The Dark Ages, and Other Poems

The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Dark Ages, by L This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Dark Ages and Other Poems Author: L Release Date: June 27, 2014 [eBook #46112] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DARK AGES*** Transcribed from the 1908 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price, email [email protected] THE DARK AGES AND OTHER POEMS * * * * * BY “L.” * * * * * LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA 1908 _All rights reserved_ CONTENTS PAGE I. THE DARK AGES 1 II. THE BELLS OF VENICE 4 III. AN ANCIENT CHURCH 5 IV. TO THE ENGLISH GIPSIES 6 V. AUTUMN DYING 9 VI. THE DEPARTURE FOR CYTHERA 10 VII. THE VILLAGE CHURCH 13 VIII. LADY DAY NEAR BIGNOR 14 IX. A COTTAGE INSCRIPTION 16 X. A MEMORY OF IRELAND 18 XI. “TÍR NAN ÓG” 19 XII. A HIGHLAND DAY 21 XIII. TO THE FIRS 23 XIV. GOOD-BYE 24 XV. THE FAIRY GLEN REVISITED 26 XVI. WAITING 28 XVII. NEAR HAARLEM 30 XVIII. THE TOMB OF SAINT AUGUSTINE AT PAVIA 31 XIX. MODERN FLORENCE 32 XX. TO DANTE 33 XXI. TO PETRARCH 34 XXII. TO A LADY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 35 XXIII. THE “LIBERAL” DIVINE 37 XXIV. THE QUARREL 38 XXV. THE OLD FOUNTAIN 40 XXVI. LOVE AND DEATH 41 XXVII. VIOLETS 43 XXVIII. THE GARDENS OF THE SOUL 44 XXIX. A MAN TO CHILDISH THINGS 46 XXX. THE KNIGHT 47 XXXI. HOPES 48 XXXII. THE PATH 50 XXXIII. THE CALL TO BETHLEHEM 52 XXXIV. A CHRISTMAS LULLABY 53 XXXV. TO THE HOLY CHILD 55 XXXVI. MATER AMABILIS 56 XXXVII. SAINT STEPHEN 57 XXXVIII. SAINT JOHN AT EPHESUS 59 XXXIX. THE LITTLE CHILDREN 61 XL. THE CIRCUMCISION 63 XLI. THE RETURN OF THE MAGI 64 XLII. ATONEMENT 66 XLIII. CALVARY 67 XLIV. “THE DESERT SHALL BLOSSOM” 68 XLV. RESURRECTION 69 XLVI. THE ASCENSION 71 XLVII. A HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT 73 XLVIII. “ADORA ET TACE” 76 XLIX. THE REFUGE OF THE WANDERING 77 L. THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER 79 LI. THE LIGHT INVISIBLE 81 LII. ONWARD 83 LIII. THE FAITHFUL DEPARTED 84 LIV. LETHE 86 LV. AVE ATQUE VALE 88 I THE DARK AGES MEN call you “dark.” What factory then blurred the light Of golden suns, when nothing blacker than the shades Of coming rain climbed up the heather-mantled height? While the air Breathed all the scents of all untrodden flowers, And brooks poured silver through the glimmering glades, Then sweetly wound through virgin ground. Must all that beauty pass? And must our pleasure trains Like foul eruptions belch upon the mountain head? Must we perforce build vulgar villa lanes, And on sweet fields of grass The canting scutcheons of a cheating commerce spread? Men call you “dark.” Did that faith see with cobwebbed eyes, That built the airy octagon on Ely’s hill, And Gloucester’s Eastern wall that woos the topaz skies, Where the hymn Angelic “Glory be to God on high, And peace on earth to men who feel good will,” Might softly sound God’s throne around? Is that a perfect faith Which pew-filled chapels rears, Where Gothic fronts of stone mask backs of ill-baked bricks, And where the frothy fighting preacher fears, As peasants fear a wraith, His deacon’s frown or some just change in politics? Men call you “dark.” Was Chaucer’s speech a muddy stream, The language born of Norman sun and Saxon snow? Was Langland’s verse or Wyclif’s prose mere glow-worm’s gleam? And the tales Of Arthur’s sword and of the holy Grail, And Avalon, the isle where no storms blow: From such romance did no light glance? Have we not heard a tongue, Whose words the Saxon thralls Would scorn to speak above their muck-rake and their fork, The speech of barrack-rooms and music-halls, Where every fool has flung The rotten refuse of Calcutta and New York? Men call you “dark.” But _chivalry_ and _honour_ stand As words that you, not we, did fashion, when the need Of food beyond the price of gold awoke our land. For you taught Inconstancy is like a standard lost; And we who prove untrue in love or deed Will doubly shame an ancient name. Your robes were not all white, Your soul was not a sea Where all the crystal rivulets of God found room: But we must often to your lessons flee, Our truth with yours unite, Before we meet the holy dayspring of the doom. II THE BELLS OF VENICE RING out again that faltering strain, Cease not so soon, Sweet peal that brought to me the thought Of some deep shadowed English lane Across the blue lagoon. The water street where oarsmen meet And shout ahead, The glowing quay, all noise and glee, Seemed hallowed as when angels’ feet Touched Jacob’s stony bed. On pearly dome and princely home Day’s glory dies: Once more the bells’ low murmur tells That faith is not a line of foam Nor life a bridge of sighs. III AN ANCIENT CHURCH SO little dost thou seem of common earth, So much of spirit doth thy fabric show, That we, who watch thee through the azure glow, Might deem that with the stars thou cam’st to birth. So sweet and true the voices from thy spire, Which bless the day’s betrothal unto night, That when they falter with the fading light, We well might think an angel touched his lyre. If chiselled stone and molten bronze instil Hopes deeper than the fountains of my tears, And love that hungers for eternity, God, I believe Thou hast some use for me; Leave me no life of dumb and sluggard years, But cut or melt me till I speak Thy will. IV TO THE ENGLISH GIPSIES {6} ROUGH swarthy Gipsy folk, Would that my voice could once forget to falter, And sing a song as free as swallows’ wings Of ancient Gipsies, and their “dukes” and “kings,” The men who braved the branding-rod and halter, Because like birds they nimbly