The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 14

VII

TO A GARDENER

Friend, in my mountain-side demesne,My plain-beholding, rosy, greenAnd linnet-haunted garden-ground,Let still the esculents abound.Let first the onion flourish there,Rose among roots, the maiden-fair,Wine-scented and poetic soulOf the capacious salad-bowl.Let thyme the mountaineer (to dressThe tinier birds) and wading cress,The lover of the shallow brook,From all my plots and borders look.Nor crisp and ruddy radish, norPease-cods for the child’s pinaforeBe lacking; nor of salad clanThe last and least that ever ranAbout great nature’s garden-beds.Nor thence be missed the speary headsOf artichoke; nor thence the beanThat gathered innocent and greenOutsavours the belauded pea.These tend, I prithee; and for me,Thy most long-suffering master, bringIn April, when the linnets singAnd the days lengthen more and more,At sundown to the garden door.And I, being provided thus,Shall, with superb asparagus,A book, a taper, and a cupOf country wine, divinely sup.La Solitude, Hyères.

VIII

TO MINNIE

(WITH A HAND-GLASS)A picture-frame for you to fill,A paltry setting for your face,A thing that has no worth untilYou lend it something of your grace,I send (unhappy I that singLaid by a while upon the shelf)Because I would not send a thingLess charming than you are yourself.And happier than I, alas!(Dumb thing, I envy its delight)’Twill wish you well, the looking-glass,And look you in the face to-night.1869.

IX

TO K. de M

A lover of the moorland bareAnd honest country winds you were;The silver-skimming rain you took;And love the floodings of the brook,Dew, frost and mountains, fire and seas,Tumultuary silences,Winds that in darkness fifed a tune,And the high-riding, virgin moon.And as the berry, pale and sharp,Springs on some ditch’s counterscarpIn our ungenial, native north —You put your frosted wildings forth,And on the heath, afar from man,A strong and bitter virgin ran.The berry ripened keeps the rudeAnd racy flavour of the wood.And you that loved the empty plainAll redolent of wind and rain,Around you still the curlew sings —The freshness of the weather clings —The maiden jewels of the rainSit in your dabbled locks again.

X

TO N. V. de G. S

The unfathomable sea, and time, and tears,The deeds of heroes and the crimes of kingsDispart us; and the river of eventsHas, for an age of years, to east and westMore widely borne our cradles. Thou to meArt foreign, as when seamen at the dawnDescry a land far off, and know not which.So I approach uncertain; so I cruiseRound thy mysterious islet, and beholdSurf and great mountains and loud river-bars,And from the shore hear inland voices call.Strange is the seaman’s heart; he hopes, he fears;Draws closer and sweeps wider from that coast;Last, his rent sail refits, and to the deepHis shattered prow uncomforted puts back.Yet as he goes he ponders at the helmOf that bright island; where he feared to touch,His spirit re-adventures; and for years,Where by his wife he slumbers safe at home,Thoughts of that land revisit him; he seesThe eternal mountains beckon, and awakesYearning for that far home that might have been.

XI

TO WILL. H. LOW

Youth now flees on feathered foot,Faint and fainter sounds the flute,Rarer songs of gods; and stillSomewhere on the sunny hill,Or along the winding stream,Through the willows, flits a dream;Flits but shows a smiling face,Flees, but with so quaint a grace,None can choose to stay at home,All must follow, all must roam.This is unborn beauty: sheNow in air floats high and free.Takes the sun and makes the blue; —Late with stooping pinion flewRaking hedgerow trees, and wetHer wing in silver streams, and setShining foot on temple roof:Now again she flies aloof,Coasting mountain clouds and kiss’tBy the evening’s amethyst.In wet wood and miry lane,Still we pant and pound in vain;Still with leaden foot we chaseWaning pinion, fainting face;Still with grey hair we stumble on,Till, behold, the vision gone!Where hath fleeting beauty led?To the doorway of the dead.Life is over, life was gay:We have come the primrose way.

XII

TO MRS. WILL. H. LOW

Even in the bluest noonday of July,There could not run the smallest breath of windBut all the quarter sounded like a wood;And in the chequered silence and aboveThe hum of city cabs that sought the Bois,Suburban ashes shivered into song.A patter and a chatter and a chirpAnd a long dying hiss – it was as thoughStarched old brocaded dames through all the houseHad trailed a strident skirt, or the whole skyEven in a wink had over-brimmed in rain.Hark, in these shady parlours, how it talksOf the near Autumn, how the smitten ashTrembles and augurs floods! O not too longIn these inconstant latitudes delay,O not too late from the unbeloved northTrim your escape! For soon shall this low roofResound indeed with rain, soon shall your eyesSearch the foul garden, search the darkened rooms,Nor find one jewel but the blazing log.12 Rue Vernier, Paris.

