Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare’s self!No head, save some world-genius, ought to restAbove the treasures of that perfect breast,Or nightly draw fresh light from those keen starsThrough which thy soul awes ours: yet thou art bound—O waste of nature!—to a craven hound;To shameless lust, and childish greed of pelf;Athené to a Satyr: was that linkForged by The Father’s hand? Man’s reason barsThe bans which God allowed.—Ay, so we think:Forgetting, thou hadst weaker been, full blest,Than thus made strong by suffering; and more greatIn martyrdom, than throned as Cæsar’s mate.
Eversley, 1851.
Ask if I love thee? Oh, smiles cannot tellPlainer what tears are now showing too well.Had I not loved thee, my sky had been clear:Had I not loved thee, I had not been here,Weeping by thee.
Ask if I love thee? How else could I borrowPride from man’s slander, and strength from my sorrow?Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic’s bride,Knowing no bliss, save to toil and abideWeeping by thee.
Andernach on the Rhine,August1851.
The world goes up and the world goes down,And the sunshine follows the rain;And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frownCan never come over again,Sweet wife:No, never come over again.
For woman is warm though man be cold,And the night will hallow the day;Till the heart which at even was weary and oldCan rise in the morning gay,Sweet wife;To its work in the morning gay.
Andernach, 1851.
My parents bow, and lead them forth,For all the crowd to see—Ah well! the people might not careTo cheer a dwarf like me.
They little know how I could love,How I could plan and toil,To swell those drudges’ scanty gains,Their mites of rye and oil.
They little know what dreams have beenMy playmates, night and day;Of equal kindness, helpful care,A mother’s perfect sway.
Now earth to earth in convent walls,To earth in churchyard sod:I was not good enough for man,And so am given to God.
Bertrich in the Eifel, 1851.
The baby sings not on its mother’s breast;Nor nightingales who nestle side by side;Nor I by thine: but let us only part,Then lips which should but kiss, and so be still,As having uttered all, must speak again—O stunted thoughts! O chill and fettered rhymeYet my great bliss, though still entirely blest,Losing its proper home, can find no rest:So, like a child who whiles away the timeWith dance and carol till the eventide,Watching its mother homeward through the glen;Or nightingale, who, sitting far apart,Tells to his listening mate within the nestThe wonder of his star-entrancèd heartTill all the wakened woodlands laugh and thrill—Forth all my being bubbles into song;And rings aloft, not smooth, yet clear and strong.
Bertrich, 1851
Evil sped the battle playOn the Pope Calixtus’ day;Mighty war-smiths, thanes and lords,In Senlac slept the sleep of swords.Harold Earl, shot over shield,Lay along the autumn weald;Slaughter such was never noneSince the Ethelings England won.Thither Lady Githa came,Weeping sore for grief and shame;How may she her first-born tell?Frenchmen stript him where he fell,Gashed and marred his comely face;Who can know him in his place?Up and spake two brethren wise,‘Youngest hearts have keenest eyes;Bird which leaves its mother’s nest,Moults its pinions, moults its crest.Let us call the Swan-neck here,She that was his leman dear;She shall know him in this stound;Foot of wolf, and scent of hound,Eye of hawk, and wing of dove,Carry woman to her love.’Up and spake the Swan-neck high,‘Go! to all your thanes let cryHow I loved him best of all,I whom men his leman call;Better knew his body fairThan the mother which him bare.When ye lived in wealth and gleeThen ye scorned to look on me;God hath brought the proud ones lowAfter me afoot to go.’Rousing erne and sallow glede,Rousing gray wolf off his feed,Over franklin, earl, and thane,Heaps of mother-naked slain,Round the red field tracing slow,Stooped that Swan-neck white as snow;Never blushed nor turned away,Till she found him where he lay;Clipt him in her armés fair,Wrapt him in her yellow hair,Bore him from the battle-stead,Saw him laid in pall of lead,Took her to a minster high,For Earl Harold’s soul to cry.
Thus fell Harold, bracelet-giver;Jesu rest his soul for ever;Angles all from thrall deliver;Miserere Domine.
Eversley, 1851.
