts were set;
   And on the wall frail Lais wrote her name.

Phryne before her judges stood at bay,
   Fearing the rigour of Athenian laws;
Till Hyperides tore her cloak away,
   And bade her splendid beauty plead its cause.

Faint and more faint the pungent perfume grew;
   Of wall and parapet remained no trace.
Temple and statue vanished from the view:
   The city street again was commonplace.

If you listen you will hear, from east to west,
Growing sounds of discontent and deep unrest.
It is just the progress-driven plough of God,
Tearing up the well-worn custom-bounded sod;
Shaping out each old tradition-trodden track
Into furrows, fertile furrows, rich and black.
Oh, what harvests they will yield
When they widen to a field.

They will widen, they will broaden, day by day,
As the Progress-driven plough keeps on its way.
It will riddle all the ancient roads that lead
Into palaces of selfishness and greed;
It will tear away the almshouse and the slum
That the little homes and garden plots may come.
Yes, the gardens green and sweet
Shall replace the stony street.

God, what a joy it is to plant a tree,
And from the sallow earth to watch it rise,
Lifting its emerald branches to the skies
In silent adoration; and to see
Its strength and glory waxing with each spring.
Yes, ’tis a goodly, and a gladsome thing
To plant a tree.

Nature has many marvels; but a tree
Seems more than marvellous.  It is divine.
So generous, so tender, so benign.
Not garrulous like the rivers; and yet free
In pleasant converse with the winds and birds;
Oh! privilege beyond explaining words,
To plant a tree.

There is an oak (oh! how I love that tree)
Which has been thriving for a hundred years;
Each day I send my blessing through the spheres
To one who gave this triple boon to me,
Of growing beauty, singing birds, and shade.
Wouldst thou win laurels that shall never fade?
Go plant a tree.

How blind is he who prays that God will send
All pain from earth.  Pain has its use and place;
Its ministry of holiness and grace.
The darker tones upon the canvas blend
With light and colour; and their shadows lend
The painting half its dignity.  Efface
The sombre background, and you lose all trace
Of that perfection which is true art’s trend.

Life is an artist seeking to reveal
God’s majesty and beauty in each soul.
If from the palette mortal man could steal
The precious pigment, pain, why then the scroll
Would glare with colours meaningless and bright,
Or show an empty canvas, blurred with light.

In Memory’s Mansion are wonderful rooms,
   And I wander about them at will;
And I pause at the casements, where boxes of blooms
   Are sending sweet scents o’er the sill.
I lean from a window that looks on a lawn:
   From a turret that looks on the wave.
But I draw down the shade, when I see on some glade,
   A stone standing guard, by a grave.

To Memory’s attic I clambered one day,
   When the roof was resounding with rain.
And there, among relics long hidden away,
   I rummaged with heart-ache and pain.
A hope long surrendered and covered with dust,
   A pastime, out-grown, and forgot,
And a fragment of love, all corroded with rust,
   Were lying heaped up in one spot.

Then down the steep stairway I hurriedly went,
   And into fair chambers below.
But the mansion seemed filled with the old attic scent,
   Wherever my footsteps would go.
Though in Memory’s House I still wander full oft,
   No more to the garret I climb;
And I leave all the rubbish heaped there in the loft
   To the hands of the Housekeeper, Time.

They tell me new methods now govern the Muses,
   The modes of expression have changed with the times;
That low is the rank of the poet who uses
   The old-fashioned verse with intentional rhymes.
And quite out of date, too, is rhythmical metre;
   The critics declare it an insult to art.
But oh! the sweet swing of it, oh! the clear ring of it,
   Oh the great pulse of it, right from the heart,
         Art or no art.

Below in the village a church bell was chiming,
   And back in the woodland a little bird sang;
And, doubt it who will, yet those two sounds were rhyming,
   As out o’er the hill-tops they echoed and rang.

The Wind and the Trees fell to talking together;
   And nothing they said was didactic or terse;
But everything spoken was told in unbroken
   And beautiful rhyming and rhythmical verse.

So rhythm I hail it, though critics assail it,
   And hold melting rhymes as an insult to art,
For oh! the sweet swing of it, oh! the dear ring of it,
   Oh! the strong pulse of it, right from the heart,
         Art or no art.

The quality folk went riding by,
All in a coach and four,
And pretty Annette, in a calico gown
(Bringing her marketing things from town),
Stopped short with her Sunday store,
And wondered if ever it should betide
That she in a long plumed hat would ride
   Away in a coach and four.

A lord there was, oh a lonely soul,
There in the coach and four.
His years were young but his heart was old,
And he hated his coaches and hated his gold
(Those things which we all adore).
And he thought how sweet it would be to trudge
Along with the fair little country drudge,
   And away from his coach and four.

Now a thing like this could happen we know,
All in a coach and four;
But the fact of it is, ’twixt me and you,
There isn’t a word of the story true
(Pardon I do implore).
It is only a foolish and fanciful song
That came to me as I rode along,
   All in a coach and four.

I

Who has not felt his heart leap up, and glow
What time the Tulips first begin to blow,
Has one sweet joy still left for him to know.

It is like early love’s imagining,
That fragile pleasure which the Tulips bring,
When suddenly we see them, in the Spring.

Not all the garden’s later royal train,
Not great triumphant Roses, when they reign,
Can bring that delicate delight again.

II

We wander out across the lawn;
We idle by a bush in bloom;
The household pets come following on;
Or if the day is one of gloom,
We loiter in a pleasant room,
Or from a casement lean and chatter.
Then comes the mail, like sudden hail,
And off we scatter.

III

When Roses die, in languid August days,
We leave the garden to its fallen ways,
And seek the shelter of wide porticoes,
Where Honeysuckle in defiance blows
Undaunted by the sun’s too ardent rays.

IV

The summer folk, fled back to town;
The green woods changed to red and brown;
A sound upon the frosty air
Of windows closing everywhere.

And then the log, lapped by a blaze—
Oh! what is better than these days;
With books and friends and love a-near;
Go on, gay world, but leave me here.

Sir Knight of the world’s oldest order,
   Sir Knight of the Army of God,
You have crossed the strange mystical border,
   The ground-floor of truth you have trod;
You stand on the typical threshold
   Which leads to the temple above;
Where you come as a stone, and a Christ-chosen one,
   In the Kingdom of Friendship and Love.

Your service, majestic and solemn,
   Your symbols, suggestive and sweet,
Your uniform phalanx in column
   On gala-days marching the street;
Your sword and your plume and your helmet,
   Your ‘secrets’ hid from the world’s sight;
These things are the small, lesser parts of the all
   Which are needed to form the true Knight.

The martyrs who perished rejoicing,
   In Templary’s glorious laws,
Who died ’midst the faggots while voicing
   The glory and worth of their cause—
They honoured the title of ‘Templar’
   No more than the Knight of to-day,
Who mars not the name with one blemish of shame,
   But carries it clean through life’s fray.

Sir Knight, have you pondered the meaning
   Of all you have heard and been told?
Have you strengthened your heart for its weaning
   From vices and faults loved of old?
Will you honour, in hours of temptation,
   Your promises noble and grand?
Will your spirit be strong to do battle with wrong,
   ‘And, having done all, to stand’?

The world’s battle-field is before you:
   Let Wisdom walk close by your side,
Let Faith spread her snowy wings o’er you,
   Let Truth be your comrade and guide;
Let Fortitude, Justice, and Mercy
   Direct all your conduct aright,
And let each word and act tell to men the proud fact,
   You are worthy the name of ‘Sir Knight.’

Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press.