came and went, And loved the stars and road, and crouching tent Beneath a grove of oak. In ages long ago The Brahman priests pursued you with their curses, Because you found life sweeter at the core Without the mumbling of their magic lore. And you have lived to see their Sanskrit verses Fall dead; and Brahmans, like mere Romany, Now tempt their gods by trusting to the sea, Though trembling while they go. Then hardened against fear You looted caravans of gold-shot dresses And gems upon their way to bright Baghdad, And drove the Moslem Khalif rampant mad, When pearls culled from the ocean for the tresses Of his Circassian, in your pouches fell, As trifles to adorn the dusky shell Of some black virgin’s ear. Next Greece and Thessaly Became the home of many a jocund roamer, Who gaily danced, or begged with mien forlorn, And patched his Indian speech where it was torn With remnants from Demosthenes and Homer, Until you struck your blackened tents again And tattered pageants crossed the endless plain Of fertile Hungary. ’Tis even said you planned To trick the Pope with penitential moaning, And gained his leave to wander seven years Towards the melancholy North, with tears The sin of feigned apostasy atoning: Thus fortified against enquiring foes, You, with the budding of the Tudor rose, Alighted on our land. Who says it was not good To see your handkerchiefs of red and yellow, And silver rings and basket-laden carts, And hear the honey-lipped prophetic arts Of wheedling witches, or a clean-limbed fellow Who fiddled by the hedgerow in the smoke, And roused the antique Gipsy song that woke The silence of the wood? Now that your blood must fail, What artist soul revengefully remembers You raided the domain of chanticleer, Or deftly poisoned pigs to swell your cheer Of hedgehogs cooked in clay amid the embers? Who says you sometimes wedded art to force, Or made the worse appear the better horse Before a coming sale? You soon will pass away; Laid one by one below the village steeple You face the East from which your fathers sprang, Or sleep in moorland turf, beyond the clang Of towns and fairs; your tribes have joined the people Whom no true Romany will call by name, The folk departed like the camp-fire flame Of withered yesterday. V AUTUMN DYING AUTUMN shakes in golden raiment, Gashed with red; None can ransom him by payment From the dead. They have shorn his strength with reaping, Left him cold; Now he wakes each morning weeping, Weak and old. And last night he sought my casement, Came and fled; Wailed for aid from roof to basement, Touched my bed. Though I cannot find his ransom, Ere he dies; I will pay all that I can—some Hopes and sighs. VI THE DEPARTURE FOR CYTHERA ERE they parted for Cythera When the spring had reached its bloom, Phyllis, Doris and Neaera Peeped into their pictured room, Wished to go, yet wished to linger, Lifted each a taper finger, Threw a kiss towards their portraits set in walls of rose brocade. Where the beeches lift a curtain Over shifting sunlit scenes, They with footsteps light and certain Used to dance like fairy queens; Now they speed beneath the beeches Till the path the water reaches And the bay just softly ripples by a marble balustrade. Purple were the sails that beckoned And the deck was ivory, Love stood smiling there and reckoned His embarking company; Every mast wore silver sheathing, Music in the air was breathing, In the rigging little laughing cupids upwards climbed and strayed. On they sailed through fields of azure, White was all their furrowed way, Melting in a blue erasure, Melting fast like yesterday; Radiant Hope still steered them hoping, Steered them past the woodlands sloping, Where the doves descend and flutter on an ancient colonnade. On they passed through golden hazes, Watching distant peaks of snow, On through shadowed island mazes, Where the dreamy spices blow; Till the moon herself was setting, And the dew fell fast and wetting, And the silver masts no image on the blackening waves displayed. Frayed are now the rose-red panels Filled with squares of rare brocade, In the ceiling Time carves channels Where the frescoes slowly fade; Chipped are now the scrolls of plaster, Which a skilled Italian master Moulded all along the cornice, and with tips of gold o’erlaid. But the shallow oval spaces Underneath the white festoons, Hold the tender pastel faces Waiting endless afternoons; For they never touched Cythera, Phyllis, Doris, and Neaera, And again they never landed by the marble balustrade. VII THE VILLAGE CHERUB UP at the church at the edge of the moor, Flat on the pathway that leads to the door, Worn by the tread of the mourning and poor, There is a face that is fit for God’s floor. How could a mason create in his brain Just such a cherub to sob in the rain? How could the pride of the dying but vain Want such a cherub to blow a refrain? This one had ankles with which he could run— Is it a fact that a cherub has none? This one had love-locks that flashed in the sun, Yes, and his lips often pouted in fun. Who was the angel that played on the street; Whose was the face I can’t soil with my feet? Nobody knows; but I hope I shall meet One such a cherub in front of God’s seat. VIII LADY DAY NEAR BIGNOR SOUTH-EASTWARD where the waving line of hills Bears up the clouds that speed like passing boats, On one sweet spot which distant sunlight fills A sudden silver haze descends and floats. The trees below like lace veil glistening streams, The gorse puts on its tiny gloves of gold, The cattle move as though they fed in dreams, And timid lambs are bleating in the fold. Though tangled bracken like an old