I heard an Eagle crying all aloneAbove the vineyards through the summer night,Among the skeletons of robber towers:Because the ancient eyrie of his raceWas trenched and walled by busy-handed men;And all his forest-chace and woodland wild,Wherefrom he fed his young with hare and roe,Were trim with grapes which swelled from hour to hour,And tossed their golden tendrils to the sunFor joy at their own riches:—So, I thought,The great devourers of the earth shall sit,Idle and impotent, they know not why,Down-staring from their barren height of stateOn nations grown too wise to slay and slave,The puppets of the few; while peaceful loreAnd fellow-help make glad the heart of earth,With wonders which they fear and hate, as he,The Eagle, hates the vineyard slopes below.
On the Rhine, 1851.
Over the camp-firesDrank I with heroes,Under the Donau bank,Warm in the snow trench:Sagamen heard I there,Men of the Longbeards,Cunning and ancient,Honey-sweet-voiced.Scaring the wolf cub,Scaring the horn-owl,Shaking the snow-wreathsDown from the pine-boughs,Up to the star roofRang out their song.Singing how Winil men,Over the ice-floesSledging from ScanlandCame unto Scoring;Singing of Gambara,Freya’s belovèd,Mother of Ayo,Mother of Ibor.Singing of Wendel men,Ambri and Assi;How to the WinilfolkWent they with war-words,—‘Few are ye, strangers,And many are we:Pay us now toll and fee,Cloth-yarn, and rings, and beeves:Else at the raven’s mealBide the sharp bill’s doom.’Clutching the dwarfs work then,Clutching the bullock’s shell,Girding gray iron on,Forth fared the Winils all,Fared the Alruna’s sons,Ayo and Ibor.Mad at heart stalked they:Loud wept the women all,Loud the Alruna wife;Sore was their need.Out of the morning land,Over the snow-drifts,Beautiful Freya came,Tripping to Scoring.White were the moorlands,And frozen before her:Green were the moorlands,And blooming behind her.Out of her gold locksShaking the spring flowers,Out of her garmentsShaking the south wind,Around in the birchesAwaking the throstles,And making chaste housewives allLong for their heroes home,Loving and love-giving,Came she to Scoring.Came unto Gambara,Wisest of Valas,—‘Vala, why weepest thou?Far in the wide-blue,High up in the Elfin-home,Heard I thy weeping.’‘Stop not my weeping,Till one can fight seven.Sons have I, heroes tall,First in the sword-play;This day at the Wendels’ handsEagles must tear them.Their mothers, thrall-weary,Must grind for the Wendels.’Wept the Alruna wife;Kissed her fair Freya:—‘Far off in the morning land,High in Valhalla,A window stands open;Its sill is the snow-peaks,Its posts are the waterspouts,Storm-rack its lintel;Gold cloud-flakes aboveAre piled for the roofing,Far up to the Elfin-home,High in the wide-blue.Smiles out each morning thenceOdin Allfather;From under the cloud-eavesSmiles out on the heroes,Smiles on chaste housewives all,Smiles on the brood-mares,Smiles on the smiths’ work:And theirs is the sword-luck,With them is the glory,—So Odin hath sworn it,—Who first in the morningShall meet him and greet him.’Still the Alruna wept:—‘Who then shall greet him?Women alone are here:Far on the moorlandsBehind the war-lindens,In vain for the bill’s doomWatch Winil heroes all,One against seven.’Sweetly the Queen laughed:—‘Hear thou my counsel now;Take to thee cunning,Belovèd of Freya.Take thou thy women-folk,Maidens and wives:Over your anklesLace on the white war-hose;Over your bosomsLink up the hard mail-nets;Over your lipsPlait long tresses with cunning;—So war-beasts full-beardedKing Odin shall deem you,When off the gray sea-beachAt sunrise ye greet him.’
Night’s son was drivingHis golden-haired horses up;Over the eastern firthsHigh flashed their manes.Smiled from the cloud-eaves outAllfather Odin,Waiting the battle-sport:Freya stood by him.‘Who are these heroes tall,—Lusty-limbed Longbeards?Over the swans’ bathWhy cry they to me?Bones should be crashing fast,Wolves should be full-fed,Where such, mad-hearted,Swing hands in the sword-play.’
Sweetly laughed Freya:—‘A name thou hast given them,Shames neither thee nor them,Well can they wear it.Give them the victory,First have they greeted thee;Give them the victory,Yokefellow mine!Maidens and wives are these,—Wives of the Winils;Few are their heroesAnd far on the war-road,So over the swans’ bathThey cry unto thee.’
