Dante, sole standing on the heavenward height,Beheld and heard one saying, "Behold me well:I am, I am Beatrice." Heaven and hellKept silence, and the illimitable lightOf all the stars was darkness in his sightWhose eyes beheld her eyes again, and fellShame-stricken. Since her soul took flight to dwellIn heaven, six hundred years have taken flight.And now that heavenliest part of earth whereonShines yet their shadow as once their presence shoneTo her bears witness for his sake, as heFor hers bare witness when her face was gone:No slave, no hospice now for grief—but freeFrom shore to mountain and from Alp to sea.
Dante, sole standing on the heavenward height,Beheld and heard one saying, "Behold me well:I am, I am Beatrice." Heaven and hellKept silence, and the illimitable lightOf all the stars was darkness in his sightWhose eyes beheld her eyes again, and fellShame-stricken. Since her soul took flight to dwellIn heaven, six hundred years have taken flight.
And now that heavenliest part of earth whereonShines yet their shadow as once their presence shoneTo her bears witness for his sake, as heFor hers bare witness when her face was gone:No slave, no hospice now for grief—but freeFrom shore to mountain and from Alp to sea.
INot from without us, only from within,Comes or can ever come upon us lightWhereby the soul keeps ever truth in sight.No truth, no strength, no comfort man may win,No grace for guidance, no release from sin,Save of his own soul's giving. Deep and brightAs fire enkindled in the core of nightBurns in the soul where once its fire has beenThe light that leads and quickens thought, inspiredTo doubt and trust and conquer. So he saidWhom Sidney, flower of England, lordliest headOf all we love, loved: but the fates requiredA sacrifice to hate and hell, ere fameShould set with his in heaven Giordano's name.IICover thine eyes and weep, O child of hell,Grey spouse of Satan, Church of name abhorred.Weep, withered harlot, with thy weeping lord,Now none will buy the heaven thou hast to sellAt price of prostituted souls, and swellThy loveless list of lovers. Fire and swordNo more are thine: the steel, the wheel, the cord,The flames that rose round living limbs, and fellIn lifeless ash and ember, now no moreApprove thee godlike. Rome, redeemed at lastFrom all the red pollution of thy past,Acclaims the grave bright face that smiled of yoreEven on the fire that caught it round and clombTo cast its ashes on the face of Rome.June 9, 1889.
I
Not from without us, only from within,Comes or can ever come upon us lightWhereby the soul keeps ever truth in sight.No truth, no strength, no comfort man may win,No grace for guidance, no release from sin,Save of his own soul's giving. Deep and brightAs fire enkindled in the core of nightBurns in the soul where once its fire has beenThe light that leads and quickens thought, inspiredTo doubt and trust and conquer. So he saidWhom Sidney, flower of England, lordliest headOf all we love, loved: but the fates requiredA sacrifice to hate and hell, ere fameShould set with his in heaven Giordano's name.
II
Cover thine eyes and weep, O child of hell,Grey spouse of Satan, Church of name abhorred.Weep, withered harlot, with thy weeping lord,Now none will buy the heaven thou hast to sellAt price of prostituted souls, and swellThy loveless list of lovers. Fire and swordNo more are thine: the steel, the wheel, the cord,The flames that rose round living limbs, and fellIn lifeless ash and ember, now no moreApprove thee godlike. Rome, redeemed at lastFrom all the red pollution of thy past,Acclaims the grave bright face that smiled of yoreEven on the fire that caught it round and clombTo cast its ashes on the face of Rome.
June 9, 1889.
He should have followed who goes forth before us,Last born of us in life, in death first-born:The last to lift up eyes against the morn,The first to see the sunset. Life, that bore usPerchance for death to comfort and restore us,Of him hath left us here awhile forlorn,For him is as a garment overworn,And time and change, with suns and stars in chorus,Silent. But if, beyond all change or time,A law more just, more equal, more sublimeThan sways the surge of life's loud sterile seaSways that still world whose peace environs him,Where death lies dead as night when stars wax dim,Above all thought or hope of ours is he.August 2, 1891.
He should have followed who goes forth before us,Last born of us in life, in death first-born:The last to lift up eyes against the morn,The first to see the sunset. Life, that bore usPerchance for death to comfort and restore us,Of him hath left us here awhile forlorn,For him is as a garment overworn,And time and change, with suns and stars in chorus,Silent. But if, beyond all change or time,A law more just, more equal, more sublimeThan sways the surge of life's loud sterile seaSways that still world whose peace environs him,Where death lies dead as night when stars wax dim,Above all thought or hope of ours is he.
August 2, 1891.
