an ebook published by Project Gutenberg Australia Title: At Dawn and Dusk Author: Daley, Victor J. eBook No.: 2300301h.html Language: English Date first posted: 2023 Most recent update: 2023 This eBook was produced by: Walter Moore View our licence and header

At Dawn and Dusk

Daley, Victor J. To My Sister In memory of our young days ashine
    With dreams, when life was yet an opening rose,
Take, Alice dear, this little book of mine,
    All made of dreams and dying sunset-glows,
A lonely bird that singeth far apart—
Yet shall sing sweeter in its home, thy heart. Almost all the verses contained in this volume were first published in the Sydney Bulletin. I wish to thank the editor and proprietor of this journal for their kindness in allowing me to reprint. Other verses appeared in the Sydney Mail, Sydney Freeman's Journal, Melbourne Table Talk, and Melbourne Punch. To these journals also my thanks are due.        V. J. D.

Dreams Lethe Love-Laurel (In Memory Of Henry Kendall) A Vision Of Youth Aphrodite The Rajah’s Sapphires The Cruise Of The In Memoriam In A Wine Cellar A-Roving Brunette Years Ago Villanelle The Voice Of The Soul Cares Ponce De Leon Sonnets:— Death Life Christmas in Australia Questions The Gods The Gleaner Love Passion Flower To My Lady The Hawthorn Spring Dirge Fragments:— 1. Her Last Day 2. Sunset 3. Years After “Unto This Last” The Nightingale The Two Keys Lachesis Symbols At The Opera Neæra’s Wreath Camilla Sixty To Sixteen Bouquet And Bracelet Cupid’s Funeral The First Of May A Ghost Even So Song—“What Shall a Man Remember?” A Sunset Fantasy Poppies Amaranth The Little People A King In Exile Tamerlane The Dead Child In Memory Of An Actress The River Maiden A Picture Sea-Gifts Day And Night The Poet Care Voices The Ascetic The Serpent’s Legacy His Soul The Dream Of Margaret The Martyr His Mate The Old Wife And The New A Christmas Eve Night

Dreams

I HAVE been dreaming all a summer day Of rare and dainty poems I would write; Love-lyrics delicate as lilac-scent, Soft idylls woven of wind, and flower, and stream, And songs and sonnets carven in fine gold. The day is fading and the dusk is cold; Out of the skies has gone the opal gleam, Out of my heart has passed the high intent Into the shadow of the falling night— Must all my dreams in darkness pass away? I have been dreaming all a summer day: Shall I go dreaming so until Life’s light Fades in Death’s dusk, and all my days are spent? Ah, what am I the dreamer but a dream! The day is fading and the dusk is cold. My songs and sonnets carven in fine gold Have faded from me with the last day-beam That purple lustre to the sea-line lent, And flushed the clouds with rose and chrysolite; So days and dreams in darkness pass away. I have been dreaming all a summer day Of songs and sonnets carven in fine gold; But all my dreams in darkness pass away; The day is fading, and the dusk is cold.

Lethe

THROUGH the noiseless doors of Death Three passed out, as with one breath. Two had faces stern as Fate, Stamped with unrelenting hate. One upon her lips of guile Wore a cold, mysterious smile. Each of each unseen, the pale Shades went down the hollow vale Till they came unto the deep River of Eternal Sleep. Breath of wind, or wing of bird, Never that dark stream hath stirred; Still it seems as is the shore, But it flows for evermore Softly, through the meadows wan To the Sea Oblivion. In the dusk, like drops of blood, Poppies hang above the flood; On its surface lies a thin, Ghostly web of mist, wherein All things vague and changing seem As the faces in a dream. Two knelt down upon the bank And of that dark water drank. But the Third stood by the while, Smiling her mysterious smile. Rising up, those shades of men Gazed upon each other, then Side by side, upon the bank, In a bed of poppies sank. “What,” one to the other saith, “Sent thee through the doors of death?”— “While life throbbed in every vein, For a woman I was slain. “Love is but a fleeting spell, Hate alone remembers well. “For my slayer I shall wait, And though he at Heaven’s gate “Stand, and wear an angel’s crown, I shall seize and drag him down!” So the stern shade made reply. Then the first that spake said: “I “For a woman’s sake, also, Slew myself—and slew my foe. “Slew myself, that in no shape He my vengeance should escape, “Till Oblivion swallow both: And I swore a solemn oath “I would—hate remembers well— Hunt his spotted soul to hell. “But I left, ere leave-taking, Round her throat a dark red ring. “I shall know her—you shall note— By that red ring round her throat. “Well I loved my fair, false wife, And perchance in this new life “She may love me—we shall see— She shall choose ’twixt him and me.” Softly did the other sigh: “My love’s love will never die. “Love is not a fleeting spell— Love, like hate, remembers well. “Soon—mayhap on this dim shore— We shall meet to part no more.” Then the first Shade spoke and said: “In this Kingdom of the Dead “Let us, who so strangely meet, Pledge each other in this sweet “Water, our revenge to wreak Side by side, and so to seek, “Side by side, whate’er our fate, Those we love and those we hate.” Kneeling on the dim shore then, Side by side, they drank again. And they saw, like drops of blood, Poppies nodding o’er the flood, And they gazed upon the thin Ghostly web of mist, wherein All things vague and changing seem As the faces in a dream; And by some enchantment weird, As they gazed thereon appeared Unto each, down-bending low, Form and features of his foe, For a moment, then were gone, And upon the meadows wan— Half in Death and half a-swoon— Shone a pale and spectral moon. Then these twain rose, drowsy-eyed, And departed side by side. But the Woman Shade the while Smiled her cold, mysterious smile. And her beauty made a light In that realm of pallid night (Beauty laughs at worm and grave) Like the moon beneath the wave. Back she flung her hair of gold, Glowing, gleaming, fold on fold, Showing—all but these might note— The red ring around her throat. But they passed with cold surprise, And unrecognising eyes. Lightly laughed she then, and said: “In this Kingdom of the Dead “Strange the sights that one may see! There go twain who died for me “Seeking, through Creation wide, For each other—side by side!” Then she wove a poppy crown, Placed it on her head, and down On the river’s margin sank Midst the poppies of its bank, Saying: “In the world above Long he tarries, my true love. “Here beside this river’s rim I will sleep, and wait for him.”

Love-Laurel

In Memory Of Henry Kendall AH! that God once would touch my lips with song To pierce, as prayer doth heaven, earth’s breast of iron, So that with sweet mouth I might sing to thee, O sweet dead singer buried by the sea, A song, to woo thee, as a wooing siren, Out of that silent sleep which seals too long Thy mouth of melody. For, if live lips might speak awhile to dead, Or any speech could reach the sad world under This world of ours, song surely should awake Thee who didst dwell in shadow for song’s sake! Alas! thou canst not hear the voice of thunder, Nor low dirge over thy low-lying head The winds of morning make. Down through the clay there comes no sound of these; Down in the grave there is no sign of Summer, Nor any knowledge of the soft-eyed Spring; But Death sits there, with outspread ebon wing, Closing with dust the mouth of each new-comer To that mute land, where never sound of seas Is heard, and no birds sing. Now thou hast found the end of all thy days Hast thou found any heart a vigil keeping For thee among the dead—some heart that heard Thy singing when thou wert a brown, sweet bird Gray Æons gone, in some old forest sleeping Beneath the seas long since? in Death’s dim ways Has thy heart any word? For surely those in whom the deathless spark Of song is kindled, sang from the beginning If life were always? But the old desires— Do they exist when sad-eyed Hope expires? How live the dead? what crowns have they for winning? Have they, to warm them in the dreamless dark, For sun earth’s central fires? Are the dead dead indeed whom we call dead? Has God no life but this of ours for giving?— When that they took thee by each well-known place, Stark in thy coffin with a cold white face, What thought, O Brother, hadst thou of the living? What of the sun that round thee glory shed? What of the fair day’s grace? Is thy new life made up of memories Or dreams that lull the dead, bright visions bringing Of Spring above! Are thy days short or long? Thou who wert master of our singing throng Mayhap in death thou hast not lost thy singing, But chauntst unheard, beside the moaning sea, A solitary song. The chance spade turns up skulls. God help the dead And thee whose singing days have all passed over— Thee, whom the gold-haired Spring shall seek in vain When at the glad year’s doors she stands again, Remembering the song-garlands thou hast wove her In years gone by: but all these years have fled With all their joy and pain. * * * * * * * * My soul laughed out to hear my heart speak so, And sprang forth skyward, as an eagle, hoping To look upon thy soul with living eyes, Until it came to where our dim life dies, And dead suns darkly for a grave are groping Through cycles of immeasurable woe, Stone-blind in the blind skies. The stars walk shuddering on that awful verge From which my soul, with swift and fearless motion, Clove the black depths, and sought for God and thee; But God dwells where nor stars nor suns there be— No shore there is to His Eternal Ocean; A thousand systems are a fringe of surge On that great starless sea. And thou wert not. So that, with weary plumes, My soul through the great void its way came winging To earth again. “What hope for him who sings Is there?” it sighed. “Death ends all sweetest things.” When lo! there came a swell of mighty singing, Flooding all space, and swift athwart the glooms A flash of sudden wings. * * * * * * * * * Dreamer of dreams, thy songs and dreams are done. Down where thou sleepest in earth’s secret bosom There is no sorrow and no joy for thee, Who canst not see what stars at eve there be, Nor evermore at morn the green dawn blossom Into the golden king-flower of the sun Across the golden sea. But haply there shall come in days to be One who shall hear his own heart beating faster, Plucking a rose sprung from thy heart beneath, And from his soul, as sword from out its sheath, Song shall leap forth where now, O silent master, On thy lone grave beside the sounding sea, I lay this laurel-wreath.

A Vision Of Youth

A HORSEMAN on a hilltop green Drew rein, and wound his horn; So bright he looked he might have been The Herald of the Morn. His steed was of the sovran strain In Fancy’s meadows bred— And pride was in his tossing mane, And triumph in his tread. The rider’s eyes like jewels glowed— The World was in his hand— As down the woodland way he rode When Spring was in the land. From golden hour to golden hour For him the woodland sang, And from the heart of every flower A singing fairy sprang. He rode along with rein so free, And, as he rode, the Blue Mysterious Bird of Fantasy Ever before him flew. He rode by cot and castle dim Through all the greenland gay; Bright eyes through casements glanced at him; He laughed—and rode away. The world with sunshine was aflood, And glad were maid and man, And through his throbbing veins the blood In keen, sweet shudders ran. * * * * * His steed tossed head with fiery scorn, And stamped, and snuffed the air— As though he heard a sudden horn Of far-off battle blare. Erect the rider sat awhile With flashing eyes, and then Turned slowly, sighing, with a smile, “O weary world of men!” For aye the Bird of Fantasy Sang magic songs to him, And deep and deeper still rode he Into the Forest Dim. * * * * * That rider with his face aglow With joy of life I see In dreams. Ah, years and years ago He parted ways with me! Yet, sometimes, when the days are drear And all the world forlorn, From out the dim wood’s heart I hear The echo of his horn.

Aphrodite

ON a golden dawn in the dawn sublime Of years ere the stars had ceased to sing, Beautiful out of the sea-deeps cold Aphrodite arose—the Flower of Time— That, dear till the day of her blossoming, The old, old Sea had borne in his heart. Around her worshipping waves did part Tremulous—glowing in rose and gold. And the birds broke forth into singing sweet, And flowers born scentless breathed perfume: Softly she smiled upon Man forlorn, And the music of love in his wild heart beat, And down to the pit went his gods of gloom, And earth grew bright and fair as a bride, And folk in star-worlds wondering cried— “Lo in the skies a new star is born!” O Beloved, thus on my small world you Rose, flushing it all with rosy flame! Changing sad thoughts to a singing throng, And creating the earth and the sky anew! As Love you appeared—and, lo, you are Fame, And, all my follies and sins despite, You yet, Beloved, may see my light— Small, but a star—mid the stars of song.