Royally laughed he then;Dear was that craft to him,Odin Allfather,Shaking the clouds.‘Cunning are women all,Bold and importunate!Longbeards their name shall be,Ravens shall thank them:Where women are heroes,What must the men be?Theirs is the victory;No need of me!’
Eversley, 1852.FromHypatia.
Thank God! Those gazers’ eyes are gone at last!The guards are crouching underneath the rock;The lights are fading in the town below,Around the cottage which this morn was ours.Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone;Alone upon our crosses with our God;While all the angels watch us from the stars.Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him,And bathe his limbs in glory, for a signOf what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord!Look, and remember how he saved thy lamb!Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love,Never till now loved utterly! Oh say,Say you forgive me! No—you must not speak:You said it to me hours ago—long hours!Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comesSpeak to the people, call them home to God,A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church;And plead from off the tree with outspread arms,To show them that the Son of God enduredFor them—and me. Hush! I alone will speak,And while away the hours till dawn for you.I know you have forgiven me; as I layBeneath your feet, while they were binding me,I knew I was forgiven then! When I cried‘Here am I, husband! The lost lamb returned,All re-baptized in blood!’ and you said, ‘Come!Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife once more!’From that same moment all my pain was gone;And ever since those sightless eyes have smiledLove—love! Alas, those eyes! They made me fall.I could not bear to see them, bleeding, dark,Never, no never to look into mine;Never to watch me round the little roomSinging about my work, or flash on meLooks bright with counsel.—Then they drove me madWith talk of nameless tortures waiting you—And I could save you! You would hear your love—They knew you loved me, cruel men! And then—Then came a dream; to say one little word,One easy wicked word, we both might say,And no one hear us, but the lictors round;One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains,And both, both free! And life had just begun—Only three months—short months—your wedded wifeOnly three months within the cottage there—Hoping I bore your child. . . .Ah! husband! Saviour! God! think gently of me!I am forgiven! . . .And then another dream;A flash—so quick, I could not bear the blaze;I could not see the smoke among the light—To wander out through unknown lands, and leadYou by the hand through hamlet, port, and town,On, on, until we died; and stand each dayTo glory in you, as you preached and prayedFrom rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words,Mingled with fire and honey—you would wake,Bend, save whole nations! would not that atoneFor one short word?—ay, make it right, to saveYou, you, to fight the battles of the Lord?And so—and so—alas! you knew the rest!You answered me. . . .Ah cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words.You had done nobly had you struck me dead,Instead of striking me to life!—the temptress! . . .‘Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!’—‘The smell of death upon me?’—so it was!True! true! well spoken, hero! Oh they snapped,Those words, my madness, like the angel’s voiceThrilling the graves to birth-pangs. All was clear.There was but one right thing in the world to do;And I must do it. . . . Lord, have mercy! Christ!Help through my womanhood: or I shall failYet, as I failed before! . . . I could not speak—I could not speak for shame and misery,And terror of my sin, and of the thingsI knew were coming: but in heaven, in heaven!There we should meet, perhaps—and by that timeI might be worthy of you once again—Of you, and of my God. . . . So I went out.. . . . . .Will you hear more, and so forget the pain?And yet I dread to tell you what comes next;Your love will feel it all again for me.No! it is over; and the woe that’s deadRises next hour a glorious angel. Love!Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are dry!To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat,And they will give you water. One to-day,A soldier, gave me water in a spongeUpon a reed, and said, ‘Too fair! too young!She might have been a gallant soldier’s wife!’And then I cried, ‘I am a soldier’s wife!A hero’s!’ And he smiled, but let me drink.God bless him for it!So they led me back:And as I went, a voice was in my earsWhich rang through all the sunlight, and the breathAnd blaze of all the garden slopes below,And through the harvest-voices, and the moanOf cedar-forests on the cliffs above,And round the shining rivers, and the peaksWhich hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west,And round the ancient stones about my feet.Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried,‘My hand hath made all these. Am I too weakTo give thee strength to say so?’ Then my soulSpread like a clear blue sky within my breast,While all the people made a ring around,And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly—‘Well! hast thou brought him to a better mind?’‘No! He has brought me to a better mind!’—I cried, and said beside—I know not what—Words which I learnt from thee—I trust in GodNought fierce or rude—for was I not a girlThree months ago beneath my mother’s roof?I thought of that. She might be there! I looked—She was not there! I hid my face and wept.And when I looked again, the judge’s eyeWas on me, cold and steady, deep in thought—‘She knows what shame is still; so strip her.’ ‘Ah!’I shrieked, ‘Not that, Sir! Any pain! So youngI am—a wife too—I am not my own,But his—my husband’s!’ But they took my shawl,And tore my tunic off, and there I stoodBefore them all. . . . Husband! you love me still?Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out, kind moon,And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed,While some cried ‘Shame!’ and some, ‘She is too young!’And some mocked—ugly words: God shut my ears.And yet no earthquake came to swallow me.While all the court around, and walls, and roofs,And all the earth and air were full of eyes,Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame,Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow:And yet no earthquake came! And then I knewThis body was not yours alone, but God’s—His loan—He needed it: and after thatThe worst was come, and any torture moreA change—a lightening; and I did not shriek—Once only—once, when first I felt the whip—It coiled so keen around my side, and sentA fire-flash through my heart which choked me—thenI shrieked—that once. The foolish echo rangSo far and long—I prayed you might not hear.And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes,Swam by me, and a murmur in my earsOf humming bees around the limes at home;And I was all alone with you and God.And what they did to me I hardly know;I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back,It was not after all so very sharp:So do not pity me. It made me pray;Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you,And you in God: and once, when I looked down,And saw an ugly sight—so many wounds!‘What matter?’ thought I. ‘His dear eyes are dark;For them alone I kept these limbs so white—A foolish pride! As God wills now. ’Tis just.’But then the judge spoke out in haste: ‘She is mad,Or fenced by magic arts! She feels no pain!’He did not know I was on fire within:Better he should not; so his sin was less.Then he cried fiercely, ‘Take the slave away,And crucify her by her husband’s side!’And at those words a film came on my face—A sickening rush of joy—was that the end?That my reward? I rose, and tried to go—But all the eyes had vanished, and the judge;And all the buildings melted into mist:So how they brought me here I cannot tell—Here, here, by you, until the judgment-day,And after that for ever and for ever!Ah! If I could but reach that hand! One touch!One finger tip, to send the thrill through meI felt but yesterday!—No! I can wait:—Another body!—Oh, new limbs are ready,Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve,Kept for us in the treasuries of God.They will not mar the love they try to speak,They will not fail my soul, as these have done!. . . . .Will you hear more? Nay—you know all the rest:Yet those poor eyes—alas! they could not seeMy waking, when you hung above me thereWith hands outstretched to bless the penitent—Your penitent—even like The Lord Himself—I gloried in you!—like The Lord Himself!Sharing His very sufferings, to the crownOf thorns which they had put on that dear browTo make you like Him—show you as you were!I told them so! I bid them look on you,And see there what was the highest throne on earth—The throne of suffering, where the Son of GodEndured and triumphed for them. But they laughed;All but one soldier, gray, with many scars;And he stood silent. Then I crawled to you,And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud—You heard me! You know all! I am at peace.Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moonUpon your limbs, came on me at your smile,And kept me happy, when they dragged me backFrom that last kiss, and spread me on the cross,And bound my wrists and ankles—Do not sigh:I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me upMy eyes have never left your face, my own, my own,Nor will, till death comes! . . .Do I feel much pain?Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot bear.It has become like part of my own life,Or part of God’s life in me—honour—bliss!I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest;Rest deep and smiling, like a summer’s night.I should be easy, now, if I could move . . .I cannot stir. Ah God! these shoots of fireThrough all my limbs! Hush, selfish girl! He hears you!Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed?Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evilUnless it conquers us. These little wrists, now—You said, one blessed night, they were too slender,Too soft and slender for a deacon’s wife—Perhaps a martyr’s:—You forgot the strengthWhich God can give. The cord has cut them through;And yet my voice has never faltered yet.Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and prayThat you may die: and you must not die yet.Not yet—they told us we might live three days . . .Two days for you to preach! Two days to speakWords which may wake the dead!. . . . .Hush! is he sleeping?They say that men have slept upon the cross;So why not he? . . . Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe:And he will preach Thy word to-morrow!—saveSouls, crowds, for Thee! And they will know his worthYears hence—poor things, they know not what they do!—And crown him martyr; and his name will ringThrough all the shores of earth, and all the starsWhose eyes are sparkling through their tears to seeHis triumph—Preacher! Martyr!—Ah—and me?—If they must couple my poor name with his,Let them tell all the truth—say how I loved him,And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord!Returning good for evil! and was thisThe payment I deserved for such a sin?To hang here on my cross, and look at himUntil we kneel before Thy throne in heaven!
