Robert F. Murray (Author of the Scarlet Gown): His Poems; with a Memoir

DAWN SONG

I hear a twittering of birds,   And now they burst in song.How sweet, although it wants the words!   It shall not want them long,For I will set some to the noteWhich bubbles from the thrush’s throat.O jewelled night, that reign’st on high,   Where is thy crescent moon?Thy stars have faded from the sky,   The sun is coming soon.The summer night is passed away,Sing welcome to the summer day.

CAIRNSMILL DEN – TUNE: ‘A ROVING’

As I, with hopeless love o’erthrown,With love o’erthrown, with love o’erthrown,   And this is truth I tell,As I, with hopeless love o’erthrown,Was sadly walking all alone,I met my love one morning   In Cairnsmill Den.One morning, one morning,One blue and blowy morning,I met my love one morning   In Cairnsmill Den.A dead bough broke within the woodWithin the wood, within the wood,   And this is truth I tell.A dead bough broke within the wood,And I looked up, and there she stood.I asked what was it brought her there,What brought her there, what brought her there,   And this is truth I tell.I asked what was it brought her there.Says she, ‘To pull the primrose fair.’Says I, ‘Come, let me pull with you,Along with you, along with you,’   And this is truth I tell.Says I, ‘Come let me pull with you,For one is not so good as two.’But when at noon we climbed the hill,We climbed the hill, we climbed the hill,   And this is truth I tell.But when at noon we climbed the hill,Her hands and mine were empty still.And when we reached the top so high,The top so high, the top so high,   And this is truth I tell.And when we reached the top so highSays I, ‘I’ll kiss you, if I die!’I kissed my love in Cairnsmill Den,In Cairnsmill Den, in Cairnsmill Den,   And this is truth I tell.I kissed my love in Cairnsmill Den,And my love kissed me back again.I met my love one morning   In Cairnsmill Den.One morning, one morning,One blue and blowy morning,I met my love one morning   In Cairnsmill Den.

A LOST OPPORTUNITY

One dark, dark night – it was long ago,   The air was heavy and still and warm —It fell to me and a man I know,   To see two girls to their father’s farm.There was little seeing, that I recall:   We seemed to grope in a cave profound.They might have come by a painful fall,   Had we not helped them over the ground.The girls were sisters.  Both were fair,   But mine was the fairer (so I say).The dark soon severed us, pair from pair,   And not long after we lost our way.We wandered over the country-side,   And we frightened most of the sheep about,And I do not think that we greatly tried,   Having lost our way, to find it out.The night being fine, it was not worth while.   We strayed through furrow and corn and grassWe met with many a fence and stile,   And a quickset hedge, which we failed to pass.At last we came on a road she knew;   She said we were near her father’s place.I heard the steps of the other two,   And my heart stood still for a moment’s space.Then I pleaded, ‘Give me a good-night kiss.’   I have learned, but I did not know in time,The fruits that hang on the tree of bliss   Are not for cravens who will not climb.We met all four by the farmyard gate,   We parted laughing, with half a sigh,And home we went, at a quicker rate,   A shorter journey, my friend and I.When we reached the house, it was late enough,   And many impertinent things were said,Of time and distance, and such dull stuff,   But we said little, and went to bed.We went to bed, but one at least   Went not to sleep till the black turned grey,And the sun rose up, and the light increased,   And the birds awoke to a summer day.And sometimes now, when the nights are mild,   And the moon is away, and no stars shine,I wander out, and I go half-wild,   To think of the kiss which was not mine.Let great minds laugh at a grief so small,   Let small minds laugh at a fool so great.Kind maidens, pity me, one and all.   Shy youths, take warning by this my fate.