The Rajah’s Sapphires

IN my garden, O Beloved! Many pleasant trees are growing, Peach, and apricot, and apple, Myrtle, lilac, and laburnum. Fair are they, but midst them lonely, Like an exiled Eastern Princess In a strange land far from kindred, Stands a lonely fair Pomegranate. Dreaming of its native Orient Always is the fair Pomegranate, And beneath it I lie dreaming Of thine eyes and thee, Beloved! Overhead its red globes, gleaming Like red moons, old tales recall of Eastern moons and songs of Hafiz— Nightingales, and wine, and roses. And at times it seems a mystic Tree Circéan, whose red fruit is Broken hearts of old-time lovers, Thus their secrets sad revealing. And within each red sun-cloven Glossy globe, like little rosy Hearts within a great heart glowing, Glow translucent seeds of crimson. Like the fruit of the Pomegranate Full of little hearts my heart is, And the little hearts so glowing They are thoughts of thee, Beloved! Haply these at times are woven In with dreams of the Pomegranate; Thus, perchance, I dreamt the wondrous Dream within a dream here written. In his palace-hall, methought, I Saw a splendid Indian Rajah; Fame and Fortune were his vassals, But his heart was sad within him. Round him stood his chiefs and captains. “Great art thou,” they cried, “O Rajah! And thy hand is strong in battle.” But he smiled not at their speeches. Silently through his Zenana Passed he, glanced with cold and careless Eyes at women, fair as houris Seen in visions bred of hasheesh. Like to dawn, and noon, and starry Night—like all the moods of passion— Were they, rose-and-white Circassians, Amber Hindoos, dark-eyed Persians. Dancing girls with golden armlets, Golden rings around their ankles— Making music clear, melodious As the plash of crystal fountains Heard in still, hot nights of summer— Danced the Lovers’ Dance before him; But he heeded not their dancing, For his heart was sad within him. Thence unto his treasure-chamber Strode he—there to gaze on gems that Rajahs dead had won and hoarded; Tragic-storied, splendid jewels— Flashing diamonds, like fallen Stars, for whose bright evil beauty Blood in old days had been spilt that Should have made them burn like rubies; Emeralds greener than Spring’s garments, Pearls like unto tears of Peris Weeping by the gates of Eden; Opals with their fateful lustre. Long on these, and countless other Many-coloured gems, the Rajah Gazed, but found no more delight in Their sun-flashing brilliant beauty. He had dreamt a dream enchanting Of twin-sapphires, blue as Heaven, And his heart was filled with hunger And with yearning to possess them. Therefore unto his Vizier he Told his dream, and gave command that He should seek the wide world over, Till he found the wondrous sapphires. Doth that sad Vizier still wander O’er the earth the sapphires seeking? Sooth, I know not—but I know that He will never find them, never. For they were no cold, bright sapphires That the Rajah in his dream saw… Waking from my dream I knew that They were thy blue eyes, Beloved!

**The Cruise of the “In Memoriam”**

THE wan light of a stormy dawn Gleamed on a tossing ship: It was the In Memoriam
Upon a mourning trip. Wild waves were on the windward bow, And breakers on the lee; And through her sides the women heard The seething of the sea. “O Captain!” cried a widow fair, Her plump white hands clasped she, “Thinkst thou, if drowned in this dread storm, That savèd we shall be?” “You speak in riddles, lady dear, How savèd can we be If we are drowned?” “Alas, I mean In Paradise!” said she. “O I’ve sailed North, and I’ve sailed South” (He was a godless wight), “But boy or man, since my days began, That shore I ne’er did sight!” The Captain told the First Mate bold What that fair lady said; The First Mate sneered in his black beard— His eyes burned in his head. “Full forty souls are here aboard, A-sailing on the wave— Without the crew, and, ’twixt us two, I think they’venone to save— “Full forty souls, and each one is A mourner, as you know. They weep the scuppers full; the ship Is waterlogged with woe.” Again he sneered in his black beard: “The cruise is not so brief, But, ere we land on earthly strand, All will have found relief.” “Nay, nay,” the Captain said, “First Mate, You have forgotten one With eyes of blue; the tears are true From those dear eyes that run! “She mourns her sweetheart drowned last year, A seaman he, forsooth! I would not drown for Christ his crown If she were mine, Fair Ruth!” “Brave words! but words,” the First Mate cried, “Are wind! Behold in me The warmest lover and the last! Mine shall the maiden be.” * * * * * Fair Ruth stood by the taffrail high, A cross dropped in the sea, If you lie here, my sweetheart dear, By this remember me!” Fair Ruth stood by the taffrail high, A ring dropped in the sea: “Marry him not, ye false mermaids, Married he’s now to me!” The heavens flashed flame; a black cloud came, Its wings the sky did span, And hovered above the fated ship Like death o’er a dying man. Bended the spars and shrieked the shrouds, The sails flew from the mast, And, like a soul by fiends pursued, The ship fled through the blast. “More sail! more sail!” the First Mate cried (The Captain stood aghast), “More sail! more sail!” and he laughed in scorn, All by the mizen mast. “O brethren dear, there’s nought to fear, The steward told me so!” ‘Twas the parson meek who thus did speak, Just come up from below: “And were there,” he said, with upraised head, And hands clasped piously, “I have a sainted spouse in Heaven— I trow she waits for me.” Then grimly laughed the false First Mate “Good parson, let her be! I’ve a wife in every port but that— And that we shall not see.” “Oh, pardon seek!” cried the parson meek, “And pray, if pray you can, For much I fear, by your scornful sneer, That you are a sinful man.” Then louder laughed the false First Mate, Louder and louder still, And the wicked crew laughed loudly too, As wicked seamen will. “O Captain!” whispered a gentle dame, “When shall we see the land?” The Captain answered never a word, But clasped her by the hand. * * * * * Day after day, night after night, On, on the ship did reel: The Captain drank with the second mate, The First Mate held the wheel. Down came a black cloud on the ship, And wrapped her like a pall, And horror of awful darkness fell Upon them one and all. The night had swallowed them utterly, None could his fellow see, But ghostly voices up and down Went whispering fearsomely. No faint ray shone from moon or sun, The light of Heaven was gone, But ever the First Mate held the wheel, And ever the ship rushed on. * * * * * Fair Ruth knelt down in that grim gloom, She prayed beneath her breath: “God carry me o’er this dread sea That seems the Sea of Death!” She ceased—and lo! a lurid glow O’er that dark water spread, And in the blackness burned, afar, A line of bloody red. “What lights are yon?” the Captain said. The First Mate answered then: “No lights that ever shone upon The world of living men.” “Down on your knees!” the parson cried; “Thank God, for all is well!” The First Mate laughed: “Those lights, they are The harbour lights of Hell.” On flew the ship; to every lip An ashen pallor came, For all might see that suddenly The sea had turned to flame. The lights were near; the Sea of Fear, Amid the silence dire, On that dread shore broke evermore In soundless foam of fire. “Oh, what are yon gray ghosts and wan!” The parson cried, “who seem With coloured strings of beads to play, As in a dreadful dream?” “Damned souls;” the First Mate said; “they sit And count, through endless years, The moments of Eternity On beads of burning tears.” Then, “Who are you,” the parson said, “That talk so free of Hell?” “My name is Satan,” he replied, “Have I not steered you well?” “Back—back the yards!” the Captain cried Then quoth the false First Mate: “Like many more who sight this shore, You back your yards too late.” “There are the dear deceased you mourned With such exceeding zest; They call you—whoso freely goes E’en yet may save the rest.” One pale ghost waved the vessel back With gestures sad and dumb— Fair Ruth has plunged into the sea, “My love, my love, I come!” * * * * * All in a moment shone the sun, Blue gleamed the sky and sea, The brave old ship upon the waves Was dancing merrily. And merrily to sound of bells To her old port full soon The In Memoriam that went forth Returned the Honeymoon. There o’er their grog sea-captains still Her wondrous story tell, And how her Captain backed his yards A biscuit-throw from Hell.

In a Wine Cellar

SEE how it flashes, This grape-blood fine!— Our beards it splashes, O comrade mine!— Life dust and ashes Were, wanting wine. Amontillado Fires heart and eyes; Champagne the shadow Of care defies; An El Dorado In Rhine-wine lies; Port has the mintage Of generous deeds; Tokay scorns stintage And richly bleeds; But this great vintage The Wine-March leads. Yet it is wanting In poesy; No legends haunting Its vassals be, No tales enchanting Of chivalry. Spain’s grape hath stories; Its blood the bold Conquistadores Drank deep of old— A wine of glories, A wine of gold. Who drinks not sparing, Beholdeth he The great Cid bearing His banner free, Columbus daring The unknown Sea, And, haply biding, In this dream-Spain, Don Quixote riding Across the plain, His squire confiding Beside his rein. The wine of France is Aglow to-day With flash of lances, With feast and fray, And dark-eyed glances Of ladies gay. See where together, A flagon near, Lie hat with feather, And long rapier— Fine courting weather, O Cavalier! Bright Rhenish, gleaming Moon-white! Perchance Thy wave clear beaming Still guards Romance, Not dead, but dreaming In spell-bound trance! Not in Rhine-water, But Rhine-wine fair Sir Rupert sought her (As bards declare) The Rhine King’s daughter With golden hair. Still ’neath its smiling Wave’s amber rings, Men sweetly wiling From earthly things, Her song beguiling The Loreley sings. Your cup, wild siren, That Deutschland drains— Her heart of iron Moved by your strains— No blood shall fire in Australian veins; Nor yours whose charm is Your topaz eyne, Nor yours whose armies In gold caps shine, Shall charm or harm us— Eh, comrade mine? No vintage alien For thee or me! Our fount Castalian Of poesy Shall wine Australian, None other be. Then place your hand in This hand of mine, And while we stand in Her brave sunshine Pledge deep our land in Our land’s own wine. It has no glamour Of old romance, Of war and amour In Spain or France; Its poets stammer As yet, perchance; But he may wholly Become a seer Who quaffs it slowly; For he shall hear, Though faintly, lowly, Yet sweet and clear, The axes ringing On mountain sides, The wool-boats swinging Down Darling tides, The drovers singing Where Clancy rides, The miners driving, The stockman’s strife; All sounds conniving To tell the rife, Rich, rude, strong-striving Australian life. Once more your hand in This hand of mine! And while we stand in The brave sunshine, Pledge deep our land in Our land’s own wine!

A-Roving

WHEN the sap runs up the tree, And the vine runs o’er the wall, When the blossom draws the bee, From the forest comes a call, Wild, and clear, and sweet, and strange, Many-toned and murmuring Like the river in the range— ’Tis the joyous voice of Spring! On the boles of gray old trees See the flying sunbeams play Mystic, soundless melodies— A fantastic march and gay; But the young leaves hear them—hark, How they rustle, every one!— And the sap beneath the bark Hearing, leaps to meet the sun. O, the world is wondrous fair When the tide of life’s at flood! There is magic in the air, There is music in the blood; And a glamour draws us on To the Distance, rainbow-spanned, And the road we tread upon Is the road to Fairyland. Lo! the elders hear the sweet Voice, and know the wondrous song; And their ancient pulses beat To a tune forgotten long; And they talk in whispers low, With a smile and with a sigh, Of the years of long ago, And the roving days gone by.

Brunette

WHEN trees in Spring Are blossoming My lady wakes From dreams whose light Made dark days bright, For their sweet sakes. Yet in her eyes A shadow lies Of bygone mirth; And still she seems To walk in dreams, And not on earth. Some men may hold That hair of gold Is lovelier Than darker sheen: They have not seen My lady’s hair. Her eyes are bright, Her bosom white As the sea foam On sharp rocks sprayed; Her mouth is made Of honeycomb. And whoso seeks In her dusk cheeks May see Love’s sign— A blush that glows Like a red rose Beneath brown wine.

