SONG

Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, Summon the day of deliverance in: We are weary of bearing the burden of scorn As we yearn for the home that we never shall win; For here there is weeping and sorrow and sin. And the poor and the weak are a spoil for the strong! Ah, when shall the song of the ransomed begin? The world is grown weary with waiting so long.

Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave, There was never a doubt in those clear bright eyes. Come, challenge the grim dark Gates of the Grave As the skylark sings to those infinite skies! This world is a dream, say the old and the wise, And its rainbows arise o'er the false and the true; But the mists of the morning are made of our sighs,— Ah, shatter them, scatter them, Little Boy Blue!

Little Boy Blue, if the child-heart knows, Sound but a note as a little one may; And the thorns of the desert shall bloom with the rose, And the Healer shall wipe all tears away; Little Boy Blue, we are all astray, The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn, Ah, set the world right, as a little one may; Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!

Yes; and there between the trees Circled with a misty gleam Like the light a mourner sees Round an angel in a dream; Was it he? oh, brave and slim, Straight and clad in aery blue, Lifting to his lips the dim Golden horn? We never knew!

Never; for a witch's hair Flooded all the moonlit sky, And he vanished, then and there, In the twinkling of an eye: Just as either boyish cheek Puffed to set the world aright, Ere the golden horn could speak Round him flowed the purple night.

* * * *

At last we came to a round black road That tunnelled through the woods and showed, Or so we thought, a good clear way Back to the upper lands of day; Great silken cables overhead In many a mighty mesh were spread Netting the rounded arch, no doubt To keep the weight of leafage out. And, as the tunnel narrowed down, So thick and close the cords had grown No leaf could through their meshes stray, And the faint moonlight died away; Only a strange grey glimmer shone To guide our weary footsteps on, Until, tired out, we stood before The end, a great grey silken door.

Then from out a weird old wicket, overgrown with shaggy hair Like a weird and wicked eyebrow round a weird and wicked eye, Two great eyeballs and a beard For one ghastly moment peered At our faces with a sudden stealthy stare: Then the door was open wide, And a hideous hermit cried With a shy and soothing smile from out his lair, Won't you walk into my parlour? I can make you cosy there!

And we couldn't quite remember where we'd heard that phrase before, As the great grey-bearded ogre stood beside his open door; But an echo seemed to answer from a land beyond the sky— Won't you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly!

Then we looked a little closer at the ogre as he stood With his great red eyeballs glowing like two torches in a wood, And his mighty speckled belly and his dreadful clutching claws And his nose—a horny parrot's beak, his whiskers and his jaws; Yet he seemed so sympathetic, and we saw two tears descend, As he murmured, "I'm so ugly, but I've lost my dearest friend! I tell you most lymphatic'ly, I've yearnings in my soul,"— And right along his parrot's beak we saw the tear-drops roll; He's an arrant sentimentalist, we heard a distant sigh, Won't you weep upon my bosom? said the spider to the fly.

"If you'd dreamed my dreams of beauty, if you'd seen my works of art, If you'd felt the cruel hunger that is gnawing at my heart, And the grief that never leaves me and the love I can't forget, (For I loved with all the letters in the Chinese alphabet!) Oh, you'd all come in to comfort me: you ought to help the weak; And I'm full of melting moments; and—I—know—the—thing—you—seek!" And the haunting echo answered, Well, I'm sure you ought to try; There's a duty to one's neighbour, said the spider to the fly.

So we walked into his parlour Though a gleam was in his eye; And it was the prettiest parlour That ever we did spy!

But we saw by the uncertain Misty light, shot through with gleams Of many a silken curtain Broidered o'er with dreadful dreams, That he locked the door behind us! So we stood with bated breath In a silence deep as death.

There were scarlet gleams and crimson In the curious foggy grey, Like the blood-red light that swims on Old canals at fall of day, Where the smoke of some great city loops and droops in gorgeous veils Round the heavy purple barges' tawny sails.

Were those creatures gagged and muffled, See—there—by that severed head? Was it but a breeze that ruffled Those dark curtains, splashed with red, Ruffled the dark figures on them, made them moan like things in pain? How we wished that we were safe at home again.

* * * *

"Oh, we want to hear of Peterkin; good sir, you say you know; Won't you tell us, won't you put us in the way we want to go?" So we pleaded, for he seemed so very full of sighs and tears That we couldn't doubt his kindness, and we smothered all our fears; But he said, "You must be crazy if you come to me for help; Why should I desire to send you to your horrid little whelp?" And again, the foolish echo made a far-away reply, Oh, don't come to me for comfort, Pray don't look to me for comfort, Heavens! you mustn't be so selfish, said the spider to the fly.

"Still, when the King of Scotland, so to speak, was in a hole, He was aided by my brother; it's a story to console The convict of the treadmill and the infant with a sum, For it teaches you to try again until your kingdom's come! The monarch dawdled in that hole for centuries of time Until my own twin-brother rose and showed him how to climb: He showed him how to swing and sway upon a tiny thread Across a mighty precipice, and light upon his head Without a single fracture and without a single pain If he only did it frequently and tried and tried again:" And once again the whisper like a moral wandered by, Perseverance is a virtue, said the spider to the fly.

Then he moaned, "My heart is hungry; but I fear I cannot eat, (Of course I speak entirely now of spiritual meat!) For I only fed an hour ago, but if we calmly sat While I told you all my troubles in a confidential chat It would give me such an appetite to hear you sympathise, And I should sleep the better—see, the tears are in my eyes! Dead yearnings are such dreadful things, let's keep 'em all alive,— Let's sit and talk awhile, my dears; we'll dine, I think, at five." And he brought his chair beside us in his most engaging style, And began to tell his story with a melancholy smile.—

"You remember Miss Muffet Who sat on a tuffet Partaking of curds and whey; Well, I am the spider Who sat down beside her And frightened Miss Muffet away!

"There was nothing against her! An elderly spinster Were such a grammatical mate For a spider and spinner, I swore I would win her, I knew I had met with my fate!

"That love was the purest And strongest and surest I'd felt since my first thread was spun; I know I'm a bogey, But she's an old fogey, So why in the world did she run?

"When Bruce was in trouble, A spider, my double, Encouraged him greatly, they say! Now, why should the spider Who sat down beside her Have frightened Miss Muffet away?"

He seemed to have much more to tell, But we could scarce be listening well, Although we tried with all our might To look attentive and polite; For still afar we heard the thin Clear fairy-call to Peterkin; Clear as a skylark's mounting song It drew our wandering thoughts along. Afar, it seemed, yet, ah, so nigh, Deep in our dreams it scaled the sky, In captive dreams that brooked no bars It touched the love that moves the stars, And with sweet music's golden tether It bound our hearts and heaven together.

SONG

Wake, arise, the lake, the skies Fade into the faery day; Come and sing before our king, Heed not Time, the dotard grey; Time has given his crown to heaven— Ah, how long? Awake, away!

Then, as the Hermit rambled on In one long listless monotone, We heard a wild and mournful groan Come rumbling down the tunnelled way; A voice, an awful mournful bray, Singing some old funereal lay; Then solemn footsteps, muffled, dull, Approached as if they trod on wool, And as they nearer, nearer drew, We saw our Host was listening too!

His bulging eyes began to glow Like great red match-heads rubbed at night, And then he stole with a grim "O-ho!" To that grey old wicket where, out of sight, Blandly rubbing his hands and humming, He could see, at one glance, whatever was coming.

He had never been so jubilant or frolicsome before, As he scurried on his cruel hairy crutches to the door; And flung it open wide And most hospitably cried, "Won't you walk into my parlour? I've some little friends to tea,— They'll be highly entertaining to a man of sympathy, Such as you yourself must be!"

Then the man, for so he seemed, (Doubtless one who'd lost his way And was dwarfed as we had been!) In his ancient suit of black, Black upon the verge of green, Entered like a ghost that dreamed Sadly of some bygone day; And he never ceased to sing In that awful mournful bray.

The door closed behind his back; He walked round us in a ring, And we hoped that he might free us, But his tears appeared to blind him, For he didn't seem to see us, And the Hermit crept behind him Like a cat about to spring.

And the song he sang was this; And his nose looked very grand As he sang it, with a bliss Which we could not understand; For his voice was very sad, While his nose was proud and glad.

Rain, April, rain, thy sunny, sunny tears! Through the black boughs the robe of Spring appears, Yet, for the ghosts of all the bygone years, Rain, April, rain.