THE CAGED THRUSH

Alas for the bird who was born to sing!They have made him a cage; they have clipped his wing;They have shut him up in a dingy street,And they praise his singing and call it sweet.But his heart and his song are saddened and filledWith the woods, and the nest he never will build,And the wild young dawn coming into the tree,And the mate that never his mate will be.And day by day, when his notes are heardThey freshen the street – but alas for the bird

MIDNIGHT

The air is dark and fragrant   With memories of a shower,And sanctified with stillness   By this most holy hour.The leaves forget to whisper   Of soft and secret things,And every bird is silent,   With folded eyes and wings.O blessed hour of midnight,   Of sleep and of release,Thou yieldest to the toiler   The wages of thy peace.And I, who have not laboured,   Nor borne the heat of noon,Receive thy tranquil quiet —   An undeservèd boon.Yes, truly God is gracious,   Who makes His sun to shineUpon the good and evil,   And idle lives like mine.Upon the just and unjust   He sends His rain to fall,And gives this hour of blessing   Freely alike to all.

WHERE’S THE USE

Oh, where’s the use of having gifts that can’t be turned to money?   And where’s the use of singing, when there’s no one wants to hear?It may be one or two will say your songs are sweet as honey,   But where’s the use of honey, when the loaf of bread is dear?

A MAY-DAY MADRIGAL

The sun shines fair on Tweedside, the river flowing bright,Your heart is full of pleasure, your eyes are full of light,Your cheeks are like the morning, your pearls are like the dew,Or morning and her dew-drops are like your pearls and you.Because you are a princess, a princess of the land,You will not turn your lightsome eyes a moment where I stand,A poor unnoticed poet, a-making of his rhymes;But I have found a mistress, more fair a thousand times.’Tis May, the elfish maiden, the daughter of the Spring,Upon whose birthday morning the birds delight to sing.They would not sing one note for you, if you should so command,Although you are a princess, a princess of the land.

SONG IS NOT DEAD

Song is not dead, although to-day   Men tell us everything is said.There yet is something left to say,   Song is not dead.While still the evening sky is red,   While still the morning gold and grey,While still the autumn leaves are shed,While still the heart of youth is gay,   And honour crowns the hoary head,While men and women love and pray   Song is not dead.

A SONG OF TRUCE

Till the tread of marching feetThrough the quiet grass-grown streetOf the little town shall come,Soldier, rest awhile at home.While the banners idly hang,While the bugles do not clang,While is hushed the clamorous drum,Soldier, rest awhile at home.In the breathing-time of Death,While the sword is in its sheath,While the cannon’s mouth is dumb,Soldier, rest awhile at home.Not too long the rest shall be.Soon enough, to Death and thee,The assembly call shall come.Soldier, rest awhile at home.

ONE TEAR

Last night, when at parting   Awhile we did stand,Suddenly starting,   There fell on my handSomething that burned it,   Something that shoneIn the moon as I turned it,   And then it was gone.One bright stray jewel —   What made it stray?Was I cold or cruel,   At the close of day?Oh, do not cry, lass!   What is crying worth?There is no lass like my lass   In the whole wide earth.

A LOVER’S CONFESSION

When people tell me they have loved   But once in youth,I wonder, are they always moved   To speak the truth?Not that they wilfully deceive:   They fondly cherishA constancy which they would grieve   To think might perish.They cherish it until they think   ’Twas always theirs.So, if the truth they sometimes blink,   ’Tis unawares.Yet unawares, I must profess,   They do deceiveThemselves, and those who questionless   Their tale believe.For I have loved, I freely own,   A score of times,And woven, out of love alone,   A hundred rhymes.Boys will be fickle.  Yet, when all   Is said and done,I was not one whom you could call   A flirt – not oneOf those who into three or four   Their hearts divide.My queens came singly to the door,   Not side by side.Each, while she reigned, possessed alone   My spirit loyal,Then left an undisputed throne   To one more royal,To one more fair in form and face   Sweeter and stronger,Who filled the throne with truer grace,   And filled it longer.So, love by love, they came and passed,   These loves of mine,And each one brighter than the last   Their lights did shine.Until – but am I not too free,   Most courteous stranger,With secrets which belong to me?   There is a danger.Until, I say, the perfect love,   The last, the best,Like flame descending from above,   Kindled my breast,Kindled my breast like ardent flame,   With quenchless glow.I knew not love until it came,   But now I know.You smile.  The twenty loves before   Were each in turn,You say, the final flame that o’er   My soul should burn.Smile on, my friend.  I will not say   You have no reason;But if the love I feel to-day   Depart, ’tis treason!If this depart, not once again   Will I on paperDeclare the loves that waste and wane,   Like some poor taper.No, no!  This flame, I cannot doubt,   Despite your laughter,Will burn till Death shall put it out,   And may be after.

