SIR WILLIAM GOMM

Not for less love, all glorious France, to thee,"Sweet enemy" called in days long since at end,Now found and hailed of England sweeter friend,Bright sister of our freedom now, being free;Not for less love or faith in friendship weWhose love burnt ever toward thee reprehendThe vile vain greed whose pursy dreams portendBetween our shores suppression of the sea.Not by dull toil of blind mechanic artShall these be linked for no man's force to partNor length of years and changes to divide,But union only of trust and loving heartAnd perfect faith in freedom strong to abideAnd spirit at one with spirit on either side.

April 3, 1882.

At threescore years and five aroused anewTo rule in India, forth a soldier wentOn whose bright-fronted youth fierce war had spentIts iron stress of storm, till glory grewFull as the red sun waned on Waterloo.Landing, he met the word from England sentWhich bade him yield up rule: and he, content,Resigned it, as a mightier warrior's due;And wrote as one rejoicing to recordThat "from the first" his royal heart was lordOf its own pride or pain; that thought was noneTherein save this, that in her perilous straitEngland, whose womb brings forth her sons so great,Should choose to serve her first her mightiest son.

Glory beyond all flight of warlike fameGo with the warrior's memory who preferredTo praise of men whereby men's hearts are stirred,And acclamation of his own proud nameWith blare of trumpet-blasts and sound and flameOf pageant honour, and the titular wordThat only wins men worship of the herd,His country's sovereign good; who overcamePride, wrath, and hope of all high chance on earth,For this land's love that gave his great heart birth.O nursling of the sea-winds and the sea,Immortal England, goddess ocean-born,What shall thy children fear, what strengths not scorn,While children of such mould are born to thee?

Crowned, girdled, garbed and shod with light and fire,Son first-born of the morning, sovereign star!Soul nearest ours of all, that wert most far,Most far off in the abysm of time, thy lyreHung highest above the dawn-enkindled quireWhere all ye sang together, all that are,And all the starry songs behind thy carRang sequence, all our souls acclaim thee sire."If all the pens that ever poets heldHad fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts,"And as with rush of hurtling chariotsThe flight of all their spirits were impelledToward one great end, thy glory—nay, not then,Not yet might'st thou be praised enough of men.

"If all the pens that ever poets heldHad fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts,"And as with rush of hurtling chariotsThe flight of all their spirits were impelledToward one great end, thy glory—nay, not then,Not yet might'st thou be praised enough of men.

Not if men's tongues and angels' all in oneSpake, might the word be said that might speak Thee.Streams, winds, woods, flowers, fields, mountains, yea, the sea,What power is in them all to praise the sun?His praise is this,—he can be praised of none.Man, woman, child, praise God for him; but heExults not to be worshipped, but to be.He is; and, being, beholds his work well done.All joy, all glory, all sorrow, all strength, all mirth,Are his: without him, day were night on earth.Time knows not his from time's own period.All lutes, all harps, all viols, all flutes, all lyres,Fall dumb before him ere one string suspires.All stars are angels; but the sun is God.

Broad-based, broad-fronted, bounteous, multiform,With many a valley impleached with ivy and vine,Wherein the springs of all the streams run wine,And many a crag full-faced against the storm,The mountain where thy Muse's feet made warmThose lawns that revelled with her dance divineShines yet with fire as it was wont to shineFrom tossing torches round the dance aswarm.Nor less, high-stationed on the grey grave heights,High-thoughted seers with heaven's heart-kindling lightsHold converse: and the herd of meaner thingsKnows or by fiery scourge or fiery shaftWhen wrath on thy broad brows has risen, and laughedDarkening thy soul with shadow of thunderous wings.

Nor less, high-stationed on the grey grave heights,High-thoughted seers with heaven's heart-kindling lightsHold converse: and the herd of meaner thingsKnows or by fiery scourge or fiery shaftWhen wrath on thy broad brows has risen, and laughedDarkening thy soul with shadow of thunderous wings.

