Tread lightly, she is nearUnder the snow,Speak gently, she can hearThe daisies grow.All her bright golden hairTarnished with rust,She that was young and fairFallen to dust.Lily-like, white as snow,She hardly knewShe was a woman, soSweetly she grew.Coffin-board, heavy stone,Lie on her breast;I vex my heart alone,She is at rest.Peace, peace; she cannot hearLyre or sonnet;All my life's buried here,Heap earth upon it.
Tread lightly, she is nearUnder the snow,Speak gently, she can hearThe daisies grow.
All her bright golden hairTarnished with rust,She that was young and fairFallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,She hardly knewShe was a woman, soSweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,Lie on her breast;I vex my heart alone,She is at rest.
Peace, peace; she cannot hearLyre or sonnet;All my life's buried here,Heap earth upon it.
The Thames nocturne of blue and goldChanged to a harmony in grey;A barge with ochre-coloured hayDropt from the wharf: and chill and coldThe yellow fog came creeping downThe bridges, till the houses' wallsSeemed changed to shadows, and St. Paul'sLoomed like a bubble o'er the town.Then suddenly arose the clangOf waking life; the streets were stirredWith country waggons; and a birdFlew to the glistening roofs and sang.But one pale woman all alone,The daylight kissing her wan hair,Loitered beneath the gas lamps' flare,With lips of flame and heart of stone.
The Thames nocturne of blue and goldChanged to a harmony in grey;A barge with ochre-coloured hayDropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
The yellow fog came creeping downThe bridges, till the houses' wallsSeemed changed to shadows, and St. Paul'sLoomed like a bubble o'er the town.
Then suddenly arose the clangOf waking life; the streets were stirredWith country waggons; and a birdFlew to the glistening roofs and sang.
But one pale woman all alone,The daylight kissing her wan hair,Loitered beneath the gas lamps' flare,With lips of flame and heart of stone.
John Davidson was born at Barrhead, Renfrewshire, in 1857. HisBallads and Songs(1895) andNew Ballads(1897) attained a sudden but too short-lived popularity, and his great promise was quenched by an apathetic public and by his own growing disillusion and despair. His sombre yet direct poetry never tired of repeating his favorite theme: "Man is but the Universe grown conscious."
Davidson died by his own hand in 1909.
'A letter from my love to-day!Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!'She struck a happy tear away,And broke the crimson seal.'My love, there is no help on earth,No help in heaven; the dead-man's bellMust toll our wedding; our first hearthMust be the well-paved floor of hell.'The colour died from out her face,Her eyes like ghostly candles shone;She cast dread looks about the place,Then clenched her teeth and read right on.'I may not pass the prison door;Here must I rot from day to day,Unless I wed whom I abhor,My cousin, Blanche of Valencay.'At midnight with my dagger keen,I'll take my life; it must be so.Meet me in hell to-night, my queen,For weal and woe.'She laughed although her face was wan,She girded on her golden belt,She took her jewelled ivory fan,And at her glowing missal knelt.Then rose, 'And am I mad?' she said:She broke her fan, her belt untied;With leather girt herself instead,And stuck a dagger at her side.She waited, shuddering in her room,Till sleep had fallen on all the house.She never flinched; she faced her doom:They two must sin to keep their vows.Then out into the night she went,And, stooping, crept by hedge and tree;Her rose-bush flung a snare of scent,And caught a happy memory.She fell, and lay a minute's space;She tore the sward in her distress;The dewy grass refreshed her face;She rose and ran with lifted dress.She started like a morn-caught ghostOnce when the moon came out and stoodTo watch; the naked road she crossed,And dived into the murmuring wood.The branches snatched her streaming cloak;A live thing shrieked; she made no stay!She hurried to the trysting-oak—Right well she knew the way.Without a pause she bared her breast,And drove her dagger home and fell,And lay like one that takes her rest,And died and wakened up in hell.She bathed her spirit in the flame,And near the centre took her post;From all sides to her ears there cameThe dreary anguish of the lost.The devil started at her side,Comely, and tall, and black as jet.'I am young Malespina's bride;Has he come hither yet?''My poppet, welcome to your bed.''Is Malespina here?''Not he! To-morrow he must wedHis cousin Blanche, my dear!''You lie, he died with me to-night.''Not he! it was a plot' ... 'You lie.''My dear, I never lie outright.''We died at midnight, he and I.'The devil went. Without a groanShe, gathered up in one fierce prayer,Took root in hell's midst all alone,And waited for him there.She dared to make herself at homeAmidst the wail, the uneasy stir.The blood-stained flame that filled the dome,Scentless and silent, shrouded her.How long she stayed I cannot tell;But when she felt his perfidy,She marched across the floor of hell;And all the damned stood up to see.The devil stopped her at the brink:She shook him off; she cried, 'Away!''My dear, you have gone mad, I think.''I was betrayed: I will not stay.'Across the weltering deep she ran;A stranger thing was never seen:The damned stood silent to a man;They saw the great gulf set between.To her it seemed a meadow fair;And flowers sprang up about her feetShe entered heaven; she climbed the stairAnd knelt down at the mercy-seat.Seraphs and saints with one great voiceWelcomed that soul that knew not fear.Amazed to find it could rejoice,Hell raised a hoarse, half-human cheer.