Years Ago

THE old dead flowers of bygone summers, The old sweet songs that are no more sung, The rose-red dawns that were welcome comers When you and I and the world were young, Are lost, O love, to the light for ever, And seen no more of the moon or sun, For seas divide, and the seasons sever, And twain are we that of old were one. O fair lost love, when the ship went sailing Across the seas in the years agone, And seaward-set were the eyes unquailing, And landward-looking the faces wan, My heart went back as a dove goes homeward With wings aweary to seek its nest, While fierce sea-eagles are flying foamward And storm-winds whiten the surge’s crest; And far inland for a farewell pardon Flew on and on, while the ship went South— The rose was red in the red-rose garden, And red the rose of your laughing mouth. But no word came on the wind in token Of love that lasts till the end; and so My heart returned to me bruised and broken, From you, my love, of the long ago. The green fields seemed in the distance growing To silken squares on a weaver’s loom, As oversea came the land-wind blowing The faint sweet scent of the clover bloom. A rarer odour to me it carried, In subtle delicate way to tell Of you, ere you and the world were married— The lilac-odour you loved so well. Again, I saw you beneath the blooms of Those lilac-trees in the garden old. Ah me! each tree is a mark for tombs of Dead dreams and memories still and cold. And Death comes there with his breath scent-laden, And gathering gently the blossoms shed (In guise of Autumn, the brown-browed maiden) With your and my dead buries his dead. O, fairer far than the fair ideal Of him who imaged the foam-born Queen In foam-white marble—a dream made real— To me were you in those years, I ween. Your lips were redder than night-shade berries That burn in borders of hedgerowed lanes, And sweeter far than the sweet wild cherries The June sun flushes with crimson stains. And gray your eyes as a gray dove’s wings were— A gray soft-shadowing deeps profound, Where thoughts that reached to the heart of things were, And love lay dreaming though seeming drowned. Twin-tulip-breasted like her the tread of Whose feet made music in Paphos fair, The world to me was not worth a thread of Your brown, ambrosial, braided hair. Mayhap you loved me at one time truly, And I was jealous, and you were proud; But mine the love of the king in Thule, Till death; and yours—sleeps well in shroud. So night came down like a sombre raven, And southward ever the ship was borne, Till glad green fields and lessening haven Grew faint and faded like ghosts at morn. As fields of Heaven eternal blooming, Those flowerful fields of my mother-land In midnight visions are still perfuming All wild waste places and seas of sand. And still in seasons of storm and thunder, In strange lands under your land and mine, And though our ways have been wide asunder, In calm and tempest and shade and shine Your face I see as I saw the last time— As one borne space-ward on wings of light, With eyes turned back to a sight of past time, Beholds for ever that self-same sight. But scorn has died on your lips, and through you Shines out star-bright an immortal grace, As though God then to His heaven drew you, And sent an angel to take your place. I plucked one rose from the tree you cherished, My heart’s blood ebbing has kept it red, And all my hopes with its scent have perished; Why mourn them now—are the dead not dead? And yet, God knows, as this rose I kiss, you May feel the kisses across the sea; And soul to soul for the larger issue Your soul may stand with the soul of me, Unknown to you—for the strings of Being Are not so easily snapped or torn; And we may journey with eyes unseeing On paths that meet in the years unborn. Farewell, dear heart. Warm sighs may sever Ripe lips of love like a rose-leaf curled, But you remain unto me for ever The one fair woman in all the world.

Villanelle

WE said farewell, my youth and I, When all fair dreams were gone or going, And Love’s red lips were cold and dry. When white blooms fell from tree-tops high— Our Austral winter’s way of snowing— We said farewell, my youth and I. We did not sigh—what use to sigh When Death passed as a mower mowing, And Love’s red lips were cold and dry? But hearing Life’s stream thunder by, That sang of old through flowers flowing, We said farewell, my youth and I. There was no hope in the blue sky, No music in the low winds blowing, And Love’s red lips were cold and dry. My hair is black as yet, then why So sad! I know not, only knowing We said farewell, my youth and I. All are not buried when they die; Dead souls there are through live eyes showing When Love’s red lips are cold and dry. So, seeing where the dead men lie, Out of their hearts the grave-flowers growing, We said farewell, my youth and I, When Love’s red lips were cold and dry.

The Voice of the Soul

IN Youth, when through our veins runs fast The bright red stream of life, The Soul’s Voice is a trumpet-blast That calls us to the strife. The Spirit spurns its prison-bars, And feels with force endued To scale the ramparts of the stars And storm Infinitude. Youth passes; like a dungeon grows The Spirit’s house of clay: The voice that once in music rose In murmurs dies away. But in the day when sickness sore Smites on the body’s walls, The Soul’s Voice through the breach once more Like to a trumpet calls. Well shall it be with him who heeds The mystic summons then! His after-life with loving deeds Shall blossom amongst men. He shall have gifts—the gift that feels The germ within the clod, And hears the whirring of the wheels That turn the mills of God! The gift that sees with glance profound The secret soul of things, And in the silence hears the sound Of vast and viewless wings! The veil of Isis sevenfold To him as gauze shall be, Wherethrough, clear-eyed, he shall behold The Ancient Mystery. He shall do battle for the True, Defend till death the Right, With Shoes of Swiftness Wrong pursue, With Sword of Sharpness smite. And, dying, he shall haply hear, Like golden trumpets blown For joy, far voices sweet and clear— Soul-voices like his own. So welcomed may he join the Throng Upon the Shining Shore, As one who, after wandering long, Returneth home once more!

Cares

HAVING certain cares to drown, To the sea I took them down: And I threw them in the wave, That engulfed them like a grave. Swiftly then I plied the oar With a light heart to the shore. But behind me came my foes: Like a nine-days’ corpse each rose, And (a ghastly sight to see!) Clutched the boat and girned at me! With a heavy heart, alack, To the land I bore them back. Not in Water or in Wine Can I drown these cares of mine. But some day, for good and sure, I shall bury them secure, Where the soil is rich and brown, With a stone to keep them down, And to let their end be known, Have my name carved on the stone; So that passers-by may say, “Here lie cares that had their day,” And sometimes by moonlight wan, I may sit that stone upon— With a spectre’s solemn phlegm— In my shroud, and laugh at them; Or—who knows, when all is said?— Maybe weep because they’re dead.

Poncé De Léon

BY a black wharf I stood lately, When the night was at its noon; Keen, malicious stars were shining, And a wicked, white-faced moon. And I saw a stately vessel, Built in fashion quaint and old; From her masthead, in the moonlight, Hung a flag of faded gold. Black with age her masts and spars were, Black with age her ropes and rails; Like a ghost through cere-cloths gazing Shone the white moon through her sails. Not a movement stirred the stillness, Not a sound the silence broke, Save alone the livid water Lapping round her sides of oak. Then to her unseen commander Spake I, as to one I knew— “Don Juan Poncé de Léon, I have waited long for you. “Take me with you, I implore you! Take me with you on your quest For the Fount of Youth Eternal, For the Islands of the Blest.” Then above the bulwarks ancient I beheld a head arise; And the moon with ghastly glimmer Lit its sad and hollow eyes. “Grieved am I, señor, and sorry,” Very courteously it said, “That I may not take you with me— But I only take the Dead. “These alone may dare the voyage, These alone sail on the quest For the Fount of Youth Eternal, For the Islands of the Blest.”

Death

THE awful seers of old, who wrote in words Like drops of blood great thoughts that through the night Of ages burn, as eyes of lions light Deep jungle-dusks; who smote with songs like swords The soul of man on its most secret chords, And made the heart of him a harp to smite,— Where are they? where that old man lorn of sight, The king of song among these laurelled lords? But where are all the ancient singing-spheres That burst through chaos like the summer’s breath Through ice-bound seas where never seaman steers? Burnt out. Gone down. No star remembereth These stars and seers well-silenced through the years— The songless years of everlasting death.

Life

WHAT know we of the dead, who say these things, Or of the life in death below the mould— What of the mystic laws that rule the old Gray realms beyond our poor imaginings Where death is life? The bird with spray-wet wings Knows more of what the deeps beneath him hold. Let be: warm hearts shall never wax a-cold, But burn in roses through eternal springs: For all the vanished fruit and flower of Time Are flower and fruit in worlds we cannot see, And all we see is as a shadow-mime Of things unseen, and Time that comes to flee Is but the broken echo of a rhyme In God’s great epic of Eternity.

Christmas in Australia

O DAY, the crown and crest of all the year! Thou comest not to us amid the snows, But midmost of the reign of the red rose; Our hearts have not yet lost the ancient cheer That filled our fathers’ simple hearts when sere The leaves fell, and the winds of Winter froze The waters wan, and carols at the close Of yester-eve sang the Child Christ anear. And so we hail thee with a greeting high, And drain to thee a draught of our own wine, Forgetful not beneath this bluer sky Of that old mother-land beyond the brine, Whose gray skies gladden as thou drawest nigh, O day of God’s good-will the seal and sign!

Questions

SOUL, dost thou shudder at the narrow tomb? Heart, dost thou dread to moulder in the dust— To meet the fate that all things mortal must, Strength in its pride, and beauty in its bloom? What have ye done to merit nobler doom? How used one life that ye for more should lust? Time in his course doth all things downward thrust: The unborn generations wait for room! Blind we were born, blind die: yet we must still Take God to task with Whither? Whence? and Why? What if God, giving us our wish and will, Said, “Judge thyself” to each! Who dares reply? He knows the end who made the perfect plan— Hell were too small if man were judged by man.

The Gods

LAST night, as one who hears a tragic jest, I woke from dreams, half-laughing, half in tears; Methought that I had journeyed in the spheres And stood upon the Planet of the Blest! And found thereon a folk who prayed with zest Exceeding, and through all their painful years, Like strong souls struggled on, ’mid hopes and fears; “Where dwell the gods,” they said, “we shall find rest.” The gods? What gods, I thought, are these who so Inspire their worshippers with faith that flowers Immortal, and who make them keep aglow The flames for ever on their altar-towers? “Where dwell these gods of yours?” I asked—and lo! They pointed upward to this earth of ours!

The Gleaner

METHOUGHT I came unto a world-wide plain Where souls stood thick as grain at harvest-tide, And many reapers, full of pious pride, With rapid scythe-sweeps mowed them down amain; And zealous binders bound them up like grain In sheaves: the reapers at each onward stride Trod many souls down. These the binders eyed With careless looks or glances of disdain. But, following slow, a patient Gleaner came And gathered all the Binders cast aside, And made fair sheaves thereof. Whereat I cried: “Why gather these? Who art thou? Name thy name!” The Gleaner in a sad, sweet voice replied: “The outcasts’ Saviour—for these, too, I died.”

Love

LOVE is the sunlight of the soul, That, shining on the silken-tressèd head Of her we love, around it seems to shed A golden angel-aureole. And all her ways seem sweeter ways Than those of other women in that light: She has no portion with the pallid night, But is a part of all fair days. Joy goes where she goes, and good dreams— Her smile is tender as an old romance Of Love that dies not, and her soft eye’s glance Like sunshine set to music seems. Queen of our fate is she, but crowned With purple hearts-ease for her womanhood. There is no place so poor where she has stood But evermore is holy ground. An angel from the heaven above Would not be fair to us as she is fair: She holds us in a mesh of silken hair, This one sweet woman whom we love. We pray thee, Love, our souls to steep In dreams wherein thy myrtle flowereth; So when the rose leaves shiver, feeling Death Pass by, we may remain asleep: Asleep, with poppies in our hands, From all the world and all its cares apart— Cheek close to cheek, heart beating against heart, While through Life’s sandglass run the sands.

Passion Flower

CHOOSE who will the wiser part— I have held her heart to heart; And have felt her heart-strings stirred, And her soul’s still singing heard For one golden-haloed hour Of Love’s life the passion-flower. So the world may roll or rest— I have tasted of its best; And shall laugh while I have breath At thy dart and thee, O Death!

To My Lady

WHEN the tender hand of Night Like a rose-leaf falls Softly on your starry eyes; When the Sleep-God calls, And the gate of dreams is wide, Wide the painted halls, Dream the dream I send to you Through your spirit’s walls! Dream a lowly lover came, Lady fair to woo; Dream that I the lover was, And the lady—you; Dream your answer was a kiss, Warm as summer dew— Waking, in the rosy dawn, Let the dream be true!

The Hawthorn

BY the road, near her father’s dwelling, There groweth a hawthorn tree: Its blossoms are fair and fragrant As the love that I cast from me. It is all a-bloom this morning In the sunny silentness, And grows by the roadside, radiant As a bride in her bridal dress. But ah me! at sight of its blossoms No pleasant memories start: I see but the thorns beneath them— And the thorns they pierce my heart.

Spring Dirge

A CHILD came singing through the dusty town A song so sweet that all men stayed to hear, Forgetting for a space their ancient fear Of evil days and death and fortune’s frown. She sang of Winter dead and Spring new-born In the green fields beyond the far hills’ bound; And how this fair Spring, coming blossom-crowned, Would cross the city’s threshold on the morn. And each caged bird in every house anigh, Even as she sang, caught up the glad refrain Of Love and Hope and fair days come again, Till all who heard forgot they had to die. And all the ghosts of buried woes were laid That heard the song of this sweet sorceress; The Past grew to a dream of old distress, And merry were the hearts of man and maid. So, at the first faint blush of tender dawn, Spring stole with noiseless steps through the gray gloom, And men knew only by a strange perfume That she had softly entered and withdrawn. But ah! the lustre of her violet eyes Was dimmed with tears for her sweet singing maid, Whose voice would sound no more in shine or shade To charm men’s souls at set of sun or rise. For there, with dews of dawn upon her hair, Like a fair flower plucked and flung away, Dead in the street the little maiden lay Who gave new life to hearts nigh dead of care. Alas! must this be still the bitter doom Awaiting those, the finer-souled of earth, Who make for men a morning song of mirth While yet the birds are dumb amid the gloom? They walk on thorny ways with feet unshod, Sing one last song, and die as that song dies. There is no human hand to close their eyes, And very heavy is the hand of God.