An hour ere sudden sunset fired the west,Arose two stars upon the pale deep east.The hall of heaven was clear for night's high feast,Yet was not yet day's fiery heart at rest.Love leapt up from his mother's burning breastTo see those warm twin lights, as day decreased,Wax wider, till when all the sun had ceasedAs suns they shone from evening's kindled crest.Across them and between, a quickening fire,Flamed Venus, laughing with appeased desire.Their dawn, scarce lovelier for the gleam of tears,Filled half the hollow shell 'twixt heaven and earthWith sound like moonlight, mingling moan and mirth,Which rings and glitters down the darkling years.

Clouds here and there arisen an hour past noonChequered our English heaven with lengthening barsAnd shadow and sound of wheel-winged thunder-carsAssembling strength to put forth tempest soon,When the clear still warm concord of thy tuneRose under skies unscared by reddening MarsYet, like a sound of silver speech of stars,With full mild flame as of the mellowing moon.Grave and great-hearted Massinger, thy faceHigh melancholy lights with loftier graceThan gilds the brows of revel: sad and wise,The spirit of thought that moved thy deeper song,Sorrow serene in soft calm scorn of wrong,Speaks patience yet from thy majestic eyes.

Hew hard the marble from the mountain's heartWhere hardest night holds fast in iron gloomGems brighter than an April dawn in bloom,That his Memnonian likeness thence may startRevealed, whose hand with high funereal artCarved night, and chiselled shadow: be the tombThat speaks him famous graven with signs of doomIntrenched inevitably in lines athwart,As on some thunder-blasted Titan's browHis record of rebellion. Not the dayShall strike forth music from so stern a chord,Touching this marble: darkness, none knows how,And stars impenetrable of midnight, may.So looms the likeness of thy soul, John Ford.

Thunder: the flesh quails, and the soul bows down.Night: east, west, south, and northward, very night.Star upon struggling star strives into sight,Star after shuddering star the deep storms drown.The very throne of night, her very crown,A man lays hand on, and usurps her right.Song from the highest of heaven's imperious heightShoots, as a fire to smite some towering town.Rage, anguish, harrowing fear, heart-crazing crime,Make monstrous all the murderous face of TimeShown in the spheral orbit of a glassRevolving. Earth cries out from all her graves.Frail, on frail rafts, across wide-wallowing waves,Shapes here and there of child and mother pass.

Out of the depths of darkling life where sinLaughs piteously that sorrow should not knowHer own ill name, nor woe be counted woe;Where hate and craft and lust make drearier dinThan sounds through dreams that grief holds revel in;What charm of joy-bells ringing, streams that flow,Winds that blow healing in each note they blow,Is this that the outer darkness hears begin?O sweetest heart of all thy time save one,Star seen for love's sake nearest to the sun,Hung lamplike o'er a dense and doleful city,Not Shakespeare's very spirit, howe'er more great,Than thine toward man was more compassionate,Nor gave Christ praise from lips more sweet with pity.

O sweetest heart of all thy time save one,Star seen for love's sake nearest to the sun,Hung lamplike o'er a dense and doleful city,Not Shakespeare's very spirit, howe'er more great,Than thine toward man was more compassionate,Nor gave Christ praise from lips more sweet with pity.

A wild moon riding high from cloud to cloud,That sees and sees not, glimmering far beneath,Hell's children revel along the shuddering heathWith dirge-like mirth and raiment like a shroud:A worse fair face than witchcraft's, passion-proud,With brows blood-flecked behind their bridal wreathAnd lips that bade the assassin's sword find sheathDeep in the heart whereto love's heart was vowed:A game of close contentious crafts and creedsPlayed till white England bring black Spain to shame:A son's bright sword and brighter soul, whose deedsHigh conscience lights for mother's love and fame:Pure gipsy flowers, and poisonous courtly weeds:Such tokens and such trophies crown thy name.

