Poems of the Past and the Present

THE KING’S EXPERIMENT

   It was a wet wan hour in spring,And Nature met King Doom beside a lane,Wherein Hodge trudged, all blithely ballading      The Mother’s smiling reign.   “Why warbles he that skies are fairAnd coombs alight,” she cried, “and fallows gay,When I have placed no sunshine in the air      Or glow on earth to-day?”   “’Tis in the comedy of thingsThat such should be,” returned the one of Doom;“Charge now the scene with brightest blazonings,      And he shall call them gloom.”   She gave the word: the sun outbroke,All Froomside shone, the hedgebirds raised a song;And later Hodge, upon the midday stroke,      Returned the lane along,   Low murmuring: “O this bitter scene,And thrice accurst horizon hung with gloom!How deadly like this sky, these fields, these treen,      To trappings of the tomb!”   The Beldame then: “The fool and blind!Such mad perverseness who may apprehend?” —“Nay; there’s no madness in it; thou shalt find      Thy law there,” said her friend.   “When Hodge went forth ’twas to his Love,To make her, ere this eve, his wedded prize,And Earth, despite the heaviness above,      Was bright as Paradise.   “But I sent on my messenger,With cunning arrows poisonous and keen,To take forthwith her laughing life from her,      And dull her little een,   “And white her cheek, and still her breath,Ere her too buoyant Hodge had reached her side;So, when he came, he clasped her but in death,      And never as his bride.   “And there’s the humour, as I said;Thy dreary dawn he saw as gleaming gold,And in thy glistening green and radiant red      Funereal gloom and cold.”

THE TREE

AN OLD MAN’S STORY

IIts roots are bristling in the airLike some mad Earth-god’s spiny hair;The loud south-wester’s swell and yellSmote it at midnight, and it fell.   Thus ends the tree   Where Some One sat with me.IIIts boughs, which none but darers trod,A child may step on from the sod,And twigs that earliest met the dawnAre lit the last upon the lawn.   Cart off the tree   Beneath whose trunk sat we!IIIYes, there we sat: she cooed content,And bats ringed round, and daylight went;The gnarl, our seat, is wrenched and sunk,Prone that queer pocket in the trunk   Where lay the key   To her pale mystery.IV“Years back, within this pocket-holeI found, my Love, a hurried scrawlMeant not for me,” at length said I;“I glanced thereat, and let it lie:   The words were three —   ‘Beloved, I agree.’V“Who placed it here; to what requestIt gave assent, I never guessed.Some prayer of some hot heart, no doubt,To some coy maiden hereabout,   Just as, maybe,   With you, Sweet Heart, and me.”VIShe waited, till with quickened breathShe spoke, as one who banishethReserves that lovecraft heeds so well,To ease some mighty wish to tell:   “’Twas I,” said she,   “Who wrote thus clinchingly.VII“My lover’s wife – aye, wife! – knew noughtOf what we felt, and bore, and thought.He’d said: ‘I wed with thee or die:She stands between, ’tis true.  But why?   Do thou agree,   And – she shalt cease to be.’VIII“How I held back, how love supremeInvolved me madly in his schemeWhy should I say?.. I wrote assent(You found it hid) to his intent.   She —died.. But he   Came not to wed with me.IX“O shrink not, Love! – Had these eyes seenBut once thine own, such had not been!But we were strangers.. Thus the plotCleared passion’s path. – Why came he not   To wed with me?.   He wived the gibbet-tree.”X– Under that oak of heretoforeSat Sweetheart mine with me no more:By many a Fiord, and Strom, and FleuveHave I since wandered.. Soon, for love,   Distraught went she —   ’Twas said for love of me.

HER LATE HUSBAND

(KING’S-HINTOCK, 182–.)

“No – not where I shall make my own;   But dig his grave just byThe woman’s with the initialed stone —   As near as he can lie —After whose death he seemed to ail,   Though none considered why.“And when I also claim a nook,   And your feet tread me in,Bestow me, under my old name,   Among my kith and kin,That strangers gazing may not dream   I did a husband win.”“Widow, your wish shall be obeyed;   Though, thought I, certainlyYou’d lay him where your folk are laid,   And your grave, too, will be,As custom hath it; you to right,   And on the left hand he.”“Aye, sexton; such the Hintock rule,   And none has said it nay;But now it haps a native here   Eschews that ancient way.And it may be, some Christmas night,   When angels walk, they’ll say:“‘O strange interment!  Civilized lands   Afford few types thereof;Here is a man who takes his rest   Beside his very Love,Beside the one who was his wife   In our sight up above!’”