As a vesture shalt thou change them, said the prophet,And the raiment that was flesh is turned to dust;Dust and flesh and dust again the likeness of it,And the fine gold woven and worn of youth is rust.Hours that wax and wane salute the shade and scoff it,That it knows not aught it doth nor aught it must:Day by day the speeding soul makes haste to doff it,Night by night the pride of life resigns its trust.Sleep, whose silent notes of song loud life's derange not,Takes the trust in hand awhile as angels may:Joy with wings that rest not, grief with wings that range not,Guard the gates of sleep and waking, gold or grey.Joys that joys estrange, and griefs that griefs estrange not,Day that yearns for night, and night that yearns for day,As a vesture shalt thou change them, and they change not,Seeing that change may never change or pass away.Life of death makes question, "What art thou that changest?What am I, that fear should trust or faith should doubt?I that lighten, thou that darkenest and estrangest,Is it night or day that girds us round about?Light and darkness on the ways wherein thou rangestSeem as one, and beams as clouds they put to rout.Strange is hope, but fear of all things born were strangest,Seeing that none may strive with change to cast it out."Change alone stands fast, thou sayest, O death: I know not:What art thou, my brother death, that thou shouldst know?Men may reap no fruits of fields wherein they sow not;Hope or fear is all the seed we have to sow.Winter seals the sacred springs up that they flow not:Wind and sun and change unbind them, and they flow.Am I thou or art thou I? The years that show notPass, and leave no sign when time shall be to show."Hope makes suit to faith lest fear give ear to sorrow:Doubt strews dust upon his head, and goes his way.All the golden hope that life of death would borrow,How, if death require again, may life repay?Earth endures no darkness whence no light yearns thorough;God in man as light in darkness lives, they say:Yet, would midnight take assurance of the morrow,Who shall pledge the faith or seal the bond of day?Darkness, mute or loud with music or with mourning,Starry darkness, winged with wind or clothed with calm,Dreams no dream of grief or fear or wrath or warning,Bears no sign of race or goal or strife or palm.Word of blessing, word of mocking or of scorning,Knows it none, nor whence its breath sheds blight or balm.Yet a little while, and hark, the psalm of morning:Yet a little while, and silence takes the psalm.All the comfort, all the worship, all the wonder,All the light of love that darkness holds in fee,All the song that silence keeps or keeps not under,Night, the soul that knows gives thanks for all to thee.Far beyond the gates that morning strikes in sunder,Hopes that grief makes holy, dreams that fear sets free,Far above the throne of thought, the lair of thunder,Silent shines the word whose utterance fills the sea.
As a vesture shalt thou change them, said the prophet,And the raiment that was flesh is turned to dust;Dust and flesh and dust again the likeness of it,And the fine gold woven and worn of youth is rust.Hours that wax and wane salute the shade and scoff it,That it knows not aught it doth nor aught it must:Day by day the speeding soul makes haste to doff it,Night by night the pride of life resigns its trust.
Sleep, whose silent notes of song loud life's derange not,Takes the trust in hand awhile as angels may:Joy with wings that rest not, grief with wings that range not,Guard the gates of sleep and waking, gold or grey.Joys that joys estrange, and griefs that griefs estrange not,Day that yearns for night, and night that yearns for day,As a vesture shalt thou change them, and they change not,Seeing that change may never change or pass away.
Life of death makes question, "What art thou that changest?What am I, that fear should trust or faith should doubt?I that lighten, thou that darkenest and estrangest,Is it night or day that girds us round about?Light and darkness on the ways wherein thou rangestSeem as one, and beams as clouds they put to rout.Strange is hope, but fear of all things born were strangest,Seeing that none may strive with change to cast it out.
"Change alone stands fast, thou sayest, O death: I know not:What art thou, my brother death, that thou shouldst know?Men may reap no fruits of fields wherein they sow not;Hope or fear is all the seed we have to sow.Winter seals the sacred springs up that they flow not:Wind and sun and change unbind them, and they flow.Am I thou or art thou I? The years that show notPass, and leave no sign when time shall be to show."
Hope makes suit to faith lest fear give ear to sorrow:Doubt strews dust upon his head, and goes his way.All the golden hope that life of death would borrow,How, if death require again, may life repay?Earth endures no darkness whence no light yearns thorough;God in man as light in darkness lives, they say:Yet, would midnight take assurance of the morrow,Who shall pledge the faith or seal the bond of day?
Darkness, mute or loud with music or with mourning,Starry darkness, winged with wind or clothed with calm,Dreams no dream of grief or fear or wrath or warning,Bears no sign of race or goal or strife or palm.Word of blessing, word of mocking or of scorning,Knows it none, nor whence its breath sheds blight or balm.Yet a little while, and hark, the psalm of morning:Yet a little while, and silence takes the psalm.
All the comfort, all the worship, all the wonder,All the light of love that darkness holds in fee,All the song that silence keeps or keeps not under,Night, the soul that knows gives thanks for all to thee.Far beyond the gates that morning strikes in sunder,Hopes that grief makes holy, dreams that fear sets free,Far above the throne of thought, the lair of thunder,Silent shines the word whose utterance fills the sea.