Fragments

These broken lines for pardon crave;
I cannot end the song with art:
My grief is gray and old—her grave
Is dug so deep within my heart.

1.—Her Last Day

IT was a day of sombre heat: The still, dense air was void of sound And life; no wing of bird did beat A little breeze through it—the ground Was like live ashes to the feet. From the black hills that loomed around The valley many a sudden spire Of flame shot up, and writhed, and curled, And sank again for heaviness: And heavy seemed to men that day The burden of the weary world. For evermore the sky did press Closer upon the earth that lay Fainting beneath, as one in dire Dreams of the night, upon whose breast Sits a black phantom of unrest That holds him down. The earth and sky Appeared unto the troubled eye A roof of smoke, a floor of fire. There was no water in the land. Deep in the night of each ravine Men, vainly searching for it, found Dry hollows in the gaping ground, Like sockets where clear eyes had been, Now burnt out with a burning brand. There was no water in the land But the salt sea tide, that did roll Far past the places where, till then, The sweet streams met and flung it back; The beds of little brooks, that stole In spring-time down each ferny glen, And rippled over rock and sand, Were drier than a cattle-track. A dull, strange languor of disease, That ever with the heat increased, Fell upon man, and bird, and beast; The thin-flanked cattle gasped for breath; The birds dropped dead from drooping trees; And men, who drank the muddy lees From each near-dry though deep-dug well, Grew faint; and over all things fell A heavy stupor, dank as Death. * * * * * Fierce Nature, glaring with a face Of savage scorn at my despair, Withered my heart. From cone to base The hills were full of hollow eyes That rayed out darkness, dead and dull; Gray rocks grinned under ridges bare, Like dry teeth in a mouldered skull; And ghastly gum-tree trunks did loom Out of black clefts and rifts of gloom, As sheeted spectres that arise From yawning graves at dead of night To fill the living with affright; And, like to witches foul that bare Their withered arms, and bend, and cast Dread curses on the sleeping lands In awful legends of the past, Red gums, with outstretched bloody hands, Shook maledictions in the air. Fear was around me everywhere: The wrinkled foreheads of the rocks Frowned on me, and methought I saw— Deep down in dismal gulfs of awe, Where gray death-adders have their lair, With the fiend-bat, the flying-fox, And dim sun-rays, down-groping far, Pale as a dead man’s fingers are— The grisly image of Decay, That at the root of Life doth gnaw, Sitting alone upon a throne Of rotting skull and bleaching bone. * * * * * “There is an end to all our griefs: Little the red worm of the grave Will vex us when our days are done.” So changed my thought: up-gazing then On gray-piled stones that seemed the cairns Of dead and long-forgotten chiefs— The men of old, the poor wild men Who, under dim lights, fought a brave, Sad fight of Life, where hope was none, In the vague, voiceless, far-off years— It changed again to present pain, And I saw Sorrow everywhere: In blackened trees and rust-red ferns, Blasted by bush-fires and the sun; And by the salt-flood—salt as tears— Where the wild apple-trees hung low, And evermore stooped down to stare At their drowned shadows in the wave, Wringing their knotted hands of woe; And the dark swamp-oaks, row on row, Lined either bank—a sombre train Of mourners with down-streaming hair.

2.—Sunset

THE day and its delights are done; So all delights and days expire: Down in the dim, sad West the sun Is dying like a dying fire. The fiercest lances of his light Are spent; I watch him droop and die Like a great king who falls in fight; None dared the duel of his eye Living, but, now his eye is dim, The eyes of all may stare at him. How lovely in his strength at morn He orbed along the burning blue! The blown gold of his flying hair Was tangled in green-tressèd trees, And netted in the river sand In gleaming links of amber clear; But all his shining locks are shorn, His brow of its bright crown is bare, The golden sceptre leaves his hand, And deeper, darker, grows the hue Of the dim purple draperies And cloudy banners round his bier. O beautiful, rose-hearted dawn!— O splendid noon of gold and blue!— Is this wan glimmer all of you? Where are the blush and bloom ye gave To laughing land and smiling sea?— The swift lights that did flash and shiver In diamond rain upon the river, And set a star in each blue wave? Where are the merry lights and shadows That danced through wood and over lawn, And flew across the dewy meadows Like white nymphs chased by satyr lovers? Faded and perished utterly. All delicate and all rich colour In flower and cloud, on lawn and lea, On butterfly, and bird, and bee, A little space and all are gone— And darkness, like a raven, hovers Above the death-bed of the day. * * * * * So, when the long, last night draws on, And all the world grows ghastly gray, We see our beautiful and brave Wither, and watch with heavy sighs The life-light dying in their eyes, The love-light slowly fading out, Leaving no faint hope in their place, But only on each dear wan face The shadow of a weary doubt, The ashen pallor of the grave. O gracious morn and golden noon! With what fair dreams did ye depart— Beloved so well and lost so soon! I could not fold you to my breast: I could not hide you in my heart; I saw the watchers in the West— Sad, shrouded shapes, with hands that wring And phantom fingers beckoning!

3.—Years After

Fade off the ridges, rosy light, Fade slowly from the last gray height, And leave no gloomy cloud to grieve The heart of this enchanted eve! All things beneath the still sky seem Bound by the spell of a sweet dream; In the dusk forest, dreamingly, Droops slowly down each plumèd head; The river flowing softly by Dreams of the sea; the quiet sea Dreams of the unseen stars; and I Am dreaming of the dreamless dead. The river has a silken sheen, But red rays of the sunset stain Its pictures, from the steep shore caught, Till shades of rock, and fern, and tree Glow like the figures on a pane Of some old church by twilight seen, Or like the rich devices wrought In mediaeval tapestry. All lonely in a drifting boat Through shine and shade I float and float, Dreaming and dreaming, till I seem Part of the picture and the dream. There is no sound to break the spell, No voice of bird or stir of bough; Only the lisp of waters wreathing In little ripples round the prow, And a low air, like Silence breathing, That hardly dusks the sleepy swell Whereon I float to that strange deep That sighs upon the shores of Sleep. * * * * * But in the silent heaven blooming Behold the wondrous sunset flower That blooms and fades within the hour— The flower of fantasy, perfuming With subtle melody of scent The blue aisles of the firmament! For colour, music, scent, are one; From deeps of air to airless heights, Lo! how he sweeps, the splendid sun, His burning lyre of many lights! See the clear golden lily blowing! It shines as shone thy gentle soul, O my most sweet, when from the goal Of life, far-gazing, thou didst see— While Death still feared to touch thine eyes, Where such immortal light was glowing— The vision of eternity, The pearly gates of Paradise! Now richer hues the skies illume: The pale gold blushes into bloom, Delicate as the flowering Of first love in the tender spring Of Life, when love is wizardry That over narrow days can throw A glamour and a glory! so Did thine, my Beautiful, for me So long ago; so long ago. So long ago! so long ago! Ah, who can Love and Grief estrange? Or Memory and Sorrow part? Lo, in the West another change— A deeper glow: a rose of fire: A rose of passionate desire Lone burning in a lonely heart. A lonely heart; a lonely flood. The wave that glassed her gleaming head And smiling passed, it does not know That gleaming head lies dark and low; The myrtle-tree that bends above, I pray that it may early bud, For under its green boughs sat we— We twain, we only, hand in hand, When Love was lord of all the land— It does not know that she is dead And all is over now with Love, Is over now with Love and me. Once more, once more, O shining years Gone by; once more, O vanished days Whose hours flew by on iris-wings, Come back and bring my love to me! My voice faints down the wooded ways And dies along the darkling flood. The past is past; I cry in vain, For when did Death an answer deign To Love’s heart-broken questionings? The dead are deaf; dust chokes their ears; Only the rolling river hears Far off the calling of the sea— A shiver strikes through all my blood, Mine eyes are full of sudden tears. * * * * * The shadows gather over all, The valley, and the mountains old; Shadow on shadow fast they fall On glooming green and waning gold; And on my heart they gather drear, Damp as with grave-damps, dark with fear. * * * * * O Sorrow, Sorrow, couldst thou leave me Not one brief hour to dream alone? Hast thou not all my days to grieve me? My nights, are they not all thine own? Thou hauntest me at morning light, Thou blackenest the white moonbeams; A hollow voice at noon; at night A crowned ghost, sitting on a throne, Ruling the kingdom of my dreams. * * * * * Maker of men, Thou gavest breath, Thou gavest love to all that live, Thou rendest loves and lives apart; Allwise art Thou; who questioneth Thy will, or who can read Thy heart? But couldst Thou not in mercy give A sign to us—one little spark Of sure hope that the end of all Is not concealed beneath the pall, Or wound up with the winding-sheet? Who heedeth aught the preacher saith When eyes wax dim, and limbs grow stark, And fear sits on the darkened bed? The dying man turns to the wall. What hope have we above our dead?— Tense fingers clutching at the dark, And hopeless hands that vainly beat Against the iron doors of Death!

“Unto This Last”

THEY brought my fair love out upon a bier— Out from the dwelling that her smile made sweet, Out from the life that her life made complete, Into the glitter of the garish street— And no man wept, save I, for that dead dear. And then the dark procession wound along, Like a black serpent with a snow-white bird Held in its fangs. I think God said a word To death, as He in His chill heaven heard Her voice so sweeter than His seraph’s song. And so Death took away her flower-sweet breath One darkest day of days in a dark year, And brought to that strong God who had no dear My own dear love. Ah, closed eyes without peer! Ah, red lips pressed on the blue lips of Death!

The Nightingale

WHEN the moon a golden-pale Lustre on my casement flings, An enchanted nightingale In the haunted silence sings. Strange the song—its wondrous words Taken from the primal tongue, Known to men, and beasts, and birds, When the care-worn world was young. Listening low, I hear the stars Through her strains move solemnly, And on lonesome banks and bars Hear the sobbing of the sea. And my memory dimly gropes Hints to gather from her song Of forgotten fears and hopes, Joys and griefs forgotten long. And I feel once more the strife Of a passion, fierce and grand, That, in some long-vanished life, Held my soul at its command. Ah, my Love, in robes of white Standing by a moonlit sea, Like a lily of the night, Hast thou quite forgotten me? Dost thou never dream at whiles Of that silent, templed vale, And the dim wood in whose aisles Sang a secret nightingale? Whither hast thou gone? What star Holds thy spirit pure and fine? In this world below there are None like thee: and thou wert mine! For a season all things last, Love and Joy, and Life and Death; Thou art portion of my past, I of thine, whilst Time draws breath. Fades the moonlight golden-pale, And the bird has ceased to sing— Ah, it was no nightingale, But my heart—remembering.

