Part 11
Her winds will join us, with their constant kisses Upon the evening as the morning tresses, Her summers breathe the same unchanging blisses.
And we, so altered in our shifting phases, Track one another ’mid the many mazes By the eternal child-breath of the daisies.
I have not writ this letter of divining To make a glory of thy silent pining, A triumph of thy mute and strange declining.
Only one youth, and the bright life was shrouded. Only one morning, and the day was clouded. And one old age with all regrets is crowded.
Oh hush, oh hush! Thy tears my words are steeping. Oh hush, hush, hush! So full, the fount of weeping? Poor eyes, so quickly moved, so near to sleeping?
Pardon the girl; such strange desires beset her. Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter That breaks thy heart; the one who wrote, forget her:
The one who now thy faded features guesses, With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses, With morning tears thy mournful twilight blesses.
_164. Chimes_
Brief, on a flying night, From the shaken tower, A flock of bells take flight, And go with the hour.
Like birds from the cote to the gales, Abrupt—O hark! A fleet of bells set sails, And go to the dark.
Sudden the cold airs swing. Alone, aloud, A verse of bells takes wing And flies with the cloud.
MARGARET L. WOODS
_165. To the Forgotten Dead_
To the forgotten dead, Come, let us drink in silence ere we part. To every fervent yet resolvèd heart That brought its tameless passion and its tears, Renunciation and laborious years, To lay the deep foundations of our race, To rear its mighty ramparts overhead And light its pinnacles with golden grace. To the unhonoured dead.
To the forgotten dead, What dauntless hands were stretched to grasp the rein Of Fate and hurl into the void again Her thunder-hoofèd horses, rushing blind Earthward along the courses of the wind. Among the stars along the wind in vain Their souls were scattered and their blood was shed, And nothing, nothing of them doth remain. To the thrice-perished dead.
_166. Genius Loci_
Peace, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on? Since long ago grace-giving Phoebus died, And all the train that loved the stream-bright side Of the poetic mount with him are gone Beyond the shores of Styx and Acheron, In unexplorèd realms of night to hide. The clouds that show their shadows far and wide Are all of Heaven that visits Helicon.
Yet here, where never muse or god did haunt, Still may some nameless power of Nature stray, Pleased with the reedy stream’s continual chant And purple pomp of these broad fields in May. The shepherds meet him where he herds the kine, And careless pass him by whose is the gift divine.
_167. A Ballade of the Night_
Far from the earth the deep-descended day Lies dim in hidden sanctuaries of sleep. The wingèd winds couched on the threshold keep Uneasy watch, and still expectant stay The voice that bids their rushing host delay No more to rise, and with tempestuous power Rend the wide veil of heaven. Long watching they Sigh in the silence of the midnight hour.
Hark! where the forests slow in slumber sway Below the blue wild ridges, steep on steep, Thronging the sky—how shuddering as they leap The impetuous waters go their fated way, And mourn in mountain chasms, and as they stray By many a magic town and marble tower, As those that still unreconciled obey, Sigh in the silence of the midnight hour.
Listen—the quiet darkness doth array The toiling earth, and there is time to weep— A deeper sound is mingled with the sweep Of streams and winds that whisper far away. Oh listen! where the populous cities lay Low in the lap of sleep their ancient dower, The changeless spirit of our changeful clay Sighs in the silence of the midnight hour.
Sigh, watcher for a dawn remote and grey, Mourn, journeyer to an undesirèd deep, Eternal sower, thou that shalt not reap, Immortal, whom the plagues of God devour. Mourn—’tis the hour when thou wert wont to pray. Sigh in the silence of the midnight hour.
ROSE TERRY COOKE
_168. Arachne_
I watch her in the corner there, As, restless, bold, and unafraid, She slips and floats along the air Till all her subtile house is made.
Her home, her bed, her daily food, All from that hidden store she draws; She fashions it and knows it good, By instinct’s strong and sacred laws.
No tenuous threads to weave her nest, She seeks and gathers there or here, But spins it from her faithful breast, Renewing still, till leaves are sere.
Then, worn with toil and tired of life, In vain her shining traps are set. The frost hath hushed the insect strife And gilded flies her charm forget.