Eversley, 1852.
So die, thou child of stormy dawn,Thou winter flower, forlorn of nurse;Chilled early by the bigot’s curse,The pedant’s frown, the worldling’s yawn.
Fair death, to fall in teeming June,When every seed which drops to earthTakes root, and wins a second birthFrom steaming shower and gleaming moon.
Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain;Thou rain of God, make fat the land;That roots which parch in burning sandMay bud to flower and fruit again.
To grace, perchance, a fairer mornIn mightier lands beyond the sea,While honour falls to such as weFrom hearts of heroes yet unborn,
Who in the light of fuller day,Of purer science, holier laws,Bless us, faint heralds of their cause,Dim beacons of their glorious way.
Failure? While tide-floods rise and boilRound cape and isle, in port and cove,Resistless, star-led from above:What though our tiny wave recoil?
Eversley, 1852.
Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral;Mourn not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father,Weeping with fast and scourge, when the bridegroom was taken from them.Drop back awhile through the years, to the warm rich youth of the nations,Childlike in virtue and faith, though childlike in passion and pleasure,Childlike still, and still near to their God, while the day-spring of EdenLingered in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian mountains.Down to the mothers, as Faust went, I go, to the roots of our manhood,Mothers of us in our cradles; of us once more in our glory.New-born, body and soul, in the great pure world which shall beIn the renewing of all things, when man shall return to his EdenConquering evil, and death, and shame, and the slander of conscience—Free in the sunshine of Godhead—and fearlessly smile on his Father.Down to the mothers I go—yet with thee still!—be with me, thou purest!Lead me, thy hand in my hand; and the dayspring of God go before us.
Eversley, 1852.
The single eye, the daughter of the light;Well pleased to recognise in lowliest shadeSome glimmer of its parent beam, and madeBy daily draughts of brightness, inly bright.The taste severe, yet graceful, trained arightIn classic depth and clearness, and repaidBy thanks and honour from the wise and staid—By pleasant skill to blame, and yet delight,And high communion with the eloquent throngOf those who purified our speech and song—All these are yours. The same examples lure,You in each woodland, me on breezy moor—With kindred aim the same sweet path along,To knit in loving knowledge rich and poor.
Eversley, 1853.
It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,She looked across the sea;She looked across the water;And long and loud laughed she:‘The locks of six princessesMust be my marriage fee,So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!Who comes a wooing me?’
It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,She walked along the sand;When she was aware of a knight so fair,Came sailing to the land.His sails were all of velvet,His mast of beaten gold,And ‘Hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!Who saileth here so bold?’
‘The locks of five princessesI won beyond the sea;I clipt their golden tresses,To fringe a cloak for thee.One handful yet is wanting,But one of all the tale;So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!Furl up thy velvet sail!’
He leapt into the water,That rover young and bold;He gript Earl Haldan’s daughter,He clipt her locks of gold:‘Go weep, go weep, proud maiden,The tale is full to-day.Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!Sail Westward ho! away!’
Devonshire, 1854FromWestward Ho!
Ah tyrant Love, Megæra’s serpents bearing,Why thus requite my sighs with venom’d smart?Ah ruthless dove, the vulture’s talons wearing,Why flesh them, traitress, in this faithful heart?Is this my meed? Must dragons’ teeth aloneIn Venus’ lawns by lovers’ hands be sown?
Nay, gentlest Cupid; ’twas my pride undid me;Nay, guiltless dove; by mine own wound I fell.To worship, not to wed, Celestials bid me:I dreamt to mate in heaven, and wake in hell;For ever doom’d, Ixion-like, to reelOn mine own passions’ ever-burning wheel.
Devonshire, 1854.FromWestward Ho!