Rain, April, rain; the rose will soon be glad; Spring will rejoice, a Spring I, too, have had; A little while, till I no more be sad, Rain, April, rain.

And then the spider sprang Before we could breathe or speak, And one great scream out-rang As the terrible horny beak Crunched into the Sad Man's head, And the terrible hairy claws Clutched him around his middle; And he opened his lantern-jaws, And he gave one twist, one twiddle, One kick, and his sorrow was dead.

And there, as he sucked his bleeding prey, The spider leered at us—"You will do, My sweet little dears, for another day; But this is the sort I like; huh! huh!"

And there we stood, in frozen fear, Whiter than death, With bated breath; And lo! as we thought of Peterkin, Father and home and Peterkin, Once more that music clear and thin, Clear as a skylark's mounting song, But nearer now, more sweet, more strong, Drew all our wandering thoughts along, Until it seemed, a mystic sea Of hidden delight and harmony Began to ripple and rise all round The prison where our hearts lay bound; And from sweet heaven's most rosy rim There swelled a distant marching hymn Which made the hideous Hermit pause And listen with lank down-dropt jaws, Till, with great bulging eyes of fear, He sought the wicket again to peer Along the tunnel, as like sweet rain We heard the still approaching strain, And, under it, the rhythmic beat Of multitudinous marching feet. Nearer, nearer, they rippled and rang, And this was the marching song they sang:—

SONG

A fairy band are we In fairy-land: Singing march we, hand in hand; Singing, singing all day long: (Some folk never heard a fairy-song!)

Singing, singing, When the merry thrush is swinging On a springing spray; Or when the witch that lives in gloomy caves And creeps by night among the graves Calls a cloud across the day; Cease we never our fairy song, March we ever, along, along, Down the dale, or up the hill, Singing, singing still.

And suddenly the Hermit turned and ran with all his might Through the back-door of his parlour as we thought of little Peterkin; And the great grey roof was shattered by a shower of rosy light, And the spider-house went floating, torn and tattered through the night In a flight of prismy streamers, as a shout went up for Peterkin; And lo, the glistening fairy-host stood there arrayed for fight, In arms of rose and green and gold, to lead us on to Peterkin.

And all around us, rippling like a pearl and opal sea, The host of fairy faces winked a kindly hint of Peterkin; And all around the rosy glade a laugh of fairy glee Watched spider-streamers floating up from fragrant tree to tree Till the moonlight caught the gossamers and, oh we wished for Peterkin! Each rope became a rainbow; but it made us ache to see Such a fairy forest-pomp without explaining it to Peterkin.

Then all the glittering crowd With a courtly gesture bowed Like a rosy jewelled cloud Round a flame, As the King of Fairy-land, Very dignified and grand, Stepped forward to demand Whence we came.

He'd a cloak of gold and green Such as caterpillars spin, For the fairy ways, I ween, Are very frugal; He'd a bow that he had borne Since the crimson Eden morn, And a honeysuckle horn For his bugle.

So we told our tale of faery to the King of Fairy-land, And asked if he could let us know the latest news of Peterkin; And he turned him with a courtly smile and waved his jewelled wand And cried, Pease-blossom, Mustard-seed! You know the old command; Well; these are little children; you must lead them on to Peterkin. Then he knelt, the King of Faery knelt; his eyes were great and grand As he took our hands and kissed them, saying, Father loves your Peterkin!

So out they sprang, on either side, A light fantastic fairy guide, To lead us to the land unknown Where little Peterkin was gone; And, as we went with timid pace, We saw that every fairy face In all that moonlit host was wet With tears: we never shall forget The mystic hush that seemed to fade Away like sound, as down the glade We passed beyond their zone of light. Then through the forest's purple night We trotted, at a pleasant speed, With gay Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed.

PART IV

PEASE-BLOSSOM AND MUSTARD-SEED

Shyly we surveyed our guides As through the gloomy woods we went In the light that the straggling moonbeams lent: We envied them their easy strides! Pease-blossom in his crimson cap And delicate suit of rose-leaf green, His crimson sash and his jewelled dagger, Strutted along with an elegant swagger Which showed that he didn't care one rap For anything less than a Fairy Queen: His eyes were deep like the eyes of a poet, Although his crisp and curly hair Certainly didn't seem to show it! While Mustard-seed was a devil-may-care Epigrammatic and pungent fellow Clad in a splendid suit of yellow, With emerald stars on his glittering breast And eyes that shone with a diamond light: They made you feel sure it would always be best To tell him the truth: he was not perhaps quite So polite as Pease-blossom, but then who could be Quite such a debonair fairy as he?

We never could tell you one-half that we heard And saw on that journey. For instance, a bird Ten times as big as an elephant stood By the side of a nest like a great thick wood: The clouds in glimmering wreaths were spread Behind its vast and shadowy head Which rolled at us trembling below. (Its eyes Were like great black moons in those pearl-pale skies.) And we feared he might take us, perhaps, for a worm.

But he ruffled his breast with the sound of a storm, And snuggled his head with a careless disdain Under his huge hunched wing again; And Mustard-seed said, as we stole thro' the dark, There was nothing to fear: it was only a Lark!

And so he cheered the way along With many a neat little epigram, While dear Pease-blossom before him swam On a billow of lovely moonlit song, Telling us why they had left their home In Sherwood, and had hither come To dwell in this magical scented clime, This dim old Forest of sweet Wild Thyme,

"Men toil," he said, "from morn till night With bleeding hands and blinded sight For gold, more gold! They have betrayed The trust that in their souls was laid; Their fairy birthright they have sold For little disks of mortal gold; And now they cannot even see The gold upon the greenwood tree, The wealth of coloured lights that pass In soft gradations through the grass, The riches of the love untold That wakes the day from grey to gold; And howsoe'er the moonlight weaves Magic webs among the leaves Englishmen care little now For elves beneath the hawthorn bough: Nor if Robin should return Dare they of an outlaw learn; For them the Smallest Flower is furled, Mute is the music of the world; And unbelief has driven away Beauty from the blossomed spray."

Then Mustard-seed with diamond eyes Taught us to be laughter-wise, And he showed us how that Time Is much less powerful than a rhyme; And that Space is but a dream; "For look," he said, with eyes agleam, "Now you are become so small You think the Thyme a forest tall; But underneath your feet you see A world of wilder mystery Where, if you were smaller yet, You would just as soon forget This forest, which you'd leave above As you have left the home you love! For, since the Thyme you used to know Seems a forest here below, What if you should sink again And find there stretched a mighty plain Between each grass-blade and the next? You'd think till you were quite perplexed! Especially if all the flowers That lit the sweet Thyme-forest bowers Were in that wild transcendent change Turned to Temples, great and strange, With many a pillared portal high And domes that swelled against the sky! How foolish, then, you will agree, Are those who think that all must see The world alike, or those who scorn Another who, perchance, was born Where—in a different dream from theirs— What they call sins to him are prayers!

"We cannot judge; we cannot know; All things mingle; all things flow; There's only one thing constant here— Love—that untranscended sphere: Love, that while all ages run Holds the wheeling worlds in one; Love that, as your sages tell, Soars to heaven and sinks to hell."

Even as he spoke, we seemed to grow Smaller, the Thyme trees seemed to go Farther away from us: new dreams Flashed out on us with mystic gleams Of mighty Temple-domes: deep awe Held us all breathless as we saw A carven portal glimmering out Between new flowers that put to rout Our other fancies: in sweet fear We tiptoed past, and seemed to hear A sound of singing from within That told our souls of Peterkin: Our thoughts of him were still the same Howe'er the shadows went and came, So, on we wandered, hand in hand, And all the world was fairy-land.

* * * *

And as we went we seemed to hear Surging up from distant dells A solemn music, soft and clear As if a field of lily-bells Were tolling all together, sweet But sad and low and keeping time To multitudinous marching feet With a slow funereal beat And a deep harmonious chime That told us by its dark refrain The reason fairies suffered pain.

SONG

Bear her along Keep ye your song Tender and sweet and low: Fairies must die! Ask ye not why Ye that have hurt her so.

Passing away—flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf! Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the dust of its dreams on our grief.

Men upon earth Bring us to birth Gently at even and morn! When as brother and brother They greet one another And smile—then a fairy is born!