But swinging in the snares she spins, She sways to every wintry wind: Her joy, her toil, her errand done, Her corse the sport of storms unkind.
Poor sister of the spinster clan, I too from out my store within My daily life and living plan, My home, my rest, my pleasure spin.
I know thy heart when heartless hands Sweep all that hard-earned web away, Destroy its pearled and glittering bands, And leave thee homeless by the way.
I know thy peace when all is done, Each anchored thread, each tiny knot, Soft shining in the autumn sun; A sheltered, silent, tranquil lot.
I know what thou hast never known,— Sad presage to a soul allowed— That not for life I spin, alone, But day by day I spin my shroud.
VIOLET JACOB
_169. Tam i’ the Kirk_
O Jean, my Jean, when the bell ca’s the congregation Owre valley an’ hill wi’ the ding frae its iron mou’, When a’ body’s thochts is set on his ain salvation, Mine’s set on you.
There’s a reid rose lies on the Buik o’ the Word afore ye That was growin’ braw on its bush at the keek o’ day, But the lad that pu’d yon flower i’ the mornin’s glory, He canna pray.
He canna pray; but there’s nane i’ the kirk will heed him Whaur he sits sae still his lane at the side o’ the wa’, For nane but the reid rose kens what my lassie gie’d him— It an’ us twa!
He canna sing for the sang that his ain he’rt raises, He canna see for the mist that’s afore his een, An’ a voice drouns the hale o’ the psalms an’ the paraphrases, Cryin’ ‘Jean, Jean, Jean!’
ANNA BUNSTON DE BARY
_170. The Snowdrop_
Close to the sod There can be seen A thought of God In white and green.
Unmarred, unsoiled It cleft the clay, Serene, unspoiled It views the day.
It is so holy And yet so lowly. Would you enjoy Its grace and dower And not destroy The living flower? Then you must, please, Fall on your knees.
MOIRA O’NEILL
_171. The Rachray Man_
Och, what was it got me at all that time To promise I’d marry a Rachray man? An’ now he’ll not listen to rason or rhyme, He’s striving to hurry me all that he can. ‘Come on, an’ ye _be_ to come on!’ say he, ‘Ye’re bound for the Island to live wi’ me.’
See Rachray Island beyont in the bay, And the dear knows what they be doin’ out there But fishin’ and fightin’ and tearin’ away, An’ who’s to hinder, an’ what do they care? The goodness can tell what ’ud happen to me When Rachray ’ud have me, _anee, anee_!
I might have took Pether from over the hill, A dacent poacher, the kind, poor boy: Could I keep the ould places about me still I’d never set foot out of sweet Ballyvoy. My sorra on Rachray, the could sea-caves, An’ blackneck divers, an’ weary ould waves!
I’ll never win back now, whatever may fall, So give me good luck, for ye’ll see me no more; Sure an Island man is the mischief an’ all— An’ me that was never married before! Oh think o’ my fate when ye dance at a fair, In Rachray, there’s no Christianity there.
_172. The Grand Match_
Dennis was hearty when Dennis was young, High was his step in the jig that he sprung, _He_ had the looks an’ the sootherin’ tongue— An’ he wanted a girl wid a fortune.
Nannie was grey-eyed an’ Nannie was tall, Fair was the face hid inunder her shawl, Troth! an’ he liked her the best o’ them all— But she’d not a _traneen_ to her fortune.
He be to look out for a likelier match, So he married a girl that was counted a catch, An’ as ugly as need be, the dark little patch— But that was a trifle, he told her.
She brought him her good-lookin’ gold to admire, She brought him her good-lookin’ cows to his byre, But far from good-lookin’ she sat by his fire— An’ paid him that ‘thrifle’ he tould her.
He met pretty Nan when a month had gone by, An’ he thought, like a fool, to get round her he’d try; Wid a smile on her lip an’ a spark in her eye, She said, ‘How is the woman that owns ye?’
Och, never be tellin’ the life that he’s led! Sure, many’s the night that he’ll wish himself dead, For the sake of two eyes in a pretty girl’s head,— An’ the tongue of the woman that owns him.