Welcome, wild North-easter.Shame it is to seeOdes to every zephyr;Ne’er a verse to thee.Welcome, black North-easter!O’er the German foam;O’er the Danish moorlands,From thy frozen home.Tired we are of summer,Tired of gaudy glare,Showers soft and steaming,Hot and breathless air.Tired of listless dreaming,Through the lazy day:Jovial wind of winterTurns us out to play!Sweep the golden reed-beds;Crisp the lazy dyke;Hunger into madnessEvery plunging pike.Fill the lake with wild-fowl;Fill the marsh with snipe;While on dreary moorlandsLonely curlew pipe.Through the black fir-forestThunder harsh and dry,Shattering down the snow-flakesOff the curdled sky.Hark! The brave North-easter!Breast-high lies the scent,On by holt and headland,Over heath and bent.Chime, ye dappled darlings,Through the sleet and snow.Who can over-ride you?Let the horses go!Chime, ye dappled darlings,Down the roaring blast;You shall see a fox dieEre an hour be past.Go! and rest to-morrow,Hunting in your dreams,While our skates are ringingO’er the frozen streams.Let the luscious South-windBreathe in lovers’ sighs,While the lazy gallantsBask in ladies’ eyes.What does he but softenHeart alike and pen?’Tis the hard gray weatherBreeds hard English men.What’s the soft South-wester?’Tis the ladies’ breeze,Bringing home their true-lovesOut of all the seas:But the black North-easter,Through the snowstorm hurled,Drives our English hearts of oakSeaward round the world.Come, as came our fathers,Heralded by thee,Conquering from the eastward,Lords by land and sea.Come; and strong within usStir the Vikings’ blood;Bracing brain and sinew;Blow, thou wind of God!
1854.
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I’ll leave you,For every day.
I’ll tell you how to sing a clearer carolThan lark who hails the dawn or breezy downTo earn yourself a purer poet’s laurelThan Shakespeare’s crown.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever,One grand sweet song.
February1, 1856.
A hasty jest I once let fall—As jests are wont to be, untrue—As if the sum of joy to youWere hunt and picnic, rout and ball.
Your eyes met mine: I did not blame;You saw it: but I touched too nearSome noble nerve; a silent tearSpoke soft reproach, and lofty shame.
I do not wish those words unsaid.Unspoilt by praise and pleasure, youIn that one look to woman grew,While with a child, I thought, I played.
Next to mine own beloved so long!I have not spent my heart in vain.I watched the blade; I see the grain;A woman’s soul, most soft, yet strong.
Eversley, 1856.
O blessed drums of Aldershot!O blessed South-west train!O blessed, blessed Speaker’s clock,All prophesying rain!
O blessed yaffil, laughing loud!O blessed falling glass!O blessed fan of cold gray cloud!O blessed smelling grass!
O bless’d South wind that toots his hornThrough every hole and crack!I’m off at eight to-morrow morn,To bringsuchfishes back!
Eversley,April1, 1856.
Come away with me, Tom,Term and talk are done;My poor lads are reaping,Busy every one.Curates mind the parish,Sweepers mind the court;We’ll away to SnowdonFor our ten days’ sport;Fish the August eveningTill the eve is past,Whoop like boys, at poundersFairly played and grassed.When they cease to dimple,Lunge, and swerve, and leap,Then up over Siabod,Choose our nest, and sleep.Up a thousand feet, Tom,Round the lion’s head,Find soft stones to leewardAnd make up our bed.Eat our bread and bacon,Smoke the pipe of peace,And, ere we be drowsy,Give our boots a grease.Homer’s heroes did so,Why not such as we?What are sheets and servants?Superfluity!Pray for wives and childrenSafe in slumber curled,Then to chat till midnightO’er this babbling world—Of the workmen’s college,Of the price of grain,Of the tree of knowledge,Of the chance of rain;If Sir A. goes Romeward,If Miss B. sings true,If the fleet comes homeward,If the mare will do,—Anything and everything—Up there in the skyAngels understand us,And no ‘saints’ are by.Down, and bathe at day-dawn,Tramp from lake to lake,Washing brain and heart cleanEvery step we take.Leave to Robert BrowningBeggars, fleas, and vines;Leave to mournful RuskinPopish Apennines,Dirty Stones of VeniceAnd his Gas-lamps Seven—We’ve the stones of SnowdonAnd the lamps of heaven.Where’s the mighty creditIn admiring Alps?Any goose sees ‘glory’In their ‘snowy scalps.’Leave such signs and wondersFor the dullard brain,As æsthetic brandy,Opium and cayenne.Give me Bramshill common(St. John’s harriers by),Or the vale of Windsor,England’s golden eye.Show me life and progress,Beauty, health, and man;Houses fair, trim gardens,Turn where’er I can.Or, if bored with ‘High Art,’And such popish stuff,One’s poor ear need airing,Snowdon’s high enough.While we find God’s signetFresh on English ground,Why go gallivantingWith the nations round?Though we try no venturesDesperate or strange;Feed on commonplacesIn a narrow range;Never sought for FranklinRound the frozen Capes;Even, with Macdougall,{295}Bagged our brace of apes;Never had our chance, Tom,In that black Redan;Can’t avenge poor BreretonOut in Sakarran;Tho’ we earn our bread, Tom,By the dirty pen,What we can we will be,Honest Englishmen.Do the work that’s nearest,Though it’s dull at whiles,Helping, when we meet them,Lame dogs over stiles;See in every hedgerowMarks of angels’ feet,Epics in each pebbleUnderneath our feet;Once a year, like schoolboys,Robin-Hooding go,Leaving fops and fogiesA thousand feet below.