The Two Keys

THERE was a Boy, long years ago, Who hour by hour awake would lie, And watch the white moon gliding slow Along her pathway in the sky. And every night as thus he lay Entranced in lonely fantasy, Borne swiftly on a bright moon-ray There came to him a Golden Key. And with that Golden Key the Boy Oped every night a magic door That to a melody of Joy Turned on its hinges evermore. Then, trembling with delight and awe, When he the charmèd threshold crossed, A radiant corridor he saw— Its end in dazzling distance lost. Great windows shining in a row Lit up the wondrous corridor, And each its own rich light did throw In stream resplendent on the floor. One window showed the Boy a scene Within a forest old and dim, Where fairies danced upon the green And kissed their little hands to him. Sweet strains of elfin harp and horn He heard so clearly sounding there, And he to Wonderland was borne And breathed its soft enchanted air. Then, passing onward with the years, He turned his back on Elf and Fay, And sadly sweet, as if in tears, The fairy music died away. The second window held him long: It looked upon a field of fight Whereon the countless hordes of Wrong Fought fiercely with the friends of Right. And, lo! upon that fateful field, Where cannon thundered, banners streamed, And rushing squadrons rocked and reeled, His sword a star of battle gleamed. And when the hordes of Wrong lay still, And that great fight was fought and won, He stood, bright-eyed, upon a hill, His white plume shining in the sun. A glorious vision! yet behind He left it with its scarlet glow, And faint and far upon the wind He heard the martial trumpets blow. For to his listening ear was borne A music more entrancing far Than strains of elfin harp or horn, More thrilling than the trump of war. No longer as a dreamy boy He trod the radiant corridor: His young man’s heart presaged a joy More dear than all the joys of yore. To that third window, half in awe, He moved, and slowly raised his eyes— And was it earth grown young he saw? Or was it man’s lost Paradise? For all the flowers that ever bloomed Upon the earth, and all the rare Sweet Loveliness by Time entombed, Seemed blushing, blooming, glowing there. And every mellow-throated bird That ever sang the trees among Seemed singing there, with one sweet word— “Love! Love!” on every little tongue. Then he by turns grew rosy-red, And he by turns grew passion-pale. “Sweet Love!” the lark sang overhead, “Sweet Love!” sang Love’s own nightingale. In mid-heart of the hawthorn-tree The thrush sang all its buds to bloom; “Love! Love! Love! Love! Sweet Love,” sang he Amidst the soft green sun-flecked gloom. * * * * * She stood upon a lilied lawn, With dreamful eyes that gazed afar: A maiden tender as the Dawn And lovely as the Morning Star. She stooped and kissed him on the brow, And in a low, sweet voice said she: “I am this country’s queen—and thou?” “I am thy vassal,” murmured he. She hid him with her hair gold-red, That flowed like sunshine to her knee; She kissed him on the lips, and said: “Dear heart! I’ve waited long for thee.” And, oh, she was so fair, so fair, So gracious was her beauty bright, Around her the enamoured air Pulsed tremulously with delight. In passionate melody did melt Bird-voices, scent of flower and tree, And he within his bosom felt The piercing thorn of ecstasy. * * * * * The years passed by in dark and light, In storm and shine; the man grew old, Yet never more by day or night There came to him the Key of Gold. But ever, ere the great sun flowers In gold above the sky’s blue rim, All in the dark and lonely hours There comes an Iron Key to him. And with that key he opes a wide And gloomy door—the Door of Fate— That makes, whene’er it swings aside, A music sad and desolate, A music sad from saddest source: He sees beside the doorway set The chill, gray figure of Remorse, The pale, cold image of Regret. For all the glory and the glow Of Life are passed, and dead, and gone: The Light and Life of Long Ago Are memories only—moonlight wan. * * * * There is no man of woman born So brave, so good, so wise but he Must sometimes in a night forlorn Take up and use the Iron Key.

Lachesis

OVER a slow-dying fire, Dreaming old dreams, I am sitting; The flames leap up and expire; A woman sits opposite knitting. I’ve taken a Fate to wife; She knits with a half-smile mocking Me, and my dreams, and my life, All into a worsted stocking.

Symbols

’TIS said that the Passion Flower, With its figures of spear and sword And hammer and nails, is a symbol Of the Woe of our Blessed Lord. So still in the Heart of Beauty Has been hidden, since Life drew breath, The sword and the spear of Anguish, And the hammer and nails of Death.

At the Opera

THE curtain rose—the play began— The limelight on the gay garbs shone; Yet carelessly I gazed upon The painted players, maid and man, As one with idle eyes who sees The marble figures on a frieze. Long lark-notes clear the first act close, So the soprano: then a hush— The tenor, tender as a thrush; Then loud and high the chorus rose, Till, with a sudden rush and strong, It ended in a storm of song. The curtain fell—the music died— The lights grew bright, revealing there The flash of jewelled fingers fair, And wreaths of pearls on brows of pride; Then, with a quick-flushed cheek, I turned, And into mine her dark eyes burned. Such eyes but once a man may see, And, seeing once, his fancy dies To thought of any other eyes: So shadow-soft, they seemed to be Twin haunted lakes, lit by the gleams Of a mysterious moon of dreams. Silk lashes veiled their liquid light With such a shade as tall reeds fling From the lake-marge at sunsetting: Their darkness might have hid the night— Yet whoso saw their glance would say Night dreamt therein, and saw the day. Long looked I at them, wondering What tender memories were hid Beneath each blue-veined lily-lid; What hopes of joys the years would bring; What griefs? In vain: I might not guess The secret of their silentness. What of her face? Her face, meseems, Was such as painters see who muse By moonlight in dim avenues, Yet cannot paint; or as in dreams, Young poets see, but, when they try To limn in verse are dumb—so I. Yet well I know that I have seen That sweet face in the long ago In a rose-bower—well I know— Laughing the singing leaves between, In that strange land of rose and rhyme— The land of Once upon a Time. O unknown sweet, so sweetly known, I know not what your name may be— Madonna is your name for me— Nor where your lines in life are thrown; But soul sees soul—what is the rest? A passing phantom at the best. Did your young bosom never glow To love? or burns your heart beneath As burns the rosebud in its sheath? I neither know nor wish to know: I smell the rose upon the tree; Who will may pluck and wear, for me— May wear the rose, and watch it die, And, leaf by red leaf, fade and fall, Till there be nothing left at all Of its sweet loveliness; but I Love it so well, I leave it free— The scent alone I take with me! As one who visits sacred spots Brings tokens back, so I from you A glance, a smile, a rapture new! And these are my forget-me-nots! I take from you but only these— Give all the rest to whom you please. Sweet eyes, your glance a light shall cast On me, when dreaded ghosts arise Of dead regrets with shrouded eyes, And phantoms of the perished past, Old thoughts, old hopes, and old desire Gather around my lonely fire! Farewell! In rhyme, I kiss your hand— Kiss not unsweet, although unheard!— This is our secret—say no word— That I have been in Fairyland, And seen for one brief moment’s space The Queen Titania face to face.

Neaera’s Wreath

NEÆRA crowns me with a purple wreath That she with her own dainty hands did twine; Gold-hearted blossoms and blue buds in sheath, Mingled with veined green leaves of the wild vine. Then, bending down her bright head—ah, too nigh!— She asks me for a song: the daylight dies: The song is still unwritten: still I lie Watching the purple twilight of her eyes. I am her laureate; therefore heart of grace I take to kiss her. Where was song like this? Love is best sung of in a loveless place, For who would care to sing where he might kiss?

Camilla

CAMILLA calls me heartless: hence you see Logic in love has little part. How can I otherwise than heartless be Seeing Camilla has my heart?

Sixty to Sixteen

IF I were young as you, Sixteen, And you were old as I, I would not be as I have been, You would not be so shy— We should not watch with careless mien The golden days go by, If I were young as you, Sixteen, And you were old as I. The years of youth are yours, Sixteen; Such years of old had I, But time has set his seal between Dark eyebrow and dark eye. Sere grow the leaves that once were green, The song turns to a sigh: Ah! very young are you, Sixteen, And very old am I. Red bloom-times come and go, Sixteen, With snow-soft feet, but I Shall be no more as I have been In times of bloom gone by; For dimmer grows the pleasant scene Beneath the pleasant sky; The world is growing old, Sixteen— The weary world and I. Ah, would that once again, Sixteen, A kissing mouth had I; The days would gaily go, I ween, Though death should stand anigh, If springtime’s green were evergreen, If Love would never die, And I were young as you, Sixteen, And you were old as I.

Bouquet and Bracelet

BOUQUET said: “My floral ring The homage of a heart encloses, Whose thoughts to you go worshipping In perfume from my blushing roses.” Bracelet said: “My rubies red, Though hard the gleam that each exposes, Will last when flowers of Spring are fled And dead are all the Summer roses.” Beauty mused awhile, and said, “Here’s poesy!” and sighed, “Here prose is Bouquet! I choose the rubies red!— In Winter they will buy me roses.”

Cupid’s Funeral

BY his side, whose days are past, Lay bow and quiver! And his eyes that stare aghast Close, with a shiver. God nor man from Death, at last, Love may deliver. Though—of old—we vowed, my dear, Death should not take him; Mourn not thou that we must here Coldly forsake him; Shed above his grave no tear— Tears will not wake him. Cupid lieth cold and dead— Ended his flying, Pale his lips, once rosy-red, Swift was his dying. Place a stone above his head, Turn away, sighing.

The First of May

A Memory THE waters make a music low: The river reeds Are trembling to the tunes of long ago— Dead days and deeds Become alive again, as on I float, and float, Through shadows of the golden summers gone And springs remote. Above my head the trees bloom out In white and red Great blossoms, that make glad the air about; And old suns shed Their rays athwart them. Ah, the light Is bright and fair! No suns that shine upon me now are bright As those suns were. And, gazing down into the stream, I see a face, As sweet as buds that blossom in a dream, Ere sorrows chase Fair dreams from men, and send in lieu Sad thoughts. A wreath Of blue-bells binds the head—a bluer blue The eyes beneath. This is my little Annie’s face; My child-sweetheart Whom long ago I lost in that dark place Where all lives part. Beside me still I see her stand, Who is no more. She walked with me through childhood, hand in hand, But at the door Of youth departed from me. Fain Was I that day To go with her. Ah, sweetheart, come again This First of May!

A Ghost

GHOSTS walk the Earth, that rise not from the grave. The Dead Past hath its living dead. We see All suddenly, at times,—and shudder then— Their faces pale, and sad accusing eyes. Last night, within the crowded street, I saw A Phantom from the Past, with pallid face And hollow eyes, and pale, cold lips, and hair Faded from that imperial hue of gold Which was my pride in days that are no more. That pallid face I knew in its young bloom— A radiant lily with a rose-flushed heart, Most beautiful, a vision of delight; And seeing it again, so changed, so changed, I felt as if the icy hand of Death Had touched my forehead and his voice said “Come!” Ah, pale, cold lips that once were rosy-red! Lips I have kissed on golden afternoons— Past, past, and gone, and gone beyond recall— Breathing low vows beside the summer sea (Vows broken like the breaking of a wave); Ah, faded hair, whose curls I have caressed, And sworn the least of them was dearer far Than all the wealth of all the world to me! Ah, hollow, haunting eyes, within whose depths, Flower-like, and star-like, once my Fate I saw, Or thought I saw!—is there not any way To call back from its grave the Buried Past? Dear! Though my vows to thee were all for-sworn, Too well, too late, I know I loved thee more Than mine own life—a life-in-death since then. Yet shall I nevermore in all the days And all the lives to come, if lives there be Beyond this life, beyond the weary earth, Kiss thee again upon the lips and hair, And call thee by the old caressing names, And feel thy true heart beating against mine, That was so false and would, too late, be true; For neither passionate prayer, nor burning tears, Nor incantations that might rend the rocks, Nor all the powers of hell, nor God Himself, May raise the Buried Past to life again. For thou that wert art not; dead evermore— Dead evermore, too, that which once was I. What exorcism will lay these haunting ghosts? None but a draught of the Lethean stream. Who drinks therefrom shall all things soon forget, Himself forgetting, too—the greatest good.

Even So

THE days go by—the days go by, Sadly and wearily to die: Each with its burden of small cares, Each with its sad gift of gray hairs For those who sit, like me, and sigh, “The days go by! The days go by!” Ah, nevermore on shining plumes, Shedding a rain of rare perfumes That men call memories, they are borne As in life’s many-visioned morn, When Love sang in the myrtle-blooms— Ah, nevermore on shining plumes! Where is my life? Where is my life? The morning of my youth was rife With promise of a golden day. Where have my hopes gone? Where are they— The passion and the splendid strife? Where is my life? Where is my life? My thoughts take hue from this wild day, And, like the skies, are ashen gray; The sharp rain, falling constantly, Lashes with whips of steel the sea: What words are left for Hope to say? My thoughts take hue from this wild day. I dreamt—my life is all a dream!— That I should sing a song supreme To gladden all sad eyes that weep, And take the Harp to Time, and sweep Its chords to some eternal theme. I dreamt—my life is all a dream. The world is very old and wan— The sun that once so brightly shone Is now as pale as the pale moon. I would that Death came swift and soon; For all my dreams are dead and gone. The world is very old and wan. * * * * * The world is young, the world is strong, But I in dreams have wandered long. God lives. What can Death do to me The sun is shining on the sea. Yet shall I sing my splendid song— The world is young, the world is strong.

Song

WHAT shall a man remember In days when he is old, And Life is a dying ember, And Fame a story told? Power—that came to leave him? Wealth—to the wild waves blown? Fame—that came to deceive him? Ah, no! Sweet Love alone! Honour, and Wealth, and Power May all like dreams depart— But Love is a fadeless flower Whose roots are in the heart.