'A letter from my love to-day!Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!'She struck a happy tear away,And broke the crimson seal.
'My love, there is no help on earth,No help in heaven; the dead-man's bellMust toll our wedding; our first hearthMust be the well-paved floor of hell.'
The colour died from out her face,Her eyes like ghostly candles shone;She cast dread looks about the place,Then clenched her teeth and read right on.
'I may not pass the prison door;Here must I rot from day to day,Unless I wed whom I abhor,My cousin, Blanche of Valencay.
'At midnight with my dagger keen,I'll take my life; it must be so.Meet me in hell to-night, my queen,For weal and woe.'
She laughed although her face was wan,She girded on her golden belt,She took her jewelled ivory fan,And at her glowing missal knelt.
Then rose, 'And am I mad?' she said:She broke her fan, her belt untied;With leather girt herself instead,And stuck a dagger at her side.
She waited, shuddering in her room,Till sleep had fallen on all the house.She never flinched; she faced her doom:They two must sin to keep their vows.
Then out into the night she went,And, stooping, crept by hedge and tree;Her rose-bush flung a snare of scent,And caught a happy memory.
She fell, and lay a minute's space;She tore the sward in her distress;The dewy grass refreshed her face;She rose and ran with lifted dress.
She started like a morn-caught ghostOnce when the moon came out and stoodTo watch; the naked road she crossed,And dived into the murmuring wood.
The branches snatched her streaming cloak;A live thing shrieked; she made no stay!She hurried to the trysting-oak—Right well she knew the way.
Without a pause she bared her breast,And drove her dagger home and fell,And lay like one that takes her rest,And died and wakened up in hell.
She bathed her spirit in the flame,And near the centre took her post;From all sides to her ears there cameThe dreary anguish of the lost.
The devil started at her side,Comely, and tall, and black as jet.'I am young Malespina's bride;Has he come hither yet?'
'My poppet, welcome to your bed.''Is Malespina here?''Not he! To-morrow he must wedHis cousin Blanche, my dear!'
'You lie, he died with me to-night.''Not he! it was a plot' ... 'You lie.''My dear, I never lie outright.''We died at midnight, he and I.'
The devil went. Without a groanShe, gathered up in one fierce prayer,Took root in hell's midst all alone,And waited for him there.
She dared to make herself at homeAmidst the wail, the uneasy stir.The blood-stained flame that filled the dome,Scentless and silent, shrouded her.
How long she stayed I cannot tell;But when she felt his perfidy,She marched across the floor of hell;And all the damned stood up to see.
The devil stopped her at the brink:She shook him off; she cried, 'Away!''My dear, you have gone mad, I think.''I was betrayed: I will not stay.'
Across the weltering deep she ran;A stranger thing was never seen:The damned stood silent to a man;They saw the great gulf set between.
To her it seemed a meadow fair;And flowers sprang up about her feetShe entered heaven; she climbed the stairAnd knelt down at the mercy-seat.
Seraphs and saints with one great voiceWelcomed that soul that knew not fear.Amazed to find it could rejoice,Hell raised a hoarse, half-human cheer.
There is a dish to hold the sea,A brazier to contain the sun,A compass for the galaxy,A voice to wake the dead and done!That minister of ministers,Imagination, gathers upThe undiscovered Universe,Like jewels in a jasper cup.Its flame can mingle north and south;Its accent with the thunder strive;The ruddy sentence of its mouthCan make the ancient dead alive.The mart of power, the fount of will,The form and mould of every star,The source and bound of good and ill,The key of all the things that are,Imagination, new and strangeIn every age, can turn the year;Can shift the poles and lightly changeThe mood of men, the world's career.
There is a dish to hold the sea,A brazier to contain the sun,A compass for the galaxy,A voice to wake the dead and done!