But at each cruel word Upon earth that is heard, Each deed of unkindness or hate, Some fairy must pass From the games in the grass And steal thro' the terrible Gate.

Passing away—flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf! Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the dust of its dreams on our grief.

If ye knew, if ye knew All the wrong that ye do By the thought that ye harbour alone, How the face of some fairy Grows wistful and weary And the heart in her cold as a stone! Ah, she was born Blithe as the morn Under an April sky, Born of the greeting Of two lovers meeting. They parted, and so she must die.

Passing away—flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf! Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the dust of its dreams on our grief.

Cradled in blisses, Yea, born of your kisses, Oh, ye lovers that met by the moon, She would not have cried In the darkness and died If ye had not forgotten so soon.

Cruel mortals, they say, Live for ever and aye, And they pray in the dark on their knees. But the flowers that are fled And the loves that are dead, What heaven takes pity on these?

Bear her along—singing your song—tender and sweet and low! Fairies must die! Ask ye not why—ye that have hurt her so.

Passing away— Flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf! Soon, soon will the year Shed its bloom on her bier And the dust of its dreams on our grief.

* * * *

Then we came through a glittering crystal grot By a path like, a pale moonbeam, And a broad blue bridge of Forget-me-not Over a shimmering stream, To where, through the deep blue dusk, a gleam Rose like the soul of the setting sun; A sunset breaking through the earth, A crimson sea of the poppies of dream, Deep as the sleep that gave them birth In the night where all earthly dreams are done.

And then, like a pearl-pale porch of the moon, Faint and sweet as a starlit shrine, Over the gloom Of the crimson bloom We saw the Gates of Ivory shine; And, lulled and lured by the lullaby tune Of the cradling airs that drowsily creep From blossom to blossom, and lazily croon Through the heart of the midnight's mystic noon, We came to the Gates of the City of Sleep.

Faint and sweet as a lily's repose On the broad black breast of a midnight lake, The City delighted the cradling night: Like a straggling palace of cloud it rose; The towers were crowned with a crystal light Like the starry crown of a white snowflake As they pierced in a wild white pinnacled crowd, Through the dusky wreaths of enchanted cloud That swirled all round like a witch's hair.

And we heard, as the sound of a great sea sighing, The sigh of the sleepless world of care; And we saw strange shadowy figures flying Up to the Ivory Gates and beating With pale hands, long and famished and thin; Like blinded birds we saw them dash Against the cruelly gleaming wall: We heard them wearily moan and call With sharp starved lips for ever entreating The pale doorkeeper to let them in.

And still, as they beat, again and again, We saw on the moon-pale lintels a splash Of crimson blood like a poppy-stain Or a wild red rose from the gardens of pain That sigh all night like a ghostly sea From the City of Sleep to Gethsemane.

And lo, as we neared the mighty crowd An old blind man came, crying aloud To greet us, as once the blind man cried In the Bible picture—you know we tried To paint that print, with its Eastern sun; But the reds and the yellows would mix and run, And the blue of the sky made a horrible mess Right over the edge of the Lord's white dress. And the old blind man, just as though he had eyes, Came straight to meet us; and all the cries Of the crowd were hushed; and a strange sweet calm Stole through the air like a breath of the balm That was wafted abroad from the Forest of Thyme (For it rolled all round that curious clime With its magical clouds of perfumed trees.) And the blind man cried, "Our help is at hand, Oh, brothers, remember the old command, Remember the frankincense and myrrh, Make way, make way for those little ones there; Make way, make way, I have seen them afar Under a great white Eastern star; For I am the mad blind man who sees!" Then he whispered, softly—Of such as these; And through the hush of the cloven crowd We passed to the gates of the City, and there Our fairy heralds cried aloud— Open your Gates; don't stand and stare; These are the Children for whom our King Made all the star-worlds dance in a ring!

And lo, like a sorrow that melts from the heart In tears, the slow gates melted apart; And into the City we passed like a dream; And then, in one splendid marching stream The whole of that host came following through. We were only children, just like you; Children, ah, but we felt so grand As we led them—although we could understand Nothing at all of the wonderful song That rose all round as we marched along.

SONG

You that have seen how the world and its glory Change and grow old like the love of a friend; You that have come to the end of the story, You that were tired ere you came to the end; You that are weary of laughter and sorrow, Pain and pleasure, labour and sin, Sick of the midnight and dreading the morrow, Ah, come in; come in.

You that are bearing the load of the ages; You that have loved overmuch and too late; You that confute all the saws of the sages; You that served only because you must wait, Knowing your work was a wasted endeavour; You that have lost and yet triumphed therein, Add loss to your losses and triumph for ever; Ah, come in; come in.

And we knew as we went up that twisted street, With its violet shadows and pearl-pale walls, We were coming to Something strange and sweet, For the dim air echoed with elfin calls; And, far away, in the heart of the City, A murmur of laughter and revelry rose,— A sound that was faint as the smile of Pity, And sweet as a swan-song's golden close.

And then, once more, as we marched along, There surged all round us that wonderful song; And it swung to the tramp of our marching feet But ah, it was tenderer now and so sweet That it made our eyes grow wet and blind, And the whole wide-world seem mother-kind, Folding us round with a gentle embrace, And pressing our souls to her soft sweet face.

SONG

Dreams; dreams; ah, the memory blinding us, Blinding our eyes to the way that we go; Till the new sorrow come, once more reminding us Blindly of kind hearts, ours long ago: Mother-mine, whisper we, yours was the love for me! Still, though our paths lie lone and apart, Yours is the true love, shining above for me, Yours are the kind eyes, hurting my heart.

Dreams; dreams; ah, how shall we sing of them, Dreams that we loved with our head on her breast: Dreams; dreams; and the cradle-sweet swing of them; Ay, for her voice was the sound we loved best: Can we remember at all or, forgetting it, Can we recall for a moment the gleam Of our childhood's delight and the wonder begetting it, Wonder awakened in dreams of a dream?

And once again, from the heart of the City A murmur of tenderer laughter rose, A sound that was faint as the smile of Pity, And sweet as a swan-song's golden close; And it seemed as if some wonderful Fair Were charming the night of the City of Dreams, For, over the mystical din out there, The clouds were litten with flickering gleams, And a roseate light like the day's first flush Quivered and beat on the towers above, And we heard through the curious crooning hush An elfin song that we used to love. Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn ... And the soft wind blew it the other way; So all that we heard was—Cow's in the corn; But we never heard anything half so gay! And ever we seemed to be drawing nearer That mystical roseate smoke-wreathed glare, And the curious music grew louder and clearer, Till mustard-seed said, "We are lucky, you see, We've arrived at a time of festivity!" And so to the end of the street we came, And turned a corner, and—there we were, In a place that glowed like the dawn of day, A crowded clamouring City square Like the cloudy heart of an opal, aflame With the lights of a great Dream-Fair: Thousands of children were gathered there, Thousands of old men, weary and grey, And the shouts of the showmen filled the air— This way! This way! This way!

And See-Saw; Margery Daw; we heard a rollicking shout, As the swing-boats hurtled over our heads to the tune of the roundabout; And Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, we heard the showmen cry, And Dickory Dock, I'm as good as a clock, we heard the swings reply.

This way, this way to your Heart's Desire; Come, cast your burdens down; And the pauper shall mount his throne in the skies, And the king be rid of his crown: And souls that were dead shall be fed with fire From the fount of their ancient pain, And your lost love come with the light in her eyes Back to your heart again.

Ah, here be sure she shall never prove Less kind than her eyes were bright; This way, this way to your old lost love, You shall kiss her lips to-night; This way for the smile of a dead man's face And the grip of a brother's hand, This way to your childhood's heart of grace And your home in Fairy-land.

Dickory Dock, I'm as good as a clock, d'you hear my swivels chime? To and fro as I come and go, I keep eternal time. O, little Bo-peep, if you've lost your sheep and don't know where to find 'em, Leave 'em alone and they'll come home, and carry their tails behind 'em.

And See-Saw; Margery Daw; there came the chorussing shout, As the swing-boats answered the roaring tune of the rollicking roundabout; Dickory, dickory, dickory, dock, d'you hear my swivels chime? Swing; swing; you're as good as a king if you keep eternal time.

Then we saw that the tunes of the world were one; And the metre that guided the rhythmic sun Was at one, like the ebb and the flow of the sea, With the tunes that we learned at our mother's knee; The beat of the horse-hoofs that carried us down To see the fine Lady of Banbury Town; And so, by the rhymes that we knew, we could tell Without knowing the others—that all was well.

