Poems. Volume 1

THE OLD CHARTIST

IWhate’er I be, old England is my dam!   So there’s my answer to the judges, clear.I’m nothing of a fox, nor of a lamb;   I don’t know how to bleat nor how to leer:               I’m for the nation!   That’s why you see me by the wayside here,      Returning home from transportation.IIIt’s Summer in her bath this morn, I think.   I’m fresh as dew, and chirpy as the birds:And just for joy to see old England wink   Thro’ leaves again, I could harangue the herds:               Isn’t it something   To speak out like a man when you’ve got words,      And prove you’re not a stupid dumb thing?IIIThey shipp’d me of for it; I’m here again.   Old England is my dam, whate’er I be!Says I, I’ll tramp it home, and see the grain:   If you see well, you’re king of what you see:               Eyesight is having,   If you’re not given, I said, to gluttony.      Such talk to ignorance sounds as raving.IVYou dear old brook, that from his Grace’s park   Come bounding! on you run near my old town:My lord can’t lock the water; nor the lark,   Unless he kills him, can my lord keep down.               Up, is the song-note!   I’ve tried it, too:—for comfort and renown,      I rather pitch’d upon the wrong note.VI’m not ashamed: Not beaten’s still my boast:   Again I’ll rouse the people up to strike.But home’s where different politics jar most.   Respectability the women like.               This form, or that form,—   The Government may be hungry pike,      But don’t you mount a Chartist platform!VIWell, well!  Not beaten—spite of them, I shout;   And my estate is suffering for the Cause.—No,—what is yon brown water-rat about,   Who washes his old poll with busy paws?               What does he mean by’t?   It’s like defying all our natural laws,      For him to hope that he’ll get clean by’t.VIIHis seat is on a mud-bank, and his trade   Is dirt:—he’s quite contemptible; and yetThe fellow’s all as anxious as a maid   To show a decent dress, and dry the wet.               Now it’s his whisker,   And now his nose, and ear: he seems to get      Each moment at the motion brisker!VIIITo see him squat like little chaps at school,   I could let fly a laugh with all my might.He peers, hangs both his fore-paws:—bless that fool,   He’s bobbing at his frill now!—what a sight!               Licking the dish up,   As if he thought to pass from black to white,      Like parson into lawny bishop.IXThe elms and yellow reed-flags in the sun,   Look on quite grave:—the sunlight flecks his side;And links of bindweed-flowers round him run,   And shine up doubled with him in the tide.               I’m nearly splitting,   But nature seems like seconding his pride,      And thinks that his behaviour’s fitting.XThat isle o’ mud looks baking dry with gold.   His needle-muzzle still works out and in.It really is a wonder to behold,   And makes me feel the bristles of my chin.               Judged by appearance,   I fancy of the two I’m nearer Sin,      And might as well commence a clearance.XIAnd that’s what my fine daughter said:—she meant:   Pray, hold your tongue, and wear a Sunday face.Her husband, the young linendraper, spent   Much argument thereon:—I’m their disgrace.               Bother the couple!   I feel superior to a chap whose place      Commands him to be neat and supple.XIIBut if I go and say to my old hen:   I’ll mend the gentry’s boots, and keep discreet,Until they grow too violent,—why, then,   A warmer welcome I might chance to meet:               Warmer and better.   And if she fancies her old cock is beat,      And drops upon her knees—so let her!XIIIShe suffered for me:—women, you’ll observe,   Don’t suffer for a Cause, but for a man.When I was in the dock she show’d her nerve:   I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-can               Trembling . . . she brought it   To screw me for my work: she loath’d my plan,      And therefore doubly kind I thought it.XIVI’ve never lost the taste of that same tea:   That liquor on my logic floats like oil,When I state facts, and fellows disagree.   For human creatures all are in a coil;               All may want pardon.   I see a day when every pot will boil      Harmonious in one great Tea-garden!XVWe wait the setting of the Dandy’s day,   Before that time!—He’s furbishing his dress,—He will be ready for it!—and I say,   That yon old dandy rat amid the cress,—               Thanks to hard labour!—   If cleanliness is next to godliness,      The old fat fellow’s heaven’s neighbour!XVIYou teach me a fine lesson, my old boy!   I’ve looked on my superiors far too long,And small has been my profit as my joy.   You’ve done the right while I’ve denounced the wrong.               Prosper me later!   Like you I will despise the sniggering throng,      And please myself and my Creator.XVIII’ll bring the linendraper and his wife   Some day to see you; taking off my hat.Should they ask why, I’ll answer: in my life   I never found so true a democrat.               Base occupation   Can’t rob you of your own esteem, old rat!      I’ll preach you to the British nation.

