Part 10

You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed: But wherefore should you weep to-day That she is dead? Lo, we who love weep not to-day, But crown her royal head. Let be these poppies that we strew, Your roses are too red: Let be these poppies, not for you Cut down and spread.

_141. A Birthday_

My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart is like an appletree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves, and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.

_142. Amor Mundi_

‘Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing, On the west wind blowing along this valley track?’ ‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye, We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.’

So they two went together in glowing August weather, The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right; And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.

‘Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven, Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?’ ‘Oh, that’s a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous, An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt.’

‘Oh, what is that glides quickly where the velvet flowers grow thickly, Their scent comes rich and sickly?’ ‘A scaled and hooded worm.’ ‘Oh, what’s that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?’ ‘Oh, that’s a thin dead body which waits the eternal term.’

‘Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest: This way whereof thou weetest, I fear is hell’s own track.’ ‘Nay, too steep for hill-mounting; nay, too late for cost-counting: This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.’

_143. In Progress_

Ten years ago it seemed impossible That she should ever grow so calm as this, With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well. Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell, Silent with long-unbroken silences, Centred in self yet not unpleased to please, Gravely monotonous like a passing bell. Mindful of drudging daily common things, Patient at pastime, patient at her work, Wearing perhaps but strenuous certainly. Sometimes I fancy we may one day see Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk, And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.

_144. What would I give!_

What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through, Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do; Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.

What would I give for words, if only words would come; But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb: Oh, merry friends, go your way, I have never a word to say.

What would I give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears, To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years, To wash the stain ingrain, and to make me clean again.

JEAN INGELOW

1820-1897

_145. The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire (1571)_

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; ‘Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best,’ quoth he. ‘Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe _The Brides of Enderby_!

Men say it was a stolen tyde— The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was nought of strange, beside The flights of mews and pewits pied By millions crouch’d on the old sea wall.

I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes, The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day’s golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne’s faire wife, Elizabeth.

‘Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!’ calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. ‘Cusha! Cusha!’ all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song,—

‘Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!’ calling, ‘For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. Jetty, to the milking shed.’

If it be long, aye, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell far and wide Was heard in all the countryside That Saturday at eventide.

The swannerds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset’s golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o’er the grassy sea Came down that kyndly message free, _The Brides of Mavis Enderby_.

Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, ‘And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby!

‘For evil news from Mablethorpe Of pyrate galleys warping down; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne: But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring _The Brides of Enderby_?’

I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, ‘Elizabeth! Elizabeth!’ (A sweeter woman ne’er drew breath Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth.)

‘The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market place! He shook as one that looks on death: ‘God save you, mother!’ straight he saith; ‘Where is my wife, Elizabeth?’

‘Good sonne, where Lindis winds away With her two bairns I marked her long; Arid ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song.’ He looked across the grassy lea, To right, to left, ‘Ho Enderby!’ They rang _The Brides of Enderby_!

With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river’s bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly ay the eygre’s breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout— Then beaten foam flew round about— Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sat that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by: I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high— A lurid mark and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang _Enderby_.

They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I—my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed: And yet he moaned beneath his breath, ‘O come in life, or come in death! O lost! my love, Elizabeth.’

And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith); And sweeter woman ne’er drew breath Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, ‘Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!’ calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, ‘Cusha! Cusha!’ all along, Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, To the sandy lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, ‘Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking shed.’

LADY CURRIE (VIOLET FANE)

1843-1905

_146. Forbidden Love_

Oh, love! thou that shelterest some ’Neath thy wings, so white and warm, Wherefore on a bat-like wing All disguisèd didst thou come In so terrible a form? As a dark forbidden thing, As a demon of the air— As a sorrow and a sin, Wherefore cam’st thou thus to me, As a tempter and a snare? When the heart that beats within This, my bosom, warm’d to thee, Was it from a love of sinning, From a fatal love of wrong, From a wish to shun the light? Nay! I swear at the beginning Hadst thou sung an angel’s song,— Had this wrong thing been the right, Thou hadst seem’d as worth the winning, And with will as firm and strong I had lov’d with all my might.

THE HON. EMILY LAWLESS

1845-1913

_147. Fontenoy (1745)_

After the Battle: early dawn, Clare coast

‘_Mary mother, shield us! Say, what men are ye,_ _Sweeping past so swiftly in this morning sea?_’ ‘Without sails or rowlocks merrily we glide Home to Corca Bascuin on the brimming tide.’

‘_Jesus save you, gentry! why are ye so white,_ _Sitting all so straight and still in this misty light?_’ ‘Nothing ails us, brother; joyous souls are we, Sailing home together, on the morning sea.

‘Cousins, friends, and kinsfolk, children of the land, Here we come together, a merry, rousing band; Sailing home together from the last great fight, Home to Clare from Fontenoy, in the morning light.