TRAFALGAR SQUARE

These verses have I pilfered like a beeOut of a letter from my C. C. C.   In London, showing what befell him there,With other things, of interest to me.One page described a night in open airHe spent last summer in Trafalgar Square,   With men and women who by want are drivenThither for lodging, when the nights are fair.No roof there is between their heads and heaven,No warmth but what by ragged clothes is given,   No comfort but the company of thoseWho with despair, like them, have vainly striven.On benches there uneasily they doze,Snatching brief morsels of a poor repose,   And if through weariness they might sleep sound,Their eyes must open almost ere they close.With even tramp upon the paven ground,Twice every hour the night patrol comes round   To clear these wretches off, who may not keepThe miserable couches they have found.Yet the stern shepherds of the poor black sheepWill soften when they see a woman weep.   There was a mother there who strove in vain,With sobs, to hush a starving child to sleep.And through the night which took so long to wane,He saw sad sufferers relieving pain,   And daughters of iniquity and scornPerforming deeds which God will not disdain.There was a girl, forlorn of the forlorn,Whose dress was white, but draggled, soiled, and torn,   Who wandered like a ghost without a home.She spoke to him before the day was born.She, who all night, when spoken to, was dumb,Earning dislike from most, abuse from some,   Now asked the hour, and when he told her ‘Two,’Wailed, ‘O my God, will daylight never come?’Yes, it will come, and change the sky anewFrom star-besprinkled black to sunlit blue,   And bring sweet thoughts and innocent desiresTo countless girls.  What will it bring to you?

A SUMMER MORNING

Never was sun so bright before,   No matin of the lark so sweet,   No grass so green beneath my feet,Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o’er.I stand with thee outside the door,   The air not yet is close with heat,   And far across the yellowing wheatThe waves are breaking on the shore.A lovely day!  Yet many such,   Each like to each, this month have passed,      And none did so supremely shine.One thing they lacked: the perfect touch   Of thee – and thou art come at last,      And half this loveliness is thine.

WELCOME HOME

The fire burns brightAnd the hearth is clean swept,As she likes it kept,And the lamp is alight.She is coming to-night.The wind’s east of late.When she comes, she’ll be cold,So the big chair is rolledClose up to the grate,And I listen and wait.The shutters are fast,And the red curtains hideEvery hint of outside.But hark, how the blastWhistled then as it passed!Or was it the train?How long shall I stand,With my watch in my hand,And listen in vainFor the wheels in the lane?Hark!  A rumble I hear(Will the wind not be still?),And it comes down the hill,And it grows on the ear,And now it is near.Quick, a fresh log to burn!Run and open the door,Hold a lamp out beforeTo light up the turn,And bring in the urn.You are come, then, at last!O my dear, is it you?I can scarce think it trueI am holding you fast,And sorrow is past.

AN INVITATION

Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for the signal word to fly,   And tell me that the visit which has suffered such belatingIs to be a thing of now, and no more of by-and-by.      Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.The sea is at its bluest, and the Spring is new creating   The woods and dens we know of, and the fields rejoicing lie,And the air is soft as summer, and the hedge-birds all are mating.The Links are full of larks’ nests, and the larks possess the sky,   Like a choir of happy spirits, melodiously debating,All is ready for your coming, dear Ritchie – yes, and I,      Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.