THE SELF-UNSEEING

Here is the ancient floor,Footworn and hollowed and thin,Here was the former doorWhere the dead feet walked in.She sat here in her chair,Smiling into the fire;He who played stood there,Bowing it higher and higher.Childlike, I danced in a dream;Blessings emblazoned that dayEverything glowed with a gleam;Yet we were looking away!

DE PROFUNDIS

I

“Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum.”

– Ps. ci   Wintertime nighs;But my bereavement-painIt cannot bring again:   Twice no one dies.   Flower-petals flee;But, since it once hath been,No more that severing scene   Can harrow me.   Birds faint in dread:I shall not lose old strengthIn the lone frost’s black length:   Strength long since fled!   Leaves freeze to dun;But friends can not turn coldThis season as of old   For him with none.   Tempests may scath;But love can not make smartAgain this year his heart   Who no heart hath.   Black is night’s cope;But death will not appalOne who, past doubtings all,   Waits in unhope.II

“Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret me.. Non est qui requirat animam meam.” —Ps. cxli.

When the clouds’ swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and strongThat things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere long,And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so clear,The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here.The stout upstanders say, All’s well with us: ruers have nought to rue!And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true?Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their career,Till I think I am one horn out of due time, who has no calling here.Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their eves exultance sweet;Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet,And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear;Then what is the matter is I, I say.  Why should such an one be here?.Let him to whose ears the low-voiced Best seems stilled by the clash of the First,Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst,Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, custom, and fear,Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here.1895–96.III

“Heu mihi, quia incolatus meus prolongatus est! Habitavi cum habitantibus Cedar; multum incola fuit aninia mea.” —Ps. cxix.

There have been times when I well might have passed and the ending have come —Points in my path when the dark might have stolen on me, artless, unrueing —Ere I had learnt that the world was a welter of futile doing:Such had been times when I well might have passed, and the ending have come!Say, on the noon when the half-sunny hours told that April was nigh,And I upgathered and cast forth the snow from the crocus-border,Fashioned and furbished the soil into a summer-seeming order,Glowing in gladsome faith that I quickened the year thereby.Or on that loneliest of eves when afar and benighted we stood,She who upheld me and I, in the midmost of Egdon together,Confident I in her watching and ward through the blackening heather,Deeming her matchless in might and with measureless scope endued.Or on that winter-wild night when, reclined by the chimney-nook quoin,Slowly a drowse overgat me, the smallest and feeblest of folk there,Weak from my baptism of pain; when at times and anon I awoke there —Heard of a world wheeling on, with no listing or longing to join.Even then! while unweeting that vision could vex or that knowledge could numb,That sweets to the mouth in the belly are bitter, and tart, and untoward,Then, on some dim-coloured scene should my briefly raised curtain have lowered,Then might the Voice that is law have said “Cease!” and the ending have come.1896.

THE CHURCH-BUILDER

IThe church flings forth a battled shade   Over the moon-blanched sward;The church; my gift; whereto I paid   My all in hand and hoard:      Lavished my gains      With stintless pains   To glorify the Lord.III squared the broad foundations in   Of ashlared masonry;I moulded mullions thick and thin,   Hewed fillet and ogee;      I circleted      Each sculptured head   With nimb and canopy.IIII called in many a craftsmaster   To fix emblazoned glass,To figure Cross and Sepulchre   On dossal, boss, and brass.      My gold all spent,      My jewels went   To gem the cups of Mass.IVI borrowed deep to carve the screen   And raise the ivoried Rood;I parted with my small demesne   To make my owings good.      Heir-looms unpriced      I sacrificed,   Until debt-free I stood.VSo closed the task.  “Deathless the Creed   Here substanced!” said my soul:“I heard me bidden to this deed,   And straight obeyed the call.      Illume this fane,      That not in vain   I build it, Lord of all!”VIBut, as it chanced me, then and there   Did dire misfortunes burst;My home went waste for lack of care,   My sons rebelled and curst;      Till I confessed      That aims the best   Were looking like the worst.VIIEnkindled by my votive work   No burning faith I find;The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk,   And give my toil no mind;      From nod and wink      I read they think   That I am fool and blind.VIIIMy gift to God seems futile, quite;   The world moves as erstwhile;And powerful wrong on feeble right   Tramples in olden style.      My faith burns down,      I see no crown;   But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.IXSo now, the remedy?  Yea, this:   I gently swing the doorHere, of my fane – no soul to wis —   And cross the patterned floor      To the rood-screen      That stands between   The nave and inner chore.XThe rich red windows dim the moon,   But little light need I;I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn   From woods of rarest dye;      Then from below      My garment, so,   I draw this cord, and tieXIOne end thereof around the beam   Midway ’twixt Cross and truss:I noose the nethermost extreme,   And in ten seconds thus      I journey hence —      To that land whence   No rumour reaches us.XIIWell: Here at morn they’ll light on one   Dangling in mockeryOf what he spent his substance on   Blindly and uselessly!.      “He might,” they’ll say,      “Have built, some way.   A cheaper gallows-tree!”