Tom, if they loved thee best who called thee Tom,What else may all men call thee, seeing thus brightEven yet the laughing and the weeping lightThat still thy kind old eyes are kindled from?Small care was thine to assail and overcomeTime and his child Oblivion: yet of rightThy name has part with names of lordlier mightFor English love and homely sense of home,Whose fragrance keeps thy small sweet bayleaf youngAnd gives it place aloft among thy peersWhence many a wreath once higher strong Time has hurled:And this thy praise is sweet on Shakespeare's tongue—"O good old man, how well in thee appearsThe constant service of the antique world!"

High priest of Homer, not elect in vain,Deep trumpets blow before thee, shawms behindMix music with the rolling wheels that windSlow through the labouring triumph of thy train:Fierce history, molten in thy forging brain,Takes form and fire and fashion from thy mind,Tormented and transmuted out of kind:But howsoe'er thou shift thy strenuous strain,Like Tailor[1]smooth, like Fisher[2]swollen, and nowGrim Yarrington[3]scarce bloodier marked than thou,Then bluff as Mayne's[4]or broad-mouthed Barry's[5]glee;Proud still with hoar predominance of browAnd beard like foam swept off the broad blown sea,Where'er thou go, men's reverence goes with thee.

[1]Author ofThe Hog hath lost his Pearl.

[2]Author ofFuimus Troes, or the True Trojans.

[3]Author ofTwo Tragedies in One.

[4]Author ofThe City Match.

[5]Author ofRam-Alley, or Merry Tricks.

The bitterness of death and bitterer scornBreathes from the broad-leafed aloe-plant whence thouWast fain to gather for thy bended browA chaplet by no gentler forehead worn.Grief deep as hell, wrath hardly to be borne,Ploughed up thy soul till round the furrowing ploughThe strange black soil foamed, as a black beaked prowBids night-black waves foam where its track has torn.Too faint the phrase for thee that only saithScorn bitterer than the bitterness of deathPervades the sullen splendour of thy soul,Where hate and pain make war on force and fraudAnd all the strengths of tyrants; whence unflawedIt keeps this noble heart of hatred whole.

Day was a full-blown flower in heaven, aliveWith murmuring joy of bees and birds aswarm,When in the skies of song yet flushed and warmWith music where all passion seems to striveFor utterance, all things bright and fierce to driveStruggling along the splendour of the storm,Day for an hour put off his fiery form,And golden murmurs from a golden hiveAcross the strong bright summer wind were heard,And laughter soft as smiles from girls at playAnd loud from lips of boys brow-bound with MayOur mightiest age let fall its gentlest word,When Song, in semblance of a sweet small bird,Lit fluttering on the light swift hand of Day.

The dusk of day's decline was hard on darkWhen evening trembled round thy glowworm lampThat shone across her shades and dewy dampA small clear beacon whose benignant sparkWas gracious yet for loiterers' eyes to mark,Though changed the watchword of our English campSince the outposts rang round Marlowe's lion ramp,When thy steed's pace went ambling round Hyde Park.And in the thickening twilight under theeWalks Davenant, pensive in the paths where he,The blithest throat that ever carolled loveIn music made of morning's merriest heart,Glad Suckling, stumbled from his seat aboveAnd reeled on slippery roads of alien art.

And in the thickening twilight under theeWalks Davenant, pensive in the paths where he,The blithest throat that ever carolled loveIn music made of morning's merriest heart,Glad Suckling, stumbled from his seat aboveAnd reeled on slippery roads of alien art.

Sons born of many a loyal Muse to Ben,All true-begotten, warm with wine or ale,Bright from the broad light of its presence, hail!Prince Randolph, nighest his throne of all his men,Being highest in spirit and heart who hailed him thenKing, nor might other spread so blithe a sail:Cartwright, a soul pent in with narrower pale,Praised of thy sire for manful might of pen:Marmion, whose verse keeps alway keen and fineThe perfume of their Apollonian wineWho shared with that stout sire of all and theeThe exuberant chalice of his echoing shrine:Is not your praise writ broad in gold which heInscribed, that all who praise his name should see?