man’s beard Blends autumn’s ruddy brown with winter’s grey, Soft blows the breeze that through the pines is heard, Green moss and yellow primrose deck the way. The Roman villa level on the grass, With wrestling cupids on the floor within; The church where first a Norman priest said mass, The ivied chimneys of the Georgian inn: These have their message. All things tell the change Of seasons, races, and of man’s estate: All bid us mark within how small a range There moves a story tragically great. The hills abide, and that mysterious Breath Which brooded on the slowly shaping earth, And came to-day like dew to Nazareth To fashion our Redeemer’s Virgin-birth. IX A COTTAGE INSCRIPTION “TIME trieth troth.” Who carved the text Above the narrow cottage door? Two hundred years of storm have vexed The words which front the western moor. Was it a hind who loved the king That held his court beyond the sea, A hind who taught his child to sing Of Stuart rose and Stuart tree? Was it a swain whose soul adored A maid who went to London town? And did she choose some spangled lord And coldly flout her country clown? “Time trieth troth.” And was he true Whose chisel carved that rugged line? And was he loyal till the yew O’erarched his heart’s now silent shrine? Then, though bereft of king or love, He found the poet’s secret gain, The sympathy of suns above, The friendship of the falling rain. X A MEMORY OF IRELAND WHERE the saints of Holy Ireland sleep No chancels pen them round, But the waving trees their vigils keep Above each verdant mound. Here they climbed no lofty marble beds To find a frigid rest, But a canopy of golden threads Hangs o’er them in the west. When the larks have ceased their thankful hymn, The ocean booms his bell, And the lamps of heaven swing o’er the rim Of every holy well. May the Lord bring back that race of men Whom charity enticed To desert the world for some poor glen And give the people Christ. XI “TÍR NAN ÓG” {19} WHEN thou didst die, they say a fairy’s pipe Was heard outside the castle door, And wee folk thick as August corn that’s ripe Came trooping down the moor, And bore thy soul with laughter and with light O’er glen and heathered height. Friends waked thee till the dawn thrice slanted by To quench the tapers round thy bier, And countless decades of the rosary They numbered with a tear; But yet they whispered, “She is now a queen, And clad in rainbow green.” They set thy form near blessed Finnan’s side, And wailed the Gaelic death-lament; But they believed thee happy as a bride With long-dreamed joys content Within the land they name with wistful tongue, “The land where all are young.” XII A HIGHLAND DAY WITHIN SIGHT OF CULLODEN THE snow-white borders of the grey-green sea Peep through the mist that veils the strait with dew, The sun grows bold and smites the landscape free, The burn, the woods, the rocks of rose-red hue. The world lies warm upon the heart of day, The callants push their boat from off the shore, The white gulls sail and flutter through the bay, The jet-black daws are calling evermore. The doves fly wheeling past their mountain wall, The whispering pine trees weave a ceiling cool, The rowans redden o’er the foaming fall, The ferns keep guard around the fairies’ pool. The distant moorland where the tribesmen bled To win their wandering prince a royal home, Now wraps a deeper purple on their bed, While he sleeps cold below St. Peter’s dome. The waves turn opal in the waning light, The rocks exchange for grey their rose-red bloom, The finite sinks into the infinite, And sea and sky are wedded in the gloom. XIII TO THE FIRS I LOVE the oak-grove where the Druid’s knife Cut down the mistletoe in days of old; I love the elms around the convent fold Where souls escape the dust of highway life. I love to watch the tiny milk-white spires That on the chestnut branches lift their head; I love to see the rowan growing red With clusters bright as frosty winter fires. But better still I love you, firs that crest The lonely hill above the moaning firth, Beside the path where bluebells gently nod. To your grey arms, ere sunset leaves the West, I can confide each sorrow at its birth, For you have known the waves and storms of God. XIV GOOD-BYE SING me one more villanelle, Light as elfin foot that brushes Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell. Come where woodland spices smell, Where the wild rose faintly flushes, Sing me one more villanelle. Rare as snowy heather bell, Sweet as melody of thrushes Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell. When the shade creeps up the fell Mid the parting sun’s last blushes, Sing me one more villanelle. Sing it to the curfew knell, Where the streamlet plays with rushes Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell. Let it breathe no sad farewell, Only mirth with silent hushes. Sing me one more villanelle Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell. XV THE FAIRY GLEN REVISITED THAT pure and shy retreat A Tartar would have spared, But not that lawyer cur from Inverness, Who thought its sylvan virgin loveliness Would bring him gold if rudely bared And hawked upon the street. There children checked their race And crept on tiptoed feet, Lest they should break upon the rainbow rings Of fairies glinting through transparent wings, Or kindly wizard come to meet A maid with lovelorn face. No snow nor stinging sleet Could chill the fairies’ bath; So close the vaulting was with fir and larch Which laid deep carpets underneath their arch, That on the fairies’ silent path No blast could ever beat. Mid foam more white than fleece The waterfall rang sweet, It