A life more bright than the sun's face, bowedThrough stress of season and coil of cloud,Sets: and the sorrow that casts out fearScarce deems him dead in his chill still shroud,Dead on the breast of the dying year,Poet and painter and friend, thrice dearFor love of the suns long set, for loveOf song that sets not with sunset here,For love of the fervent heart, aboveTheir sense who saw not the swift light moveThat filled with sense of the loud sun's lyreThe thoughts that passion was fain to proveIn fervent labour of high desireAnd faith that leapt from its own quenched pyreAlive and strong as the sun, and caughtFrom darkness light, and from twilight fire.Passion, deep as the depths unsoughtWhence faith's own hope may redeem us nought,Filled full with ardour of pain sublimeHis mourning song and his mounting thought.Elate with sense of a sterner time,His hand's flight clomb as a bird's might climbCalvary: dark in the darkling airThat shrank for fear of the crowning crime,Three crosses rose on the hillside bare,Shown scarce by grace of the lightning's glareThat clove the veil of the temple throughAnd smote the priests on the threshold there.The soul that saw it, the hand that drew,Whence light as thought's or as faith's glance flew,And stung to life the sepulchral past,And bade the stars of it burn anew,Held no less than the dead world fastThe light live shadows about them cast,The likeness living of dawn and night,The days that pass and the dreams that last.Thought, clothed round with sorrow as light,Dark as a cloud that the moon turns bright,Moved, as a wind on the striving sea,That yearns and quickens and flags in flight,Through forms of colour and song that heWho fain would have set its wide wings freeCast round it, clothing or chaining hopeWith lights that last not and shades that flee.Scarce in song could his soul find scope,Scarce the strength of his hand might opeArt's inmost gate of her sovereign shrine,To cope with heaven as a man may cope.But high as the hope of a man may shineThe faith, the fervour, the life divineThat thrills our life and transfigures, roseAnd shone resurgent, a sunbright sign,Through shapes whereunder the strong soul glowsAnd fills them full as a sunlit roseWith sense and fervour of life, whose lightThe fool's eye knows not, the man's eye knows.None that can read or divine arightThe scriptures writ of the soul may slightThe strife of a strenuous soul to showMore than the craft of the hand may write.None may slight it, and none may knowHow high the flames that aspire and glowFrom heart and spirit and soul may climbAnd triumph; higher than the souls lie lowWhose hearing hears not the livelong rhyme,Whose eyesight sees not the light sublime,That shines, that sounds, that ascends and livesUnquenched of change, unobscured of time.A long life's length, as a man's life givesSpace for the spirit that soars and strivesTo strive and soar, has the soul shone throughThat heeds not whither the world's wind drivesNow that the days and the ways it knewAre strange, are dead as the dawn's grey dewAt high midnoon of the mounting dayThat mocks the might of the dawn it slew.Yet haply may not—and haply may—No sense abide of the dead sun's rayWherein the soul that outsoars us nowRejoiced with ours in its radiant sway.Hope may hover, and doubt may bow,Dreaming. Haply—they dream not how—Not life but death may indeed be deadWhen silence darkens the dead man's brow.Hope, whose name is remembrance, fedWith love that lightens from seasons fled,Dreams, and craves not indeed to know,That death and life are as souls that wed.But change that falls on the heart like snowCan chill not memory nor hope, that showThe soul, the spirit, the heart and head,Alive above us who strive below.
A life more bright than the sun's face, bowedThrough stress of season and coil of cloud,Sets: and the sorrow that casts out fearScarce deems him dead in his chill still shroud,
Dead on the breast of the dying year,Poet and painter and friend, thrice dearFor love of the suns long set, for loveOf song that sets not with sunset here,
For love of the fervent heart, aboveTheir sense who saw not the swift light moveThat filled with sense of the loud sun's lyreThe thoughts that passion was fain to prove
In fervent labour of high desireAnd faith that leapt from its own quenched pyreAlive and strong as the sun, and caughtFrom darkness light, and from twilight fire.
Passion, deep as the depths unsoughtWhence faith's own hope may redeem us nought,Filled full with ardour of pain sublimeHis mourning song and his mounting thought.
Elate with sense of a sterner time,His hand's flight clomb as a bird's might climbCalvary: dark in the darkling airThat shrank for fear of the crowning crime,
Three crosses rose on the hillside bare,Shown scarce by grace of the lightning's glareThat clove the veil of the temple throughAnd smote the priests on the threshold there.
The soul that saw it, the hand that drew,Whence light as thought's or as faith's glance flew,And stung to life the sepulchral past,And bade the stars of it burn anew,
Held no less than the dead world fastThe light live shadows about them cast,The likeness living of dawn and night,The days that pass and the dreams that last.
Thought, clothed round with sorrow as light,Dark as a cloud that the moon turns bright,Moved, as a wind on the striving sea,That yearns and quickens and flags in flight,
Through forms of colour and song that heWho fain would have set its wide wings freeCast round it, clothing or chaining hopeWith lights that last not and shades that flee.
Scarce in song could his soul find scope,Scarce the strength of his hand might opeArt's inmost gate of her sovereign shrine,To cope with heaven as a man may cope.
But high as the hope of a man may shineThe faith, the fervour, the life divineThat thrills our life and transfigures, roseAnd shone resurgent, a sunbright sign,
Through shapes whereunder the strong soul glowsAnd fills them full as a sunlit roseWith sense and fervour of life, whose lightThe fool's eye knows not, the man's eye knows.
None that can read or divine arightThe scriptures writ of the soul may slightThe strife of a strenuous soul to showMore than the craft of the hand may write.
None may slight it, and none may knowHow high the flames that aspire and glowFrom heart and spirit and soul may climbAnd triumph; higher than the souls lie low
Whose hearing hears not the livelong rhyme,Whose eyesight sees not the light sublime,That shines, that sounds, that ascends and livesUnquenched of change, unobscured of time.
A long life's length, as a man's life givesSpace for the spirit that soars and strivesTo strive and soar, has the soul shone throughThat heeds not whither the world's wind drives
Now that the days and the ways it knewAre strange, are dead as the dawn's grey dewAt high midnoon of the mounting dayThat mocks the might of the dawn it slew.
Yet haply may not—and haply may—No sense abide of the dead sun's rayWherein the soul that outsoars us nowRejoiced with ours in its radiant sway.
Hope may hover, and doubt may bow,Dreaming. Haply—they dream not how—Not life but death may indeed be deadWhen silence darkens the dead man's brow.
Hope, whose name is remembrance, fedWith love that lightens from seasons fled,Dreams, and craves not indeed to know,That death and life are as souls that wed.
But change that falls on the heart like snowCan chill not memory nor hope, that showThe soul, the spirit, the heart and head,Alive above us who strive below.
Many waters cannot quench love,Neither can the floods drown it.Who shall snare or slay the white doveFaith, whose very dreams crown it,Gird it round with grace and peace, deep,Warm, and pure, and soft as sweet sleep?Many waters cannot quench love,Neither can the floods drown it.Set me as a seal upon thine heart,As a seal upon thine arm.How should we behold the days departAnd the nights resign their charm?Love is as the soul: though hate and fearWaste and overthrow, they strike not here.Set me as a seal upon thine heart,As a seal upon thine arm.