Eversley,August1856.
Yon sound’s neither sheep-bell nor bark,They’re running—they’re running, Go hark!The sport may be lost by a moment’s delay;So whip up the puppies and scurry away.Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell,There’s a gate at the bottom—I know it full well;And they’re running—they’re running,Go hark!
They’re running—they’re running, Go hark!One fence and we’re out of the park;Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook,Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look;Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;He’s away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,And they’re running—they’re running,Go hark!
They’re running—they’re running, Go hark!Let them run on and run till it’s dark!Well with them we are, and well with them we’ll be,While there’s wind in our horses and daylight to see:Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight,And hear in our dreams the sweet music all nightOf—They’re running—they’re running,Go hark!
Eversley, 1856.
Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good,To point us out this way to glory—They’re no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,And all their pounders myth and story.Blow Snowdon! What’s Lake Gwynant to Killarney,Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?
So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose,I’ll tell you where we think of going,To swate and far o’er cliff and scar,Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing;Blow Snowdon! There’s a hundred lakes to try in,And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.
Geology and botanyA hundred wonders shall diskiver,We’ll flog and troll in strid and hole,And skim the cream of lake and river,Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies,Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and—Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!
Eversley, 1856
Oh England is a pleasant place for them that’s rich and high,But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;And such a port for mariners I ne’er shall see againAs the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.
There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and freeTo choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.
Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.
Oh the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold,And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee,To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.
Oh sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze,A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees,With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roarOf the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.
But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;So the King’s ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we.All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night;And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.
Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;But as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by,And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.
And now I’m old and going—I’m sure I can’t tell where;One comfort is, this world’s so hard, I can’t be worse off there:If I might but be a sea-dove, I’d fly across the main,To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again.
Eversley, 1857,
Hark! hark! hark!The lark sings high in the dark.The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,The raven croaks from the Raven-stone;What care I for his boding groan,Riding the moorland to come to mine own?Hark! hark! hark!The lark sings high in the dark.
Hark! hark! hark!The lark sings high in the dark.Long have I wander’d by land and by sea,Long have I ridden by moorland and lea;Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee,Sits at the window and watches for me!Hark! hark! hark!The lark sings high in the dark.
Written for music, 1857.
There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear,Excepting Pen-y-gwrydd (you can’t pronounce it, dear),Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three—One is the vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me,One goes to Capel-Curig, and I can’t mind its name,And one it is Llanberris Pass, which all men knows the same;Between which radiations vast mountains does arise,As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish will rise,That is, just one day in the year, if you be there, my boy,Just about ten o’clock at night; and then I wish you joy.Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write,(Axing the post town out of Froude, for I can’t mind it quite),And to engage a room or two, for let us say a week,For fear of gents, and Manichees, and reading parties meek,And there to live like fighting-cocks at almost a bob a day,And arterwards toward the sea make tracks and cut away,All for to catch the salmon bold in Aberglaslyn pool,And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and will, or I’m a fool.And that’s my game, which if you like, respond to me by post;But I fear it will not last, my son, a thirteen days at most.Flies is no object; I can tell some three or four will do,And John Jones, Clerk, he knows the rest, and ties and sells ’em too.Besides of which I have no more to say, leastwise just now,And so, goes to my children’s school and ’umbly makes my bow.
Eversley, 1857.