FICKLE SUMMER

Fickle Summer’s fled away,   Shall we see her face again?   Hearken to the weeping rain,Never sunbeam greets the day.More inconstant than the May,   She cares nothing for our pain,   Nor will hear the birds complainIn their bowers that once were gay.Summer, Summer, come once more,   Drive the shadows from the field,      All thy radiance round thee fling,Be our lady as of yore;   Then the earth her fruits shall yield,      Then the morning stars shall sing.

SORROW’S TREACHERY

I made a truce last night with Sorrow,   The queen of tears, the foe of sleep,To keep her tents until the morrow,   Nor send such dreams to make me weep.Before the lusty day was springing,   Before the tired moon was set,I dreamed I heard my dead love singing,   And when I woke my eyes were wet.

THE CROWN OF YEARS

Years grow and gather – each a gem   Lustrous with laughter and with tears,   And cunning Time a crown of yearsContrives for her who weareth them.No chance can snatch this diadem,   It trembles not with hopes or fears,   It shines before the rose appears,And when the leaves forsake her stem.Time sets his jewels one by one.   Then wherefore mourn the wreaths that lie      In attic chambers of the past?They withered ere the day was done.   This coronal will never die,      Nor shall you lose it at the last.

HOPE DEFERRED

When the weary night is fled,And the morning sky is red,Then my heart doth rise and say,‘Surely she will come to-day.’In the golden blaze of noon,‘Surely she is coming soon.’In the twilight, ‘Will she come?’Then my heart with fear is dumb.When the night wind in the treesPlays its mournful melodies,Then I know my trust is vain,And she will not come again.

THE LIFE OF EARTH

The life of earth, how full of pain,   Which greets us on our day of birth,Nor leaves us while we yet retain      The life of earth.There is a shadow on our mirth,   Our sun is blotted out with rain,And all our joys are little worth.Yet oh, when life begins to wane,   And we must sail the doubtful firth,How wild the longing to regain      The life of earth!

GOLDEN DREAM

Golden dream of summer morn,   By a well-remembered streamIn the land where I was born,      Golden dream!Ripples, by the glancing beam   Lightly kissed in playful scorn,Meadows moist with sunlit steam.When I lift my eyelids worn   Like a fair mirage you seem,In the winter dawn forlorn,      Golden dream!

TEARS

Mourn that which will not come again,   The joy, the strength of early years.   Bow down thy head, and let thy tearsWater the grave where hope lies slain.For tears are like a summer rain,   To murmur in a mourner’s ears,   To soften all the field of fears,To moisten valleys parched with pain.And though thy tears will not awake   What lies beneath of young or fair      And sleeps so sound it draws no breath,Yet, watered thus, the sod may break   In flowers which sweeten all the air,      And fill with life the place of death.

THE HOUSE OF SLEEP

When we have laid aside our last endeavour,   And said farewell to one or two that weep,And issued from the house of life for ever,   To find a lodging in the house of sleep —With eyes fast shut, in sunless chambers lying,   With folded arms unmoved upon the breast,Beyond the noise of sorrow and of crying,   Beyond the dread of dreaming, shall we rest?Or shall there come at last desire of waking,   To walk again on hillsides that we know,When sunrise through the cold white mist is breaking,   Or in the stillness of the after-glow?Shall there be yearning for the sound of voices,   The sight of faces, and the touch of hands,The will that works, the spirit that rejoices,   The heart that feels, the mind that understands?Shall dreams and memories crowding from the distance,   Shall ghosts of old ambition or of mirth,Create for us a shadow of existence,   A dim reflection of the life of earth?And being dead, and powerless to recover   The substance of the show whereon we gaze,Shall we be likened to the hapless lover,   Who broods upon the unreturning days?Not so: for we have known how swift to perish   Is man’s delight when youth and health take wing,Until the winter leaves him nought to cherish   But recollections of a vanished spring.Dream as we may, desire of life shall never   Disturb our slumbers in the house of sleep.Yet oh, to think we may not greet for ever   The one or two that, when we leave them, weep!