A Sunset Fantasy

SPELLBOUND by a sweet fantasy At evenglow I stand Beside an opaline strange sea That rings a sunset land. The rich lights fade out one by one, And, like a peony Drowning in wine, the crimson sun Sinks down in that strange sea. His wake across the ocean-floor In a long glory lies, Like a gold wave-way to the shore Of some sea paradise. My dream flies after him, and I Am in another land; The sun sets in another sky, And we sit hand in hand. Gray eyes look into mine; such eyes I think the angel’s are— Soft as the soft light in the skies When shines the morning star, And tremulous as morn, when thin Gold lights begin to glow, Revealing the bright soul within As dawn the sun below. So, hand in hand, we watch the sun Burn down the Western deeps, Dreaming a charmed dream, as one Who in enchantment sleeps; A dream of how we twain some day, Careless of map or chart, Will both take ship and sail away Into the sunset’s heart. Our ship shall be of sandal built, Like ships in old-world tales, Carven with cunning art, and gilt, And winged with scented sails Of silver silk, whereon the red Great gladioli burn, A rainbow-flag at her masthead, A rose-flag at her stern; And, perching on the point above Wherefrom the pennon blows, The figure of a flying dove, And in her beak a rose. And from the fading land the breeze Shall bring us, blowing low, Old odours and old memories, And airs of long ago— A melody that has no words Of mortal speech a part, Yet touching all the deepest chords That tremble in the heart: A scented song blown oversea, As though from bowers of bloom A wind-harp in a lilac-tree Breathed music and perfume. And we, no more with longings pale, Will smile to hear it blow; I in the shadow of the sail, You in the sunset-glow. For, with the fading land, our fond Old fears shall all fade out, Paled by the light from shores beyond The dread of Death or Doubt. And from a gloomy cloud above When Death his shadow flings, The Spirit of Immortal Love Will shield us with his wings. He is the lord of dreams divine, And lures us with his smiles Along the splendour opaline Unto the Blessed Isles.

Poppies

THESE are the flowers of sleep That nod in the heavy noon, Ere the brown shades eastward creep To a drowsy and dreamful tune— These are the flowers of sleep. Love’s lilies are passion-pale, But these on the sun-kissed flood Of the corn, that rolls breast deep, Burn redder than drops of blood On a dead king’s golden mail. Heart’s dearest, I would that we These blooms of forgetfulness Might bind on our brows, and steep Our love in Lethe ere less Grow its flame with thee or me. When Time with his evil eye The beautiful Love has slain, There is nought to gain or keep Thereafter, and all is vain. Should we wait to see Love die? Sweetheart, of the joys men reap We have reaped; ’tis time to rest. Why should we wake but to weep? Sleep and forgetting is best— These are the flowers of sleep.

Amaranth

ONCE a poet—long ago— Wrote a song as void of art As the songs that children know, And as pure as a child’s heart. With a sigh he threw it down, Saying, “This will never shed Any glory or renown On my name when I am dead. “I will sing a lordly song Men shall hear, when I am gone, Through the years sound clear and strong As a golden clarion.” So this lordly song he sang That would gain him deathless fame— When the death-knell o’er him rang No man even knew its name. Ay, and when his way he found To the place of singing souls, And beheld their bright heads crowned With song-woven aureoles, He stood shame-faced in the throng, For his brow of wreath was bare, And, alas! his lordly song Sere had grown in that sweet air; Then, all sudden, a divine Light fell on him from afar, And he felt the child-song shine On his forehead like a star. So for ever. Each and all Songs of passion or of mirth That are not heart-pure shall fall As a sky-lark’s—to the earth; But the soul’s song has no bounds— Like the voice of Israfel, From the heaven of heavens it sounds To the very hell of hell.

The Little People

WHO are these strange small folk, These that come to our homes as kings, Asking nor leave nor grace, Bending our necks to their yoke, Taking the highest place, And mastery of all things? Whence they come none may know, But a wondrous land it must be; Angels in exile they! Here in this dull world below Creatures of sinful clay We feel near their purity. Clearer their young eyes are Than the dew in the cups of flowers Gleaming, when shines at dawn, Faintly, the morning’s one star— Eyes whose still gaze, indrawn, Sees things unseen by ours. Deep in those orbs serene— Little planets be-ringed and bright— Mysteries marvellous lie: Known unto us they might mean Faith, without fear, to die, All sure of the waiting light. Dimpled their hands and small— Would ye, therefore, their might contemn? Seem they for play designed? Fate, and the Future withal, Weal, yea and Woe, of mankind, Lie hid in the palms of them. Tyrants, whose terrible names Make men pale with affright intense, Worshipping, kiss their feet: Touch of their little hands tames Fiercest of hearts that beat— So mighty is Innocence. These are the children dear, From a country unknown of charts: (Dim Land of Souls Unborn), Rosy as morn they come here, Filling with joy forlorn Waste places in our hearts.

A King in Exile

O THE Queen may keep her golden Crown and sceptre of command! I would give them both twice over To be King of Babyland. Sure, it is a wondrous country Where the beanstalks grow apace, And so very near the moon is You could almost stroke her face. And the dwellers in that country Hold in such esteem their King, They believe that if he chooses He can do—just anything! And, although his regal stature May be only four-feet-ten, Think him tallest, strongest, bravest, Noblest, wisest, best of men. Ah, how fondly I remember The good time serene and fair, In the bygone years when I, too, Was a reigning monarch there! But my subjects they discrowned me When they’d older, colder, grown; And they took away my sceptre, And upset my royal throne. Yet, although a King in Exile, Without subjects to command, I am glad at heart to think I Once was King of Babyland.

Tamerlane

Lo, upon the carpet, where Throned upon a heap of slain Blue-eyed dolls of beauty rare (Ah, they pleaded all in vain!) Sits the Infant Tamerlane! Broken toys upon the floor Scattered lie—a ruined rout. Thus from all things evermore Are—the fact is past a doubt— Hidden virtues hammered out. Poet’s page, or statesman’s bust, Nothing comes to him amiss; Everything he clutches must— ’Tis his simple dream of bliss!— Suffer his analysis. O my little Tamerlane, Infantile Iconoclast, Is your small barbaric brain Not o’erawed by the amassed Wit and Wisdom of the Past? Type are you of that which springs Ever forth when comes the need, Overthrowing thrones and kings, Faithless altar, sapless creed; Sowing fresh and living seed. On the worn-out Roman realm, In whose purple gnawed the moth, Thus its pride to overwhelm, And its state to carve like cloth, Swept the fierce, long-sworded Goth. Age preserves with doting care Things from which life long has fled, Shrieks to see Youth touch a hair On the mouldiest mummy-head— So Egyptians kept their dead. Youth comes by with head high-reared, Stares in scorn at these august Effigies by age revered— Gilded shapes of Greed and Lust— Shakes them into rags and dust. Little Vandal, smash away! Riot while your blood is hot!— If into the world each day Such as you are entered not, It would perish of dry-rot.

The Dead Child

ALL silent is the room, There is no stir of breath, Save mine, as in the gloom I sit alone with Death. Short life it had, the sweet, Small babe here lying dead, With tapers at its feet And tapers at its head. Dear little hands, too frail Their grasp on life to hold; Dear little mouth so pale, So solemn, and so cold; Small feet that nevermore About the house shall run; Thy little life is o’er! Thy little journey done! Sweet infant, dead too soon, Thou shalt no more behold The face of sun or moon, Or starlight clear and cold; Nor know, where thou art gone, The mournfulness and mirth We know who dwell upon This sad, glad, mad, old earth. The foolish hopes and fond That cheat us to the last Thou shalt not feel; beyond All these things thou hast passed. The struggles that upraise The soul by slow degrees To God, through weary days— Thou hast no part in these. And at thy childish play Shall we, O little one, No more behold thee? Nay, No more beneath the sun. Death’s sword may well be bared ’Gainst those grown old in strife, But, ah! it might have spared Thy little unlived life. Why talk as in despair? Just God, whose rod I kiss, Did not make thee so fair To end thy life at this. There is some pleasant shore— Far from His Heaven of Pride, Where those strong souls who bore His Cross in bliss abide— Some place where feeble things, For Life’s long war too weak, Young birds with unfledged wings, Buds nipped by storm-winds bleak, Young lambs left all forlorn Beneath a bitter sky, Meek souls to sorrow born, Find refuge when they die. There day is one long dawn, And from the cups of flowers Light dew-filled clouds updrawn Rain soft and perfumed showers. Child Jesus walketh there Amidst child-angel bands, With smiling lips, and fair White roses in His hands. I kiss thee on the brow, I kiss thee on the eyes— Farewell! Thy home is now The Children’s Paradise.

In Memory of an Actress

SAY little: where she lies, so let her rest: What cares she now for Fame, and what for Art? What for applause? She has played out her part. Her hands are folded calmly on her breast— God knows the best! She has gone down, as all must go, to where The players of the past are lying low— Players who played their parts out long ago— With the life-hue still bright on lips and hair And forehead fair. Cheek’s colour, poise of head, and flash of eye Who will remember them when we are dead? Whom that is dead have we rememberèd? The end is one although we smile or sigh— We live; we die. Bitter to some is Death, to some is sweet— Sweetest to youth and bitterest to age; But simple is the costume for the stage, The darkened stage of death, and very meet— A winding-sheet. So we may fill our days with grief or mirth, Each as he pleases: but what boots it all, When on the coffin-lid the cold clods fall, Though we had been most eloquent on earth Or dumb from birth? So, let her rest who perished in her prime: Surely through darkness she shall find the light And, though obscured to us in outer night, Shall play her part yet in a play sublime In God’s good time.

The River Maiden

HER gown was simple woven wool, But, in repayment, Her body sweet made beautiful The simplest raiment: For all its fine, melodious curves With life a-quiver Were graceful as the bends and swerves Of her own river. Her round arms, from the shoulders down To sweet hands slender, The sun had kissed them amber-brown With kisses tender. For though she loved the secret shades Where ferns grow stilly, And wild vines droop their glossy braids, And gleams the lily, And Nature, with soft eyes that glow In gloom that glistens, Unto her own heart, beating slow, In silence listens: She loved no less the meadows fair, And green, and spacious; The river, and the azure air, And sunlight gracious. I saw her first when tender, wan, Green light enframed her; And, in my heart, the Flower of Dawn I softly named her. The bright sun, like a king in state, With banners streaming, Rode through the fair auroral gate In mail gold-gleaming. The witch-eyed stars before him paled— So high his scorning!— And round the hills the rose-clouds sailed, And it was morning. The light mimosas bended low To do her honour, As in that rosy morning glow I gazed upon her. My boat swung bowward to the stream Where tall reeds shiver; We floated onward, in a dream, Far down the River. The River that full oft has told To Ocean hoary A many-coloured, sweet, and old Unending story: The story of the tall, young trees, For ever sighing To sail some day the rolling seas ’Neath banners flying. The Ocean hears, and through his caves Roars gusty laughter; And takes the River, with his waves To roll thereafter. But Love deep waters cannot drown; To its old fountains The stream returns in clouds that crown Its parent mountains. The River was to her so dear She seemed its daughter; Her deep translucent eyes were clear As sunlit water; And in her bright veins seemed to run, Pulsating, glowing, The music of the wind and sun, And waters flowing. The secrets of the trees she knew: Their growth, their gladness, And, when their time of death was due, Their stately sadness. Gray gums, like old men warped by time, She knew their story; And theirs that laughed in pride of prime And leafy glory; And theirs that, where clear waters run, Drooped dreaming, dreaming; And theirs that shook against the sun Their green plumes gleaming. All things of gladness that exist Did seem to woo her, And well that woodland satirist, The lyre-bird, knew her. And there were hidden mossy dells That she knew only, Where Beauty born of silence dwells Mysterious, lonely. No sounds of toil their stillness taunt, No hearth-smoke sullies The air: the Mountain Muses haunt Those lone, green gullies. And there they weave a song of Fate That never slumbers: A song some bard shall yet translate In golden numbers. A blue haze veiled the hills’ huge shapes A misty lustre— Like rime upon the purple grapes, When ripe they cluster: ‘Twas noon, and all the Vale was gold— An El Dorado: The damask river seaward rolled, Through shine and shadow. And, gazing on its changing glow, I saw, half-sighing, The wondrous Fairyland below Its surface lying. There all things shone with paler sheen: More softly shimmered The fern-fronds, and with softer green The myrtles glimmered: And—like that Fisher gazing in The sea-depths, pining For days gone by, who saw Julin Beneath him shining, With many a wave-washed corridor, And sea-filled portal, And plunged below, and nevermore Was seen of mortal— So I, long gazing at the gleam Of fern and flower, Felt drawn down to that World of Dream By magic power: For there, I knew, in silence sat, With breasts slow-heaving, Illusion’s Queen Rabesquerat, Her web a-weaving. But when the moon shone, large and low, Against Orion, Then, as from some pale portico Might issue Dian, She came through tall tree-pillars pale, A silver vision, A nymph strayed out of Ida’s vale Or fields Elysian. White stars shone out with mystic gleams The woods illuming: It seemed as if the trees in dreams Once more were blooming. And all beneath those starry blooms, By bends and beaches, We floated on through glassy glooms, Down moonlit reaches. Ah, that was in the glad years when Joys ne’er were sifted, But I on wilder floods since then Have darkly drifted. Yet, River of Romance, for me With pictures glowing, Through dim, green fields of Memory Thou still art flowing. And still I hear, thy shores along, All faintly ringing, The notes of ghosts of birds that long Have ceased their singing. Was she, who then my heart did use To touch so purely, A mortal maiden—or a Muse? I know not, surely. But still in dreams I see her stand, A fairer Flora, Serene, immortal, by the strand Of clear Narora.