And then, our brains began to spin; For it seemed as if that mighty din Were no less than the cries of the poets and sages Of all the nations in all the ages; And, if they could only beat out the whole Of their music together, the guerdon and goal Of the world would be reached with one mighty shout, And the dark dread secret of Time be out; And nearer, nearer they seemed to climb, And madder and merrier rose the song, And the swings and the see-saws marked the time; For this was the maddest and merriest throng That ever was met on a holy-day To dance the dust of the world away; And madder and merrier, round and round The whirligigs whirled to the whirling sound, Till it seemed that the mad song burst its bars And mixed with the song of the whirling stars, The song that the rhythmic Time-Tides tell To seraphs in Heaven and devils in Hell; Ay; Heaven and Hell in accordant chime With the universal rhythm and rhyme Were nearing the secret of Space and Time; The song of that ultimate mystery Which only the mad blind men who see, Led by the laugh of a little child, Can utter; ay, wilder and yet more wild It maddened, till now—full song—it was out! It roared from the starry roundabout—

A child was born in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, A child was born in Bethlehem; ah, hear my fairy fable; For I have seen the King of Kings, no longer thronged with angel wings, But crooning like a little babe, and cradled in a stable.

The wise men came to greet him with their gifts of myrrh and frankincense,— Gold and myrrh and frankincense they brought to make him mirth; And would you know the way to win to little brother Peterkin, My childhood's heart shall guide you through the glories of the earth.

A child was born in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem; The wise men came to welcome him: a star stood o'er the gable; And there they saw the King of Kings, no longer thronged with angel wings, But crooning like a little babe, and cradled in a stable.

And creeping through the music once again the fairy cry Came freezing o'er the snowy towers to lead us on to Peterkin: Once more the fairy bugles blew from lands beyond the sky, And we all groped out together, dazed and blind, we knew not why; Out through the City's farther gates we went to look for Peterkin; Out, out into the dark Unknown, and heard the clamour die Far, far away behind us as we trotted on to Peterkin.

Then once more along the rare Forest-paths we groped our way: Here the glow-worm's league-long glare Turned the Wild Thyme night to day: There we passed a sort of whale Sixty feet in length or more, But we knew it was a snail Even when we heard it snore.

Often through the glamorous gloom Almost on the top of us We beheld a beetle loom Like a hippopotamus; Once or twice a spotted toad Like a mountain wobbled by With a rolling moon that glowed Through the skin-fringe of its eye.

Once a caterpillar bowed Down a leaf of Ygdrasil Like a sunset-coloured cloud Sleeping on a quiet hill: Once we came upon a moth Fast asleep with outspread wings, Like a mighty tissued cloth Woven for the feet of kings.

There above the woods in state Many a temple dome that glows Delicately like a great Rainbow-coloured bubble rose: Though they were but flowers on earth, Oh, we dared not enter in; For in that divine re-birth Less than awe were more than sin.

Yet their mystic anthems came Sweetly to our listening ears; And their burden was the same— "No more sorrow, no more tears! Whither Peterkin has gone You, assuredly, shall go: When your wanderings are done, All he knows you, too, shall know!"

So we thought we'd onward roam Till earth's Smallest Flower appeared, With a less tremendous dome Less divinely to be feared: Then, perchance, if we should dare Timidly to enter in, Might some kindly doorkeeper Give us news of Peterkin.

At last we saw a crimson porch Far away, like a dull red torch Burning in the purple gloom; And a great ocean of perfume Rolled round us as we drew anear, And then we strangely seemed to hear The shadow of a mighty psalm, A sound as if a golden sea Of music swung in utter calm Against the shores of Eternity; And then we saw the mighty dome Of some mysterious Temple tower On high; and knew that we had come, At last, to that sweet House of Grace Which wise men find in every place— The Temple of the Smallest Flower.

And there—alas—our fairy friends Whispered, "Here our kingdom ends: You must enter in alone, But your souls will surely show Whither Peterkin is gone And the road that you must go: We, poor fairies, have no souls! Hark, the warning hare-bell tolls;" So "Good-bye, good-bye," they said, "Dear little seekers-for-the-dead." They vanished; ah, but as they went We heard their voices softly blent In some mysterious fairy song That seemed to make us wise and strong;

For it was like the holy calm That fills the bosomed rose with balm, Or blessings that the twilight breathes Where the honeysuckle wreathes Between young lovers and the sky As on banks of flowers they lie; And with wings of rose and green Laughing fairies pass unseen, Singing their sweet lullaby,— Lulla-lulla-lullaby! Lulla-lulla-lullaby! Ah, good-night, with lullaby!

* * * *

Only a flower? Those carven walls, Those cornices and coronals, The splendid crimson porch, the thin Strange sounds of singing from within— Through the scented arch we stept, Pushed back the soft petallic door, And down the velvet aisles we crept; Was it a Flower—no more?

For one of the voices that we heard, A child's voice, clear as the voice of a bird, Was it not?—nay, it could not be! And a woman's voice that tenderly Answered him in fond refrain, And pierced our hearts with sweet sweet pain, As if dear Mary-mother hung Above some little child, and sung. Between the waves of that golden sea The cradle-songs of Eternity; And, while in her deep smile he basked, Answered whatsoe'er he asked.

What is there hid in the heart of a rose, Mother-mine? Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows? A man that died on a lonely hill May tell you, perhaps, but none other will, Little child.

What does it take to make a rose, Mother-mine? The God that died to make it knows It takes the world's eternal wars, It takes the moon and all the stars, It takes the might of heaven and hell And the everlasting Love as well, Little child.

But there, in one great shrine apart Within the Temple's holiest heart, We came upon a blinding light, Suddenly, and a burning throne Of pinnacled glory, wild and white; We could not see Who reigned thereon; For, all at once, as a wood-bird sings, The aisles were full of great white wings Row above mystic burning row; And through the splendour and the glow We saw four angels, great and sweet, With outspread wings and folded feet, Come gliding down from a heaven within The golden heart of Paradise; And in their hands, with laughing eyes, Lay little brother Peterkin.

And all around the Temple of the Smallest of the Flowers The glory of the angels made a star for little Peterkin; For all the Kings of Splendour and all the Heavenly Powers Were gathered there together in the fairy forest bowers With all their globed and radiant wings to make a star for Peterkin, The star that shone upon the East, a star that still is ours, Whene'er we hang our stockings up, a star of wings for Peterkin.

Then all, in one great flash, was gone— A voice cried, "Hush, all's well!" And we stood dreaming there alone, In darkness. Who can tell The mystic quiet that we felt, As if the woods in worship knelt; Far off we heard a bell Tolling strange human folk to prayer Through fields of sunset-coloured air.

And then a voice, "Why, here they are!" And—as it seemed—we woke; The sweet old skies, great star by star Upon our vision broke; Field over field of heavenly blue Rose o'er us; then a voice we knew Softly and gently spoke— "See, they are sleeping by the side Of that dear little one—who died."

PART V

THE HAPPY ENDING

We told dear father all our tale That night before we went to bed, And at the end his face grew pale, And he bent over us and said (Was it not strange?) he, too, was there, A weary, weary watch to keep Before the gates of the City of Sleep; But, ere we came, he did not dare Even to dream of entering in, Or even to hope for Peterkin. He was the poor blind man, he said, And we—how low he bent his head! Then he called mother near; and low He whispered to us—"Prompt me now; For I forget that song we heard, But you remember every word." Then memory came like a breaking morn, And we breathed it to him—A child was born! And there he drew us to his breast And softly murmured all the rest.—

The wise men came to greet him with their gifts of myrrh and frankincense,— Gold and myrrh and frankincense they brought to make him mirth; And would you know the way to win to little brother Peterkin, My childhood's heart shall guide you through the glories of the earth.

Then he looked up and mother knelt Beside us, oh, her eyes were bright; Her arms were like a lovely belt All round us as we said Good-night To father: he was crying now, But they were happy tears, somehow; For there we saw dear mother lay Her cheek against his cheek and say— Hush, let me kiss those tears away.

DEDICATION

What can a wanderer bring To little ones loved like you? You have songs of your own to sing That are far more steadfast and true, Crumbs of pity for birds That flit o'er your sun-swept lawn, Songs that are dearer than all our words With a love that is clear as the dawn.