SONG 2

      Should thy love die;   O bury it not under ice-blue eyes!      And lips that deny,   With a scornful surprise,The life it once lived in thy breast when it wore no disguise.      Should thy love die;   O bury it where the sweet wild-flowers blow!      And breezes go by,   With no whisper of woe;And strange feet cannot guess of the anguish that slumbers below.      Should thy love die;   O wander once more to the haunt of the bee!      Where the foliaged sky   Is most sacred to see,And thy being first felt its wild birth like a wind-wakened tree.      Should thy love die;   O dissemble it! smile! let the rose hide the thorn!      While the lark sings on high,   And no thing looks forlorn,Bury it, bury it, bury it where it was born.

TO ALEX. SMITH, THE ‘GLASGOW POET,’ 3

ON HIS SONNET TO ‘FAME’

Not vainly doth the earnest voice of manCall for the thing that is his pure desire!Fame is the birthright of the living lyre!To noble impulse Nature puts no ban.Nor vainly to the Sphinx thy voice was raised!Tho’ all thy great emotions like a sea,Against her stony immortality,Shatter themselves unheeded and amazed.Time moves behind her in a blind eclipse:Yet if in her cold eyes the end of allBe visible, as on her large closed lipsHangs dumb the awful riddle of the earth;—She sees, and she might speak, since that wild call,The mighty warning of a Poet’s birth.