A Picture

THE sun burns fiercely down the skies; The sea is full of flashing eyes; The waves glide shoreward serpentwise And fawn with foamy tongues on stark Gray rocks, each sharp-toothed as a shark, And hiss in clefts and channels dark. Blood-purple soon the waters grow, As though drowned sea-kings fought below Forgotten fights of long ago. The gray owl Dusk its wings has spread; The sun sinks in a blossom-bed Of poppy-clouds; the day is dead.

Sea-Gifts

Give thou a gift to me
From thy treasure-house, O sea! Said a red-lipped laughing girl While the summer yet was young; And the sea laughed back and flung At her feet a priceless pearl. Give thou a gift to me
From thy treasure-house, O sea! Said the maiden once again On a night of wind and rain. Like a ghost the moon above her Stared through winding-sheets of cloud. On the sand in sea-weed shroud, Lay the pale corpse of her lover. Which is better, gain or loss? Which is nobler, crown or cross? We shall know these things, maybe, When the dead rise from the sea.

Day and Night

DAY goeth bold in cloth of gold, A royal bridegroom he; But Night in jewelled purple walks— A Queen of Mystery. Day filleth up his loving-cup With vintage golden-clear; But Night her ebon chalice crowns With wine as pale as Fear. Day drinks to Life, to ruddy Life, And holds a kingly feast. Night drinks to Death; and while she drinks— Day rises in the East! They may not meet; they may not greet; Each keeps a separate way: Day knoweth not the stars of Night, Nor Night the Star of Day. So runs the reign of Other Twain. Behold! the Preacher saith Death knoweth not the Light of Life, Nor Life the Light of Death!

The Poet Care

CARE is a Poet fine: He works in shade or shine, And leaves—you know his sign!— No day without its line. He writes with iron pen Upon the brows of men; Faint lines at first, and then He scores them in again. His touch at first is light On Beauty’s brow of white; The old churl loves to write On foreheads broad and bright. A line for young love crossed, A line for fair hopes lost In an untimely frost— A line that means Thou Wast. Then deeper script appears: The furrows of dim fears, The traces of old tears, The tide-marks of the years. To him with sight made strong By suffering and wrong, The brows of all the throng Are eloquent with song.

Voices

THERE are three mighty Voices that alway Cry out to God to speed His Judgment Day. The Voice of Devils, weary long ago Of dragging souls to Everlasting Woe. The Voice of Saints who hear, while anthems swell In Heaven, the wail of sinners doomed to Hell. The Voice of Man, sick of his desperate Long throwing ’gainst the leaded dice of Fate. All things are weary of the strife and stress— In God alone is there no weariness?

The Ascetic

The narrow, thorny path he trod. “Enter into My joy,” said God. The sad ascetic shook his head; “I’ve lost all taste for joy,” he said.

The Serpent’s Legacy

AN apple caused man’s fall, as some believe; But that old Snake, malevolently wise, A deadlier snare set when he left to Eve His tongue of honey and mesmeric eyes.

His Soul

ONCE from the world of living men I passed, by a strange fancy led, To a still City of the Dead, To call upon a citizen. He had been famous in his day; Much talked of, written of, and praised For virtues my small soul amazed— And yet I thought his heart was clay. He was too full of grace for me: His friends said, on a marble stone, His soul sat somewhere near the Throne I did not know; I called to see. His name and fame were on the door— A most superior tomb indeed, Much railed, and gilt, and filigreed; He occupied the lower floor. I knocked—a worm crawled from its hole:
I looked—and knew it for his soul.

The Dream of Margaret

IT fell upon a summer night      The village folk were soundly sleeping, Unconscious of the glamour white      In which the moon all things was steeping; One window only showed a light;      Behind it, silent vigil keeping, Sat Margaret, as one in trance— The dark-eyed daughter of the Manse. A flood of strange, sweet thoughts was surging      Her passionate heart and brain within. At last, some secret impulse urging,      She laid aside her garment thin, And from its snowy folds emerging,      Like Lamia from the serpent-skin, She stood before her mirror bright Naked, and lovely as the night. Her dark hair o’er her shoulders flowing      Might well have been a silken pall O’er Galatea’s image glowing      To life and love: she was withal— The lamplight o’er her radiance throwing—      With her high bosom virginal, A woman made to madden men, A Cleopatra born again. Hers was the beauty dark and splendid,      Whose spell upon the heart of man Falls swiftly as, when day is ended,      Night falls in lands Australian. Her rich, ripe, scarlet lips, bow-bended,      Smiled as such ripe lips only can; Her eyes, wherein strange lightnings shone, Were deeper than Oblivion. With round, white arms, whose warm caress      No lover knew, raised towards the ceiling, She looked like some young Pythoness      The secrets dark of Fate revealing, Or goddess in divine distress      To higher powers for help appealing. This invocation, standing so, She sang in clear, sweet tones, but low: Soul, from this narrow,      Mean life we know, Speed as an arrow
    From bended bow! Seek, and discover,      On land or sea, My destined lover,      Where’er he be. How shalt thou know him,      My heart’s desire?— His mien will show him,      His glance of fire. High is his bearing,      His pride is high, His spirit daring
    Burns in his eye. Birds have done mating;
     The Spring is past;
My arms are waiting,      My heart beats fast. “Oh, why,” she sighed, “has Fate awarded      This lot to me whose heart is bold? My days by trifles are recorded,      My suitors men whose God is gold. Oh for the Heroes helmed and sworded,      The lovers of the days of old, Who broke for ladies many a lance In gallant days of old Romance! “Would I had lived in that great time when      A lady’s love was knight’s best boon; When sword with sword made ringing rhyme, when      Mailed sea-kings fought from noon to moon, And thought the slaughter grim no crime, when      The prize was golden-haired Gudrun. Then Imight find swords, broad and bright And keen as theirs, for me to fight. “But narrow bounds my life environ,      And hold my eager spirit in. The men I see no heart of fire in      Their bodies bear. My love to win A man must have a will of iron,      A soul of flame. Then sweet were sin Or Death for him!” With ardent glance Thus spake the daughter of the Manse. Then, with a smile, she fell asleep in      Her white and dainty maiden bed. The chaste, cold moon alone could peep in,      And view her tresses dark outspread Upon an arm whose clasp might keep in      The life of one given up for dead: And, as she drifted down the stream Of Slumber deep, she dreamt a dream. * * * * * It was a banquet rich and rare,      The wine of France was foaming madly; The proud and great of earth were there,      And all were slaves to serve her gladly, And yet on them with haughty air      She gazed, half-scornfully, half-sadly; The Lady of the Feast was she— So ran her strange dream-fantasy. A Prince was at her fair right hand,      And at her left a famous leader Of hosts, with look of high command,      And—blacker than the tents of Kedar— An Eastern King, barbaric, grand,      Sat near—their Queen they had decreed her. Below the proud, the brave, the wise, Sat charmed by her mesmeric eyes. Then thus she spake: “O Lords of Earth!      Than you I know none nobler, braver; And yet your fame, and rank, and birth,      And wealth in mysight find small favour, For all too well I know their worth—      Long since for me they lost their savour. The Spirit, fit to mate with mine, Must be demoniac—or divine. ‘A toast!” she cried. The gallant throng      Sprang up, their foaming glasses clinking. “Satan! The Spirit proud and strong!      The bravest lover to mythinking! The Wine of Life I’ve drunk too long:      The Wine of death I now am drinking!” … “Our Queen she was a moment since— Bear forth the body!” said the Prince. * * * * * A ghostly wind arose, all wet      With tears, and full of cries and wailing, And wringing hands, and faces set      In bitter anguish unavailing; It bore the soul of Margaret      To where a voice, in tones of railing, Cried, “Spirit proud, thou hast done well! Thou art within the Gates of Hell!” The soul of Margaret passed slowly,      Yet bravely, through the Hall of Dread, The roof whereof was hidden wholly      By black clouds hanging overhead. No sound disturbed the melancholy      Deep silence—which itself seemed dead. No wailing of the damned was heard, No voice the fearful stillness stirred. But that deep silence held in keeping      The secret of Eternal Woe— That yet seemed like a serpent creeping      Around the walls. It was as though The cries of pain and hopeless weeping      Had died out ages long ago. No face was seen, no figure dread… Were all the damned and devils dead? No lustre known on earth was gleaming      In that dread Hall, but some weird light Around the pillars vast was streaming,      And down the vistas infinite; A light like that men see in dreaming,      And, waking, shudder with affright. Its glare a baleful splendour shed For ever through the Hall of Dread. Then suddenly she was aware      That from the walls, and all around her, In motionless and burning stare,      Millions of eyes glowed, that spellbound her: The everlasting dumb despair      That spoke from them made Pity founder; And, as she passed along the floor, She trod on burning millions more. For floor and pillar, roof and all,      Were full of eyes, for ever burning— ’Twas these that lit the Dreadful Hall,      These were the damned beyond returning, Sealed up in pillar, floor, and wall,      Without a tongue to voice their yearning, Or grief, or hate, so God might know: Their eyes alone could speak their woe. Her way lit by the weird light flowing      From those sad, awful eyes, she passed To where—her terror ever growing—      Upon a Throne, in fire set fast, And like a Rose of fire far-glowing,      She saw a Figure, Veiled and Vast. She trembled, for she knew full well She stood before the Lord of Hell. And then, an instant courage taking,      She knelt before the burning throne, And, all her hopes of heaven forsaking,      She cried, “O Lord, make me thine own! For men, though they be of God’s making,      I love not. Thee I love alone.” The figure veiled spake thus: “Arise, O Spirit proud—and most unwise!” And as It spake, unveiling slowly,      A brow of awful beauty shone On Margaret’s soul—yet Melancholy      And Woe Eternal sat thereon. But, lo! the form was woman wholly.      A faint smile played her lips upon, As in a voice low, sweet, and level She said: “My dear, Iam the Devil!” With one wild wail of bitter scorning      The stricken soul of Margaret fled, Sore harrowed by that dreadful warning;      And, shrieking, through the Hall of Dread She passed … and woke … and it was morning,      And she was in her own white bed. * * * * * Soon afterwards, the tale runs, she Took veil within a nunnery.

The Martyr

NOT only on cross and gibbet, By sword, and fire, and flood, Have perished the world’s sad martyrs Whose names are writ in blood. A woman lay in a hovel, Mean, dismal, gasping for breath; One friend alone was beside her— The name of him was—Death. For the sake of her orphan children, For money to buy them food, She had slaved in the dismal hovel And wasted her womanhood. Winter and Spring and Summer Came each with a load of cares; And Autumn to her brought only A harvest of gray hairs. Far out in the blessèd country, Beyond the smoky town, The winds of God were blowing Evermore up and down; The trees were waving signals Of joy from the bush beyond; The gum its blue-green banner, The fern its dark green frond; Flower called to flower in whispers By sweet caressing names, And young gum shoots sprang upward Like woodland altar-flames; And, deep in the distant ranges, The magpie’s fluting song Roused musical, mocking echoes In the woods of Dandenong; And riders were galloping gaily With loose-held flowing reins, Through dim and shadowy gullies, Across broad, treeless plains; And winds through the Heads came wafting A breath of life from the sea, And over the blue horizon The ships sailed silently; And out of the sea at morning The sun rose, golden bright, And in crimson, and gold, and purple Sank in the sea at night; But in dreams alone she saw them, Her hours of toil between; For life to her was only A heartless dead machine. Her heart was in the graveyard Where lay her children three, Nor work nor prayer could save them, Nor tears of agony. On the lips of her last and dearest Pressing a farewell kiss, She cried aloud in her anguish— “Can God make amends for this?” Dull, desperate, ceaseless slaving Bereft her of power to pray, And Man was careless and cruel, And God was far away. But who shall measure His mercies! His ways are in the deep; And, after a life of sorrow, He gave her His gift of sleep. Rest comes at last to the weary, And freedom to the slave; Her tired and worn-out body Sleeps well in its pauper grave. But His angel bore her soul up To that Bright Land and Fair, Where Sorrow enters never, Nor any cloud of Care. They came to a lovely valley, Agleam with asphodel, And the soul of the woman speaking Said—“Here I fain would dwell!” The Angel answered gently: “O Soul most pure and dear, O Soul most tried and truest, Thy dwelling is not here! “Behold thy place appointed— Long kept, long waiting—come!— Where bloom on the hills of heaven The roses of Martyrdom!’