made each rocky cup a rippling well, It coyly dived and peeped along the dell, Then ran the rising sea to greet, And greeting found its peace. And now the cold and heat Scourge all the glen with ire; The broken boughs have choked the sobbing stream, The silver birch is but a sodden beam, The fairies’ path is sunk in mire, The moss has left their seat. Flash sorrow and disdain For this most sordid feat, You whom Burns taught to love a daisy’s face, And Scott to love the mountains’ gloom and grace; Or say they scattered chaff for wheat, And sang their songs in vain. XVI WAITING BASED ON THE GAELIC FEAR A’ BHÀTA THE year may change its time, But still I climb The cliff above the sea, And look with eyes half dim with rain, To know if God has brought again My lover back to me. When darkness downward glides And slowly hides The fading hills of blue, I never bar the cottage door Without one look across the moor, A look of hope for you. Sometimes when I am free I seek the quay Soon after break of day, And find a newly harboured boat, And ask if you are still afloat Near home or far away. I ask if you are well, And they can tell My heart is set on you: And then they call me just a fool, A baby in the world’s hard school To give you love so true. You promised me silk gowns From Lowland towns, And rings of twisted gold; And, best of all, your picture bound With stones to hem its beauty round That I might kiss and hold. My love is not the flower Of one short hour; You were my childhood’s pride; Your image is my dream by night, By day if ever put to flight It comes back like the tide. The swan upon the lake When robbers take Her young, is left to moan; None tends her wounds or heeds her cry, She wails her loss and waits to die: Like her I cry alone. XVII NEAR HAARLEM TRIUMPHANTLY it soars, that full-domed sky, Of lucent turquoise fading into pearl; And here the happy birds their brown wings furl By waters that lisp seaward dreamily. Beyond these plains of silver and of green, Amid the floating vapours of the town The vast grey church uplifts its belfry crown, A chiselled shrine through incense dimly seen. The burdened barges trust the smiling flood, Calm wraps the distance of reclining dunes, The tower rings peace in soft alternate tones. And who that hears the bells’ low luting tunes, Now thinks of Haarlem’s siege and starving moans, Or how these brooks once bubbled with brave blood? XVIII THE TOMB OF ST. AUGUSTINE AT PAVIA BENEATH the low barbaric Lombard apse It rises like a ridge of Alpine snow, And wry-wheeled ages with uneasy lapse Creak past its majesty, and go. Such music as leaves Milan’s marble spires To mount towards a greater whiter throne, Or tempts to earth again seraphic choirs, Is at Augustine’s shrine unknown. No wave of pilgrim footsteps surges here, No sheaf of tapers lifts its votive gleam, The half-taught critic comes not with his sneer, When I draw nigh, dear saint, to dream. Enough if far-off sounds of children’s glee Bid me to “take and read” God’s open call, Or some sad Monnica pray here to see Her son, like thee, a second Paul. XIX MODERN FLORENCE HARD by the home of Dante’s infant life I saw a Yankee “Kake Walk” advertised; Within San Miniato’s pillared aisle A Japanese was peering unsurprised; Where Michelangelo set “Dawn” and “Night,” And her, most blest, whose softly sculptured smile Glows with a maiden’s and a mother’s light, A German Jew was nagging with his wife. XX TO DANTE THE Church divided and the Empire fell, Grave Dante, but thy verse in magic grows And charms men upward to the snow-white Rose Of heaven from the mire and grief of hell. No lonely isle of dull forgetfulness Hides Beatrice within its shadowed gloom, For ’mid the petals of thy Rose’s bloom Time’s hand has set that pearl of loveliness. Though patched and powdered poets could not taste Thy limpid sweetness, and exposed thy fame To meet the leering Frenchman’s cynic air, Thy love was fair without brocade or paste, Thyself too great to need a gilded name; Thy Comedy and God survive Voltaire. XXI TO PETRARCH YES, Petrarch, we most certainly believe That you who wore your heart upon your sleeve, Did love your love for Laura, and the eye Of public fame, at which your sonnets fly, Like skyward larks that court the genial sun; And o’er the tears you treasured one by one You downward bent with all a statue’s grace To see reflections of your tearful face. But none redeemed by love will e’er consent To say you tasted of love’s sacrament. XXII TO A LADY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY IN MEMORY OF METASTASIO NICE, though your lips of coral Now are dust; And the schoolboy scans the moral Graven on your broken bust In the gilt barocco chapel After Mass; Where ten coats with broidered lappel Bent when Nice used to pass. Still perchance your spirit hovers Where the lute And the voices of your lovers Chimed, but now are gone and mute. Where the lonely arbour’s hollow Shadier grows, And the butterflies can follow Fearlessly to kiss the rose. And you smile because a poet À la mode Flouted you; and then, we know it, Wrote an abject palinode. For your hands, though light as feathers, Held him tight: Love was made to last all weathers, Not to change with day and night. XXIII THE “LIBERAL” DIVINE THE “middle path” meets every need, The Stagirite and Buddha say; I won’t doubt more than half the creed Nor wear a costume wholly lay. XXIV THE QUARREL SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF FRAGONARD ON the elm tree she was swinging, Just beyond the hedge of yew; But she slowly ceased from singing, From her breast a pink she drew. Buttoning