XIII

TO H. F. BROWN

(WRITTEN DURING A DANGEROUS SICKNESS)I sit and wait a pair of oarsOn cis-Elysian river-shores.Where the immortal dead have sate,’Tis mine to sit and meditate;To re-ascend life’s rivulet,Without remorse, without regret;And sing my Alma GenetrixAmong the willows of the Styx.And lo, as my serener soulDid these unhappy shores patrol,And wait with an attentive earThe coming of the gondolier,Your fire-surviving roll I took,Your spirited and happy book;1Whereon, despite my frowning fate,It did my soul so recreateThat all my fancies fled awayOn a Venetian holiday.Now, thanks to your triumphant care,Your pages clear as April air,The sails, the bells, the birds, I know,And the far-off Friulan snow;The land and sea, the sun and shade,And the blue even lamp-inlaid.For this, for these, for all, O friend,For your whole book from end to end —For Paron Piero’s mutton-ham —I your defaulting debtor am.Perchance, reviving, yet may ITo your sea-paven city hie,And in a felze some day yetLight at your pipe my cigarette.

XIV

TO ANDREW LANG

Dear Andrew, with the brindled hair,Who glory to have thrown in air,High over arm, the trembling reed,By Ale and Kail, by Till and Tweed:An equal craft of hand you showThe pen to guide, the fly to throw:I count you happy-starred; for God,When He with inkpot and with rodEndowed you, bade your fortune leadFor ever by the crooks of Tweed,For ever by the woods of songAnd lands that to the Muse belong;Or if in peopled streets, or inThe abhorred pedantic sanhedrin,It should be yours to wander, stillAirs of the morn, airs of the hill,The plovery Forest and the seasThat break about the Hebrides,Should follow over field and plainAnd find you at the window-pane;And you again see hill and peel,And the bright springs gush at your heel.So went the fiat forth, and soGarrulous like a brook you go,With sound of happy mirth and sheenOf daylight – whether by the greenYou fare that moment, or the grey;Whether you dwell in March or May;Or whether treat of reels and rodsOr of the old unhappy gods:Still like a brook your page has shone,And your ink sings of Helicon.

XV

ET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI

(TO R. A. M. S.)

In ancient tales, O friend, thy spirit dwelt;There, from of old, thy childhood passed; and thereHigh expectation, high delights and deeds,Thy fluttering heart with hope and terror moved.And thou hast heard of yore the Blatant Beast,And Roland’s horn, and that war-scattering shoutOf all-unarmed Achilles, ægis-crowned.And perilous lands thou sawest, sounding shoresAnd seas and forests drear, island and daleAnd mountain dark. For thou with Tristram rod’stOr Bedevere, in farthest Lyonesse.Thou hadst a booth in Samarcand, whereatSide-looking Magians trafficked; thence, by night,An Afreet snatched thee, and with wings upboreBeyond the Aral Mount; or, hoping gain,Thou, with a jar of money, didst embarkFor Balsorah by sea. But chiefly thouIn that clear air took’st life; in ArcadyThe haunted, land of song; and by the wellsWhere most the gods frequent. There Chiron old,In the Pelethronian antre, taught thee lore;The plants he taught, and by the shining starsIn forests dim to steer. There hast thou seenImmortal Pan dance secret in a glade,And, dancing, roll his eyes; these, where they fell,Shed glee, and through the congregated oaksA flying horror winged; while all the earthTo the god’s pregnant footing thrilled within.Or whiles, beside the sobbing stream, he breathed,In his clutched pipe unformed and wizard strainsDivine yet brutal; which the forest heard,And thou, with awe; and far upon the plainThe unthinking ploughman started and gave ear.Now things there are that, upon him who sees,A strong vocation lay; and strains there areThat whoso hears shall hear for evermore.For evermore thou hear’st immortal PanAnd those melodious godheads, ever youngAnd ever quiring, on the mountains old.What was this earth, child of the gods, to thee?Forth from thy dreamland thou, a dreamer, cam’stAnd in thine ears the olden music rang,And in thy mind the doings of the dead,And those heroic ages long forgot.To a so fallen earth, alas! too late,Alas! in evil days, thy steps return,To list at noon for nightingales, to growA dweller on the beach till Argo comeThat came long since, a lingerer by the poolWhere that desirèd angel bathes no more.As when the Indian to Dakota comes,Or farthest Idaho, and where he dwelt,He with his clan, a humming city finds;Thereon a while, amazed, he stares, and thenTo right and leftward, like a questing dog,Seeks first the ancestral altars, then the hearthLong cold with rains, and where old terror lodged,And where the dead: so thee undying Hope,With all her pack, hunts screaming through the years:Here, there, thou fleeëst; but nor here nor thereThe pleasant gods abide, the glory dwells.That, that was not Apollo, not the god.This was not Venus, though she Venus seemedA moment. And though fair yon river move,She, all the way, from disenchanted fountTo seas unhallowed runs; the gods forsookLong since her trembling rushes; from her plainsDisconsolate, long since adventure fled;And now although the inviting river flows,And every poplared cape, and every bendOr willowy islet, win upon thy soulAnd to thy hopeful shallop whisper speed;Yet hope not thou at all; hope is no more;And O, long since the golden groves are deadThe faëry cities vanished from the land!