His Mate

It may have been a fragment of that higher
Truth dreams, at times, disclose; It may have been to Fond Illusion nigher— But thus the story goes: A fierce sun glared upon a gaunt land, stricken With barrenness and thirst, Where Nature’s pulse with joy of Spring would quicken No more; a land accurst. Gray salt-bush grimmer made the desolation— Like mocking immortelles Strewn on the graveyard of a perished nation Whose name no record tells. No faintest sign of distant water glimmered The aching eye to bless; The far horizon like a sword’s edge shimmered, Keen, gleaming, pitiless. And all the long day through the hot air quivered Beneath a burning sky, In dazzling dance of heat that flashed and shivered: It seemed as if hard by The borders of this region, evil-favoured, Life ended, Death began: But no; upon the plain a shadow wavered— The shadow of a man. What man was this by Fate or Folly driven To cross the dreadful plain? A pilgrim poor? or Ishmael unforgiven? The man was Andy Blane, A stark old sinner, and a stout, as ever Blue swag has carried through That grim, wild land men name the Never-Never, Beyond the far Barcoo. His strength was failing now, but his unfailing Strong spirit still upbore And drove him on with courage yet unquailing, In spite of weakness sore. When, lo! beside a clump of salt-bush lying, All suddenly he found A stranger, who before his eyes seemed dying Of thirst, without a sound. Straightway beside that stranger on the sandy Salt plain—a death-bed sad— Down kneeling, “Drink this water, mate!” said Andy— It was the last he had. Behold a miracle! for when that Other Had drunk, he rose and cried, “Let us pass on!” As brother might with brother So went they, side by side; Until the fierce sun, like an eyeball bloody Eclipsed in death, was seen No more, and in the spacious West, still ruddy, A star shone out serene. As one, then, whom some memory beguiling May gladden, yea, and grieve, The stranger, pointing up, said, sadly smiling, “The Star of Christmas Eve!” Andy replied not. Unto him the sky was All reeling stars; his breath Came thick and fast; and life an empty lie was; True one thing only—Death. * * * * * Beneath the moonlight, with the weird, wan glitter Of salt-bush all around, He lay; but by his side in that dark, bitter, Last hour, a friend he found. “Thank God!” he said. “He’sacted more than square, mate, By me in this—and I’m
A Rip… He must have known I was—well, there, mate— A White Man all the time. “To-morrow’s Christmas day: God knows where I’llbe By then—I don’t; but you Away from this Death’s hole should many a mile be, At Blake’s, on the Barcoo. “You take this cheque there—they will cash it, sonny… It meant my Christmas spree… And do just what you like best with the money, In memory of me.” The stranger, smiling, with a little leaven Of irony, said, “Yea, But there it shall not be. With mein Heaven You’ll spend your Christmas Day.” Then that gray heathen, that old back-block stager, Half-jestingly replied, And laughed—and laughed again—“Mate, it’s a wager!” And, grimly laughing, died. * * * * * St. Peter stood at the Celestial Portal, Gazing down gulfs of air, When Andy Blane, no longer now a mortal, Appeared before him there. “What seek’st thou here?” the saint in tone ironic Said. “Surely the wrong gate This is for thee.” Andy replied, laconic, “I want to find my mate.” The gates flew wide. The glory unbeholden Of mortal eyes was there. He gazed—this trembling sinner—at the golden Thrones, terrible and fair, And shuddered. Then down through the living splendour Came One unto the gate Who said, with outspread hands, in accents tender: “Andy! Iam your mate!”

The Old Wife and the New

HE sat beneath the curling vines That round the gay verandah twined, His forehead seamed with sorrow’s lines, An old man with a weary mind. His young wife, with a rosy face And brown arms ambered by the sun, Went flitting all about the place— Master and mistress both in one. What caused that old man’s look of care? Was she not blithe and fair to see? What blacker than her raven hair, What darker than her eyes might be? The old man bent his weary head; The sunlight on his gray hair shone; His thoughts were with a woman dead And buried, years and years agone: The good old wife who took her stand Beside him at the altar-side, And walked with him, hand clasped in hand, Through joy and sorrow till she died. Ah, she was fair as heart’s desire, And gay, and supple-limbed, in truth, And in his veins there leapt like fire The hot red blood of lusty youth. She stood by him in shine and shade, And, when hard-beaten at his best, She took him like a child and laid His aching head upon her breast. She helped him make a little home Where once were gum-trees gaunt and stark, And bloodwoods waved green-feathered foam— Working from dawn of day to dark, Till that dark forest formed a frame For vineyards that the gods might bless, And what was savage once became An Eden in the wilderness. And how at their first vintage-time She laughed and sang—you see such shapes On vases of the Grecian prime— And danced a reel upon the grapes! And ever, as the years went on, All things she kept with thrifty hand, Till never shone the sun upon A fairer homestead in the land. Then children came—ah, me! ah, me! Sad blessings that a mother craves! That old man from his seat could see The shadows playing o’er their graves. And then she closed her eyes at last, Her gentle, useful, peaceful life Was over—garnered with the past; God rest thee gently, Good Old Wife! * * * * * His young wife has a rosy face, And laughs, with reddest lips apart, But cannot fill the empty place Within that old man’s lonely heart. His young wife has a rosy face, And brown arms ambered by the sun, Goes flitting all about the place, Master and mistress both in one; But though she sings, or though she sighs, He sees her not—he sees instead A gray-haired Shade with gentle eyes— The good old wife, long dead, long dead. He sits beneath the curling vines, Through which the merry sunrays dart, His forehead seamed with sorrow’s lines— An old man with a broken heart.

A Christmas Eve

GOOD fellows are laughing and drinking (To-night no heart should grieve), But I am of old days thinking, Alone, on Christmas Eve. Old memories fast are springing To life again; old rhymes Once more in my brain are ringing— Ah, God be with old times! There never was man so lonely But ghosts walked him beside, For Death our spirits can only By veils of sense divide. Numberless as the blades of Grass in the fields that grow, Around us hover the shades of The dead of long ago. Friends living a word estranges; We smile, and we say “Adieu!” But, whatsoever else changes, Dead friends are faithful and true. An old-time tune, or a flower, The simplest thing held dear In bygone days has the power Once more to bring them near. And whether it be through thinking Of memories sad and sweet, Or hearing the cheery clinking Of glasses across the street, I know not; but this is certain That, here in the dusk, I view Like shadows seen through a curtain, The shades of the friends I knew. Methinks that I hear their laughter— An echo of ghostly mirth, As if in the dim Hereafter They jest as they did on earth. The fancy possibly droll is, And yet it relieves my mind To think the enfranchised soul is So humorously inclined. But hark! whose steps in the glancing Moonbeams are these I hear, That sound as if timed to dancing Music of gallant cheer! Half Galahad, half Don Juan, His head full of wild romance; ’Twas thus that of old would Spruhan Come lilting, “We met by chance.” Sure never a spirit lighter At heart quaffed mountain dew; Never was goblin brighter That Oberon’s kingdom knew. And though at this season yearly I miss the grasp of his hand, I know that Spruhan has merely Gone back to Fairyland. * * * * * The shades grow dimmer and dimmer, And now they fade from view, I see in the East the glimmer Of dawn. Old friends, adieu! Sitting here, lonely hearted, Writing these random rhymes. I drink to the days departed,— Ah, God be with old times!

Night

THE Night is young yet; an enchanted night In early summer: calm and darkly bright. I love the Night, and every little breeze She brings, to soothe the sleep of dreaming trees. Hearst thou the Voices? Sough! Susurrus!— Hark! ’Tis Mother Nature whispering in the dark! Burden of cities, mad turmoil of men, That vex the daylight—she forgets them then. Her breasts are bare; Grief gains from them surcease: She gives her restless sons the milk of Peace. To sleep she lulls them—drawn from thoughts of pelf— By telling sweet old stories of herself. * * * * * All secrets deep—yea, all I hear and see Of things mysterious—Night reveals to me. I know what every flower, with drowsy head Down-drooping, dreams of—and the seeming dead. I know how they, escaped from care and strife, Ironically moralise on Life. And know what—when the moon walks on the waves— They whisper to each other in their graves. I know that white clouds drifting from stark coasts Across the sky at midnight are the ghosts Of sailors drowned at sea, who yearn to win A quiet grave beside their kith and kin In still green graveyards, where they lie at ease Far from the sound of surge and roar of seas. I know the message of the mournful rain That beats upon the widow’s window-pane. I know the meaning of the roar of seas; I know the glad Spring sap-song of the trees; And that great chant to which in tuneful grooves The green round earth upon its axis moves; And that still greater chant the Bright Sun sings— Fire-crowned Apollo—the great chant that brings All things to life, and draws through spaces dim, And star-sown realms, his planets after him. I know the tune that led, since Life began, The upward, downward, onward March of Man. I hear the whispers that the Angels twain Of Death and Life exchange in meeting—fain Are they to pause and greet, yet may not stay. “Never!” “For ever.” This is all they say. I hear the twitterings inarticulate Of souls unborn that press around the Gate Of Birth, each striving which shall first escape From formless vapour into human shape. I know the tale the bird of passionate heart, The nightingale, tries ever to impart To men, though vainly—for I well believe That in her brown breast beats the heart of Eve, Who with her sweet, sad, wistful music tries To tell her sons of their lost Paradise, And solemn secrets Man had grace to know, When God walked in the Garden long ago. * * * * * Yea, I have seen, methought, on nights of awe, The vision terrible Lucretius saw: The trembling Universe—suns, stars, grief, bliss— Plunging for ever down a black abyss. But more I love good Bishop Jeremy, Who likens all the star-worlds that we see— Which seem to run an everlasting race— Unto a snowstorm sweeping on through space. Suns, planets, stars, in glorious array They march, melodious, on their unknown way. Thought, seraph-winged and swifter than the light, Unto the dim verge of the Infinite, Pursues them, through that strange ethereal flood In which they swim (mayhap it is the blood Of Universal God wherein they are But corpuscles—sun, satellite, and star— And their great stream of glory but a dim, Small pulse in the remotest vein of Him) Pursues in vain, and from lone, awful glooms Turns back to earth again with weary plumes. * * * * * Through glacial gulfs of Space the soul must roam To feel the comfort of its earthly home. Ah, Mother dear! broad-bosomed Mother Earth! Mother of all our Joy, Grief, Madness, Mirth!— Mother of flower and fruit, of stream and sea!— We are thy children and must cling to thee. I lay my head upon thy breast and hear— Small, small and faint, yet strangely sweet and clear— The hum and clash of little worlds below, Each on its own path moving, swift or slow. And listening, ever with intenter ear, Through din of wars invisible I hear A Homer—genius is not gauged by mass— Singing his Iliad on a blade of grass. And nations hearken: his great song resounds Unto the tussock’s very utmost bounds. States rise and fall, each blade of grass upon, But still his song from blade to blade rolls on Through all the tussock-world, and Helen still Is Fairest Fair, and Ajax wild of will— An Ajax whose huge size, when measured o’er, Is full ten-thousandth of an inch or more— Still hurls defiance at the gods whose home Is in the distant, awful, dew-drop dome That trembling hangs, suspended from a spray An inch above him—worlds of space away. Old prophecies foretell—but Time proves all— The day will come when it, like Troy, shall fall. Lo! through this small great wondrous song there runs The marching melody of stars and suns. * * * * * I know these things, yet cannot speak and tell Their meanings. Over all is cast a spell. Secrets they are, sealed with a sevenfold seal; My soul knows what my tongue may not reveal. * * * * * I love the Night! Bright Day the soul shuts in; Night sends it soaring to its starry kin. If I must leave at last my place of birth— This homely, gracious, green, familiar Earth, With all it holds of sorrow and delight— I pray my parting-hour may be at night, And that her curtain dark may softly fall On scenes I love, ere I depart from all. Then shall I haply, journeying through the Vast Mysterious Silences, take one long, last Fond look at Earth, and watch from depths afar The dear old planet dwindling to a star; And sigh farewell unto the friends of yore, Whose kindly faces I shall see no more.

THE END

Project Gutenberg Australia