Despair is in the suns that shine,And in the rains that fall,This sad forsaken soul of mineIs weary of them all.
They fall and shine on alien streetsFrom those I love and know.I cannot hear amid the heatsThe North Sea’s freshening flow
The people hurry up and down,Like ghosts that cannot lie;And wandering through the phantom townThe weariest ghost am I.
If a pleasant lawn there growBy the showers caressed,Where in all the seasons blowFlowers gaily dressed,Where by handfuls one may winLilies, woodbine, jessamine,I will make a path thereinFor thy feet to rest.
If there live in honour’s swayAn all-loving breastWhose devotion cannot stray,Never gloom-oppressed—If this noble breast still wakeFor a worthy motive’s sake,There a pillow I will makeFor thy head to rest.
If there be a dream of love,Dream that God has blest,Yielding daily treasure-troveOf delightful zest,With the scent of roses filled,With the soul’s communion thrilled,There, oh! there a nest I’ll buildFor thy heart to rest.
There’s a fiddler in the street,And the children all are dancing:Two dozen lightsome feetSpringing and prancing.
Pleasure he gives to you,Dance then, and spare not!For the poor fiddler’s due,Know not and care not.
While you are prancing,Let the fiddler play.When you’re tired of dancingHe may go away.
Last night for the first time, O Heart’s Delight,I held your hand a moment in my own,The dearest moment which my soul has known,Since I beheld and loved you at first sight.
I left you, and I wandered in the night,Under the rain, beside the ocean’s moan.All was black dark, but in the north aloneThere was a glimmer of the Northern Light.
My heart was singing like a happy bird,Glad of the present, and from forethought free,Save for one note amid its music heard:God grant, whatever end of this may be,That when the tale is told, the final wordMay be of peace and benison to thee.
How often have the critics, trainedTo look upon the skyThrough telescopes securely chained,Forgot the naked eye.
Within the compass of their glassEach smallest star they knew,And not a meteor could passBut they were looking through.
When a new planet shed its raysBeyond their field of vision,And simple folk ran out to gaze,They laughed in high derision.
They railed upon the senseless throngWho cheered the brave new light.And yet the learned men were wrong,The simple folk were right.
My Lady of all ladies! Queen by rightOf tender beauty; full of gentle moods;With eyes that look divine beatitudes,Large eyes illumined with her spirit’s light;
Lips that are lovely both by sound and sight,Breathing such music as the dove, which broodsWithin the dark and silence of the woods,Croons to the mate that is her heart’s delight.
Where is a line, in cloud or wave or hill,To match the curve which rounds her soft-flushed cheek?A colour, in the sky of morn or of even,To match that flush? Ah, let me now be still!If of her spirit I should strive to speak,I should come short, as earth comes short of heaven.
Love, when the present is become the past,And dust has covered all that now is new,When many a fame has faded out of view,And many a later fame is fading fast—
If then these songs of mine might hope to last,Which sing most sweetly when they sing of you,Though queen and empress wore oblivion’s hue,Your loveliness would not be overcast.
Now, while the present stays with you and me,In love’s copartnery our hearts combine,Life’s loss and gain in equal shares to take.Partners in fame our memories then would be:Your name remembered for my songs; and mineStill unforgotten for your sweetness’ sake.
Early on Christmas Day,Love, as awake I lay,And heard the Christmas bells ring sweet and clearly,My heart stole through the gloomInto your silent room,And whispered to your heart, ‘I love you dearly.’
There, in the dark profound,Your heart was sleeping sound,And dreaming some fair dream of summer weather.At my heart’s word it woke,And, ere the morning broke,They sang a Christmas carol both together.
Glory to God on high!Stars of the morning sky,Sing as ye sang upon the first creation,When all the Sons of GodShouted for joy abroad,And earth was laid upon a sure foundation.
Glory to God again!Peace and goodwill to men,And kindly feeling all the wide world over,Where friends with joy and mirthMeet round the Christmas hearth,Or dreams of home the solitary rover.
Glory to God! True hearts,Lo, now the dark departs,And morning on the snow-clad hills grows grey.Oh, may love’s dawning lightKindled from loveless night,Shine more and more unto the perfect day!
Oh, who may this dead warrior beThat to his grave they bring?’Tis William, Duke of Normandy,The conqueror and king.
Across the sea, with fire and sword,The English crown he won;The lawless Scots they owned him lord,But now his rule is done.
A king should die from length of years,A conqueror in the field,A king amid his people’s tears,A conqueror on his shield.
But he, who ruled by sword and flame,Who swore to ravage France,Like some poor serf without a name,Has died by mere mischance.
To Caen now he comes to sleep,The minster bells they toll,A solemn sound it is and deep,May God receive his soul!
With priests that chant a wailing hymn,He slowly comes this way,To where the painted windows dimThe lively light of day.
He enters in. The townsfolk standIn reverent silence round,To see the lord of all the landTake house in narrow ground.
While, in the dwelling-place he seeks,To lay him they prepare,One Asselin FitzArthur speaks,And bids the priests forbear.