THE LOST PYX

A MEDIÆVAL LEGEND 3

Some say the spot is banned; that the pillar Cross-and-Hand   Attests to a deed of hell;But of else than of bale is the mystic tale   That ancient Vale-folk tell.Ere Cernel’s Abbey ceased hereabout there dwelt a priest,   (In later life sub-priorOf the brotherhood there, whose bones are now bare   In the field that was Cernel choir).One night in his cell at the foot of yon dell   The priest heard a frequent cry:“Go, father, in haste to the cot on the waste,   And shrive a man waiting to die.”Said the priest in a shout to the caller without,   “The night howls, the tree-trunks bow;One may barely by day track so rugged a way,   And can I then do so now?”No further word from the dark was heard,   And the priest moved never a limb;And he slept and dreamed; till a Visage seemed   To frown from Heaven at him.In a sweat he arose; and the storm shrieked shrill,   And smote as in savage joy;While High-Stoy trees twanged to Bubb-Down Hill,   And Bubb-Down to High-Stoy.There seemed not a holy thing in hail,   Nor shape of light or love,From the Abbey north of Blackmore Vale   To the Abbey south thereof.Yet he plodded thence through the dark immense,   And with many a stumbling strideThrough copse and briar climbed nigh and nigher   To the cot and the sick man’s side.When he would have unslung the Vessels uphung   To his arm in the steep ascent,He made loud moan: the Pyx was gone   Of the Blessed Sacrament.Then in dolorous dread he beat his head:   “No earthly prize or pelfIs the thing I’ve lost in tempest tossed,   But the Body of Christ Himself!”He thought of the Visage his dream revealed,   And turned towards whence he came,Hands groping the ground along foot-track and field,   And head in a heat of shame.Till here on the hill, betwixt vill and vill,   He noted a clear straight rayStretching down from the sky to a spot hard by,   Which shone with the light of day.And gathered around the illumined ground   Were common beasts and rare,All kneeling at gaze, and in pause profound   Attent on an object there.’Twas the Pyx, unharmed ’mid the circling rows   Of Blackmore’s hairy throng,Whereof were oxen, sheep, and does,   And hares from the brakes among;And badgers grey, and conies keen,   And squirrels of the tree,And many a member seldom seen   Of Nature’s family.The ireful winds that scoured and swept   Through coppice, clump, and dell,Within that holy circle slept   Calm as in hermit’s cell.Then the priest bent likewise to the sod   And thanked the Lord of Love,And Blessed Mary, Mother of God,   And all the saints above.And turning straight with his priceless freight,   He reached the dying one,Whose passing sprite had been stayed for the rite   Without which bliss hath none.And when by grace the priest won place,   And served the Abbey well,He reared this stone to mark where shone   That midnight miracle.

TESS’S LAMENT

II would that folk forgot me quite,         Forgot me quite!I would that I could shrink from sight,   And no more see the sun.Would it were time to say farewell,To claim my nook, to need my knell,Time for them all to stand and tell   Of my day’s work as done.IIAh! dairy where I lived so long,         I lived so long;Where I would rise up stanch and strong,   And lie down hopefully.’Twas there within the chimney-seatHe watched me to the clock’s slow beat —Loved me, and learnt to call me sweet,   And whispered words to me.IIIAnd now he’s gone; and now he’s gone;.      And now he’s gone!The flowers we potted p’rhaps are thrown   To rot upon the farm.And where we had our supper-fireMay now grow nettle, dock, and briar,And all the place be mould and mire   So cozy once and warm.IVAnd it was I who did it all,         Who did it all;’Twas I who made the blow to fall   On him who thought no guile.Well, it is finished – past, and heHas left me to my misery,And I must take my Cross on me   For wronging him awhile.VHow gay we looked that day we wed,      That day we wed!“May joy be with ye!” all o’m said   A standing by the durn.I wonder what they say o’s now,And if they know my lot; and howShe feels who milks my favourite cow,   And takes my place at churn!VIIt wears me out to think of it,      To think of it;I cannot bear my fate as writ,   I’d have my life unbe;Would turn my memory to a blot,Make every relic of me rot,My doings be as they were not,   And what they’ve brought to me!