Many waters cannot quench love,Neither can the floods drown it.Who shall snare or slay the white doveFaith, whose very dreams crown it,Gird it round with grace and peace, deep,Warm, and pure, and soft as sweet sleep?Many waters cannot quench love,Neither can the floods drown it.
Set me as a seal upon thine heart,As a seal upon thine arm.How should we behold the days departAnd the nights resign their charm?Love is as the soul: though hate and fearWaste and overthrow, they strike not here.Set me as a seal upon thine heart,As a seal upon thine arm.
If the rose of all flowers be the rarestThat heaven may adore from above,And the fervent moss-rose be the fairestThat sweetens the summer with love,Can it be that a fairer than anyShould blossom afar from the tree?Yet one, and a symbol of many,Shone sudden for eyes that could see.In the grime and the gloom of NovemberThe bliss and the bloom of JulyBade autumn rejoice and rememberThe balm of the blossoms gone by.Would you know what moss-rose now it may beThat puts all the rest to the blush,The flower was the face of a baby,The moss was a bonnet of plush.
If the rose of all flowers be the rarestThat heaven may adore from above,And the fervent moss-rose be the fairestThat sweetens the summer with love,
Can it be that a fairer than anyShould blossom afar from the tree?Yet one, and a symbol of many,Shone sudden for eyes that could see.
In the grime and the gloom of NovemberThe bliss and the bloom of JulyBade autumn rejoice and rememberThe balm of the blossoms gone by.
Would you know what moss-rose now it may beThat puts all the rest to the blush,The flower was the face of a baby,The moss was a bonnet of plush.
IStately, kindly, lordly friend,CondescendHere to sit by me, and turnGlorious eyes that smile and burn,Golden eyes, love's lustrous meed,On the golden page I read.All your wondrous wealth of hair,Dark and fair,Silken-shaggy, soft and brightAs the clouds and beams of night,Pays my reverent hand's caressBack with friendlier gentleness.Dogs may fawn on all and someAs they come;You, a friend of loftier mind,Answer friends alone in kind.Just your foot upon my handSoftly bids it understand.Morning round this silent sweetGarden-seatSheds its wealth of gathering light,Thrills the gradual clouds with might,Changes woodland, orchard, heath,Lawn, and garden there beneath.Fair and dim they gleamed below:Now they glowDeep as even your sunbright eyes,Fair as even the wakening skies.Can it not or can it beNow that you give thanks to see?May not you rejoice as I,Seeing the skyChange to heaven revealed, and bidEarth reveal the heaven it hidAll night long from stars and moon,Now the sun sets all in tune?What within you wakes with dayWho can say?All too little may we tell,Friends who like each other well,What might haply, if we might,Bid us read our lives aright.IIWild on woodland ways your siresFlashed like fires;Fair as flame and fierce and fleetAs with wings on wingless feetShone and sprang your mother, free,Bright and brave as wind or sea.Free and proud and glad as they,Here to-dayRests or roams their radiant child,Vanquished not, but reconciled,Free from curb of aught aboveSave the lovely curb of love.Love through dreams of souls divineFain would shineRound a dawn whose light and songThen should right our mutual wrong—Speak, and seal the love-lit lawSweet Assisi's seer foresaw.Dreams were theirs; yet haply mayDawn a dayWhen such friends and fellows born,Seeing our earth as fair at morn,May for wiser love's sake seeMore of heaven's deep heart than we.
I
Stately, kindly, lordly friend,CondescendHere to sit by me, and turnGlorious eyes that smile and burn,Golden eyes, love's lustrous meed,On the golden page I read.
All your wondrous wealth of hair,Dark and fair,Silken-shaggy, soft and brightAs the clouds and beams of night,Pays my reverent hand's caressBack with friendlier gentleness.
Dogs may fawn on all and someAs they come;You, a friend of loftier mind,Answer friends alone in kind.Just your foot upon my handSoftly bids it understand.
Morning round this silent sweetGarden-seatSheds its wealth of gathering light,Thrills the gradual clouds with might,Changes woodland, orchard, heath,Lawn, and garden there beneath.
Fair and dim they gleamed below:Now they glowDeep as even your sunbright eyes,Fair as even the wakening skies.Can it not or can it beNow that you give thanks to see?
May not you rejoice as I,Seeing the skyChange to heaven revealed, and bidEarth reveal the heaven it hidAll night long from stars and moon,Now the sun sets all in tune?
What within you wakes with dayWho can say?All too little may we tell,Friends who like each other well,What might haply, if we might,Bid us read our lives aright.
II
Wild on woodland ways your siresFlashed like fires;Fair as flame and fierce and fleetAs with wings on wingless feetShone and sprang your mother, free,Bright and brave as wind or sea.
Free and proud and glad as they,Here to-dayRests or roams their radiant child,Vanquished not, but reconciled,Free from curb of aught aboveSave the lovely curb of love.
Love through dreams of souls divineFain would shineRound a dawn whose light and songThen should right our mutual wrong—Speak, and seal the love-lit lawSweet Assisi's seer foresaw.
Dreams were theirs; yet haply mayDawn a dayWhen such friends and fellows born,Seeing our earth as fair at morn,May for wiser love's sake seeMore of heaven's deep heart than we.