What should a dreamer devise, In the depths of his wayward will, To deepen the gleam of your eyes Who can dance with the Sun-child still? Yet you glanced on his lonely way, You cheered him in dream and deed, And his heart is o'erflowing, o'erflowing to-day With a love that—you never will need.

What can a pilgrim teach To dwellers in fairy-land? Truth that excels all speech You murmur and understand! All he can sing you he brings; But—one thing more if he may, One thing more that the King of Kings Will take from the child on the way.

Yet how can a child of the night Brighten the light of the sun? How can he add a delight To the dances that never are done? Ah, what if he struggles to turn Once more to the sweet old skies With praise and praise, from the fetters that burn, To the God that brightened your eyes?

Yes; he is weak, he will fail, Yet, what if, in sorrows apart, One thing, one should avail, The cry of a grateful heart; It has wings: they return through the night To a sky where the light lives yet, To the clouds that kneel on his mountain-height And the path that his feet forget.

What if he struggles and still Fails and struggles again? What if his broken will Whispers the struggle is vain? Once at least he has risen Because he remembered your eyes; Once they have brought to his earthly prison The passion of Paradise.

Kind little eyes that I love, Eyes forgetful of mine, In a dream I am bending above Your sleep, and you open and shine; And I know as my own grow blind With a lonely prayer for your sake, He will hear—even me—little eyes that were kind, God bless you, asleep or awake.



FORTY SINGING SEAMEN AND OTHER POEMS

TO GARNETT



FORTY SINGING SEAMEN

"In our lands be Beeres and Lyons of dyvers colours as ye redd, grene, black, and white. And in our land be also unicornes and these Unicornes slee many Lyons.... Also there dare no man make a lye in our lande, for if he dyde he sholde incontynent be sleyn."—Mediaeval Epistle, of Pope Prester John.

I

Across the seas of Wonderland to Mogadore we plodded, Forty singing seamen in an old black barque, And we landed in the twilight where a Polyphemus nodded With his battered moon-eye winking red and yellow through the dark! For his eye was growing mellow, Rich and ripe and red and yellow, As was time, since old Ulysses made him bellow in the dark! Cho.—Since Ulysses bunged his eye up with a pine-torch in the dark!

II

Were they mountains in the gloaming or the giant's ugly shoulders Just beneath the rolling eyeball, with its bleared and vinous glow, Red and yellow o'er the purple of the pines among the boulders And the shaggy horror brooding on the sullen slopes below, Were they pines among the boulders Or the hair upon his shoulders? We were only simple seamen, so of course we didn't know. Cho.—We were simple singing seamen, so of course we couldn't know.

III

But we crossed a plain of poppies, and we came upon a fountain Not of water, but of jewels, like a spray of leaping fire; And behind it, in an emerald glade, beneath a golden mountain There stood a crystal palace, for a sailor to admire; For a troop of ghosts came round us, Which with leaves of bay they crowned us, Then with grog they well nigh drowned us, to the depth of our desire! Cho.—And 'twas very friendly of them, as a sailor can admire!

IV

There was music all about us, we were growing quite forgetful We were only singing seamen from the dirt of London-town, Though the nectar that we swallowed seemed to vanish half regretful As if we wasn't good enough to take such vittles down, When we saw a sudden figure, Tall and black as any nigger, Like the devil—only bigger—drawing near us with a frown! Cho.—Like the devil—but much bigger—and he wore a golden crown!

V

And "What's all this?" he growls at us! With dignity we chaunted, "Forty singing seamen, sir, as won't be put upon!" "What? Englishmen?" he cries, "Well, if ye don't mind being haunted, Faith you're welcome to my palace; I'm the famous Prester John! Will ye walk into my palace? I don't bear 'ee any malice! One and all ye shall be welcome in the halls of Prester John!" Cho.—So we walked into the palace and the halls of Prester John!

VI

Now the door was one great diamond and the hall a hollow ruby— Big as Beachy Head, my lads, nay bigger by a half! And I sees the mate wi' mouth agape, a-staring like a booby, And the skipper close behind him, with his tongue out like a calf! Now the way to take it rightly Was to walk along politely Just as if you didn't notice—so I couldn't help but laugh! Cho.—For they both forgot their manners and the crew was bound to laugh!

VII

But he took us through his palace and, my lads, as I'm a sinner, We walked into an opal like a sunset-coloured cloud— "My dining-room," he says, and, quick as light we saw a dinner Spread before us by the fingers of a hidden fairy crowd; And the skipper, swaying gently After dinner, murmurs faintly, "I looks to-wards you, Prester John, you've done us very proud!" Cho.—And we drank his health with honours, for he done us very proud!

VIII

Then he walks us to his garden where we sees a feathered demon Very splendid and important on a sort of spicy tree! "That's the Phoenix," whispers Prester, "which all eddicated seamen Knows the only one existent, and he's waiting for to flee! When his hundred years expire Then he'll set hisself a-fire And another from his ashes rise most beautiful to see!" Cho.—With wings of rose and emerald most beautiful to see!

IX

Then he says, "In younder forest there's a little silver river, And whosoever drinks of it, his youth shall never die! The centuries go by, but Prester John endures for ever With his music in the mountains and his magic on the sky! While your hearts are growing colder, While your world is growing older, There's a magic in the distance, where the sea-line meets the sky," Cho.—It shall call to singing seamen till the fount o' song is dry!

X

So we thought we'd up and seek it, but that forest fair defied us,— First a crimson leopard laughs at us most horrible to see, Then a sea-green lion came and sniffed and licked his chops and eyed us, While a red and yellow unicorn was dancing round a tree! We was trying to look thinner, Which was hard, because our dinner Must ha' made us very tempting to a cat o' high degree! Cho.—Must ha' made us very tempting to the whole menarjeree!

XI

So we scuttled from that forest and across the poppy meadows Where the awful shaggy horror brooded o'er us in the dark! And we pushes out from shore again a-jumping at our shadows, And pulls away most joyful to the old black barque! And home again we plodded While the Polyphemus nodded With his battered moon-eye winking red and yellow through the dark. Cho.—Oh, the moon above the mountains, red and yellow through the dark!

XII

Across the seas of Wonderland to London-town we blundered, Forty singing seamen as was puzzled for to know If the visions that we saw was caused by—here again we pondered— A tipple in a vision forty thousand years ago. Could the grog we dreamt we swallowed Make us dream of all that followed? We were only simple seamen, so of course we didn't know! Cho.—We were simple singing seamen, so of course we could not know!



THE EMPIRE BUILDERS

Who are the Empire-builders? They Whose desperate arrogance demands A self-reflecting power to sway A hundred little selfless lands? Lord God of battles, ere we bow To these and to their soulless lust, Let fall Thy thunders on us now And strike us equal to the dust.

Before the stars in heaven were made Our great Commander led us forth; And now the embattled lines are laid To East, to West, to South, to North; According as of old He planned We take our station in the field, Nor dare to dream we understand The splendour of the swords we wield.

We know not what the Soul intends That lives and moves behind our deeds; We wheel and march to glorious ends Beyond the common soldier's needs: And some are raised to high rewards, And some by regiments are hurled To die upon the opposing swords And sleep—forgotten by the world.

And not where navies churn the foam, Nor called to fields of fierce emprize, In many a country cottage-home The Empire-builder lives and dies: Or through the roaring streets he goes A lean and weary City slave, The conqueror of a thousand foes Who walks, unheeded, to his grave.

Leaders unknown of hopes forlorn Go past us in the daily mart, With many a shadowy crown of thorn And many a kingly broken heart: Though England's banner overhead Ever the secret signal flew, We only see its Cross is red As children see the skies are blue.

For all are Empire-builders here, Whose hearts are true to heaven and home And, year by slow revolving year, Fulfil the duties as they come; So simple seems the task, and yet Many for this are crucified; Ay, and their brother-men forget The simple wounds in palm and side.

But he that to his home is true, Where'er the tides of power may flow, Has built a kingdom great and new Which Time nor Fate shall overthrow These are the Empire-builders, these Annex where none shall say them nay Beyond the world's uncharted seas Realms that can never pass away.



NELSON'S YEAR

(1905)

I

"Hasten the Kingdom, England!" This year, a hundred years ago, The world attended, breathless, on the gathering pomp of war, While England and her deathless dead, with all their mighty hearts aglow, Swept onward like the dawn of doom to triumph at Trafalgar; Then the world was hushed to wonder As the cannon's dying thunder Broke out again in muffled peals across the heaving sea, And home the Victor came at last, Home, home, with England's flag half-mast, That never dipped to foe before, on Nelson's Victory.