THE SUPPLANTER

A TALE

IHe bends his travel-tarnished feet   To where she wastes in clay:From day-dawn until eve he fares   Along the wintry way;From day-dawn until eve repairs   Unto her mound to pray.II“Are these the gravestone shapes that meet   My forward-straining view?Or forms that cross a window-blind   In circle, knot, and queue:Gay forms, that cross and whirl and wind   To music throbbing through?” —III“The Keeper of the Field of Tombs   Dwells by its gateway-pier;He celebrates with feast and dance   His daughter’s twentieth year:He celebrates with wine of France   The birthday of his dear.” —IV“The gates are shut when evening glooms:   Lay down your wreath, sad wight;To-morrow is a time more fit   For placing flowers aright:The morning is the time for it;   Come, wake with us to-night!” —VHe grounds his wreath, and enters in,   And sits, and shares their cheer. —“I fain would foot with you, young man,   Before all others here;I fain would foot it for a span   With such a cavalier!”VIShe coaxes, clasps, nor fails to win   His first-unwilling hand:The merry music strikes its staves,   The dancers quickly band;And with the damsel of the graves   He duly takes his stand.VII“You dance divinely, stranger swain,   Such grace I’ve never known.O longer stay!  Breathe not adieu   And leave me here alone!O longer stay: to her be true   Whose heart is all your own!” —VIII“I mark a phantom through the pane,   That beckons in despair,Its mouth all drawn with heavy moan —   Her to whom once I sware!” —“Nay; ’tis the lately carven stone   Of some strange girl laid there!” —IX“I see white flowers upon the floor   Betrodden to a clot;My wreath were they?” – “Nay; love me much,   Swear you’ll forget me not!’Twas but a wreath!  Full many such   Are brought here and forgot.”* * * * * * *XThe watches of the night grow hoar,   He rises ere the sun;“Now could I kill thee here!” he says,   “For winning me from oneWho ever in her living days   Was pure as cloistered nun!”XIShe cowers, and he takes his track   Afar for many a mile,For evermore to be apart   From her who could beguileHis senses by her burning heart,   And win his love awhile.XIIA year: and he is travelling back   To her who wastes in clay;From day-dawn until eve he fares   Along the wintry way,From day-dawn until eve repairs   Unto her mound to pray.XIIIAnd there he sets him to fulfil   His frustrate first intent:And lay upon her bed, at last,   The offering earlier meant:When, on his stooping figure, ghast   And haggard eyes are bent.XIV“O surely for a little while   You can be kind to me!For do you love her, do you hate,   She knows not – cares not she:Only the living feel the weight   Of loveless misery!XV“I own my sin; I’ve paid its cost,   Being outcast, shamed, and bare:I give you daily my whole heart,   Your babe my tender care,I pour you prayers; and aye to part   Is more than I can bear!”XVIHe turns – unpitying, passion-tossed;   “I know you not!” he cries,“Nor know your child.  I knew this maid,   But she’s in Paradise!”And swiftly in the winter shade   He breaks from her and flies.

IMITATIONS, ETC

SAPPHIC FRAGMENT

“Thou shalt be – Nothing.” – Omar Khayyám.

“Tombless, with no remembrance.” – W. Shakespeare.

Dead shalt thou lie; and nought   Be told of thee or thought,For thou hast plucked not of the Muses’ tree:   And even in Hades’ halls   Amidst thy fellow-thrallsNo friendly shade thy shade shall company!

CATULLUS: XXXI

(After passing Sirmione, April 1887.)

Sirmio, thou dearest dear of strandsThat Neptune strokes in lake and sea,With what high joy from stranger landsDoth thy old friend set foot on thee!Yea, barely seems it true to meThat no Bithynia holds me now,But calmly and assuringlyAround me stretchest homely Thou.Is there a scene more sweet than whenOur clinging cares are undercast,And, worn by alien moils and men,The long untrodden sill repassed,We press the pined for couch at last,And find a full repayment there?Then hail, sweet Sirmio; thou that wast,And art, mine own unrivalled Fair!