All the golden air is full of balm and bloomWhere the hawthorns line the shelving dyke with flowers.Joyous children born of April's happiest hours,High and low they laugh and lighten, knowing their doomBright as brief—to bless and cheer they know not whom,Heed not how, but washed and warmed with suns and showersSmile, and bid the sweet soft gradual banks and bowersThrill with love of sunlit fire or starry gloom.All our moors and lawns all round rejoice; but hereAll the rapturous resurrection of the yearFinds the radiant utterance perfect, sees the wordSpoken, hears the light that speaks it. Far and near,All the world is heaven: and man and flower and birdHere are one at heart with all things seen and heard.
All the golden air is full of balm and bloomWhere the hawthorns line the shelving dyke with flowers.Joyous children born of April's happiest hours,High and low they laugh and lighten, knowing their doomBright as brief—to bless and cheer they know not whom,Heed not how, but washed and warmed with suns and showersSmile, and bid the sweet soft gradual banks and bowersThrill with love of sunlit fire or starry gloom.All our moors and lawns all round rejoice; but hereAll the rapturous resurrection of the yearFinds the radiant utterance perfect, sees the wordSpoken, hears the light that speaks it. Far and near,All the world is heaven: and man and flower and birdHere are one at heart with all things seen and heard.
There were twa brethren fell on strife;Sweet fruits are sair to gather:The tane has reft his brother of life;And the wind wears owre the heather.There were twa brethren fell to fray;Sweet fruits are sair to gather:The tane is clad in a cloak of clay;And the wind wears owre the heather.O loud and loud was the live man's cry,(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"Would God the dead and the slain were I!"And the wind wears owre the heather."O sair was the wrang and sair the fray,"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"But liefer had love be slain than slay."And the wind wears owre the heather."O sweet is the life that sleeps at hame,"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"But I maun wake on a far sea's faem."And the wind wears owre the heather."And women are fairest of a' things fair,"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"But never shall I kiss woman mair."And the wind wears owre the heather.Between the birk and the aik and the thorn(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)He's laid his brother to lie forlorn:And the wind wears owre the heather.Between the bent and the burn and the broom(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)He's laid him to sleep till dawn of doom:And the wind wears owre the heather.He's tane him owre the waters wide,(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)Afar to fleet and afar to bide:And the wind wears owre the heather.His hair was yellow, his cheek was red,(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)When he set his face to the wind and fled:And the wind wears owre the heather.His banes were stark and his een were bright(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)When he set his face to the sea by night:And the wind wears owre the heather.His cheek was wan and his hair was grey(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)When he came back hame frae the wide world's way:And the wind wears owre the heather.His banes were weary, his een were dim,(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)And nae man lived and had mind of him:And the wind wears owre the heather."O whatten a wreck wad they seek on land"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"That they houk the turf to the seaward hand?"And the wind wears owre the heather."O whatten a prey wad they think to take"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"That they delve the dykes for a dead man's sake?"And the wind wears owre the heather.A bane of the dead in his hand he's tane;Sweet fruits are sair to gather:And the red blood brak frae the dead white bane.And the wind wears owre the heather.He's cast it forth of his auld faint hand;Sweet fruits are sair to gather:And the red blood ran on the wan wet sand.And the wind wears owre the heather."O whatten a slayer is this," they said,(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"That the straik of his hand should raise his dead?"And the wind wears owre the heather."O weel is me for the sign I take"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"That now I may die for my auld sin's sake."And the wind wears owre the heather."For the dead was in wait now fifty year,"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"And now shall I die for his blood's sake here."And the wind wears owre the heather.
There were twa brethren fell on strife;Sweet fruits are sair to gather:The tane has reft his brother of life;And the wind wears owre the heather.
There were twa brethren fell to fray;Sweet fruits are sair to gather:The tane is clad in a cloak of clay;And the wind wears owre the heather.
O loud and loud was the live man's cry,(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"Would God the dead and the slain were I!"And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O sair was the wrang and sair the fray,"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"But liefer had love be slain than slay."And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O sweet is the life that sleeps at hame,"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"But I maun wake on a far sea's faem."And the wind wears owre the heather.
"And women are fairest of a' things fair,"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"But never shall I kiss woman mair."And the wind wears owre the heather.
Between the birk and the aik and the thorn(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)He's laid his brother to lie forlorn:And the wind wears owre the heather.
Between the bent and the burn and the broom(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)He's laid him to sleep till dawn of doom:And the wind wears owre the heather.
He's tane him owre the waters wide,(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)Afar to fleet and afar to bide:And the wind wears owre the heather.
His hair was yellow, his cheek was red,(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)When he set his face to the wind and fled:And the wind wears owre the heather.
His banes were stark and his een were bright(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)When he set his face to the sea by night:And the wind wears owre the heather.
His cheek was wan and his hair was grey(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)When he came back hame frae the wide world's way:And the wind wears owre the heather.
His banes were weary, his een were dim,(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)And nae man lived and had mind of him:And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O whatten a wreck wad they seek on land"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"That they houk the turf to the seaward hand?"And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O whatten a prey wad they think to take"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"That they delve the dykes for a dead man's sake?"And the wind wears owre the heather.
A bane of the dead in his hand he's tane;Sweet fruits are sair to gather:And the red blood brak frae the dead white bane.And the wind wears owre the heather.
He's cast it forth of his auld faint hand;Sweet fruits are sair to gather:And the red blood ran on the wan wet sand.And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O whatten a slayer is this," they said,(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"That the straik of his hand should raise his dead?"And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O weel is me for the sign I take"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"That now I may die for my auld sin's sake."And the wind wears owre the heather.
"For the dead was in wait now fifty year,"(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)"And now shall I die for his blood's sake here."And the wind wears owre the heather.