FRANCES CORNFORD
_173. Autumn Evening_
The shadows flickering, the daylight dying, And I upon the old red sofa lying, The great brown shadows leaping up the wall, The sparrows twittering; and that is all.
I thought to send my soul to far-off lands, Where fairies scamper on the windy sands, Or where the autumn rain comes drumming down On huddled roofs in an enchanted town.
But O, my sleepy soul, it will not roam, It is too happy and too warm at home: With just the shadows leaping up the wall, The sparrows twittering; and that is all.
_174. Autumn Morning at Cambridge_
I ran out in the morning, when the air was clean and new, And all the grass was glittering and grey with autumn dew, I ran out to the apple tree and pulled an apple down, And all the bells were ringing in the old grey town. Down in the town, off the bridges and the grass They are sweeping up the leaves to let the people pass, Sweeping up the old leaves, golden-reds and browns, While the men go to lecture with the wind in their gowns
_175. The Watch_
I wakened on my hot, hard bed; Upon the pillow lay my head; Beneath the pillow I could hear My little watch was ticking clear. I thought the throbbing of it went Like my continual discontent, I thought it said in every tick: I am so sick, so sick, so sick; O death, come quick, come quick, come quick, Come quick, come quick, come quick, come quick.
EVA GORE-BOOTH
_176. The Little Waves of Breffny_
The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, And there is traffic in it, and many a horse and cart; But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me, And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.
A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o’er the hill, And there is glory in it and terror on the wind; But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still, And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.
The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way, Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal; But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray, And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.
KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON
_177. Sheep and Lambs_
All in the April morning, April airs were abroad, The sheep with their little lambs Pass’d me by on the road.
The sheep with their little lambs Pass’d me by on the road; All in an April evening I thought on the Lamb of God.
The lambs were weary and crying With a weak human cry, I thought on the Lamb of God Going meekly to die.
Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet.
Rest for the Lamb of God Up on the hill-top green, Only a cross of shame Two 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.
ROSE MACAULAY
_178. The Devourers_
Cambridge town is a beleaguered city; For south and north, like a sea, There beats on its gates, without haste or pity, The downs and the fen country.
Cambridge towers, so old, so wise, They were builded but yesterday, Watched by sleepy gray secret eyes That smiled as at children’s play.
Roads south of Cambridge run into the waste, Where learning and lamps are not, And the pale downs tumble, blind, chalk-faced, And the brooding churches squat.
Roads north of Cambridge march through a plain Level like the traitor sea. It will swallow its ships, and turn and smile again, The insatiable fen country.
Lest the downs and the fens should eat Cambridge up, And its towers be tossed and thrown, And its rich wine drunk from its broken cup, And its beauty no more known—
Let us come, you and I, where the roads run blind, But beyond the transient city, That our love, mingling with earth, may find Her imperishable heart of pity.
SYLVIA LYND
_179. Hunting Song_
The hunt is up! the hunt is up! It sounds from hill to hill, It pierces to the hidden place Where we are lying still; And one of us the quarry is, And one of us must go, When through the arches of the wood We hear the dread horn blow.
A huntsman bold is Master Death, And reckless doth he ride, And terror’s hounds with bleeding fangs Go baying at his side; And will it be a milk-white doe, A little dappled fawn, Or will it be an antlered stag Must face the icy dawn?
Or will it be a golden fox Must leap from out his lair, Or where the trailing shadows pass A merry romping hare? The hunt is up, the horn is loud By plain and covert side, And we must run alone, alone, When Death abroad doth ride.
But idle ’tis to crouch in fear, Since death will find you out; Then up and hold your head erect, And pace the wood about, And swim the stream, and leap the wall, And race the starry mead, Nor feel the bright teeth in your flank Till they be there indeed.
For in the secret hearts of men Are peace and joy at one. There is a pleasant land where stalks No darkness in the sun, And through the arches of the wood Do break, like silver foam, Young laughter, and the noise of flutes, And voices singing home.
INDEX OF AUTHORS
The figures refer to the numbers of the poems
Anonymous, 10.
Askewe, Anne, 1.
Baillie, Lady Grisel, 48, 49.
Baillie, Joanna, 81-84.
Barbauld, Anna Laetitia, 74, 75.