GRANDFATHER BRIDGEMAN

I‘Heigh, boys!’ cried Grandfather Bridgeman, ‘it’s time before dinner to-day.’He lifted the crumpled letter, and thumped a surprising ‘Hurrah!’Up jumped all the echoing young ones, but John, with the starch in his throat,Said, ‘Father, before we make noises, let’s see the contents of the note.’The old man glared at him harshly, and twinkling made answer: ‘Too bad!John Bridgeman, I’m always the whisky, and you are the water, my lad!’IIBut soon it was known thro’ the house, and the house ran over for joy,That news, good news, great marvels, had come from the soldier boy;Young Tom, the luckless scapegrace, offshoot of Methodist John;His grandfather’s evening tale, whom the old man hailed as his son.And the old man’s shout of pride was a shout of his victory, too;For he called his affection a method: the neighbours’ opinions he knew.IIIMeantime, from the morning table removing the stout breakfast cheer,The drink of the three generations, the milk, the tea, and the beer(Alone in its generous reading of pints stood the Grandfather’s jug),The women for sight of the missive came pressing to coax and to hug.He scattered them quick, with a buss and a smack; thereupon he beganDiversions with John’s little Sarah: on Sunday, the naughty old man!IVThen messengers sped to the maltster, the auctioneer, miller, and allThe seven sons of the farmer who housed in the range of his call.Likewise the married daughters, three plentiful ladies, prime cooks,Who bowed to him while they condemned, in meek hope to stand high in his books.‘John’s wife is a fool at a pudding,’ they said, and the light carts up hillWent merrily, flouting the Sabbath: for puddings well made mend a will.VThe day was a van-bird of summer: the robin still piped, but the blue,As a warm and dreamy palace with voices of larks ringing thro’,Looked down as if wistfully eyeing the blossoms that fell from its lap:A day to sweeten the juices: a day to quicken the sap.All round the shadowy orchard sloped meadows in gold, and the dearShy violets breathed their hearts out: the maiden breath of the year!VIFull time there was before dinner to bring fifteen of his blood,To sit at the old man’s table: they found that the dinner was good.But who was she by the lilacs and pouring laburnums concealed,When under the blossoming apple the chair of the Grandfather wheeled?She heard one little child crying, ‘Dear brave Cousin Tom!’ as it leapt;Then murmured she: ‘Let me spare them!’ and passed round the walnuts, and wept.VIIYet not from sight had she slipped ere feminine eyes could detectThe figure of Mary Charlworth.  ‘It’s just what we all might expect,’Was uttered: and: ‘Didn’t I tell you?’  Of Mary the rumour resounds,That she is now her own mistress, and mistress of five thousand pounds.’Twas she, they say, who cruelly sent young Tom to the war.Miss Mary, we thank you now!  If you knew what we’re thanking you for!VIIIBut, ‘Have her in: let her hear it,’ called Grandfather Bridgeman, elate,While Mary’s black-gloved fingers hung trembling with flight on the gate.Despite the women’s remonstrance, two little ones, lighter than deer,Were loosed, and Mary, imprisoned, her whole face white as a tear,Came forward with culprit footsteps.  Her punishment was to commence:The pity in her pale visage they read in a different sense.IX‘You perhaps may remember a fellow, Miss Charlworth, a sort of black sheep,’The old man turned his tongue to ironical utterance deep:‘He came of a Methodist dad, so it wasn’t his fault if he kicked.He earned a sad reputation, but Methodists are mortal strict.His name was Tom, and, dash me! but Bridgeman! I think you might add:Whatever he was, bear in mind that he came of a Methodist dad.’XThis prelude dismally lengthened, till Mary, starting, exclaimed,‘A letter, Sir, from your grandson?’  ‘Tom Bridgeman that rascal is named,’The old man answered, and further, the words that sent Tom to the ranksRepeated as words of a person to whom they all owed mighty thanks.But Mary never blushed: with her eyes on the letter, she sate,And twice interrupting him faltered, ‘The date, may I ask, Sir, the date?’XI‘Why, that’s what I never look at in a letter,’ the farmer replied:‘Facts first! and now I’ll be parson.’  The Bridgeman women descriedA quiver on Mary’s eyebrows.  One turned, and while shifting her comb,Said low to a sister: ‘I’m certain she knows more than we about Tom.She wants him now he’s a hero!’  The same, resuming her place,Begged Mary to check them the moment she found it a tedious case.XIIThen as a mastiff swallows the snarling noises of cats,The voice of the farmer opened.  ‘“Three cheers, and off with your hats!”—That’s Tom.  “We’ve beaten them, Daddy, and tough work it was, to be sure!A regular stand-up combat: eight hours smelling powder and gore.I entered it Serjeant-Major,”—and now he commands a salute,And carries the flag of old England!  Heigh! see him lift foes on his foot!XIII‘—An officer! ay, Miss Charlworth, he is, or he is so to be;You’ll own war isn’t such humbug: and Glory means something, you see.