THE OUTCAST’S FAREWELL

The sun is banished,The daylight vanished,No rosy traces   Are left behind.Here in the meadowI watch the shadowOf forms and faces   Upon your blind.Through swift transitions,In new positions,My eyes still follow   One shape most fair.My heart delayingAwhile, is playingWith pleasures hollow,   Which mock despair.I feel so lonely,I long once onlyTo pass an hour   With you, O sweet!To touch your fingers,Where fragrance lingersFrom some rare flower,   And kiss your feet.But not this evenTo me is given.Of all sad mortals   Most sad am I,Never to meet you,Never to greet you,Nor pass your portals   Before I die.All men scorn me,Not one will mourn me,When from their city   I pass away.Will you to-morrowRecall with sorrowHim whom with pity   You saw to-day?Outcast and lonely,One thing onlyBeyond misgiving   I hold for true,That, had you known me,You would have shown meA life worth living —   A life for you.Yes: five years youngerMy manhood’s hungerHad you come filling   With plenty sweet,My life so nourished,Had grown and flourished,Had God been willing   That we should meet.How vain to fashionFrom dreams and passionThe rich existence   Which might have been!Can God’s own powerRecall the hour,Or bridge the distance   That lies between?Before the morning,From pain and scorningI sail death’s river   To sleep or hell.To you is givenThe life of heaven.Farewell for ever,   Farewell, farewell!

YET A LITTLE SLEEP

Beside the drowsy streams that creep   Within this island of repose,   Oh, let us rest from cares and woes,Oh, let us fold our hands to sleep!Is it ignoble, then, to keep   Awhile from where the rough wind blows,   And all is strife, and no man knowsWhat end awaits him on the deep?The voyager may rest awhile,   When rest invites, and yet may be      Neither a sluggard nor a craven.With strength renewed he quits the isle,   And putting out again to sea,      Makes sail for his desirèd haven.

LOST LIBERTY

Of our own will we are not free,   When freedom lies within our power.   We wait for some decisive hour,To rise and take our liberty.Still we delay, content to be   Imprisoned in our own high tower.   What is it but a strong-built bower?Ours are the warders, ours the key.But we through indolence grow weak.   Our warders, fed with power so long,      Become at last our lords indeed.We vainly threaten, vainly seek   To move their ruth.  The bars are strong.      We dash against them till we bleed.

AN AFTERTHOUGHT

You found my life, a poor lame bird   That had no heart to sing,You would not speak the magic word   To give it voice and wing.Yet sometimes, dreaming of that hour,   I think, if you had knownHow much my life was in your power,   It might have sung and flown.

TO J. R

Last Sunday night I read the saddening story   Of the unanswered love of fair Elaine,The ‘faith unfaithful’ and the joyless glory   Of Lancelot, ‘groaning in remorseful pain.’I thought of all those nights in wintry weather,   Those Sunday nights that seem not long ago,When we two read our Poet’s words together,   Till summer warmth within our hearts did glow.Ah, when shall we renew that bygone pleasure,   Sit down together at our Merlin’s feet,Drink from one cup the overflowing measure,   And find, in sharing it, the draught more sweet?That time perchance is far, beyond divining.   Till then we drain the ‘magic cup’ apart;Yet not apart, for hope and memory twining   Smile upon each, uniting heart to heart.

THE TEMPTED SOUL

Weak soul, by sense still led astray,   Why wilt thou parley with the foe?   He seeks to work thine overthrow,And thou, poor fool! dost point the way.Hast thou forgotten many a day,   When thou exulting forth didst go,   And ere the noon wert lying low,A broken and defenceless prey?If thou wouldst live, avoid his face;   Dwell in the wilderness apart,      And gather force for vanquishing,Ere thou returnest to his place.   Then arm, and with undaunted heart      Give battle, till he own thee king.