Mother whose womb brought forth our man of men,Mother of Shakespeare, whom all time acclaimsQueen therefore, sovereign queen of English dames,Throned higher than sat thy sonless empress then,Was it thy son's young passion-guided penWhich drew, reflected from encircling flames,A figure marked by the earlier of thy namesWife, and from all her wedded kinswomenMarked by the sign of murderess? Pale and great,Great in her grief and sin, but in her deathAnd anguish of her penitential breathGreater than all her sin or sin-born fate,She stands, the holocaust of dark desire,Clothed round with song for ever as with fire.

Ye too, dim watchfires of some darkling hour,Whose fame forlorn time saves not nor proclaimsFor ever, but forgetfulness defamesAnd darkness and the shadow of death devour,Lift up ye too your light, put forth your power,Let the far twilight feel your soft small flamesAnd smile, albeit night name not even their names,Ghost by ghost passing, flower blown down on flower:That sweet-tongued shadow, like a star's that passedSinging, and light was from its darkness castTo paint the face of Painting fair with praise:[1]And that wherein forefigured smiles the pureFraternal face of Wordsworth's ElidureBetween two child-faced masks of merrier days.[2]

[1]Doctor Dodypol.

[2]Nobody and Somebody.

More yet and more, and yet we mark not all:The Warning fain to bid fair women heedIts hard brief note of deadly doom and deed;[1]The verse that strewed too thick with flowers the hallWhence Nero watched his fiery festival;[2]That iron page wherein men's eyes who readSee, bruised and marred between two babes that bleed,A mad red-handed husband's martyr fall;[3]The scene which crossed and streaked with mirth the strifeOf Henry with his sons and witchlike wife;[4]And that sweet pageant of the kindly fiend,Who, seeing three friends in spirit and heart made one,Crowned with good hap the true-love wiles he screenedIn the pleached lanes of pleasant Edmonton.[5]

[1]A Warning for Fair Women.

[2]The Tragedy of Nero.

[3]A Yorkshire Tragedy.

[4]Look about you.

[5]The Merry Devil of Edmonton.

Greene, garlanded with February's few flowers,Ere March came in with Marlowe's rapturous rage:Peele, from whose hand the sweet white locks of ageTook the mild chaplet woven of honoured hours:Nash, laughing hard: Lodge, flushed from lyric bowers:And Lilly, a goldfinch in a twisted cageFed by some gay great lady's pettish pageTill short sweet songs gush clear like short spring showers:Kid, whose grim sport still gambolled over graves:And Chettle, in whose fresh funereal verseWeeps Marian yet on Robin's wildwood hearse:Cooke, whose light boat of song one soft breath saves,Sighed from a maiden's amorous mouth averse:Live likewise ye: Time takes not you for slaves.

Haughton, whose mirth gave woman all her will:Field, bright and loud with laughing flower and birdAnd keen alternate notes of laud and gird:Barnes, darkening once with Borgia's deeds the quillWhich tuned the passion of Parthenophil:Blithe burly Porter, broad and bold of word:Wilkins, a voice with strenuous pity stirred:Turk Mason: Brewer, whose tongue drops honey still:Rough Rowley, handling song with Esau's hand:Light Nabbes: lean Sharpham, rank and raw by turns,But fragrant with a forethought once of Burns:Soft Davenport, sad-robed, but blithe and bland:Brome, gipsy-led across the woodland ferns:Praise be with all, and place among our band.

Our mother, which wast twice, as history saith,Found first among the nations: once, when sheWho bore thine ensign saw the God in theeSmite Spain, and bring forth Shakespeare: once, when deathShrank, and Rome's bloodhounds cowered, at Milton's breath:More than thy place, then first among the freeMore than that sovereign lordship of the seaBequeathed to Cromwell from Elizabeth,More than thy fiery guiding-star, which DrakeHailed, and the deep saw lit again for Blake,More than all deeds wrought of thy strong right hand,This praise keeps most thy fame's memorial strongThat thou wast head of all these streams of song,And time bows down to thee as Shakespeare's land.

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