Now who will speak, and lie not,And pledge not life, but give?Slaves herd with herded cattle:The dawn grows bright for battle,And if we die, we die not;And if we live, we live.The faith our fathers fought for,The kings our fathers knew,We fight but as they fought for:We seek the goal they sought for,The chance they hailed and knew,The praise they strove and wrought for,To leave their blood as dewOn fields that flower anew.Men live that serve the stranger;Hounds live that huntsmen tame:These life-days of our livingAre days of God's good givingWhere death smiles soft on dangerAnd life scowls dark on shame.And what would you do other,Sweet wife, if you were I?And how should you be other,My sister, than your brother,If you were man as I,Born of our sire and mother,With choice to cower and fly,And chance to strike and die?No churl's our oldworld name is,The lands we leave are fair:But fairer far than these are,But wide as all the seas are,But high as heaven the fame isThat if we die we share.Our name the night may swallow,Our lands the churl may take:But night nor death may swallow,Nor hell's nor heaven's dim hollow,The star whose height we take,The star whose light we followFor faith's unfaltering sakeTill hope that sleeps awake.Soft hope's light lure we serve not,Nor follow, fain to find:Dark time's last word may smite herDead, ere man's falsehood blight her,But though she die, we swerve not,Who cast not eye behind.Faith speaks when hope dissembles:Faith lives when hope lies dead:If death as life dissembles,And all that night assemblesOf stars at dawn lie dead,Faint hope that smiles and tremblesMay tell not well for dread:But faith has heard it said.Now who will fight, and fly not,And grudge not life to give?And who will strike beside us,If life's or death's light guide us?For if we live, we die not,And if we die, we live.
Now who will speak, and lie not,And pledge not life, but give?Slaves herd with herded cattle:The dawn grows bright for battle,And if we die, we die not;And if we live, we live.
The faith our fathers fought for,The kings our fathers knew,We fight but as they fought for:We seek the goal they sought for,The chance they hailed and knew,The praise they strove and wrought for,To leave their blood as dewOn fields that flower anew.
Men live that serve the stranger;Hounds live that huntsmen tame:These life-days of our livingAre days of God's good givingWhere death smiles soft on dangerAnd life scowls dark on shame.
And what would you do other,Sweet wife, if you were I?And how should you be other,My sister, than your brother,If you were man as I,Born of our sire and mother,With choice to cower and fly,And chance to strike and die?
No churl's our oldworld name is,The lands we leave are fair:But fairer far than these are,But wide as all the seas are,But high as heaven the fame isThat if we die we share.
Our name the night may swallow,Our lands the churl may take:But night nor death may swallow,Nor hell's nor heaven's dim hollow,The star whose height we take,The star whose light we followFor faith's unfaltering sakeTill hope that sleeps awake.
Soft hope's light lure we serve not,Nor follow, fain to find:Dark time's last word may smite herDead, ere man's falsehood blight her,But though she die, we swerve not,Who cast not eye behind.
Faith speaks when hope dissembles:Faith lives when hope lies dead:If death as life dissembles,And all that night assemblesOf stars at dawn lie dead,Faint hope that smiles and tremblesMay tell not well for dread:But faith has heard it said.
Now who will fight, and fly not,And grudge not life to give?And who will strike beside us,If life's or death's light guide us?For if we live, we die not,And if we die, we live.
The sea swings owre the slants of sand,All white with winds that drive;The sea swirls up to the still dim strand,Where nae man comes alive.At the grey soft edge of the fruitless surfA light flame sinks and springs;At the grey soft rim of the flowerless turfA low flame leaps and clings.What light is this on a sunless shore,What gleam on a starless sea?Was it earth's or hell's waste womb that boreSuch births as should not be?As lithe snakes turning, as bright stars burning,They bicker and beckon and call;As wild waves churning, as wild winds yearning,They flicker and climb and fall.A soft strange cry from the landward rings—"What ails the sea to shine?"A keen sweet note from the spray's rim springs—"What fires are these of thine?"A soul am I that was born on earthFor ae day's waesome span:Death bound me fast on the bourn of birthEre I were christened man."A light by night, I fleet and fareTill the day of wrath and woe;On the hems of earth and the skirts of airWinds hurl me to and fro.""O well is thee, though the weird be strangeThat bids thee flit and flee;For hope is child of the womb of change,And hope keeps watch with thee."When the years are gone, and the time is come,God's grace may give thee grace;And thy soul may sing, though thy soul were dumb,And shine before God's face."But I, that lighten and revel and rollWith the foam of the plunging sea,No sign is mine of a breathing soulThat God should pity me."Nor death, nor heaven, nor hell, nor birthHath part in me nor mine:Strong lords are these of the living earthAnd loveless lords of thine."But I that know nor lord nor lifeMore sure than storm or spray,Whose breath is made of sport and strife,Whereon shall I find stay?""And wouldst thou change thy doom with me,Full fain with thee would I:For the life that lightens and lifts the seaIs more than earth or sky."And what if the day of doubt and doomShall save nor smite not me?I would not rise from the slain world's tombIf there be no more sea."Take he my soul that gave my soul,And give it thee to keep;And me, while seas and stars shall rollThy life that falls on sleep."That word went up through the mirk mid sky,And even to God's own ear:And the Lord was ware of the keen twin cry,And wroth was he to hear.He's tane the soul of the unsained childThat fled to death from birth;He's tane the light of the wan sea wild,And bid it burn on earth.He's given the ghaist of the babe new-bornThe gift of the water-sprite,To ride on revel from morn to mornAnd roll from night to night.He's given the sprite of the wild wan seaThe gift of the new-born man,A soul for ever to bide and beWhen the years have filled their span.When a year was gone and a year was come,O loud and loud cried they—"For the lee-lang year thou hast held us dumbTake now thy gifts away!"O loud and lang they cried on him,And sair and sair they prayed:"Is the face of thy grace as the night's face grimFor those thy wrath has made?"A cry more bitter than tears of menFrom the rim of the dim grey sea;—"Give me my living soul again,The soul thou gavest me,The doom and the dole of kindly men,To bide my weird and be!"A cry more keen from the wild low landThan the wail of waves that roll;—"Take back the gift of a loveless hand,Thy gift of doom and dole,The weird of men that bide on land;Take from me, take my soul!"The hands that smite are the hands that spare;They build and break the tomb;They turn to darkness and dust and airThe fruits of the waste earth's womb;But never the gift of a granted prayer,The dole of a spoken doom.Winds may change at a word unheard,But none may change the tides:The prayer once heard is as God's own word;The doom once dealt abides.And ever a cry goes up by day,And ever a wail by night;And nae ship comes by the weary bayBut her shipmen hear them wail and pray,And see with earthly sightThe twofold flames of the twin lights playWhere the sea-banks green and the sea-floods greyAre proud of peril and fain of prey,And the sand quakes ever; and ill fare theyThat look upon that light.