YOUTH RENEWED

When one who has wandered out of the way   Which leads to the hills of joy,Whose heart has grown both cold and grey,   Though it be but the heart of a boy —When such a one turns back his feet   From the valley of shadow and pain,Is not the sunshine passing sweet,   When a man grows young again?How gladly he mounts up the steep hillside,   With strength that is born anew,And in his veins, like a full springtide,   The blood streams through and through.And far above is the summit clear,   And his heart to be there is fain,And all too slowly it comes more near   When a man grows young again.He breathes the pure sweet mountain breath,   And it widens all his heart,And life seems no more kin to death,   Nor death the better part.And in tones that are strong and rich and deep   He sings a grand refrain,For the soul has awakened from mortal sleep,   When a man grows young again.

VANITY OF VANITIES

Be ye happy, if ye may,In the years that pass away.Ye shall pass and be forgot,And your place shall know you not.Other generations rise,With the same hope in their eyesThat in yours is kindled now,And the same light on their brow.They shall see the selfsame sunThat your eyes now gaze upon,They shall breathe the same sweet air,And shall reck not who ye were.Yet they too shall fade at lastIn the twilight of the past,They and you alike shall beLost from the world’s memory.Then, while yet ye breathe and live,Drink the cup that life can give.Be ye happy, if ye may,In the years that pass away,Ere the golden bowl be broken,Ere ye pass and leave no token,Ere the silver cord be loosed,Ere ye turn again to dust.‘And shall this be all,’ ye cry,‘But to eat and drink and die?If no more than this there be,Vanity of vanity!’Yea, all things are vanity,And what else but vain are ye?Ye who boast yourselves the kingsOver all created things.Kings! whence came your right to reign?Ye shall be dethroned again.Yet for this, your one brief hour,Wield your mockery of power.Dupes of Fate, that treads you downWear awhile your tinsel crownBe ye happy, if ye may,In the years that pass away.

LOVE’S WORSHIP RESTORED

O Love, thine empire is not dead,Nor will we let thy worship go,Although thine early flush be fled,Thine ardent eyes more faintly glow,And thy light wings be fallen slowSince when as novices we cameInto the temple of thy name.Not now with garlands in our hair,And singing lips, we come to thee.There is a coldness in the air,A dulness on the encircling sea,Which doth not well with songs agree.And we forget the words we sangWhen first to thee our voices rang.When we recall that magic prime,We needs must weep its early death.How pleasant from thy towers the chimeOf bells, and sweet the incense breathThat rose while we, who kept thy faith,Chanting our creed, and chanting boreOur offerings to thine altar store!Now are our voices out of tune,Our gifts unworthy of thy name.December frowns, in place of June.Who smiled when to thy house we came,We who came leaping, now are lame.Dull ears and failing eyes are ours,And who shall lead us to thy towers?O hark!  A sound across the air,Which tells not of December’s cold,A sound most musical and rare.Thy bells are ringing as of old,With silver throats and tongues of gold.Alas! it is too sweet for truth,An empty echo of our youth.Nay, never echo spake so loud!It is indeed thy bells that ring.And lo, against the leaden cloud,Thy towers!  Once more we leap and spring,Once more melodiously we sing,We sing, and in our song forgetThat winter lies around us yet.Oh, what is winter, now we know,Full surely, thou canst never fail?Forgive our weak untrustful woe,Which deemed thy glowing face grown pale.We know thee, mighty to prevail.Doubt and decrepitude depart,And youth comes back into the heart.O Love, who turnest frost to flameWith ardent and immortal eyes,Whose spirit sorrow cannot tame,Nor time subdue in any wise —While sun and moon for us shall rise,Oh, may we in thy service keepTill in thy faith we fall asleep!