That minister of ministers,Imagination, gathers upThe undiscovered Universe,Like jewels in a jasper cup.
Its flame can mingle north and south;Its accent with the thunder strive;The ruddy sentence of its mouthCan make the ancient dead alive.
The mart of power, the fount of will,The form and mould of every star,The source and bound of good and ill,The key of all the things that are,
Imagination, new and strangeIn every age, can turn the year;Can shift the poles and lightly changeThe mood of men, the world's career.
William Watson was born at Burley-in-Wharfedale, Yorkshire, August 2, 1858. He achieved his first wide success through his long and eloquent poems on Wordsworth, Shelley, and Tennyson—poems that attempted, and sometimes successfully, to combine the manners of these masters.The Hope of the World(1897) contains some of his most characteristic verse.
It was understood that he would be appointed poet laureate upon the death of Alfred Austin. But some of his radical and semi-political poems are supposed to have displeased the powers at Court, and the honor went to Robert Bridges. His best work, which is notable for its dignity and moulded imagination, may be found inSelected Poems, published in 1903 by John Lane Co.
Let me go forth, and shareThe overflowing SunWith one wise friend, or oneBetter than wise, being fair,Where the pewit wheels and dipsOn heights of bracken and ling,And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,Tingles with the Spring.What is so sweet and dearAs a prosperous morn in May,The confident prime of the day,And the dauntless youth of the year,When nothing that asks for bliss,Asking aright, is denied,And half of the world a bridegroom is,And half of the world a bride?The Song of Mingling flows,Grave, ceremonial, pure,As once, from lips that endure,The cosmic descant rose,When the temporal lord of life,Going his golden way,Had taken a wondrous maid to wifeThat long had said him nay.For of old the Sun, our sire,Came wooing the mother of men,Earth, that was virginal then,Vestal fire to his fire.Silent her bosom and coy,But the strong god sued and pressed;And born of their starry nuptial joyAre all that drink of her breast.And the triumph of him that begot,And the travail of her that bore,Behold, they are evermoreAs warp and weft in our lot.We are children of splendour and flame,Of shuddering, also, and tears.Magnificent out of the dust we came,And abject from the Spheres.O bright irresistible lord,We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one,And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,Whence first was the seed outpoured.To thee as our Father we bow,Forbidden thy Father to see,Who is older and greater than thou, as thouArt greater and older than we.Thou art but as a word of his speech,Thou art but as a wave of his hand;Thou art brief as a glitter of sand'Twixt tide and tide on his beach;Thou art less than a spark of his fire,Or a moment's mood of his soul:Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choirThat chant the chant of the Whole.
Let me go forth, and shareThe overflowing SunWith one wise friend, or oneBetter than wise, being fair,Where the pewit wheels and dipsOn heights of bracken and ling,And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,Tingles with the Spring.
What is so sweet and dearAs a prosperous morn in May,The confident prime of the day,And the dauntless youth of the year,When nothing that asks for bliss,Asking aright, is denied,And half of the world a bridegroom is,And half of the world a bride?
The Song of Mingling flows,Grave, ceremonial, pure,As once, from lips that endure,The cosmic descant rose,When the temporal lord of life,Going his golden way,Had taken a wondrous maid to wifeThat long had said him nay.
For of old the Sun, our sire,Came wooing the mother of men,Earth, that was virginal then,Vestal fire to his fire.Silent her bosom and coy,But the strong god sued and pressed;And born of their starry nuptial joyAre all that drink of her breast.
And the triumph of him that begot,And the travail of her that bore,Behold, they are evermoreAs warp and weft in our lot.We are children of splendour and flame,Of shuddering, also, and tears.Magnificent out of the dust we came,And abject from the Spheres.
O bright irresistible lord,We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one,And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,Whence first was the seed outpoured.To thee as our Father we bow,Forbidden thy Father to see,Who is older and greater than thou, as thouArt greater and older than we.
Thou art but as a word of his speech,Thou art but as a wave of his hand;Thou art brief as a glitter of sand'Twixt tide and tide on his beach;Thou art less than a spark of his fire,Or a moment's mood of his soul:Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choirThat chant the chant of the Whole.
So, without overt breach, we fall apart,Tacitly sunder—neither you nor IConscious of one intelligible Why,And both, from severance, winning equal smart.So, with resigned and acquiescent heart,Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie,I seem to see an alien shade pass by,A spirit wherein I have no lot or part.Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim,From casual speech betwixt his warders, learnThat June on her triumphal progress goesThrough arched and bannered woodlands; while for himShe is a legend emptied of concern,And idle is the rumour of the rose.