II

God gave this year to England; And what He gives He takes again; He gives us life, He gives us death: our victories have wings; He gives us love and in its heart He hides the whole world's heart of pain: We gain by loss: impartially the eternal balance swings! Ay; in the fire we cherish Our thoughts and dreams may perish; Yet shall it burn for England's sake triumphant as of old! What sacrifice could gain for her Our own shall still maintain for her, And hold the gates of Freedom wide that take no keys of gold.

III

God gave this year to England; Her eyes are far too bright for tears Of sorrow; by her silent dead she kneels, too proud for pride; Their blood, their love, have bought her right to claim the new imperial years In England's name for Freedom, in whose love her children died; In whose love, though hope may dwindle, Love and brotherhood shall kindle Between the striving nations as a choral song takes fire, Till new hope, new faith, new wonder Cleave the clouds of doubt asunder, And speed the union of mankind in one divine desire.

IV

Hasten the Kingdom, England; This year across the listening world There came a sound of mingled tears where victory and defeat Clasped hands; and Peace—among the dead—stood wistfully, with white wings furled, Knowing the strife was idle; for the night and morning meet, Yet there is no disunion In heaven's divine communion As through the gates of twilight the harmonious morning pours; Ah, God speed that grander morrow When the world's divinest sorrow Shall show how Love stands knocking at the world's unopened doors.

V

Hasten the Kingdom, England; Look up across the narrow seas, Across the great white nations to thy dark imperial throne Where now three hundred million souls attend on thine august decrees; Ah, bow thine head in humbleness, the Kingdom is thine own: Not for the pride or power God gave thee this in dower; But, now the West and East have met and wept their mortal loss, Now that their tears have spoken And the long dumb spell is broken, Is it nothing that thy banner bears the red eternal cross?

VI

Ay! Lift the flag of England; And lo, that Eastern cross is there, Veiled with a hundred meanings as our English eyes are veiled; Yet to the grander dawn we move oblivious of the sign we bear, Oblivious of the heights we climb until the last be scaled; Then with all the earth before us And the great cross floating o'er us We shall break the sword we forged of old, so weak we were and blind; While the inviolate heaven discloses England's Rose of all the roses Dawning wide and ever wider o'er the kingdom of mankind.

VII

Hasten the Kingdom, England; For then all nations shall be one; One as the ordered stars are one that sing upon their way, One with the rhythmic glories of the swinging sea and the rolling sun, One with the flow of life and death, the tides of night and day; One with all dreams of beauty, One with all laws of duty; One with the weak and helpless while the one sky burns above; Till eyes by tears made glorious Look up at last victorious, And lips that starved break open in one song of life and love.

VIII

Hasten the Kingdom, England; And when the Spring returns again Rekindle in our English hearts the universal Spring, That we may wait in faith upon the former and the latter rain, Till all waste places burgeon and the wildernesses sing; Pour the glory of thy pity Through the dark and troubled city; Pour the splendour of thy beauty over wood and meadow fair; May the God of battles guide thee And the Christ-child walk beside thee With a word of peace for England in the dawn of Nelson's Year.



IN TIME OF WAR

I

To-night o'er Bagshot heath the purple heather Rolls like dumb thunder to the splendid West; And mighty ragged clouds are massed together Above the scarred old common's broken breast; And there are hints of blood between the boulders, Red glints of fiercer blossom, bright and bold; And round the shaggy mounds and sullen shoulders The gorse repays the sun with savage gold.

And now, as in the West the light grows holy, And all the hollows of the heath grow dim, Far off, a sulky rumble rolls up slowly Where guns at practice growl their evening hymn.

And here and there in bare clean yellow spaces The print of horse-hoofs like an answering cry Strikes strangely on the sense from lonely places Where there is nought but empty heath and sky.

The print of warlike hoofs, where now no figure Of horse or man along the sky's red rim Breaks on the low horizon's rough black rigour To make the gorgeous waste less wild and grim;

Strangely the hoof-prints strike, a Crusoe's wonder, Framed with sharp furze amongst the footless fells, A menace and a mystery, rapt asunder, As if the whole wide world contained nought else,—

Nought but the grand despair of desolation Between us and that wild, how far, how near, Where, clothed with thunder, nation grapples nation, And Slaughter grips the clay-cold hand of Fear.

II

And far above the purple heath the sunset stars awaken, And ghostly hosts of cloud across the West begin to stream, And all the low soft winds with muffled cannonades are shaken, And all the blood-red blossom draws aloof into a dream; A dream—no more—and round the dream the clouds are curled together; A dream of two great stormy hosts embattled in the sky; For there against the low red heavens each sombre ridge of heather Up-heaves a hedge of bayonets around a battle-cry;

Melts in the distant battle-field or brings the dream so near it That, almost, as the rifted clouds around them swim and reel, A thousand grey-lipped faces flash—ah, hark, the heart can hear it— The sharp command that lifts as one the levelled lines of steel.

And through the purple thunders there are silent shadows creeping With murderous gleams of light, and then—a mighty leaping roar Where foe and foe are met; and then—a long low sound of weeping As Death laughs out from sea to sea, another fight is o'er.

Another fight—but ah, how much is over? Night descending Draws o'er the scene her ghastly moon-shot veil with piteous hands; But all around the bivouac-glare the shadowy pickets wending See sights, hear sounds that only war's own madness understands.

No circle of the accursed dead where dreaming Dante wandered, No city of death's eternal dole could match this mortal world Where men, before the living soul and quivering flesh are sundered, Through all the bestial shapes of pain to one wide grave are hurled.

But in the midst for those who dare beyond the fringe to enter Be sure one kingly figure lies with pale and blood-soiled face, And round his brows a ragged crown of thorns; and in the centre Of those pale folded hands and feet the sigil of his grace.

See, how the pale limbs, marred and scarred in love's lost battle, languish; See how the splendid passion still smiles quietly from his eyes: Come, come and see a king indeed, who triumphs in his anguish, Who conquers here in utter loss beneath the eternal skies.

For unto lips so deadly calm what answer shall be given? Oh pale, pale king so deadly still beneath the unshaken stars, Who shall deny thy kingdom here, though heaven and earth were riven, With the last roar of onset in the world's intestine wars?

The laugh is Death's; he laughs as erst o'er hours that England cherished, "Count up, count up the stricken homes that wail the first-born son, Count by your starved and fatherless the tale of what hath perished; Then gather with your foes and ask if you—or I—have won."

III

The world rolls on; and love and peace are mated: Still on the breast of England, like a star, The blood-red lonely heath blows, consecrated, A brooding practice-ground for blood-red war.

Yet is there nothing out of tune with Nature There, where the skylark showers his earliest song, Where sun and wind have moulded every feature, And one world-music bears each note along.

There many a brown-winged kestrel swoops or hovers In poised and patient quest of his own prey; And there are fern-clad glens where happy lovers May kiss the murmuring summer noon away.

There, as the primal earth was—all is glorious Perfect and wise and wonderful in view Of that great heaven through which we rise victorious O'er all that strife and change and death can do.

No nation yet has risen o'er earth's first nature; Though love illumed each individual mind, Like some half-blind, half-formed primeval creature The State still crawled a thousand years behind.

Still on the standards of the great World-Powers Lion and bear and eagle sullenly brood, Whether the slow folds flap o'er halcyon hours Or stream tempestuously o'er fields of blood.

By war's red evolution we have risen Far, since fierce Erda chose her conquering few, And out of Death's red gates and Time's grey prison They burst, elect from battle, tried and true.

But now Death mocks at youth and love and glory, Chivalry slinks behind his loaded mines, With meaner murderous lips War tells her story, And round her cunning brows no laurel shines.

And here to us the eternal charge is given To rise and make our low world touch God's high: To hasten God's own kingdom, Man's own heaven, And teach Love's grander army how to die.

No kingdom then, no long-continuing city Shall e'er again be stablished by the sword; No blood-bought throne defy the powers of pity, No despot's crown outweigh one helot's word.

Imperial England, breathe thy marching orders: The great host waits; the end, the end is close, When earth shall know thy peace in all her borders, And all her deserts blossom with thy Rose.