his coat of satin, Off he strode towards the woods, Tartly quoting Virgil’s Latin, That a woman’s made of moods. Long ago within God’s garden Both were wrapped in long lone sleep, Heeding not if hoar frosts harden, Or the autumn leaves fall deep. Laugh not at the statue calling Phyllis with her marble muff, Nor the marble cupids sprawling On a cloud of powder puff. Laugh not at his hermit fashions Nor the book unwarmed by hope; Say not that it shows the passions Of a stony misanthrope. For they loved while they were living, Loved with love untold, unheard; Though they parted unforgiving, Each too proud to say a word. XXV THE OLD FOUNTAIN ONE gay glint of rose and silver flounces In a deep green dell, Where a streamlet bubbles down and bounces From a Triton’s mossy shell. One more dance ere sunset on the mountain Laughing says, “Too late”; One sweet lute that tinkled with the fountain Called two hearts to court their fate. Some small raindrops, just to tease the Triton, Mischievously fell; Some one spoke a jest that quenched the light on Eyes that he had long loved well. That dark night he cursed the love he brought her, Though it made his soul; And she sobbed an echo to the water Brimming in the fountain bowl. XXVI LOVE AND DEATH ONCE toward a sunlit garden, laden With the lime trees’ scented breath, Came to watch a merry youth and maiden, Love and Death. At their bosoms Love threw fragrant posies, Tossed them laughing low and blithe, In the background Death amid the roses Moved his scythe. Ere the latest rose the path was strewing, Her sweet maiden soul was fled; He beside her grave his cheeks bedewing, Bent his head. Sobbing Love then thought to give him pleasure, Bade his curse on Death attend; But the youth begged Death who held his treasure Be his friend. Death as friend might give the old completeness Time could give to him no more, Death, not Love alone, the former sweetness Might restore. Love then saw the youth was worthier loving, Dowered with a stronger grace; And with downcast eyelids shyly moving, Kissed Death’s face. XXVII VIOLETS WHERE burning tapers hold White suppliant hands from arms of gold Around the Host; there no one sets Sweet violets. Fair roses droop and die In halls of dance and minstrelsy; But who within those walls has met The violet? Where faintly smiles the sun Through chequered skies on beech groves dun, There hides in vales sequestered yet The violet. Where I shall lie asleep, Some friend, perhaps, a tear will weep, And if our love knew no regrets, Strew violets. XXVIII THE GARDENS OF THE SOUL IN a restless land beside a river Stands a stone enclosure tall, Rich the finder is, and rich the giver Of the key to pierce that wall. Once within, you drink the clearest pleasures, And your sorrow change for ease; Ancient bards enchant you with their measures, Sweetly sighs the Highland breeze. Next amid the orange trees and cedars Bearded Homer deigns to roam, Musing tales of marching Argive leaders, And Ulysses welcomed home. Here where daffodils their crowns are bending On a lawn of English green, Milton gravely sits to tell the ending Of angelic strifes unseen. Here the almond bloom for ever blushes, And Italian fountains rise; While the wine of dawn their dewdrops flushes, Dante speaks of Paradise. But beyond where any poet paces, Grows a gnarled grey olive grove, Where the furthest stars have veiled their faces, Weeping for eternal Love. XXIX A MAN TO CHILDISH THINGS WHERE are the domes of pure mysterious gold, And myriad angel wings in ordered flight My childish gaze could once at eve behold Before the mountains melted into night? Where is the island, shy abode of bliss, Which seemed through summer haze to rise and float, The isle which merchant fleets could never kiss, But once stood still for Brendan’s hermit boat? Where are my paladins with souls of snow, Whose swords were fashioned at no mortal forge, The men who rode where Arthur bade them go To meet the dragon in his dungeon gorge? O happy, happy dreams, ye were no lies, No true apostle made me put away Such “childish things,” which mirrored to mine eyes Faith, Hope and Love. I call you back to stay. XXX THE KNIGHT HE was so courteous to the paynim horde, Men doubted if he served the Lord Or held the faith of Christ. They said he proudly scorned life’s sweetest prize, Who never played with sparkling eyes Or kept an evening tryst. Their god of love was but Cupidity, Their Lord an idol vanity With mail below his vest: While he, true knight, believed in Christ alone, And though they thought his heart a stone, Made love a hero’s quest. XXXI HOPES TO have lived just like a man And done what one man can, Not basking like a dog in summer dust; Nor like a butterfly That flaunts and flutters by, Till showers have dimmed its silver wings with rust. To have lightened some stiff load Of men upon the road— May some remember I am flesh and blood! To have dried some children’s tears, And slain some women’s fears That bid them crouch beneath a brooding flood. To have known the throbbing stars, And traced the ancient scars That streams have ploughed upon the mountain side; To have sung songs passing sweet, And sung with lasting heat As pure as that of stars that burn and bide. To have said the simply true, Although to preach the new Might win me prizes and the world’s caress; To have been misunderstood, If so the common good Might bear more harvest through my loneliness. To have learnt that love is light In rain and fog and night, For eyes that sadly peer and feet that plod: To have found all life a song Of rapture calm and strong, And found the music of the song was