So, without overt breach, we fall apart,Tacitly sunder—neither you nor IConscious of one intelligible Why,And both, from severance, winning equal smart.So, with resigned and acquiescent heart,Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie,I seem to see an alien shade pass by,A spirit wherein I have no lot or part.
Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim,From casual speech betwixt his warders, learnThat June on her triumphal progress goesThrough arched and bannered woodlands; while for himShe is a legend emptied of concern,And idle is the rumour of the rose.
April, April,Laugh thy girlish laughter;Then, the moment after,Weep thy girlish tears,April, that mine earsLike a lover greetest,If I tell thee, sweetest,All my hopes and fears.April, April,Laugh thy golden laughter,But, the moment after,Weep thy golden tears!
April, April,Laugh thy girlish laughter;Then, the moment after,Weep thy girlish tears,April, that mine earsLike a lover greetest,If I tell thee, sweetest,All my hopes and fears.April, April,Laugh thy golden laughter,But, the moment after,Weep thy golden tears!
FOOTNOTES:[1]FromThe Hope of the Worldby William Watson. Copyright, 1897, by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.[2]FromThe Hope of the Worldby William Watson. Copyright, 1897, by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
[1]FromThe Hope of the Worldby William Watson. Copyright, 1897, by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
[1]FromThe Hope of the Worldby William Watson. Copyright, 1897, by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
[2]FromThe Hope of the Worldby William Watson. Copyright, 1897, by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
[2]FromThe Hope of the Worldby William Watson. Copyright, 1897, by John Lane Company. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
Born in 1859 at Preston, Francis Thompson was educated at Owen's College, Manchester. Later he tried all manner of strange ways of earning a living. He was, at various times, assistant in a boot-shop, medical student, collector for a book seller and homeless vagabond; there was a period in his life when he sold matches on the streets of London. He was discovered in terrible poverty (having given up everything except poetry and opium) by the editor of a magazine to which he had sent some verses the year before. Almost immediately thereafter he became famous. His exalted mysticism is seen at its purest in "A Fallen Yew" and "The Hound of Heaven." Coventry Patmore, the distinguished poet of an earlier period, says of the latter poem, which is unfortunately too long toquote, "It is one of the very fewgreatodes of which our language can boast."
Thompson died, after a fragile and spasmodic life, in St. John's Wood in November, 1907.
Where the thistle lifts a purple crownSix foot out of the turf,And the harebell shakes on the windy hill—O breath of the distant surf!—The hills look over on the South,And southward dreams the sea;And with the sea-breeze hand in handCame innocence and she.Where 'mid the gorse the raspberryRed for the gatherer springs;Two children did we stray and talkWise, idle, childish things.She listened with big-lipped surprise,Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:Her skin was like a grape whose veinsRun snow instead of wine.She knew not those sweet words she spake,Nor knew her own sweet way;But there's never a bird, so sweet a songThronged in whose throat all day.Oh, there were flowers in StorringtonOn the turf and on the spray;But the sweetest flower on Sussex hillsWas the Daisy-flower that day!Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.She gave me tokens three:—A look, a word of her winsome mouth,And a wild raspberry.A berry red, a guileless look,A still word,—strings of sand!And yet they made my wild, wild heartFly down to her little hand.For standing artless as the air,And candid as the skies,She took the berries with her hand,And the love with her sweet eyes.The fairest things have fleetest end,Their scent survives their close:But the rose's scent is bitternessTo him that loved the rose.She looked a little wistfully,Then went her sunshine way:—The sea's eye had a mist on it,And the leaves fell from the day.She went her unremembering way,She went and left in meThe pang of all the partings gone,And partings yet to be.She left me marvelling why my soulWas sad that she was glad;At all the sadness in the sweet,The sweetness in the sad.Still, still I seemed to see her, stillLook up with soft replies,And take the berries with her hand,And the love with her lovely eyes.Nothing begins, and nothing ends,That is not paid with moan,For we are born in other's pain,And perish in our own.
Where the thistle lifts a purple crownSix foot out of the turf,And the harebell shakes on the windy hill—O breath of the distant surf!—
The hills look over on the South,And southward dreams the sea;And with the sea-breeze hand in handCame innocence and she.
Where 'mid the gorse the raspberryRed for the gatherer springs;Two children did we stray and talkWise, idle, childish things.
She listened with big-lipped surprise,Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:Her skin was like a grape whose veinsRun snow instead of wine.