“But don’t say a word,” he continues, “against the brave French any more.”—That stopt me: we’ll now march together.  I couldn’t read further before.That “brave French” I couldn’t stomach.  He can’t see their cunning to getUs Britons to fight their battles, while best half the winnings they net!’XIVThe old man sneered, and read forward.  It was of that desperate fight;—The Muscovite stole thro’ the mist-wreaths that wrapped the chill Inkermann height,Where stood our silent outposts: old England was in them that day!O sharp worked his ruddy wrinkles, as if to the breath of the frayThey moved!  He sat bareheaded: his long hair over him slowSwung white as the silky bog-flowers in purple heath-hollows that grow.XVAnd louder at Tom’s first person: acute and in thunder the ‘I’Invaded the ear with a whinny of triumph, that seem’d to defyThe hosts of the world.  All heated, what wonder he little could brookTo catch the sight of Mary’s demure puritanical look?And still as he led the onslaught, his treacherous side-shots he sentAt her who was fighting a battle as fierce, and who sat there unbent.XVI‘“We stood in line, and like hedgehogs the Russians rolled under us thick.They frightened me there.”—He’s no coward; for when, Miss, they came at the quick,The sight, he swears, was a breakfast.—“My stomach felt tight: in a glimpseI saw you snoring at home with the dear cuddled-up little imps.And then like the winter brickfields at midnight, hot fire lengthened out.Our fellows were just leashed bloodhounds: no heart of the lot faced about.XVII‘“And only that grumbler, Bob Harris, remarked that we stood one to ten:‘Ye fool,’ says Mick Grady, ‘just tell ’em they know to compliment men!’And I sang out your old words: ‘If the opposite side isn’t God’s,Heigh! after you’ve counted a dozen, the pluckiest lads have the odds.’Ping-ping flew the enemies’ pepper: the Colonel roared, Forward, and weWent at them.  ’Twas first like a blanket: and then a long plunge in the sea.XVIII‘“Well, now about me and the Frenchman: it happened I can’t tell you how:And, Grandfather, hear, if you love me, and put aside prejudice now”:He never says “Grandfather”—Tom don’t—save it’s a serious thing.“Well, there were some pits for the rifles, just dug on our French-leaning wing:And backwards, and forwards, and backwards we went, and at last I was vexed,And swore I would never surrender a foot when the Russians charged next.XIX‘“I know that life’s worth keeping.”—Ay, so it is, lad; so it is!—“But my life belongs to a woman.”—Does that mean Her Majesty, Miss?—“These Russians came lumping and grinning: they’re fierce at it, though they are blocks.Our fellows were pretty well pumped, and looked sharp for the little French cocks.Lord, didn’t we pray for their crowing! when over us, on the hill-top,Behold the first line of them skipping, like kangaroos seen on the hop.XX‘“That sent me into a passion, to think of them spying our flight!”Heigh, Tom! you’ve Bridgeman blood, boy!  And, “‘Face them!’ I shouted: ‘All right;Sure, Serjeant, we’ll take their shot dacent, like gentlemen,’ Grady replied.A ball in his mouth, and the noble old Irishman dropped by my side.Then there was just an instant to save myself, when a short wheezeOf bloody lungs under the smoke, and a red-coat crawled up on his knees.XXI‘“’Twas Ensign Baynes of our parish.”—Ah, ah, Miss Charlworth, the oneOur Tom fought for a young lady?  Come, now we’ve got into the fun!—“I shouldered him: he primed his pistol, and I trailed my musket, prepared.”Why, that’s a fine pick-a-back for ye, to make twenty Russians look scared!“They came—never mind how many: we couldn’t have run very well,We fought back to back: ‘face to face, our last time!’ he said, smiling, and fell.XXII‘“Then I strove wild for his body: the beggars saw glittering rings,Which I vowed to send to his mother.  I got some hard knocks and sharp stings,But felt them no more than angel, or devil, except in the wind.I know that I swore at a Russian for showing his teeth, and he grinnedThe harder: quick, as from heaven, a man on a horse rode between,And fired, and swung his bright sabre: I can’t write you more of the scene.XXIII‘“But half in his arms, and half at his stirrup, he bore me right forth,And pitched me among my old comrades: before I could tell south from north,He caught my hand up, and kissed it!  Don’t ever let any man speakA word against Frenchmen, I near him!  I can’t find his name, tho’ I seek.But French, and a General, surely he was, and, God bless him! thro’ himI’ve learnt to love a whole nation.”’  The ancient man paused, winking dim.XXIVA curious look, half woeful, was seen on his face as he turnedHis eyes upon each of his children, like one who but faintly discernedHis old self in an old mirror.  Then gathering sense in his fist,He sounded it hard on his knee-cap.  ‘Your hand, Tom, the French fellow kissed!He kissed my boy’s old pounder!  I say he’s a gentleman!’  