XVI

TO W.E. HENLEY

The year runs through her phases; rain and sun,Spring-time and summer pass; winter succeeds;But one pale season rules the house of death.Cold falls the imprisoned daylight; fell diseaseBy each lean pallet squats, and pain and sleepToss gaping on the pillows.But O thou!Uprise and take thy pipe. Bid music flow,Strains by good thoughts attended, like the springThe swallows follow over land and sea.Pain sleeps at once; at once, with open eyes,Dozing despair awakes. The shepherd seesHis flock come bleating home; the seaman hearsOnce more the cordage rattle. Airs of home!Youth, love, and roses blossom; the gaunt wardDislimns and disappears, and, opening out,Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyondOf mountains.Small the pipe; but O! do thou,Peak-faced and suffering piper, blow thereinThe dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick,These dying, sound the triumph over death.Behold! each greatly breathes; each tastes a joyUnknown before, in dying; for each knowsA hero dies with him – though unfulfilled,Yet conquering truly – and not dies in vain.So is pain cheered, death comforted; the houseOf sorrow smiles to listen. Once again —O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bardAnd the deliverer, touch the stops again!

XVII

HENRY JAMES

Who comes to-night? We ope the doors in vain.Who comes? My bursting walls, can you containThe presences that now together throngYour narrow entry, as with flowers and song,As with the air of life, the breath of talk?Lo, how these fair immaculate women walkBehind their jocund maker; and we seeSlighted De Mauves, and that far different she,Gressie, the trivial sphynx; and to our feastDaisy and Barb and Chancellor (she not least!)With all their silken, all their airy kin,Do like unbidden angels enter in.But he, attended by these shining names,Comes (best of all) himself – our welcome James.

XVIII

THE MIRROR SPEAKS

Where the bells peal far at seaCunning fingers fashioned me.There on palace walls I hungWhile that Consuelo sung;But I heard, though I listened well,Never a note, never a trill,Never a beat of the chiming bell.There I hung and looked, and thereIn my grey face, faces fairShone from under shining hair.Well I saw the poising head,But the lips moved and nothing said;And when lights were in the hall,Silent moved the dancers all.So a while I glowed, and thenFell on dusty days and men;Long I slumbered packed in straw,Long I none but dealers saw;Till before my silent eyeOne that sees came passing by.Now with an outlandish grace,To the sparkling fire I faceIn the blue room at Skerryvore;Where I wait until the doorOpen, and the Prince of Men,Henry James, shall come again.

XIX

KATHARINE

We see you as we see a faceThat trembles in a forest placeUpon the mirror of a poolFor ever quiet, clear, and cool;And, in the wayward glass, appearsTo hover between smiles and tears,Elfin and human, airy and true,And backed by the reflected blue.

XX

TO F. J. S

I read, dear friend, in your dear faceYour life’s tale told with perfect grace;The river of your life I traceUp the sun-chequered, devious bedTo the far-distant fountain-head.Not one quick beat of your warm heart,Nor thought that came to you apart,Pleasure nor pity, love nor painNor sorrow, has gone by in vain;But as some lone, wood-wandering childBrings home with him at evening mildThe thorns and flowers of all the wild,From your whole life, O fair and true,Your flowers and thorns you bring with you!

XXI

REQUIEM

Under the wide and starry sky,Dig the grave and let me lie.Glad did I live and gladly die,And I laid me down with a will.This be the verse you grave for me:Here he lies where he longed to be;Home is the sailor, home from sea,And the hunter home from the hill.Hyères, May 1884.

XXII

THE CELESTIAL SURGEON

If I have faltered more or lessIn my great task of happiness;If I have moved among my raceAnd shown no glorious morning face;If beams from happy human eyesHave moved me not; if morning skies,Books, and my food, and summer rainKnocked on my sullen heart in vain: —Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure takeAnd stab my spirit broad awake;Or, Lord, if too obdurate I,Choose Thou, before that spirit die,A piercing pain, a killing sin,And to my dead heart run them in!

XXIII

OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS

Out of the sun, out of the blast,Out of the world, alone I passedAcross the moor and through the woodTo where the monastery stood.There neither lute nor breathing fife,Nor rumour of the world of life,Nor confidences low and dear,Shall strike the meditative ear.Aloof, unhelpful, and unkind,The prisoners of the iron mind,Where nothing speaks except the bell,The unfraternal brothers dwell.Poor passionate men, still clothed afreshWith agonising folds of flesh;Whom the clear eyes solicit stillTo some bold output of the will,

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1

“Life on the Lagoons,” by H. F. Brown, originally burned in the fire at Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench & Co.’s.