Accept this building, gracious Lord,No temple though it be;We raised it for our suffering kin,And so, Good Lord, for Thee.
Accept our little gift, and giveTo all who here may dwell,The will and power to do their work,Or bear their sorrows well.
From Thee all skill and science flow;All pity, care, and love,All calm and courage, faith and hope,Oh! pour them from above.
And part them, Lord, to each and all,As each and all shall need,To rise like incense, each to Thee,In noble thought and deed.
And hasten, Lord, that perfect day,When pain and death shall cease;And Thy just rule shall fill the earthWith health, and light, and peace.
When ever blue the sky shall gleam,And ever green the sod;And man’s rude work deface no moreThe Paradise of God.
Eversley, 1870.
The boy on the famous gray pony,Just bidding good-bye at the door,Plucking up maiden heart for the fencesWhere his brother won honour of yore.
The walk to ‘the Meet’ with fair children,And women as gentle as gay,—Ah! how do we male hogs in armourDeserve such companions as they?
The afternoon’s wander to windward,To meet the dear boy coming back;And to catch, down the turns of the valley,The last weary chime of the pack.
The climb homeward by park and by moorland,And through the fir forests again,While the south-west wind roars in the gloaming,Like an ocean of seething champagne.
And at night the septette of Beethoven,And the grandmother by in her chair,And the foot of all feet on the sofaBeating delicate time to the air.
Ah, God! a poor soul can but thank TheeFor such a delectable day!Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler,To-morrow again have their way!
Eversley, 6thNovember1872.
List a tale a fairy sent usFresh from dear Mundi Juventus.When Love and all the world was young,And birds conversed as well as sung;And men still faced this fair creationWith humour, heart, imagination.Who come hither from MoroccoEvery spring on the sirocco?In russet she, and he in yellow,Singing ever clear and mellow,‘Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you,Did he beat you? Did he beat you?’Phyllopneustes wise folk call them,But don’t know what did befall them,Why they ever thought of comingAll that way to hear gnats humming,Why they built not nests but houses,Like the bumble-bees and mousies.Nor how little birds got wings,Nor what ’tis the small cock sings—How should they know—stupid fogies?They daren’t even believe in bogies.Once they were a girl and boy,Each the other’s life and joy.He a Daphnis, she a Chloe,Only they were brown, not snowy,Till an Arab found them playingFar beyond the Atlas straying,Tied the helpless things together,Drove them in the burning weather,In his slave-gang many a league,Till they dropped from wild fatigue.Up he caught his whip of hide,Lashed each soft brown back and sideTill their little brains were burstWith sharp pain, and heat, and thirst,Over her the poor boy lay,Tried to keep the blows away,Till they stiffened into clay,And the ruffian rode away:Swooping o’er the tainted ground,Carrion vultures gathered round,And the gaunt hyenas ranTracking up the caravan.But—ah, wonder! that was goneWhich they meant to feast upon.And, for each, a yellow wren,One a cock, and one a hen,Sweetly warbling, flitted forthO’er the desert toward the north.But a shade of bygone sorrow,Like a dream upon the morrow,Round his tiny brainlet clinging,Sets the wee cock ever singing,‘Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you,Did he beat you? Did he beat you?’Vultures croaked, and hopped, and flopped,But their evening meal was stopped.And the gaunt hyenas foulSat down on their tails to howl.Northward towards the cool spring weather,Those two wrens fled on together,On to England o’er the sea,Where all folks alike are free.There they built a cabin, wattledLike the huts where first they prattled,Hatched and fed, as safe as may be,Many a tiny feathered baby.But in autumn south they goPast the Straits and Atlas’ snow,Over desert, over mountain,To the palms beside the fountain,Where, when once they lived before, heTold her first the old, old story.‘What do the doves say? Curuck Coo,You love me and I love you.’
1872.
Oh! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south,Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream;I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth,And sing my tiny life away in one melodious dream.
I would sing about the blossoms, and the sunshine and the sky,And the tiny wife I mean to have in such a cosy nest;And if some one came and shot me dead, why then I could but die,With my tiny life and tiny song just ended at their best.
Eversley, 1873
1
‘Are you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe?Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree,You’re booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee,You’re booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see,To keep him straight, to keep him first, and win the run for me.Barum, Barum,’ etc.