God. XXXII THE PATH TO buzzing lecture halls his steps he bent, Where all the paths to God were well discussed, Or faith and reason weighed with balance just, Till he was dizzy with strong argument. He saw philosophers who shook their fists, And broke commandment nine; He saw the Sadducean alchemists Draw water out of wine; He saw the knife-eyed Pharisees Adjusting their phylacteries: But never found the gate where he could see The One in Three. He watched the hills as dawn unlocked the day, And felt vibrating o’er the low green lea The breath of lilac and of hawthorn tree, While gold laburnums rocked each pendent spray. He saw the sun salute the moon afar, And felt their common soul; He heard the song of star to sister star Around the sky’s deep bowl; He watched the waves withdraw their foam, He watched the rivers wending home: He found the One, and yet he could not see The One in Three. Still doubting he beheld a brother man, Whom he ignored and scorned to think akin; But now a sudden breath of love within Drove him to serve, and humbly he began. His hands that worked in love were torn with red, He shrank not at the sight, For he who suffered saw a Heart that bled Become his beacon-light. Thus brother to the Son of God With life from heaven on earth he trod: The Life, the Light, the Love, he knew to be The One in Three. XXXIII THE CALL TO BETHLEHEM SHEPHERDS, come to Bethlehem, Pluck yon bush of Christmas rose, Weave a dainty diadem. From my flute with tuneful stem Music warbles as it flows, “Shepherds, come to Bethlehem.” Lo, upon the mountain’s hem Ruby clouds above the snows Weave a dainty diadem. Seek not proud Jerusalem, Where the empty temple shows; Shepherds, come to Bethlehem. Christ without a crown or gem Lies on straw while winter blows; Weave a dainty diadem. Christ will not our gift condemn; All our poverty He knows. Shepherds, come to Bethlehem, Weave a dainty diadem. XXXIV A CHRISTMAS LULLABY ADAPTED FROM THE SPANISH STARS, Stay your bright amethyst cars, Flee not away, Wait till the day, Come and adore. Flowers, Born in the morning’s first hours, Stars of the earth, Bloom for Christ’s birth, Come and adore. Birds, Songs are far fresher than words, Christ is your Sun, Sing every one, Come and adore. Streams, Whisper in tune with Christ’s dreams, Throw your sweet spells From crystal bells, Come and adore. Breeze, Say to all lands and all seas, “This merry morn, Jesus is born, Come and adore.” Child, Seeking the lost on the wild, Though Thou dost sleep, Smile on thy sheep Come to adore. XXXV TO THE HOLY CHILD AS PAINTED BY RAPHAEL O LORD, Thyself hast taught that sight is not belief; And yet within Thine eyes I see eternity, The love which told the dying thief That he should rest in Paradise Is there, though Thou art still a Child at Mary’s knee; The joy of perfect sacrifice Is there, and that unfathomed grief In which our griefs have sunk like tears in one wide sea. XXXVI MATER AMABILIS AS PAINTED BY BOTTICELLI MARY, on the Prince of peace thy gladness Gleams from radiant eyes; But their light is touched with passing sadness, Like our English summer skies. Angels’ arms above thy head are holding Crowns of golden stars; But the baby hands thy breast enfolding Show to thee their future scars. Lilies cense thee with their exhalations, But thy heart has guessed Slanders of the scoffing generations Who will call thee cursed, not blessed. So when clouds of faint foreboding sorrow From an unknown sea Come to warn me of a broken morrow, Mother Mary, pray for me. XXXVII SAINT STEPHEN I SEE that I must die. O Christ, how shall I bear the cruel stones, E’en though there be a place among the thrones At thy right hand for me? Create again The very sinews of my soul: I ask not for an aureole, But strength to brave the pain. Help me, for life is dear: The growing rapture of the summer morn, The cedared hills, and soft-cheeked roses born Within the cooling breath of Hermon’s snow, The rare reluctant shaded streams, The sea that sings, and weeps, and dreams; I love them: Thou dost know. I loved my father’s faith: The synagogue with all its sacred gear, The feasts that guard the march of every year, The trumpets, lamps, and waving of the palms, The azure fringe on robes like milk, The yellow scrolls wrapped round with silk, The triumph of the Psalms. I loved to preach the truth, To thrust and parry in a fair debate, To trace God’s dayspring in His nation’s fate, To lift up Christ, who dying broke death’s bands; I loved to give men joy for sighs, To win the thanks of widows’ eyes, And children’s trustful hands. “The truth.” Yes, I will die. This chafing Sanhedrin shall not prevail To check me. They shall see the truth full-sail; They cannot sink truth, stone me though they can. Lord, I am ready. By thy grace No shade of fear shall cross my face, And I will play the man. XXXVIII SAINT JOHN AT EPHESUS MEN ask why I am left alone: My brother, James, and Peter, all are slain; Brave men who met the surging crimson deep With equal minds. And Mary fell asleep, His mother whom He gave me for my own. But I with anchored hope remain. I loved Him. It is long ago Since I with Mary stood upon the hill Where His last breath rose up in Sacrifice, While tears fell earthward from our burning eyes, And Jews were gibing on the slope below. And yet I know He loves me still. He loved me. And whene’er I dream Of sunsets changing into glassy gold The waters of the Galilean lake, Or see in thought the Temple portals take A pearly softness from the moonlight gleam, He speaks with me, as once of old. I love Him, for He first loved me. He let me lean upon His holy breast, He