‘Men of Corca Bascuin, men of Clare’s Brigade, Harken, stony hills of Clare, hear the charge we made; See us come together, singing from the fight, Home to Corca Bascuin, in the morning light.’

FANNY PARNELL

1854-1882

_148. After Death_

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? Or shall the darkness close around them ere the sunblaze break at last upon thy story?

When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a new sweet sister hail thee, Shall these lips be seal’d in callous death and silence, that have known but to bewail thee?

Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises when all men their tribute bring thee? Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor when all poets’ mouths shall sing thee?

Ah! the harpings and the salvoes and the shouting of thy exiled sons returning! I should hear though dead and mouldered, and the grave-damps should not chill my bosom’s burning.

Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them ’mid the shamrocks and the mosses, And my heart would toss within the shroud and quiver as a captive dreamer tosses.

I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, giant sinews I should borrow— Crying, ‘O my brothers, I have also loved her in her loneliness and sorrow!

‘Let me join with you the jubilant procession; let me chant with you her story; Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, now mine eyes have seen her glory!’

MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE

1861-1907

_149. A Moment_

The clouds had made a crimson crown About the mountains high. The stormy sun was going down In a stormy sky.

Why did you let your eyes so rest on me, And hold your breath between? In all the ages this can never be As if it had not been.

_150. Gone_

About the little chambers of my heart Friends have been coming—going—many a year. The doors stand open there. Some, lightly stepping, enter; some depart.

Freely they come and freely go, at will. The walls give back their laughter; all day long They fill the house with song. One door alone is shut, one chamber still.

_151. Unwelcome_

We were young, we were merry, we were very very wise, And the door stood open at our feast, When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes, And a man with his back to the East.

O still grew the hearts that were beating so fast, The loudest voice was still. The jest died away on our lips as they passed, And the rays of July struck chill.

The cups of red wine turned pale on the board, The white bread black as soot, The hound forgot the hand of her lord, She fell down at his foot.

Now let me lie where the dead dog lies, Ere I sit me down again at a feast, When there passes a woman with the West in her eyes, And a man with his back to the East.

AMY LEVY

1861-1889

_152. A London Plane-Tree_

Green is the plane-tree in the square, The other trees are brown; They droop and pine for country air, The plane-tree loves the town.

Here from my garret-pane I mark The plane-tree bud and blow, Shed her recuperative bark, And spread her shade below.

Among her branches, in and out, The city breezes play; The dull fog wraps her round about; Above, the smoke curls grey.

Others the country take for choice, And hold the town in scorn; But she has listen’d to the voice On city breezes borne.

_153. In September_

The sky is silver-grey; the long Slow waves caress the shore. On such a day as this I have been glad, Who shall be glad no more.

_154. In the Nower_

Deep in the grass outstretched I lie, Motionless on the hill; Above me is a cloudless sky, Around me all is still:

There is no breath, no sound, no stir, The drowsy peace to break; I close my tired eyes—it were So simple not to wake.

_155. Cambridge in the Long_

Where drowsy sound of college-chimes Across the air is blown, And drowsy fragrance of the limes, I lie and dream alone.

A dazzling radiance reigns o’er all— O’er gardens densely green, O’er old grey bridges and the small, Slow flood which slides between.

This is the place; it is not strange, But known of old and dear. What went I forth to seek? The change Is mine; why am I here?

Alas, in vain I turned away, I fled the town in vain; The strenuous life of yesterday Calleth me back again.

And was it peace I came to seek? Yet here, where memories throng, Ev’n here, I know the past is weak, I know the present strong.

This drowsy fragrance, silent heat, Suit not my present mind, Whose eager thought goes out to meet The life it left behind.

Spirit with sky to change; such hope, An idle one we know; Unship the oars, make loose the rope, Push off the boat and go....

Ah, would what binds me could have been Thus loosened at a touch! This pain of living is too keen, Of loving, is too much.

_156. New Love, New Life_

I

She, who so long has lain Stone-stiff with folded wings, Within my heart again The brown bird wakes and sings.

Brown nightingale, whose strain Is heard by day, by night, She sings of joy and pain, Of sorrow and delight.

II

’Tis true,—in other days Have I unbarred the door; He knows the walks and ways Love has been here before.

Love blest and love accurst Was here in days long past; This time is not the first, But this time is the last.

_157. London Poets_

They trod the streets and squares where now I tread, With weary hearts, a little while ago; When, thin and grey, the melancholy snow Clung to the leafless branches overhead; Or when the smoke-veil’d sky grew stormy-red In Autumn; with a re-arisen woe Wrestled, what time the passionate spring-winds blow; And paced scorch’d stones in summer. They are dead.