She knew not those sweet words she spake,Nor knew her own sweet way;But there's never a bird, so sweet a songThronged in whose throat all day.
Oh, there were flowers in StorringtonOn the turf and on the spray;But the sweetest flower on Sussex hillsWas the Daisy-flower that day!
Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.She gave me tokens three:—A look, a word of her winsome mouth,And a wild raspberry.
A berry red, a guileless look,A still word,—strings of sand!And yet they made my wild, wild heartFly down to her little hand.
For standing artless as the air,And candid as the skies,She took the berries with her hand,And the love with her sweet eyes.
The fairest things have fleetest end,Their scent survives their close:But the rose's scent is bitternessTo him that loved the rose.
She looked a little wistfully,Then went her sunshine way:—The sea's eye had a mist on it,And the leaves fell from the day.
She went her unremembering way,She went and left in meThe pang of all the partings gone,And partings yet to be.
She left me marvelling why my soulWas sad that she was glad;At all the sadness in the sweet,The sweetness in the sad.
Still, still I seemed to see her, stillLook up with soft replies,And take the berries with her hand,And the love with her lovely eyes.
Nothing begins, and nothing ends,That is not paid with moan,For we are born in other's pain,And perish in our own.
I fear to love thee, Sweet, becauseLove's the ambassador of loss;White flake of childhood, clinging soTo my soiled raiment, thy shy snowAt tenderest touch will shrink and go.Love me not, delightful child.My heart, by many snares beguiled,Has grown timorous and wild.It would fear thee not at all,Wert thou not so harmless-small.Because thy arrows, not yet dire,Are still unbarbed with destined fire,I fear thee more than hadst thou stoodFull-panoplied in womanhood.
I fear to love thee, Sweet, becauseLove's the ambassador of loss;White flake of childhood, clinging soTo my soiled raiment, thy shy snowAt tenderest touch will shrink and go.Love me not, delightful child.My heart, by many snares beguiled,Has grown timorous and wild.It would fear thee not at all,Wert thou not so harmless-small.Because thy arrows, not yet dire,Are still unbarbed with destined fire,I fear thee more than hadst thou stoodFull-panoplied in womanhood.
The hunchèd camels of the night[3]Trouble the brightAnd silver waters of the moon.The Maiden of the Morn will soonThrough Heaven stray and sing,Star gathering.Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.Leave thy father, leave thy motherAnd thy brother;Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!Am I not thy father and thy brother,And thy mother?And thou—what needest with thy tribe's blacktentsWho hast the red pavilion of my heart?
The hunchèd camels of the night[3]Trouble the brightAnd silver waters of the moon.The Maiden of the Morn will soonThrough Heaven stray and sing,Star gathering.
Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.
Leave thy father, leave thy motherAnd thy brother;Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!Am I not thy father and thy brother,And thy mother?And thou—what needest with thy tribe's blacktentsWho hast the red pavilion of my heart?
FOOTNOTES:[3](Cloud-shapes observed by travellers in the East.)
[3](Cloud-shapes observed by travellers in the East.)
[3](Cloud-shapes observed by travellers in the East.)
A. E. Housman was born March 26, 1859, and, after a classical education, he was, for ten years, a Higher Division Clerk in H. M. Patent Office. Later in life, he became a teacher.
Housman has published only one volume of original verse, but that volume (A Shropshire Lad) is known wherever modern English poetry is read. Originally published in 1896, when Housman was almost 37, it is evident that many of these lyrics were written when the poet was much younger. Echoing the frank pessimism of Hardy and the harder cynicism of Heine, Housman struck a lighter and more buoyant note. Underneath his dark ironies, there is a rustic humor that has many subtle variations. From a melodic standpoint,A Shropshire Ladis a collection of exquisite, haunting and almost perfect songs.
Housman has been a professor of Latin since 1892 and, besides his immortal set of lyrics, has edited Juvenal and the books of Manilius.
Wake: the silver dusk returningUp the beach of darkness brims,And the ship of sunrise burningStrands upon the eastern rims.Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,Trampled to the floor it spanned,And the tent of night in tattersStraws the sky-pavilioned land.Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:Hear the drums of morning play;Hark, the empty highways crying"Who'll beyond the hills away?"Towns and countries woo together,Forelands beacon, belfries call;Never lad that trod on leatherLived to feast his heart with all.Up, lad: thews that lie and cumberSunlit pallets never thrive;Morns abed and daylight slumberWere not meant for man alive.Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;Breath's a ware that will not keep.Up, lad: when the journey's overThere'll be time enough to sleep.