brought me first to view His empty grave; He bade me learn that only love can save, And call no fire from heaven but charity. I work and wait, for He knows best. That Rome which now oppresses us, And all this rout of grey idolatry Shall soon dissolve. For I can see the Light Which guides the sun disperse the Asian night: And straight above the reek of Ephesus There burns the Love which died for me. XXXIX THE LITTLE CHILDREN ALONG the ocean’s stormless side, Below the never setting sun, Where Innocent is every one, Meet all Christ’s babes that ever died. Some home around their Monarch’s seat, Like doves that flutter to their rest; Within His arms they find their nest And wonder at His wounded feet. Some make a goal of Mary’s knee, To which they run in joyous race; Then tell her that their mother’s face On earth was just like hers to see. Some call the angels to their play Mid flowers of one unfading spring; In radiant wheels they move and sing, And learn the angels’ roundelay. But some, I think, amid those bands, Remembering our ruder lore And love, towards this colder shore Lift speed-well eyes and rose-leaf hands. XL THE CIRCUMCISION MORE bright than rosebuds on the rounded base Of some veined alabaster urn, Wherein a lamp was set to burn And throw false smiles on Aphrodite’s face. More bright than crowns of red anemones, Which every flushing Syrian year Saw laid upon Adonis’ bier By mourning maidens on adoring knees. More brightly flashed the drops of precious blood, The rubies linked upon the shrine Of Christ the Babe, the Christ divine, To seal His body for the holy rood. XLI THE RETURN OF THE MAGI HOW they did laugh, when mounting our camels Three of us rode, obeying the light; Slowly we cut our hearts from the trammels Doubt flung around us that first wistful night. Only a star above wind and rain, Only a bloom on the passionless plain, Waving us onward; yet we were right. We thank Thee, Lord. Oft we recalled that kindly derision, Measuring seas of measureless sand, Mocked by the streams and trees of the vision Moving and melting at magic’s command. Cheated and choked we quailed and burned, While the blast blew and the desert was churned, Slipping, it seemed, out of God’s own hand. We praise Thee, Lord. Onward we rode, where silver-meshed rivers Sang to the birds which singing replied, Where the soft light through rose-bowers quivers, On past the voice of the bridegroom and bride. Seeking the desert and star again, Leaving the homesteads and fields of white grain Where the doves called us to dream and bide. We bless Thee, Lord. Onward we went, past temples that brighten, Sepulchres hiding souls that are dead, Chambers where bought lips wearily whiten, Altars and pavements with hecatombs red. Onward we travelled to Bethlehem, Guided from Zion, the earth’s diadem, On to a stable and manger bed, To greet Thee, Lord. Dimly His eyes flashed, laden with presage, Telling of strife and triumph to be; Gracious His lips, and glowed with a message Merciful, strong to set prisoners free. Lord, use our myrrh and our urns of gold; Fairer than children of men to behold, Thine is the sceptre and victory! We worship Thee. XLII ATONEMENT WHAT love it was that Thou shouldst choose to feel The chill of valleys where no dawns emerge To break the mist, and streams repeat the dirge For faith crushed like a pearl beneath man’s heel. How just it was that Thou our Judge shouldst learn The force of taunts that goad us into sin, And slowly aureoled perfection win Through blackened hopes, and through the stripes that burn. Thou who didst steel thy will to impotence, And wouldst not save Thyself, or take control Of force, make us so dead that we may live. Thou God of sorrows, wash our penitence, Thou who wast naked, help each smitten soul, Christ strong to suffer, stronger to forgive. XLIII CALVARY AS some weak bird, tossed homeward by the gale, Is safely nested in the rocky scar That cleaves the curving beach, but hears afar The ocean writhing at the tempest’s flail, So thou, my soul, hast reached the refuge hill That Pilate made a pleasance for his jest, And in Christ’s rose-red side hast found a rest, Borne half by passion, yet by conscious will. O Lord, whose spirit waged so hard a fight, Scorn not the tainted thing beside thy heart As too unfit to feel that sacred glow; But lest I ere forget how much I owe, Let not the vision utterly depart Of frenzied storm and all-engulfing night. XLIV “THE DESERT SHALL BLOSSOM” LONG, long ago He died, and yet He is not dead; From out His riven side and patient hands that bled Flows one unebbing tide, by love and pity fed. God’s heart is satisfied, man’s eyes are upward led, And o’er the desert wide, the dew that’s downward shed Drawn from that flowing tide, forms flowers white and red. XLV RESURRECTION HOPE, last of all the angels, left the three Who with their woman’s courage watched Christ die; But Hope, when she had fled, Returned to plant in them one humble flower, The thought that in His grey sepulchral bower They three might strew around the Dead The alms of one adoring sympathy, And pray a last good-bye. They sped in silence, but the sharp-fanged doubt Lurked in the path to mock their pungent store Of spices, hissing, “Nay, Ye cannot reach the Tenant of that gloom.” But when the dawn and they retouched the tomb, They found the stone was rolled away, And He, their Life who died, now stood without, Alive for evermore. Thus when we seek our buried innocence With bitter myrrh and grey-leaved rosemary, And writhing doubts delay Our steps towards the tomb of our desire, Do Thou, O Lord, our musing eyes inspire To see the