2
She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,‘I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see,And I will not ride Vindictive, with this baby on my knee;He’s killed a boy, he’s killed a man, and why must he kill me?’
3
‘Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee,And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me,It’s you may keep your baby, for you’ll get no keep from me.’
4
‘That husbands could be cruel,’ said Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,‘That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three;But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me,And be killed across a fence at last for all the world to see!’
5
She mastered young Vindictive—Oh! the gallant lass was she,And kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be;But he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow-tree,Oh! he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see,And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorrèe.
Last poem written in illness.Colorado, U.S.A.June1874.
Come hearken, hearken, gentles all,Come hearken unto me,And I’ll sing you a song of a Wood-LyonCame swimming out over the sea.
He rangèd west, he rangèd east,And far and wide ranged he;He took his bite out of every beastLives under the greenwood tree.
Then by there came a silly old wolf,‘And I’ll serve you,’ quoth he;Quoth the Lyon, ‘My paw is heavy enough,So what wilt thou do for me?’
Then by there came a cunning old fox,‘And I’ll serve you,’ quoth he;Quoth the Lyon, ‘My wits are sharp enoughSo what wilt thou do for me?’
Then by there came a white, white dove,Flew off Our Lady’s knee;Sang ‘It’s I will be your true, true love,If you’ll be true to me.’
‘And what will you do, you bonny white dove?And what will you do for me?’‘Oh, it’s I’ll bring you to Our Lady’s love,In the ways of chivalrie.’
He followed the dove that Wood-LyonBy mere and wood and wold,Till he is come to a perfect knight,Like the Paladin of old.
He rangèd east, he rangèd west,And far and wide ranged he—And ever the dove won him honour and fameIn the ways of chivalrie.
Then by there came a foul old sow,Came rookling under the tree;And ‘It’s I will be true love to you,If you’ll be true to me.’
‘And what wilt thou do, thou foul old sow?And what wilt thou do for me?’‘Oh, there hangs in my snout a jewel of gold,And that will I give to thee.’
He took to the sow that Wood-Lyon;To the rookling sow took he;And the dove flew up to Our Lady’s bosom;And never again throve he.
Footnotes:
{211}This and the following poem were written at school in early boy-hood.
{216}Lines supposed to be found written in an illuminated missal.
{260}Found among Sandy Mackaye’s papers, of a hairy oubit who would not mind his mother.
{282}The Christian Socialist, started by the Council of Associates for promotion of Co-operation.
{295}Bishop of Labuan, in Borneo.
{303}This Ode was set to Professor Sterndale Bennet’s music, and sung in the Senate House, Cambridge, on the Day of Installation.
{306}His Royal Highness the Prince Consort, Chancellor of Cambridge University.
{319}Impromptu lines written in the album of the Crown Princess of Germany.
{325}Time of the Franco-Prussian War.
{330}The Qu’est qu’il dit is a Tropical bird.
{331a}This myth about the famous Pitch Lake of Trinidad was told almost word for word to a M. Joseph by an aged half-caste Indian who went by the name of Señor Trinidada. The manners and customs which the ballad described, and the cruel and dangerous destruction of the beautiful birds of Trinidad, are facts which may be easily verified by any one who will take the trouble to visit the West Indies.
{331b}A magnificent wood of the Mauritia Fanpalm, on the south shore of the Pitch Lake.
{331c}Humming-birds.
{331d}Maximiliana palms.
{332}Hut of timber and palm-leaves.
{333}From the Eriodendron, or giant silk-cotton.
{334}Spigelia anthelmia, a too-well-known poison-plant.
{335a}Cœlogenys Paca.
{335b}Wild cavy.
{335c}Armadillo.
{335d}Peccary hog.
{335e}Trigonia.
{335f}Penelope.
{335g}Palamedea.
{335h}Dove.
{335i}Mimusops.
{335j}Spondias.
{335k}An esculent Arum.
{335l}Jatropha manihot, ‘Cassava.’
{335m}Vitis Caribæa.
{335n}Euterpe, ‘mountain cabbage’ palm.
{335o}Mauritia palm.
{336a}Musa.
{336b}Pine-apple.
{337}Food.
{338}Sung by 1000 School Children at the Opening of the New Wing of the Children’s Hospital, Birmingham.
{346}Supposed to be sung at Crowland Minster to Leofric, the Wake’s Mass Priest, when news was received of Hereward’s second marriage to Alftruda.