Princedoms and peoples rise and flash and perish As the dew passes from the flowering thorn; Yet the one Kingdom that our dreams still cherish Lives in a light that blinds the world's red morn.

Hasten the Kingdom, England, the days darken; We would not have thee slacken watch or ward, Nor doff thine armour till the whole world hearken, Nor till Time bid thee lay aside the sword.

Hasten the Kingdom; hamlet, heath, and city, We are all at war, one bleeding bulk of pain; Little we know; but one thing—by God's pity— We know, and know all else on earth is vain.

We know not yet how much we dare, how little; We dare not dream of peace; yet, as at need, England, God help thee, let no jot or tittle Of Love's last law go past thee without heed.

Who saves his life shall lose it! The great ages Bear witness—Rome and Babylon and Tyre Cry from the dust-stopped lips of all their sages,— There is no hope if man can climb no higher.

England, by God's grace set apart to ponder A little while from battle, ah, take heed, Keep watch, keep watch, beside thy sleeping thunder; Call down Christ's pity while those others bleed;

Waken the God within thee, while the sorrow Of battle surges round a distant shore, While Time is thine, lest on some deadly morrow The moving finger write—but thine no more.

Little we know—but though the advancing aeons Win every painful step by blood and fire, Though tortured mouths must chant the world's great paeans, And martyred souls proclaim the world's desire;

Though war be nature's engine of rejection, Soon, soon, across her universal verge The soul of man in sacred insurrection Shall into God's diviner light emerge.

Hasten the Kingdom, England, queen and mother; Little we know of all Time's works and ways; Yet this, this, this is sure: we need none other Knowledge or wisdom, hope or aim or praise,

But to keep this one stormy banner flying In this one faith that none shall e'er disprove, Then drive the embattled world before thee, crying, There is one Emperor, whose name is Love.



ODE FOR THE SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY OF SWINBURNE

I

He needs no crown of ours, whose golden heart Poured out its wealth so freely in pure praise Of others: him the imperishable bays Crown, and on Sunium's height he sits apart: He hears immortal greetings this great morn: Fain would we bring, we also, all we may, Some wayside flower of transitory bloom, Frail tribute, only born To greet the gladness of this April day Then waste on death's dark wind its faint perfume.

II

Here on this April day the whole sweet Spring Speaks thro' his music only, or seems to speak. And we that hear, with hearts uplift and weak, What can we more than claim him for our king? Here on this April day (and many a time Shall April come and find him singing still) He is one with the world's great heart beyond the years, One with the pulsing rhyme Of tides that work some heavenly rhythmic will And hold the secret of all human tears.

III

For he, the last of that immortal race Whose music, like a robe of living light Re-clothed each new-born age and made it bright As with the glory of Love's transfiguring face, Reddened earth's roses, kindled the deep blue Of England's radiant, ever-singing sea, Recalled the white Thalassian from the foam. Woke the dim stars anew And triumphed in the triumph of Liberty, We claim him; but he hath not here his home.

IV

Not here; round him to-day the clouds divide: We know what faces thro' that rose-flushed air Now bend above him: Shelley's face is there, And Hugo's, lit with more than kingly pride. Replenished there with splendour, the blind eyes Of Milton bend from heaven to meet his own, Sappho is there, crowned with those queenlier flowers Whose graft outgrew our skies, His gift: Shakespeare leans earthward from his throne With hands outstretched. He needs no crown of ours.



IN CLOAK OF GREY

I

Love's a pilgrim, cloaked in grey, And his feet are pierced and bleeding: Have ye seen him pass this way Sorrowfully pleading? Ye that weep the world away, Have ye seen King Love to-day?—

II

Yea, we saw him; but he came Poppy-crowned and white of limb! Song had touched his lips with flame, And his eyes were drowsed and dim; And we kissed the hours away Till night grew rosier than the day.—

III

Hath he left you?—Yea, he left us A little while ago, Of his laughter quite bereft us And his limbs of snow; We know not why he went away Who ruled our revels yesterday.—

IV

Because ye did not understand Love cometh from afar, A pilgrim out of Holy Land Guided by a star: Last night he came in cloak of grey, Begging. Ye knew him not: he went his way.



A RIDE FOR THE QUEEN

Queen of queens, oh lady mine, You who say you love me, Here's a cup of crimson wine To the stars above me; Here's a cup of blood and gall For a soldier's quaffing! What's the prize to crown it all? Death? I'll take it laughing! I ride for the Queen to-night!

Though I find no knightly fee Waiting on my lealty, High upon the gallows-tree Faithful to my fealty, What had I but love and youth, Hope and fame in season? She has proved that more than truth Glorifies her treason!

Would that other do as much? Ah, but if in sorrow Some forgotten look or touch Pierce her heart to-morrow She might love me yet, I think; So her lie befriends me, Though I know there's darker drink Down the road she sends me.

Ay, one more great chance is mine (Can I faint or falter?) She shall pour my blood like wine, Make my heart her altar, Burn it to the dust! For, there, What if o'er the embers She should stoop and—I should hear— "Hush! Thy love remembers!"

One more chance for every word Whispered to betray me, While she buckled on my sword Smiling to allay me; One more chance; ah, let me not Mar her perfect pleasure; Love shall pay me, jot by jot, Measure for her measure.

Faith shall think I never knew, I will be so fervent! Doubt shall dream I dreamed her true As her war-worn servant! Whoso flouts her spotless name (Love, I wear thy token!) He shall face one sword of flame Ere the lie be spoken!

All the world's a-foam with may, (Fragrant as her bosom!) Could I find a sweeter way Through the year's young blossom, Where her warm red mouth on mine Woke my soul's desire?... Hey! The cup of crimson wine, Blood and gall and fire!

Castle Doom or Gates of Death? (Smile again for pity!) "Boot and horse," my lady saith, "Spur against the City, Bear this message!" God and she Still forget the guerdon; Nay, the rope is on the tree! That shall bear the burden! I ride for the Queen to-night!



SONG

I

When that I loved a maiden My heaven was in her eyes, And when they bent above me I knew no deeper skies; But when her heart forsook me My spirit broke its bars, For grief beyond the sunset And love beyond the stars.

II

When that I loved a maiden She seemed the world to me: Now is my soul the universe, My dreams the sky and sea: There is no heaven above me, No glory binds or bars My grief beyond the sunset, My love beyond the stars.

III

When that I loved a maiden I worshipped where she trod; But, when she clove my heart, the cleft Set free the imprisoned god: Then was I king of all the world, My soul had burst its bars, For grief beyond the sunset And love beyond the stars.



THE HIGHWAYMAN



PART ONE

I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching— Marching—marching— King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say— Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * *

X

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding— Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.



THE HAUNTED PALACE

Come to the haunted palace of my dreams, My crumbling palace by the eternal sea, Which, like a childless mother, still must croon Her ancient sorrows to the cold white moon, Or, ebbing tremulously, With one pale arm, where the long foam-fringe gleams, Will gather her rustling garments, for a space Of muffled weeping, round her dim white face.

A princess dwelt here once: long, long ago This tower rose in the sunset like a prayer; And, through the witchery of that casement, rolled In one soft cataract of faery gold Her wonder-woven hair; Her face leaned out and took the sacred glow Of evening, like the star that listened, high Above the gold clouds of the western sky.

Was there no prince behind her in the gloom, No crimson shadow of his rich array? Her face leaned down to me: I saw the tears Bleed through her eyes with the slow pain of years, And her mouth yearned to say— "Friend, is there any message, from the tomb Where love lies buried?" But she only said— "Oh, friend, canst thou not save me from my dead?

"Canst thou not minister to a soul in pain? Or hast thou then no comfortable word? Is there no faith in thee wherewith to atone For his unfaith who left me here alone, Heart-sick with hope deferred; Oh, since my love will never come again, Bring'st thou no respite through the desolate years, Respite from these most unavailing tears?"

Then saw I, and mine own tears made response, Her woman's heart come breaking through her eyes; And, as I stood beneath the tower's grey wall, She let the soft waves of her deep hair fall Like flowers from Paradise Over my fevered face: then all at once Pity was passion; and like a sea of bliss Those waves rolled o'er me drowning for her kiss.

* * * *

Seven years we dwelt together in that tower, Seven years in that old palace by the sea, And sitting at that casement, side by side, She told me all her pain: how love had died Now for all else but me; Yet how she had loved that other: like a flower Her red lips parted and with low sweet moan She pressed their tender suffering on mine own.