Wake: the silver dusk returningUp the beach of darkness brims,And the ship of sunrise burningStrands upon the eastern rims.
Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,Trampled to the floor it spanned,And the tent of night in tattersStraws the sky-pavilioned land.
Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:Hear the drums of morning play;Hark, the empty highways crying"Who'll beyond the hills away?"
Towns and countries woo together,Forelands beacon, belfries call;Never lad that trod on leatherLived to feast his heart with all.
Up, lad: thews that lie and cumberSunlit pallets never thrive;Morns abed and daylight slumberWere not meant for man alive.
Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;Breath's a ware that will not keep.Up, lad: when the journey's overThere'll be time enough to sleep.
When I was one-and-twentyI heard a wise man say,"Give crowns and pounds and guineasBut not your heart away;Give pearls away and rubiesBut keep your fancy free."But I was one-and-twenty,No use to talk to me.When I was one-and-twentyI heard him say again,"The heart out of the bosomWas never given in vain;'Tis paid with sighs a-plentyAnd sold for endless rue."And I am two-and-twenty,And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
When I was one-and-twentyI heard a wise man say,"Give crowns and pounds and guineasBut not your heart away;Give pearls away and rubiesBut keep your fancy free."But I was one-and-twenty,No use to talk to me.
When I was one-and-twentyI heard him say again,"The heart out of the bosomWas never given in vain;'Tis paid with sighs a-plentyAnd sold for endless rue."And I am two-and-twenty,And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
With rue my heart is ladenFor golden friends I had,For many a rose-lipt maidenAnd many a lightfoot lad.By brooks too broad for leapingThe lightfoot boys are laid;The rose-lipt girls are sleepingIn fields where roses fade.
With rue my heart is ladenFor golden friends I had,For many a rose-lipt maidenAnd many a lightfoot lad.
By brooks too broad for leapingThe lightfoot boys are laid;The rose-lipt girls are sleepingIn fields where roses fade.
The time you won your town the raceWe chaired you through the market-place;Man and boy stood cheering by,And home we brought you shoulder-high.To-day, the road all runners come,Shoulder-high we bring you home,And set you at your threshold down,Townsman of a stiller town.Smart lad, to slip betimes awayFrom fields where glory does not stay,And early though the laurel growsIt withers quicker than the rose.Eyes the shady night has shutCannot see the record cut,And silence sounds no worse than cheersAfter earth has stopped the ears:Now you will not swell the routOf lads that wore their honours out,Runners whom renown outranAnd the name died before the man.So set, before its echoes fade,The fleet foot on the sill of shade,And hold to the low lintel upThe still-defended challenge-cup.And round that early-laurelled headWill flock to gaze the strengthless dead,And find unwithered on its curlsThe garland briefer than a girl's.
The time you won your town the raceWe chaired you through the market-place;Man and boy stood cheering by,And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come,Shoulder-high we bring you home,And set you at your threshold down,Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes awayFrom fields where glory does not stay,And early though the laurel growsIt withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shutCannot see the record cut,And silence sounds no worse than cheersAfter earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the routOf lads that wore their honours out,Runners whom renown outranAnd the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,The fleet foot on the sill of shade,And hold to the low lintel upThe still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled headWill flock to gaze the strengthless dead,And find unwithered on its curlsThe garland briefer than a girl's.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry nowIs hung with bloom along the bough,And stands about the woodland rideWearing white for Eastertide.Now, of my threescore years and ten,Twenty will not come again,And take from seventy springs a score,It only leaves me fifty more.And since to look at things in bloomFifty springs are little room,About the woodlands I will goTo see the cherry hung with snow.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry nowIs hung with bloom along the bough,And stands about the woodland rideWearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,Twenty will not come again,And take from seventy springs a score,It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloomFifty springs are little room,About the woodlands I will goTo see the cherry hung with snow.
Doctor Douglas Hyde was born in Roscommon County, Ireland in, as nearly as can be ascertained, 1860. One of the most brilliant Irish scholars of his day, he has worked indefatigably for the cause of his native letters. He has written a comprehensive history of Irish literature; has compiled, edited and translated into English theLove Songs of Connaught; is President of The Irish National Literary Society; and is the author of innumerable poems in Gaelic—far more than he ever wrote in English. His collections of Irish folk-lore and poetry were among the most notable contributions to the Celtic revival; they were (see Preface), to a large extent, responsible for it. Since 1909 he has been Professor of Modern Irish in University College, Dublin.