AFTER SCHILLER

Knight, a true sister-love   This heart retains;Ask me no other love,   That way lie pains!Calm must I view thee come,   Calm see thee go;Tale-telling tears of thine   I must not know!

SONG FROM HEINE

I scanned her picture dreaming,   Till each dear line and hueWas imaged, to my seeming,   As if it lived anew.Her lips began to borrow   Their former wondrous smile;Her fair eyes, faint with sorrow,   Grew sparkling as erstwhile.Such tears as often ran not   Ran then, my love, for thee;And O, believe I cannot   That thou are lost to me!

FROM VICTOR HUGO

Child, were I king, I’d yield my royal rule,   My chariot, sceptre, vassal-service due,My crown, my porphyry-basined waters cool,My fleets, whereto the sea is but a pool,   For a glance from you!Love, were I God, the earth and its heaving airs,   Angels, the demons abject under me,Vast chaos with its teeming womby lairs,Time, space, all would I give – aye, upper spheres,   For a kiss from thee!

CARDINAL BEMBO’S EPITAPH ON RAPHAEL

Here’s one in whom Nature feared – faint at such vying —Eclipse while he lived, and decease at his dying.

RETROSPECT

“I HAVE LIVED WITH SHADES”

II have lived with shades so long,And talked to them so oft,Since forth from cot and croftI went mankind among,   That sometimes they   In their dim style   Will pause awhile   To hear my say;IIAnd take me by the hand,And lead me through their roomsIn the To-be, where DoomsHalf-wove and shapeless stand:   And show from there   The dwindled dust   And rot and rust   Of things that were.III“Now turn,” spake they to meOne day: “Look whence we came,And signify his nameWho gazes thence at thee.” —   – “Nor name nor race   Know I, or can,”   I said, “Of man   So commonplace.IV“He moves me not at all;I note no ray or jotOf rareness in his lot,Or star exceptional.   Into the dim   Dead throngs around   He’ll sink, nor sound   Be left of him.”V“Yet,” said they, “his frail speech,Hath accents pitched like thine —Thy mould and his defineA likeness each to each —   But go!  Deep pain   Alas, would be   His name to thee,   And told in vain!” Feb. 2, 1899.

MEMORY AND I

“O memory, where is now my youth,Who used to say that life was truth?”“I saw him in a crumbled cot   Beneath a tottering tree;That he as phantom lingers there   Is only known to me.”“O Memory, where is now my joy,Who lived with me in sweet employ?”“I saw him in gaunt gardens lone,   Where laughter used to be;That he as phantom wanders there   Is known to none but me.”“O Memory, where is now my hope,Who charged with deeds my skill and scope?”“I saw her in a tomb of tomes,   Where dreams are wont to be;That she as spectre haunteth there   Is only known to me.”“O Memory, where is now my faith,One time a champion, now a wraith?”“I saw her in a ravaged aisle,   Bowed down on bended knee;That her poor ghost outflickers there   Is known to none but me.”“O Memory, where is now my love,That rayed me as a god above?”“I saw him by an ageing shape   Where beauty used to be;That his fond phantom lingers there   Is only known to me.”

ΑΓΝΩΣΤΩ. ΘΕΩ

Long have I framed weak phantasies of Thee,   O Willer masked and dumb!   Who makest Life become, —As though by labouring all-unknowingly,   Like one whom reveries numb.How much of consciousness informs Thy will   Thy biddings, as if blind,   Of death-inducing kind,Nought shows to us ephemeral ones who fill   But moments in Thy mind.Perhaps Thy ancient rote-restricted ways   Thy ripening rule transcends;   That listless effort tendsTo grow percipient with advance of days,   And with percipience mends.For, in unwonted purlieus, far and nigh,   At whiles or short or long,   May be discerned a wrongDying as of self-slaughter; whereat I   Would raise my voice in song.

1

The “Race” is the turbulent sea-area off the Bill of Portland, where contrary tides meet.

2

Pronounce “Loddy.”

3

On a lonely table-land above the Vale of Blackmore, between High-Stoy and Bubb-Down hills, and commanding in clear weather views that extend from the English to the Bristol Channel, stands a pillar, apparently mediæval, called Cross-and-Hand or Christ-in-Hand. Among other stories of its origin a local tradition preserves the one here given.