StraightThe letter he tossed to one daughter; bade her the remainder relate.XXVTom properly stated his praises in facts, but the lady preferredTo deck the narration with brackets, and drop her additional word.What nobler Christian natures these women could boast, who, ’twas known,Once spat at the name of their nephew, and now made his praises their own!The letter at last was finished, the hearers breathed freely, and signWas given, ‘Tom’s health!’—Quoth the farmer: ‘Eh, Miss? are you weak in the spine?’XXVIFor Mary had sunk, and her body was shaking, as if in a fit.Tom’s letter she held, and her thumb-nail the month when the letter was writFast-dinted, while she hung sobbing: ‘O, see, Sir, the letter is old!O, do not be too happy!’—‘If I understand you, I’m bowled!’Said Grandfather Bridgeman, ‘and down go my wickets!—not happy! when here,Here’s Tom like to marry his General’s daughter—or widow—I’ll swear!XXVII‘I wager he knows how to strut, too!  It’s all on the cards that the QueenWill ask him to Buckingham Palace, to say what he’s done and he’s seen.Victoria’s fond of her soldiers: and she’s got a nose for a fight.If Tom tells a cleverish story—there is such a thing as a knight!And don’t he look roguish and handsome!—To see a girl snivelling there—By George, Miss, it’s clear that you’re jealous’—‘I love him!’ she answered his stare.XXVIII‘Yes! now!’ breathed the voice of a woman.—‘Ah! now!’ quiver’d low the reply.‘And “now”’s just a bit too late, so it’s no use your piping your eye,’The farmer added bluffly: ‘Old Lawyer Charlworth was rich;You followed his instructions in kicking Tom into the ditch.If you’re such a dutiful daughter, that doesn’t prove Tom is a fool.Forgive and forget’s my motto! and here’s my grog growing cool!’XXIX‘But, Sir,’ Mary faintly repeated: ‘for four long weeks I have failedTo come and cast on you my burden; such grief for you always prevailed!My heart has so bled for you!’  The old man burst on her speech:‘You’ve chosen a likely time, Miss! a pretty occasion to preach!’And was it not outrageous, that now, of all times, one should comeWith incomprehensible pity!  Far better had Mary been dumb.XXXBut when again she stammered in this bewildering way,The farmer no longer could bear it, and begged her to go, or to stay,But not to be whimpering nonsense at such a time.  Pricked by a goad,’Twas you who sent him to glory:—you’ve come here to reap what you sowed.Is that it?’ he asked; and the silence the elders preserved plainly said,On Mary’s heaving bosom this begging-petition was read.XXXIAnd that it was scarcely a bargain that she who had driven him wildShould share now the fruits of his valour, the women expressed, as they smiled.The family pride of the Bridgemans was comforted; still, with contempt,They looked on a monied damsel of modesty quite so exempt.‘O give me force to tell them!’ cried Mary, and even as she spoke,A shout and a hush of the children: a vision on all of them broke.XXXIIWheeled, pale, in a chair, and shattered, the wreck of their hero was seen;The ghost of Tom drawn slow o’er the orchard’s shadowy green.Could this be the martial darling they joyed in a moment ago?‘He knows it?’ to Mary Tom murmured, and closed his weak lids at her ‘No.’‘Beloved!’ she said, falling by him, ‘I have been a coward: I thoughtYou lay in the foreign country, and some strange good might be wrought.XXXIII‘Each day I have come to tell him, and failed, with my hand on the gate.I bore the dreadful knowledge, and crushed my heart with its weight.The letter brought by your comrade—he has but just read it aloud!It only reached him this morning!’  Her head on his shoulder she bowed.Then Tom with pity’s tenderest lordliness patted her arm,And eyed the old white-head fondly, with something of doubt and alarm.XXXIVO, take to your fancy a sculptor whose fresh marble offspring appearsBefore him, shiningly perfect, the laurel-crown’d issue of years:Is heaven offended? for lightning behold from its bosom escape,And those are mocking fragments that made the harmonious shape!He cannot love the ruins, till, feeling that ruins aloneAre left, he loves them threefold.  So passed the old grandfather’s moan.XXXVJohn’s text for a sermon on Slaughter he heard, and he did not protest.All rigid as April snowdrifts, he stood, hard and feeble; his chestJust showing the swell of the fire as it melted him.  Smiting a rib,‘Heigh! what have we been about, Tom!  Was this all a terrible fib?’He cried, and the letter forth-trembled.  Tom told what the cannon had done.Few present but ached to see falling those aged tears on his heart’s son!XXXVIUp lanes of the quiet village, and where the mill-waters rush redThro’ browning summer meadows to catch the sun’s crimsoning head,You meet an old man and a maiden who has the soft ways of a wifeWith one whom they wheel, alternate; whose delicate flush of new lifeIs prized like the early primrose.  Then shake his right hand, in the chair—The old man fails never to tell you: ‘You’ve got the French General’s there!’