The poem which is here quoted is one of his many brilliant and reanimating translations. In its music and its peculiar rhyme-scheme, it reproduces the peculiar flavor as well as the meter of the West Irish original.
For thee, I shall not die,Woman of high fame and name;Foolish men thou mayest slayI and they are not the same.Why should I expireFor the fire of an eye,Slender waist or swan-like limb,Is't for them that I should die?The round breasts, the fresh skin,Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,Please God, not I, for any such.The golden hair, the forehead thin,The chaste mien, the gracious ease,The rounded heel, the languid tone,—Fools alone find death from these.Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,Thy thin palm like foam o' the sea;Thy white neck, thy blue eye,I shall not die for thee.Woman, graceful as the swan,A wise man did nurture me.Little palm, white neck, bright eye,I shall not die for ye.
For thee, I shall not die,Woman of high fame and name;Foolish men thou mayest slayI and they are not the same.
Why should I expireFor the fire of an eye,Slender waist or swan-like limb,Is't for them that I should die?
The round breasts, the fresh skin,Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,Please God, not I, for any such.
The golden hair, the forehead thin,The chaste mien, the gracious ease,The rounded heel, the languid tone,—Fools alone find death from these.
Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,Thy thin palm like foam o' the sea;Thy white neck, thy blue eye,I shall not die for thee.
Woman, graceful as the swan,A wise man did nurture me.Little palm, white neck, bright eye,I shall not die for ye.
Amy Levy, a singularly gifted Jewess, was born at Clapham, in 1861. A fiery young poet, she burdened her own intensity with the sorrows of her race. She wrote one novel,ReubenSachs, and two volumes of poetry—the more distinctive of the two being half-pathetically and half-ironically entitledA Minor Poet(1884). After several years of brooding introspection, she committed suicide in 1889 at the age of 28.
This is the end of him, here he lies:The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;This is the end of him, this is best.He will never lie on his couch awake,Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak.Never again will he smile and smileWhen his heart is breaking all the while.He will never stretch out his hands in vainGroping and groping—never again.Never ask for bread, get a stone instead,Never pretend that the stone is bread;Nor sway and sway 'twixt the false and true,Weighing and noting the long hours through.Never ache and ache with the choked-up sighs;This is the end of him, here he lies.
This is the end of him, here he lies:The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;This is the end of him, this is best.He will never lie on his couch awake,Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak.Never again will he smile and smileWhen his heart is breaking all the while.He will never stretch out his hands in vainGroping and groping—never again.Never ask for bread, get a stone instead,Never pretend that the stone is bread;Nor sway and sway 'twixt the false and true,Weighing and noting the long hours through.Never ache and ache with the choked-up sighs;This is the end of him, here he lies.
How like her! But 'tis she herself,Comes up the crowded street,How little did I think, the morn,My only love to meet!Who else that motion and that mien?Whose else that airy tread?For one strange moment I forgotMy only love was dead.
How like her! But 'tis she herself,Comes up the crowded street,How little did I think, the morn,My only love to meet!
Who else that motion and that mien?Whose else that airy tread?For one strange moment I forgotMy only love was dead.
Katharine Tynan was born at Dublin in 1861, and educated at the Convent of St. Catherine at Drogheda. She married Henry Hinkson, a lawyer and author, in 1893. Her poetry is largely actuated by religious themes, and much of her verse is devotional and yet distinctive. InNew Poems(1911) she is at her best; graceful, meditative and with occasional notes of deep pathos.
All in the April morning,April airs were abroad;The sheep with their little lambsPass'd me by on the road.The sheep with their little lambsPass'd me by on the road;All in an April eveningI thought on the Lamb of God.The lambs were weary, and cryingWith a weak human cry;I thought on the Lamb of GodGoing meekly to die.Up in the blue, blue mountainsDewy pastures are sweet:Rest for the little bodies,Rest for the little feet.Rest for the Lamb of GodUp on the hill-top green;Only a cross of shameTwo stark crosses between.All in the April evening,April airs were abroad;I saw the sheep with their lambs,And thought on the Lamb of God.
All in the April morning,April airs were abroad;The sheep with their little lambsPass'd me by on the road.
The sheep with their little lambsPass'd me by on the road;All in an April eveningI thought on the Lamb of God.
The lambs were weary, and cryingWith a weak human cry;I thought on the Lamb of GodGoing meekly to die.
Up in the blue, blue mountainsDewy pastures are sweet:Rest for the little bodies,Rest for the little feet.
Rest for the Lamb of GodUp on the hill-top green;Only a cross of shameTwo stark crosses between.