The sorrow of their souls to them did seem As real as mine to me, as permanent. To-day—it is the shadow of a dream, The half-forgotten breath of breezes spent. So shall another soothe his woe supreme— _No more he comes, who this way came and went._

DORA SIGERSON SHORTER

1866-1918

_158. Sixteen Dead Men_

Hark! in the still night. Who goes there? ‘_Fifteen dead men._’ Why do they wait? ‘_Hasten, comrade, death is so fair._’ Now comes their Captain through the dim gate.

Sixteen dead men! What on their sword? ‘_A nation’s honour proud do they bear._’ What on their bent heads? ‘_God’s holy word;_ _All of their nation’s heart blended in prayer._’

Sixteen dead men! What makes their shroud? ‘_All of their nation’s love wraps them around._’ Where do their bodies lie, brave and so proud? ‘_Under the gallows-tree in prison-ground._’

Sixteen dead men! Where do they go? ‘_To join their regiment where Sarsfield leads;_ _Wolfe Tone and Emmet, too, well do they know._ _There shall they bivouac, telling great deeds._’

Sixteen dead men! Shall they return? ‘_Yea, they shall come again, breath of our breath._ _They on our nation’s hearth made old fires burn._ _Guard her unconquered soul, strong in their death._’

_159. Ireland_

’Twas the dream of a God, And the mould of His hand, That you shook ’neath this stroke, That you trembled and broke To this beautiful land.

Here He loosed from His hold A brown tumult of wings, Till the wind on the sea Bore the strange melody Of an island that sings.

He made you all fair, You in purple and gold, You in silver and green, Till no eye that has seen Without love can behold.

I have left you behind In the path of the past, With the white breath of flowers, With the best of God’s hours, I have left you at last.

ALICE MEYNELL

_160. In Manchester Square (In memoriam T. H.)_

The paralytic man has dropped in death The crossing-sweeper’s brush to which he clung, One-handed, twisted, dwarfed, scanted of breath, Although his hair was young.

I saw this year the winter vines of France, Dwarfed, twisted, goblins in the frosty drouth, Gnarled, crippled, blackened little stems askance, On long hills to the South.

Great green and golden hands of leaves ere long Shall proffer clusters in that vineyard wide. And oh! his might, his sweet, his wine, his song, His stature, since he died!

_161. Christ in the Universe_

With this ambiguous earth His dealings have been told us. These abide: The signal to a maid, the human birth, The lesson, and the young Man crucified.

But not a star of all The innumerable host of stars has heard How He administered this terrestrial ball. Our race have kept their Lord’s entrusted Word.

Of His earth-visiting feet None knows the secret, cherished, perilous, The terrible, shamefast, frightened, whispered, sweet, Heart-shattering secret of His way with us.

No planet knows that this Our wayside planet, carrying land and wave, Love and life multiplied, and pain and bliss, Bears, as chief treasure, one forsaken grave.

Nor, in our little day, May His devices with the heavens be guessed, His pilgrimage to thread the Milky Way Or His bestowals there be manifest.

But in the eternities, Doubtless we shall compare together, hear A million alien Gospels, in what guise He trod the Pleiades, the Lyre, the Bear.

O, be prepared, my soul! To read the inconceivable, to scan The countless forms of God those stars unroll When, in our turn, we show to them a Man.

_162. Renouncement_

I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, I shun the thought that lurks in all delight— The thought of thee—and in the blue Heaven’s height, And in the sweetest passage of a song.

Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden tho’ bright; Yet it must never, never come in sight; I must stop short of thee the whole day long.

But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,

Must doff my will as raiment laid away,— With the first dream that comes with the first sleep I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.

_163. A Letter from a Girl to Her own Old Age_

Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses What thy thin fingers touch, with her caresses.

O mother, for the weight of years that break thee! O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee, And from the changes of my heart must make thee.

O fainting traveller, morn is grey in heaven. Dost thou remember how the clouds were driven? And are they calm about the fall of even?

Pause near the ending of thy long migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation Appeals to one hour of thy meditation.

Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee Of the great hills that stormed the sky behind thee, Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee.

Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander Is but a grey and silent world, but ponder The misty mountains of the morning yonder.

Listen:—the mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountain-tops besetting. I cannot let thee fade to death, forgetting.

What part of this wild heart of mine I know not Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not.

Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it, And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it.

Oh, in some hour of thine my thoughts shall guide thee. Suddenly, though time, darkness, silence, hide thee, This wind from thy lost country flits beside thee,—

Telling thee: all thy memories moved the maiden, With thy regrets was morning over-shaden, With sorrow, thou hast left, her life was laden.

But whither shall my thoughts turn to pursue thee? Life changes, and the years and days renew thee. Oh, Nature brings my straying heart unto thee;