The sea swings owre the slants of sand,All white with winds that drive;The sea swirls up to the still dim strand,Where nae man comes alive.
At the grey soft edge of the fruitless surfA light flame sinks and springs;At the grey soft rim of the flowerless turfA low flame leaps and clings.
What light is this on a sunless shore,What gleam on a starless sea?Was it earth's or hell's waste womb that boreSuch births as should not be?
As lithe snakes turning, as bright stars burning,They bicker and beckon and call;As wild waves churning, as wild winds yearning,They flicker and climb and fall.
A soft strange cry from the landward rings—"What ails the sea to shine?"A keen sweet note from the spray's rim springs—"What fires are these of thine?"
A soul am I that was born on earthFor ae day's waesome span:Death bound me fast on the bourn of birthEre I were christened man.
"A light by night, I fleet and fareTill the day of wrath and woe;On the hems of earth and the skirts of airWinds hurl me to and fro."
"O well is thee, though the weird be strangeThat bids thee flit and flee;For hope is child of the womb of change,And hope keeps watch with thee.
"When the years are gone, and the time is come,God's grace may give thee grace;And thy soul may sing, though thy soul were dumb,And shine before God's face.
"But I, that lighten and revel and rollWith the foam of the plunging sea,No sign is mine of a breathing soulThat God should pity me.
"Nor death, nor heaven, nor hell, nor birthHath part in me nor mine:Strong lords are these of the living earthAnd loveless lords of thine.
"But I that know nor lord nor lifeMore sure than storm or spray,Whose breath is made of sport and strife,Whereon shall I find stay?"
"And wouldst thou change thy doom with me,Full fain with thee would I:For the life that lightens and lifts the seaIs more than earth or sky.
"And what if the day of doubt and doomShall save nor smite not me?I would not rise from the slain world's tombIf there be no more sea.
"Take he my soul that gave my soul,And give it thee to keep;And me, while seas and stars shall rollThy life that falls on sleep."
That word went up through the mirk mid sky,And even to God's own ear:And the Lord was ware of the keen twin cry,And wroth was he to hear.
He's tane the soul of the unsained childThat fled to death from birth;He's tane the light of the wan sea wild,And bid it burn on earth.
He's given the ghaist of the babe new-bornThe gift of the water-sprite,To ride on revel from morn to mornAnd roll from night to night.
He's given the sprite of the wild wan seaThe gift of the new-born man,A soul for ever to bide and beWhen the years have filled their span.
When a year was gone and a year was come,O loud and loud cried they—"For the lee-lang year thou hast held us dumbTake now thy gifts away!"
O loud and lang they cried on him,And sair and sair they prayed:"Is the face of thy grace as the night's face grimFor those thy wrath has made?"
A cry more bitter than tears of menFrom the rim of the dim grey sea;—"Give me my living soul again,The soul thou gavest me,The doom and the dole of kindly men,To bide my weird and be!"
A cry more keen from the wild low landThan the wail of waves that roll;—"Take back the gift of a loveless hand,Thy gift of doom and dole,The weird of men that bide on land;Take from me, take my soul!"
The hands that smite are the hands that spare;They build and break the tomb;They turn to darkness and dust and airThe fruits of the waste earth's womb;But never the gift of a granted prayer,The dole of a spoken doom.
Winds may change at a word unheard,But none may change the tides:The prayer once heard is as God's own word;The doom once dealt abides.
And ever a cry goes up by day,And ever a wail by night;And nae ship comes by the weary bayBut her shipmen hear them wail and pray,And see with earthly sightThe twofold flames of the twin lights playWhere the sea-banks green and the sea-floods greyAre proud of peril and fain of prey,And the sand quakes ever; and ill fare theyThat look upon that light.