All in the April evening,April airs were abroad;I saw the sheep with their lambs,And thought on the Lamb of God.
The door of Heaven is on the latchTo-night, and many a one is fainTo go home for one's night's watchWith his love again.Oh, where the father and mother sitThere's a drift of dead leaves at the doorLike pitter-patter of little feetThat come no more.Their thoughts are in the night and cold,Their tears are heavier than the clay,But who is this at the thresholdSo young and gay?They are come from the land o' the young,They have forgotten how to weep;Words of comfort on the tongue,And a kiss to keep.They sit down and they stay awhile,Kisses and comfort none shall lack;At morn they steal forth with a smileAnd a long look back.
The door of Heaven is on the latchTo-night, and many a one is fainTo go home for one's night's watchWith his love again.
Oh, where the father and mother sitThere's a drift of dead leaves at the doorLike pitter-patter of little feetThat come no more.
Their thoughts are in the night and cold,Their tears are heavier than the clay,But who is this at the thresholdSo young and gay?
They are come from the land o' the young,They have forgotten how to weep;Words of comfort on the tongue,And a kiss to keep.
They sit down and they stay awhile,Kisses and comfort none shall lack;At morn they steal forth with a smileAnd a long look back.
One of the most delightful of English versifiers, Owen Seaman, was born in 1861. After receiving a classical education, he became Professor of Literature and began to write for Punch in 1894. In 1906 he was made editor of that internationally famous weekly, remaining in that capacity ever since. He was knighted in 1914. As a writer of light verse and as a parodist, his agile work has delighted a generation of admirers. Some of his most adroit lines may be found in hisIn Cap and Bells(1902) andThe Battle of the Bays(1892).
O frankly bald and obviously stout!And so you find that Christmas as a fêteDispassionately viewed, is getting outOf date.The studied festal air is overdone;The humour of it grows a little thin;You fail, in fact, to gather where the funComes in.Visions of very heavy meals ariseThat tend to make your organism shiver;Roast beef that irks, and pies that agoniseThe liver;Those pies at which you annually wince,Hearing the tale how happy months will followProportioned to the total mass of minceYou swallow.Visions of youth whose reverence is scant,Who with the brutalverveof boyhood's primeInsist on being taken to the pant--omime.Of infants, sitting up extremely late,Who run you on toboggans down the stair;Or make you fetch a rug and simulateA bear.This takes your faultless trousers at the knees,The other hurts them rather more behind;And both effect a fracture in your easeOf mind.My good dyspeptic, this will never do;Your weary withers must be sadly wrung!Yet once I well believe that even youWere young.Time was when you devoured, like other boys,Plum-pudding sequent on a turkey-hen;With cracker-mottos hinting of the joysOf men.Time was when 'mid the maidens you would pullThe fiery raisin with profound delight;When sprigs of mistletoe seemed beautifulAnd right.Old Christmas changes not! Long, long agoHe won the treasure of eternal youth;Yoursis the dotage—if you want to knowThe truth.Come, now, I'll cure your case, and ask no fee:—Make others' happiness this once your own;All else may pass: that joy can never beOutgrown!
O frankly bald and obviously stout!And so you find that Christmas as a fêteDispassionately viewed, is getting outOf date.
The studied festal air is overdone;The humour of it grows a little thin;You fail, in fact, to gather where the funComes in.
Visions of very heavy meals ariseThat tend to make your organism shiver;Roast beef that irks, and pies that agoniseThe liver;
Those pies at which you annually wince,Hearing the tale how happy months will followProportioned to the total mass of minceYou swallow.
Visions of youth whose reverence is scant,Who with the brutalverveof boyhood's primeInsist on being taken to the pant--omime.
Of infants, sitting up extremely late,Who run you on toboggans down the stair;Or make you fetch a rug and simulateA bear.
This takes your faultless trousers at the knees,The other hurts them rather more behind;And both effect a fracture in your easeOf mind.
My good dyspeptic, this will never do;Your weary withers must be sadly wrung!Yet once I well believe that even youWere young.
Time was when you devoured, like other boys,Plum-pudding sequent on a turkey-hen;With cracker-mottos hinting of the joysOf men.
Time was when 'mid the maidens you would pullThe fiery raisin with profound delight;When sprigs of mistletoe seemed beautifulAnd right.
Old Christmas changes not! Long, long agoHe won the treasure of eternal youth;Yoursis the dotage—if you want to knowThe truth.
Come, now, I'll cure your case, and ask no fee:—Make others' happiness this once your own;All else may pass: that joy can never beOutgrown!