Barnard, Lady Anne (Lindsay), 79.
Behn, Aphra, 20-24.
Blamire, Susanna, 77.
Bradstreet, Anne, 7, 8.
Brontë, Anne, 128, 129.
Brontë, Charlotte, 116-118.
Brontë, Emily, 119-125.
Brooke, Frances, 76.
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 101-113.
Carew, Lady Elizabeth, 4.
Carter, Elizabeth, 65.
Cary, Phoebe, 130.
Chudleigh, Mary, Lady, 38, 39.
Cockburn, Alison, 61.
Cockburn, Catharine, 55.
Coleridge, Mary Elizabeth, 149-151.
Coleridge, Sara, 100.
Collins, Ann, 11, 12.
Cooke, Rose Terry, 168.
Cornford, Frances, 173-175.
Currie, Lady (_Violet Fane_), 146.
De Bary, Anna Bunston, 170.
Dufferin, Helen Selina, Marchioness of, 114.
Elizabeth, Queen, 2, 3.
Elliot, Jane, 70.
_Ephelia_, 25-31.
Fanshawe, Catherine M., 85.
Gore-Booth, Eva, 176.
Grahame, Jenny, 71.
Grant, Anne, of Laggan, 93.
Greville, Fanny, 59.
Hemans, Felicia Dorothea, 97-99.
Hinkson, Katharine Tynan, 177.
Howe, Julia Ward, 126, 127.
Hunter, Annie, 73.
Ingelow, Jean, 145.
Jacob, Violet, 169.
Jones, Mary, 69.
Killigrew, Anne, 34-36.
Lamb, Mary, 86.
Lawless, Hon. Emily, 147.
Leapor, Mary, 66-68.
Levy, Amy, 152-157.
Lynd, Sylvia, 179.
Macaulay, Rose, 178.
Madan, Judith, 64.
Masters, Mary, 62, 63.
Meynell, Alice, 160-164.
Mollineux, Mary, 32, 33.
Monk, Hon. Mary, 50-52.
Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, 56-58.
Nairne, Caroline, Lady, 87-90.
Newcastle, Margaret, Duchess of, 9.
Norton, Hon. Caroline Elizabeth Sarah, 115.
O’Neill, Henrietta, Lady, 80.
O’Neill, Moira, 171, 172.
Opie, Amelia, 94.
Oxlie, Mary, of Morpet, 5.
Pagan, Isobel, 72.
Parnell, Fanny, 148.
Philips, Katherine (_Orinda_), 13-17.
Pilkington, Laetitia, 60.
Rossetti, Christina, 131-144.
Rowe, Elizabeth (Singer), 53, 54.
Shorter, Dora (Sigerson), 158, 159.
Smith, Charlotte, 78.
Southey, Caroline, 95.
Taylor, Mrs., 37.
Wharton, Anne, Marchioness of, 18, 19.
Willard, Emma (Hart), 96.
Williams, Helen Maria, 91, 92.
Winchilsea, Anne, Countess of, 40-47.
Woods, Margaret L., 165-167.
Wroth, Lady Mary, 6.