The sea of the years that endure notWhose tide shall endure till we dieAnd know what the seasons assure not,If death be or life be a lie,Sways hither the spirit and thither,A waif in the swing of the seaWhose wrecks are of memories that witherAs leaves of a tree.We hear not and hail not with greetingThe sound of the wings of the years,The storm of the sound of them beating,That none till it pass from him hears:But tempest nor calm can imperilThe treasures that fade not or fly;Change bids them not change and be sterile,Death bids them not die.Hearts plighted in youth to the royalHigh service of hope and of song,Sealed fast for endurance as loyal,And proved of the years as they throng,Conceive not, believe not, and fear notThat age may be other than youth;That faith and that friendship may hear notAnd utter not truth.Not yesterday's light nor to-morrow'sGleams nearer or clearer than gleams,Though joys be forgotten and sorrowsForgotten as changes of dreams,The dawn of the days unforgottenThat noon could eclipse not or slay,Whose fruits were as children begottenOf dawn upon day.The years that were flowerful and fruitless,The years that were fruitful and dark,The hopes that were radiant and rootless,The hopes that were winged for their mark,Lie soft in the sepulchres fashionedOf hours that arise and subside,Absorbed and subdued and impassioned,In pain or in pride.But far in the night that entombs themThe starshine as sunshine is strong,And clear through the cloud that resumes themRemembrance, a light and a song,Rings lustrous as music and hoversAs birds that impend on the sea,And thoughts that their prison-house coversArise and are free.Forgetfulness deep as a prisonHolds days that are dead for us fastTill the sepulchre sees rearisenThe spirit whose reign is the past,Disentrammelled of darkness, and kindledWith life that is mightier than death,When the life that obscured it has dwindledAnd passed as a breath.But time nor oblivion may darkenRemembrance whose name will be joyWhile memory forgets not to hearken,While manhood forgets not the boyWho heard and exulted in hearingThe songs of the sunrise of youthRing radiant above him, unfearingAnd joyous as truth.Truth, winged and enkindled with raptureAnd sense of the radiance of yore,Fulfilled you with power to recaptureWhat never might singer before—The life, the delight, and the sorrowOf troublous and chivalrous yearsThat knew not of night or of morrow,Of hopes or of fears.But wider the wing and the visionThat quicken the spirit have spreadSince memory beheld with derisionMan's hope to be more than his dead.From the mists and the snows and the thundersYour spirit has brought for us forthLight, music, and joy in the wondersAnd charms of the north.The wars and the woes and the gloriesThat quicken and lighten and rainFrom the clouds of its chronicled stories,The passion, the pride, and the pain,Whose echoes were mute and the tokenWas lost of the spells that they spake,Rise bright at your bidding, unbrokenOf ages that break.For you, and for none of us other,Time is not: the dead that must liveHold commune with you as a brotherBy grace of the life that you give.The heart that was in them is in you,Their soul in your spirit endures:The strength of their song is the sinewOf this that is yours.Hence is it that life, everlastingAs light and as music, abidesIn the sound of the surge of it, castingSound back to the surge of the tides,Till sons of the sons of the NorsemenWatch, hurtling to windward and lee,Round England, unbacked of her horsemen,The steeds of the sea.
The sea of the years that endure notWhose tide shall endure till we dieAnd know what the seasons assure not,If death be or life be a lie,Sways hither the spirit and thither,A waif in the swing of the seaWhose wrecks are of memories that witherAs leaves of a tree.
We hear not and hail not with greetingThe sound of the wings of the years,The storm of the sound of them beating,That none till it pass from him hears:But tempest nor calm can imperilThe treasures that fade not or fly;Change bids them not change and be sterile,Death bids them not die.
Hearts plighted in youth to the royalHigh service of hope and of song,Sealed fast for endurance as loyal,And proved of the years as they throng,Conceive not, believe not, and fear notThat age may be other than youth;That faith and that friendship may hear notAnd utter not truth.
Not yesterday's light nor to-morrow'sGleams nearer or clearer than gleams,Though joys be forgotten and sorrowsForgotten as changes of dreams,The dawn of the days unforgottenThat noon could eclipse not or slay,Whose fruits were as children begottenOf dawn upon day.
The years that were flowerful and fruitless,The years that were fruitful and dark,The hopes that were radiant and rootless,The hopes that were winged for their mark,Lie soft in the sepulchres fashionedOf hours that arise and subside,Absorbed and subdued and impassioned,In pain or in pride.
But far in the night that entombs themThe starshine as sunshine is strong,And clear through the cloud that resumes themRemembrance, a light and a song,Rings lustrous as music and hoversAs birds that impend on the sea,And thoughts that their prison-house coversArise and are free.
Forgetfulness deep as a prisonHolds days that are dead for us fastTill the sepulchre sees rearisenThe spirit whose reign is the past,Disentrammelled of darkness, and kindledWith life that is mightier than death,When the life that obscured it has dwindledAnd passed as a breath.
But time nor oblivion may darkenRemembrance whose name will be joyWhile memory forgets not to hearken,While manhood forgets not the boyWho heard and exulted in hearingThe songs of the sunrise of youthRing radiant above him, unfearingAnd joyous as truth.
Truth, winged and enkindled with raptureAnd sense of the radiance of yore,Fulfilled you with power to recaptureWhat never might singer before—The life, the delight, and the sorrowOf troublous and chivalrous yearsThat knew not of night or of morrow,Of hopes or of fears.
But wider the wing and the visionThat quicken the spirit have spreadSince memory beheld with derisionMan's hope to be more than his dead.From the mists and the snows and the thundersYour spirit has brought for us forthLight, music, and joy in the wondersAnd charms of the north.
The wars and the woes and the gloriesThat quicken and lighten and rainFrom the clouds of its chronicled stories,The passion, the pride, and the pain,Whose echoes were mute and the tokenWas lost of the spells that they spake,Rise bright at your bidding, unbrokenOf ages that break.
For you, and for none of us other,Time is not: the dead that must liveHold commune with you as a brotherBy grace of the life that you give.The heart that was in them is in you,Their soul in your spirit endures:The strength of their song is the sinewOf this that is yours.
Hence is it that life, everlastingAs light and as music, abidesIn the sound of the surge of it, castingSound back to the surge of the tides,Till sons of the sons of the NorsemenWatch, hurtling to windward and lee,Round England, unbacked of her horsemen,The steeds of the sea.