And always with vague eyes she gazed afar, Out through the casement o'er the changing tide; And slowly was my heart's hope brought to nought That some day I should win each wandering thought And make her my soul's bride: Still, still she gazed across the cold sea-bar; Ay; with her hand in mine, still, still and pale, Waited and watched for the unreturning sail.

And I, too, watched and waited as the years Rolled on; and slowly was I brought to feel How on my lips she met her lover's kiss, How my heart's pulse begat an alien bliss; And cold and hard as steel For me those eyes were, though their tender tears Were salt upon my cheek; and then one night I saw a sail come through the pale moonlight.

And like an alien ghost I stole away, And like a breathing lover he returned; And in the woods I dwelt, or sometimes crept Out in the grey dawn while the lovers slept And the great sea-tides yearned Against the iron shores; and faint and grey The tower and the shut casement rose above: And on the earth I sobbed out all my love.

At last, one royal rose-hung night in June, When the warm air like purple Hippocrene Brimmed the dim valley and sparkled into stars, I saw them cross the foam-lit sandy bars And dark pools, glimmering green, To bathe beneath the honey-coloured moon: I saw them swim out from that summer shore, Kissed by the sea, but they returned no more.

* * * *

And into the dark palace, like a dream Remembered after long oblivious years, Through the strange open doors I crept and saw As some poor pagan might, with reverent awe, And deep adoring tears, The moonlight through that painted window stream Over the soft wave of their vacant bed; There sank I on my knees and bowed my head,

For as a father by a cradle bows, Remembering two dead children of his own, I knelt; and by the cry of the great deep Their love seemed like a murmuring in their sleep, A little fevered moan, A little tossing of childish arms that shows How dreams go by! "If I were God," I wept, "I would have pity on children while they slept."

* * * *

The days, the months, the years drift over me; This is my habitation till I die: Nothing is changed; they left that open book Beside the window. Did he sit and look Up at her face as I Looked while she read it, and the enchanted sea With rich eternities of love unknown Fulfilled the low sweet music of her tone?

So did he listen, looking in her face? And did she ever pause, remembering so The heart that bore the whole weight of her pain Until her own heart's love returned again? In the still evening glow I sit and listen in this quiet place, And only hear—like notes of phantom birds— Their perished kisses and little broken words.

Come to the haunted palace of my dreams, My crumbling palace by the eternal sea, Which, like a childless mother, still must croon Her ancient sorrows to the cold white moon, Or, ebbing tremulously, With one pale arm, where the long foam-fringe gleams, Will gather her rustling garments, for a space Of muffled weeping, round her dim white face.



THE SCULPTOR

This is my statue: cold and white It stands and takes the morning light! The world may flout my hopes and fears, Yet was my life's work washed with tears Of blood when this poor hand last night Finished the pain of years.

Speak for me, patient lips of stone, Blind eyes my lips have rested on So often when the o'er-weary brain Would grope to human love again, And found this grave cold mask alone And the tears fell like rain.

Ay; is this all? Is this the brow I fondled, never wondering how It lived—the face of pain and bliss That through the marble met my kiss? Oh, though the whole world praise it now, Let no man dream it is!

They blame; they cannot blame aright Who never knew what infinite Deep loss must shame me most of all! They praise; like earth their praises fall Into a tomb. The hour of light Is flown beyond recall.

Yet have I seen, yet have I known, And oh, not tombed in cold white stone The dream I lose on earth below; And I shall come with face aglow And find and claim it for my own Before God's throne, I know.



SUMMER

(AN ODE)

Now like a pageant of the Golden Year In rich memorial pomp the hours go by, With rose-embroidered flags unfurled And tasselled bugles calling through the world Wake, for your hope draws near! Wake, for in each soft porch of azure sky, Seen through each arch of pale green leaves, the Gate Of Eden swings apart for Summer's royal state.

Ah, when the Spirit of the moving scene Has entered in, the splendour will be spent! The flutes will cease, the gates will close; Only the scattered crimson of the rose, The wild wood's hapless queen, Dis-kingdomed, will declare the way he went; And, in a little while, her court will go, Pass like a cloud and leave no trace on earth below.

Tell us no more of Autumn, the slow gold Of fruitage ripening in a world's decay, The falling leaves, the moist rich breath Of woods that swoon and crumble into death Over the gorgeous mould: Give us the flash and scent of keen-edged May Where wastes that bear no harvest yield their bloom, Rude crofts of flowering nettle, bents of yellow broom.

The very reeds and sedges of the fen Open their hearts and blossom to the sky; The wild thyme on the mountain's knees Unrolls its purple market to the bees; Unharvested of men The Traveller's Joy can only smile and die. Joy, joy alone the throbbing whitethroats bring, Joy to themselves and heaven! They were but born to sing!

And see, between the northern-scented pines, The whole sweet summer sharpens to a glow! See, as the well-spring plashes cool Over a shadowy green fern-fretted pool The mystic sunbeam shines For one mad moment on a breast of snow A warm white shoulder and a glowing arm Up-flung, where some swift Undine sinks in shy alarm.

And if she were not all a dream, and lent Life for a little to your own desire, Oh, lover in the hawthorn lane, Dream not you hold her, or you dream in vain! The violet, spray-besprent When from that plunge the rainbows flashed like fire, Will scarce more swiftly lose its happy dew Than eyes which Undine haunts will cease to shine on you.

What though the throstle pour his heart away, A happy spendthrift of uncounted gold, Swinging upon a blossomed briar With soft throat lifted in a wild desire To make the world his may. Ever the pageant through the gates is rolled Further away; in vain the rich notes throng Flooding the mellow noon with wave on wave of song.

The feathery meadows like a lilac sea, Knee-deep, with honeyed clover, red and white, Roll billowing: the crisp clouds pass Trailing their soft blue shadows o'er the grass; The skylark, mad with glee, Quivers, up, up, to lose himself in light; And, through the forest, like a fairy dream Through some dark mind, the ferns in branching beauty stream.

Enough of joy! A little respite lend, Summer, fair god that hast so little heed Of these that serve thee but to die, Mere trappings of thy tragic pageantry! Show us the end, the end! We too, with human hearts that break and bleed, March to the night that rounds their fleeting hour, And feel we, too, perchance but serve some loftier Power.

O that our hearts might pass away with thee, Burning and pierced and full of thy sweet pain, Burst through the gates with thy swift soul, Hunt thy most white perfection to the goal, Nor wait, once more to see Thy chaliced lilies rotting in the rain, Thy ragged yellowing banners idly hung In woods that have forgotten all the songs we sung!

Peace! Like a pageant of the Golden Year In rich memorial pomp the hours go by, With rose-embroidered flags unfurled And tasselled bugles calling through the world Wake, for your hope draws near! Wake, for in each soft porch of azure sky, Seen through each arch of pale green leaves, the Gate Of Eden swings apart for Summer's royal state.

Not wait! Forgive, forgive that feeble cry Of blinded passion all unworthy thee! For here the spirit of man may claim A loftier vision and a nobler aim Than e'er was born to die: Man only, of earth, throned on Eternity, From his own sure abiding-place can mark How earth's great golden dreams go past into the dark.



AT DAWN

O Hesper-Phosphor, far away Shining, the first, the last white star, Hear'st thou the strange, the ghostly cry, That moan of an ancient agony From purple forest to golden sky Shivering over the breathless bay? It is not the wind that wakes with the day; For see, the gulls that wheel and call, Beyond the tumbling white-topped bar, Catching the sun-dawn on their wings, Like snow-flakes or like rose-leaves fall, Flutter and fall in airy rings; And drift, like lilies ruffling into blossom Upon some golden lake's unwrinkled bosom.

Are not the forest's deep-lashed fringes wet With tears? Is not the voice of all regret Breaking out of the dark earth's heart? She too, she too, has loved and lost; and we— We that remember our lost Aready, Have we not known, we too, The primal greenwood's arch of blue, The radiant clouds at sun-rise curled Around the brows of the golden world; The marble temples, washed with dew, To which with rosy limbs aflame The violet-eyed Thalassian came, Came, pitiless, only to display How soon the youthful splendour dies away; Came, only to depart Laughing across the grey-grown bitter sea; For each man's life is earth's epitome, And though the years bring more than aught they take, Yet might his heart and hers well break Remembering how one prayer must still be vain. How one fair hope is dead, One passion quenched, one glory fled With those first loves that never come again.