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
A child’s a plaything for an hour, 86
A constancy in love I’ll prise, 21
A thousand martyrs I have made, 24
About the little chambers of my heart, 150
Ah, gaze not on those eyes! forbear, 55
Alas, how hard a thing, 33
Alas! my son, you little know, 71
All in the April morning, 177
Am I a stone, and not a sheep, 135
And ye shall walk in silk attire, 77
Behold, ambitious lump of clay refined, 32
Best of thy sex! if sacred friendship can, 30
Brief, on a flying night, 164
Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, 72
Calm on the bosom of thy God, 99
Cambridge town is a beleaguered city, 178
Cease, cease, Aminta, to complain, 22
Children of night! unfolding meekly, slowly, 97
Christ was the Word that spake it, 3
Close to the sod, 170
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, 119
Come not in terrors clad, to claim, 95
Come to me in the silence of the night, 133
Cou’d our first father, at his toilsome plough, 44
Death is a leveller; beauty and kings, 14
Deep in the grass outstretched I lie, 154
Dennis was hearty when Dennis was young, 172
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, 110
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?, 138
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away, 121
Far from the earth the deep-descended day, 167
Farewell, ungrateful man, sail to some land, 28
Flowers to the Fair! to you these flowers I bring, 74
Forbear, bold youth, all’s Heaven here, 16
Forgo the charming Muses! No, in spite, 54
Give me there (since Heaven has shown, 43
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand, 105
Green is the plane-tree in the square, 152
Hark! in the still night. Who goes there?, 158
He saw my heart’s woe, discovered my soul’s anguish, 116
Her mouth, which a smile, 76
Here sleeps the Queen; this is the royal bed, 8
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways, 108
How hardly I conceal’d my tears!, 19
How much of paper’s spoil’d! what floods of ink!, 69
How strongly does my passion flow, 23
I ask no kind return in Love, 59
I did not live until this time, 13
I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!, 115
I mind me, in the days departed, 112
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, 162
I never rested on the Muses’ bed, 5
I ran out in the morning, when the air was clean and new, 174
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless, 113
I thought once how Theocritus had sung, 103
I took my heart in my hand, 136
I wakened on my hot, hard bed, 175
I was alone, for those I loved, 129
I watch her in the corner there, 168
If trifling Hope has any room to plead, 67
I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary, 114
I’m wearin’ awa’, John, 87
In such a night, when every louder wind, 42
In two large columns on thy motley page, 56
Is it to me, this sad lamenting strain?, 57
I’ve heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, 70
I’ve seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling, 61
Jean, fetch that heap of tangled yarn, 93
Life! I know not what thou art, 75
Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, 163
Lost in despair, distracted and forlorn, 53
Love, a child, is ever crying, 6
Love in fantastic triumph sat, 20
Loving friend, the gift of one, 111
Lyke as the armed knyght, 1
‘Mary mother, shield us! Say, what men are ye, 147
Meek Twilight! soften the declining day, 91
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, 126
My heart is like a singing bird, 141
My letters! all dead paper, ... mute and white!, 107
My Lord, my Saviour, and my God, 60
My mother bids me bind my hair, 73
My songs th’ attentive nymphs with pleasure hear, 63
Next heaven, my vows to thee, O sacred Muse!, 35
No coward soul is mine, 125
Now in thy dazzled, half-oped eye, 81
O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes, 137
O ever skill’d to wear the form we love, 92
O God! if this indeed be all, 128
O Jean, my Jean, when the bell ca’s the congregation, 169
O King of Terrors, whose unbounded sway, 47
O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme!, 9
O sleep, my babe, hear not the rippling wave, 100
O thou, who labour’st in this rugged mine, 64
Observe the weary birds ere night be done, 15
Och, what was it got me at all that time, 171
O’er this marble drop a tear, 51
Of all companions I would choose to shun, 68
Often rebuked, yet always back returning, 124
Oh cruel Fate, when wilt thou weary be?, 31
Oh, love! thou that shelterest some, 146
Oh, the auld house, the auld house!, 88
‘Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing, 142
One sweetly solemn thought, 130
Peace, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on?, 166
Press gently on him, earth, and all around, 50
Remember me when I am gone away, 139
Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 96
Search but those strains, you think so much excel, 62
Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country?, 148
She stands as pale as Parian statues stand, 134
She, who so long has lain, 156
Silent is the house: all are laid asleep, 120
Speak of the North! A lonely moor, 118
Still let my tyrants know, I am not doom’d to wear, 122
Strephon hath fashion, wit, and youth, 37
Strephon I saw, and started at the sight, 25
Strephon, whose person ev’ry grace, 45
Such is the force of each created thing, 12
Sweet age of blest delusion! blooming boys, 80
Ten years ago it seemed impossible, 143
The boy stood on the burning deck, 98
The chough and crow to roost are gone, 84
The clouds had made a crimson crown, 149
The doubt of future foes, exiles my present joy, 2
The ewe-buchtin’s bonnie, baith e’enin’ and morn, 49
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, 78
The gowan glitters on the sward, 83
The grand old road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, 176
The human heart has hidden treasures, 117
The hunt is up! the hunt is up!, 179
The irresponsive silence of the land, 132
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 145
The paralytic man has dropped in death, 160
The shadows flickering, the daylight dying, 173