‘The ground whereon this abbey standsIs mine,’ he cries, ‘by right.’Twas wrested from my father’s handsBy lawlessness and might.
Duke William took the land away,To build this minster high.Bury the robber where ye may,But here he shall not lie.’
The holy brethren bid him cease;But he will not be stilled,And soon the house of God’s own peaceWith noise and strife is filled.
And some cry shame on Asselin,Such tumult to excite,Some say, it was Duke William’s sin,And Asselin does right.
But he round whom their quarrels keep,Lies still and takes no heed.No strife can mar a dead man’s sleep,And this is rest indeed.
Now Asselin at length is wonThe land’s full price to take,And let the burial rites go on,And so a peace they make.
When Harold, king of Englishmen,Was killed in Senlac fight,Duke William would not yield him thenA Christian grave or rite.
Because he fought for keeping freeHis kingdom and his throne,No Christian rite nor grave had heIn land that was his own.
And just it is, this Duke unkind,Now he has come to die,In plundered land should hardly findSufficient space to lie.
The Red King’s gone a-hunting, in the woods his father madeFor the tall red deer to wander through the thicket and the glade,The King and Walter Tyrrel, Prince Henry and the restAre all gone out upon the sport the Red King loves the best.
Last night, when they were feasting in the royal banquet-hall,De Breteuil told a dream he had, that evil would befallIf the King should go to-morrow to the hunting of the deer,And while he spoke, the fiery face grew well-nigh pale to hear.
He drank until the fire came back, and all his heart was brave,Then bade them keep such woman’s tales to tell an English slave,For he would hunt to-morrow, though a thousand dreams foretoldAll the sorrow and the mischief De Breteuil’s brain could hold.
So the Red King’s gone a-hunting, for all that they could do,And an arrow in the greenwood made De Breteuil’s dream come true.They said ’twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been,But there’s many walk the forest when the leaves are thick and green.
There’s many walk the forest, who would gladly see the sport,When the King goes out a-hunting with the nobles of his court,And when the nobles scatter, and the King is left alone,There are thickets where an English slave might string his bow unknown.
The forest laws are cruel, and the time is hard as steelTo English slaves, trod down and bruised beneath the Norman heel.Like worms they writhe, but by-and-by the Norman heel may learnThere are worms that carry poison, and that are not slow to turn.
The lords came back, by one and two, from straying far apart,And they found the Red King lying with an arrow in his heart.Who should have done the deed, but him by whom it first was seen?So they said ’twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been.
They cried upon Prince Henry, the brother of the King,And he came up the greenwood, and rode into the ring.He looked upon his brother’s face, and then he turned away,And galloped off to Winchester, where all the treasure lay.
‘God strike me,’ cried De Breteuil, ‘but brothers’ blood is thin!And why should ours be thicker that are neither kith nor kin?’They spurred their horses in the flank, and swiftly thence they passed,But Walter Tyrrel lingered and forsook his liege the last.
They say it was enchantment, that fixed him to the scene,To look upon his traitor’s work, and so it may have been.But presently he got to horse, and took the seaward way,And all alone within the glade, in state the Red King lay.
Then a creaking cart came slowly, which a charcoal-burner drove.He found the dead man lying, a ghastly treasure-trove;He raised the corpse for charity, and on his wagon laid,And so the Red King drove in state from out the forest glade.
His hair was like a yellow flame about the bloated face,The blood had stained his tunic from the fatal arrow-place.Not good to look upon was he, in life, nor yet when dead.The driver of the cart drove on, and never turned his head.
When next the nobles throng at night the royal banquet-hall,Another King will rule the feast, the drinking and the brawl,While Walter Tyrrel walks alone upon the Norman shore,And the Red King in the forest will chase the deer no more.
On the field of Waterloo we made Napoleon rueThat ever out of Elba he decided for to come,For we finished him that day, and he had to run away,And yield himself to Maitland on the Billy-ruffium.
’Twas a stubborn fight, no doubt, and the fortune wheeled about,And the brave Mossoos kept coming most uncomfortable near,And says Wellington the hero, as his hopes went down to zero,‘I wish to God that Blooker or the night was only here!’
But Blooker came at length, and we broke Napoleon’s strength,And the flower of his army—that’s the old Imperial Guard—They made a final sally, but they found they could not rally,And at last they broke and fled, after fighting bitter hard.
Now Napoleon he had thought, when a British ship he sought,And gave himself uncalled-for, in a manner, you might say,He’d be treated like a king with the best of every thing,And maybe have a palace for to live in every day.
He was treated very well, as became a noble swell,But we couldn’t leave him loose, not in Europe anywhere,For we knew he would be making some gigantic undertaking,While the trustful British lion was reposing in his lair.
We tried him once before near the European shore,Having planted him in Elba, where he promised to remain,But when he saw his chance, why, he bolted off to France,And he made a lot of trouble—but it wouldn’t do again.
Says the Prince to him, ‘You know, far away you’ll have to go,To a pleasant little island off the coast of Africay,Where they tell me that the view of the ocean deep and blue,Is remarkable extensive, and it’s there you’ll have to stay.’