THE PROMISE IN DISTURBANCE

How low when angels fall their black descent,Our primal thunder tells: known is the painOf music, that nigh throning wisdom went,And one false note cast wailful to the insane.Now seems the language heard of Love as rainTo make a mire where fruitfulness was meant.The golden harp gives out a jangled strain,Too like revolt from heaven’s Omnipotent.But listen in the thought; so may there comeConception of a newly-added chord,Commanding space beyond where ear has home.In labour of the trouble at its fount,Leads Life to an intelligible LordThe rebel discords up the sacred mount.

MODERN LOVE

I

By this he knew she wept with waking eyes:That, at his hand’s light quiver by her head,The strange low sobs that shook their common bedWere called into her with a sharp surprise,And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes,Dreadfully venomous to him.  She layStone-still, and the long darkness flowed awayWith muffled pulses.  Then, as midnight makesHer giant heart of Memory and TearsDrink the pale drug of silence, and so beatSleep’s heavy measure, they from head to feetWere moveless, looking through their dead black years,By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall.Like sculptured effigies they might be seenUpon their marriage-tomb, the sword between;Each wishing for the sword that severs all.

II

It ended, and the morrow brought the task.Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him inBy shutting all too zealous for their sin:Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask.But, oh, the bitter taste her beauty had!He sickened as at breath of poison-flowers:A languid humour stole among the hours,And if their smiles encountered, he went mad,And raged deep inward, till the light was brownBefore his vision, and the world, forgot,Looked wicked as some old dull murder-spot.A star with lurid beams, she seemed to crownThe pit of infamy: and then againHe fainted on his vengefulness, and stroveTo ape the magnanimity of love,And smote himself, a shuddering heap of pain.

III

This was the woman; what now of the man?But pass him.  If he comes beneath a heel,He shall be crushed until he cannot feel,Or, being callous, haply till he can.But he is nothing:—nothing?  Only markThe rich light striking out from her on him!Ha! what a sense it is when her eyes swimAcross the man she singles, leaving darkAll else!  Lord God, who mad’st the thing so fair,See that I am drawn to her even now!It cannot be such harm on her cool browTo put a kiss?  Yet if I meet him there!But she is mine!  Ah, no!  I know too wellI claim a star whose light is overcast:I claim a phantom-woman in the Past.The hour has struck, though I heard not the bell!

IV

All other joys of life he strove to warm,And magnify, and catch them to his lip:But they had suffered shipwreck with the ship,And gazed upon him sallow from the storm.Or if Delusion came, ’twas but to showThe coming minute mock the one that went.Cold as a mountain in its star-pitched tent,Stood high Philosophy, less friend than foe:Whom self-caged Passion, from its prison-bars,Is always watching with a wondering hate.Not till the fire is dying in the grate,Look we for any kinship with the stars.Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold,And the great price we pay for it full worth:We have it only when we are half earth.Little avails that coinage to the old!