So Napoleon wiped his eye, and he wished the Prince good-bye,And being stony-broke, made the best of it he could,And they kept him snugly pensioned, where his Royal Highness mentioned,And Napoleon Boneyparty is provided for for good.
Now of that I don’t complain, but I ask and ask in vain,Why me, a British soldier, as has lost a useful armThrough fighting of the foe, when the trumpets ceased to blow,Should be forced to feed the pigs on a little Surrey farm,
While him as fought with us, and created such a fuss,And in the whole of Europe did a mighty deal of harm,Should be kept upon a rock, like a precious fighting cock,And be found in beer and baccy, which would suit me to a charm?
This morning, while we sat in talkOf spring and apple-bloom,Lo! Death stood in the garden walk,And peered into the room.
Your back was turned, you did not seeThe shadow that he made.He bent his head and looked at me;It made my soul afraid.
The words I had begun to speakFell broken in the air.You saw the pallor of my cheek,And turned—but none was there.
He came as sudden as a thought,And so departed too.What made him leave his task unwrought?It was the sight of you.
Though Death but seldom turns asideFrom those he means to take,He would not yet our hearts divide,For love and pity’s sake.
When I was young and well and glad,I used to play at being sad;Now youth and health are fled away,At being glad I sometimes play.
Every critic in the townRuns the minor poet down;Every critic—don’t you know it?Is himself a minor poet.
Long since I came into the school of Art,A child in works, but not a child in heart.Slowly I learn, by her instruction mild,To be in works a man, in heart a child.
The truest Liberal is heWho sees the man in each degree,Who merit in a churl can prize,And baseness in an earl despise,Yet censures baseness in a churl,And dares find merit in an earl.
My lamp is out, my task is done,And up the stair with lingering feetI climb. The staircase clock strikes one.Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!
My solitary room I gain.A single star makes incompleteThe blackness of the window pane.Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!
Dim and more dim its sparkle grows,And ere my head the pillows meet,My lids are fain themselves to close.Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!
My lips no other words can say,But still they murmur and repeatTo you, who slumber far away,Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!
My soul is like a prisoned lark,That sings and dreams of liberty,The nights are long, the days are dark,Away from home, away from thee!
My only joy is in my dreams,When I thy loving face can see.How dreary the awakening seems,Away from home, away from thee!
At dawn I hasten to the shore,To gaze across the sparkling sea—The sea is bright to me no more,Which parts me from my home and thee.
At twilight, when the air grows chill,And cold and leaden is the sea,My tears like bitter dews distil,Away from home, away from thee.
I could not live, did I not knowThat thou art ever true to me,I could not bear a doubtful woe,Away from home, away from thee.
I could not live, did I not hearA voice that sings the day to be,When hitherward a ship shall steer,To bear me back to home and thee.
Oh, when at last that day shall breakIn sunshine on the dancing sea,It will be brighter for the sakeOf my return to home and thee!
Beyond the Cheviots and the Tweed,Beyond the Firth of Forth,My memory returns at speedTo Scotland and the North.
For still I keep, and ever shall,A warm place in my heart for Scotland,Scotland, Scotland,A warm place in my heart for Scotland.
Oh, cruel off St. Andrew’s BayThe winds are wont to blow!They either rest or gently play,When there in dreams I go.
And there I wander, young again,With limbs that do not tire,Along the coast to Kittock’s Den,With whinbloom all afire.
I climb the Spindle Rock, and lieAnd take my doubtful ease,Between the ocean and the sky,Derided by the breeze.
Where coloured mushrooms thickly grow,Like flowers of brittle stalk,To haunted Magus Muir I go,By Lady Catherine’s Walk.
In dreams the year I linger through,In that familiar town,Where all the youth I ever knew,Burned up and flickered down.
There’s not a rock that fronts the sea,There’s not an inland grove,But has a tale to tell to meOf friendship or of love.
And so I keep, and ever shall,The best place in my heart for Scotland,Scotland, Scotland,The best place in my heart for Scotland!
Life is a house where many chambers be,And all the doors will yield to him who tries,Save one, whereof men say, behind it liesThe haunting secret. He who keeps the key,
Keeps it securely, smiles perchance to seeThe eager hands stretched out to clutch the prize,Or looks with pity in the yearning eyes,And is half moved to let the secret free.
And truly some at every hour pass through,Pass through, and tread upon that solemn floor,Yet come not back to tell what they have found.We will not importune, as others do,With tears and cries, the keeper of the door,But wait till our appointed hour comes round.
Let me sleep. The day is past,And the folded shadows keepWeary mortals safe and fast.Let me sleep.
I am all too tired to weepFor the sunlight of the PastSunk within the drowning deep.
Treasured vanities I castIn an unregarded heap.Time has given rest at last.Let me sleep.
Lost Youth, come back again!Laugh at weariness and pain.Come not in dreams, but come in truth,Lost Youth.
Sweetheart of long ago,Why do you haunt me so?Were you not glad to part,Sweetheart?
Still Death, that draws so near,Is it hope you bring, or fear?Is it only ease of breath,Still Death?
[1]Mr. Butler lectures on Physics, or, as it is called in Scotland, Natural Philosophy.