stone is rolled away, And find that self has thrown its grave-clothes hence And risen to live free. XLVI THE ASCENSION “LO, I am with you alway.” Thus He spake Girt with the zone of His disciples’ love, And straightway, like the nascent flames that wake Upon a placid hearth, He soars above. Forlorn they cannot move; Their eyes are voyaging to track the Friend Who promised to be with them till the end. Once, the last once, His scar-gemmed Hand He lifts, The Hand that twined the children to His knee, Once downward bends the pitying Eye that sifts Our chaff and grain for all eternity: The blue immensity Robes its Creator in a cope of light, A cloud receives Him from their upturned sight. Thou “alway with us”? Do the brakes of thorn No more entangle our tormented earth, Do women travail less when babes are born, Costs it less sweat for men to fight with dearth, Is life one Eden mirth, Moves there more laughter on the purple sea, Or richer gold across the rippling lea? I care not: but we know, O Friend of friends, Thou throned above art by our weary side, The light that upward sailed with Thee descends To be our morn undimmed by night or tide; And Thou, eternal Guide, Art not content to lead us to thy goal, But buildest heaven in the broken soul. XLVII A HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT O SMILE upon the mirror of the world, O Bearer of the censer whence is curled The fragrant breath of watered trees at eve, And fires that slowly in the sunrise weave. Thou art the Why within the universe, Thou fillest hidden caves which seas immerse, Thou sowest flowers upon the snow-bound hills, And teachest music to the listening rills. Thou art the Guide of man’s supreme ascent From sullen shapes that through the forest bent, To minds that sift the sovran right from wrong And forms more perfect than a polished song. The lily sceptre of sweet virgin love Is thine; the rosy coronet above The bridal brow is thine; from Thee the might Of infant eyes, like stars that calm the night. Thou art the Spirit of insurgent truth, Thou givest buried lore a second youth, Thou makest charity with wisdom grow, And provest falsehood but a losing throw. Thou calledst Moses from the wealthy Nile And all the idols of fair Philae’s isle, To march for life beneath the desert sun And teach a rabble that their God was one. And Thou didst barb the tongue of Socrates To sting a city settled on the lees, To lash the vice of fluent sophistry And crucify the shifting inward lie. Thou plantedst pity in the Indian sage, Who conned the verses penned on sorrow’s page, And strove to cut by mental abstinence The silken cord that threads the beads of sense But could not in himself his pity slake, And watching lotos blooms upon a lake, Which helpless sank or rose with every wave, Resolved all sinking souls to lift and save. And Thou within a cloud of maiden white Didst form that sun of radiating light, Christ’s strong immaculate humanity, Transparent monstrance of His Deity. He, sinless, trod the brink of sin’s abyss And for His love received a traitor’s kiss; Then driven by thy soft compelling breath He, who was Life, resigned himself to death. He showed us that this fleshly house of sense Is not a nomad tent or barrier fence, But some fair chancel where thy vivid flame Might find an altar and reveal His name. Come, Holy Ghost, and breathe from sea to sea, Give each his special fruit of liberty; Tear from deceit the scintillating robe, From Satan’s hands hurl down the rod and globe. Break Thou the spirit of the lords of lust, Whose passions scatter an infected dust; Reduce the men for whom the poor have bled, Who elevate their gold as God and Bread. Grant me a mind that may become thy lyre, A hate of hatred and a tongue of fire; And mid the clamour of all transient things Let me not miss the passage of thy wings. XLVIII “ADORA ET TACE” LOVE only is the school of love, And they who learn from Thee their art, Will find thy presence from above Touch altar, hand, and heart. While others ask how Thou canst come, Or tell me when Thou goest away, Be mine to call Thee to my home, And know that Thou wilt stay. While others all their worship weigh, And keenly blame the less or more, Be mine my lowly best to pay, “Be silent, and adore.” Give me to keep thy new command, Who at thy precious blood was priced; Make all my world a holy land, Let all my life be Christ. XLIX THE REFUGE OF THE WANDERING COLD and cruel as the winds that carry Arctic hills of ice and snow, Past the cliffs where skirling sea-birds tarry And the seething breakers flow. Burning as the Afric wind that races Northward from its desert land, Wind that blasts and covers green oases With its ropes of parching sand. Rough and angry as the winds that bluster Where Tibetan temples shine, Winds like savage lancers come to muster On an Eastern frontier line. Sad and blind as winds that wander sobbing, Where the raw Atlantic mist From the stars their pearly radiance robbing, Grips the shore with damp white fist. So our souls from every quarter eddy, North and South and East and West, Jesu, till the wayward and the ready On thy heart all sink to rest. L THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER ON to the bank that recedes, On through the shadows that mock, Tearing my staff from the weeds, Bruising my feet on the rock, Caught by this Babe who appealed, Calling to echoes astray; Would that my heart I had steeled, Left Him to listen till day! Child, who dost crush me with weight, Child of the pitiful eyes, Whence didst Thou come to my gate? How didst Thou fool me to rise From my lone bed? Sweeter than bells at the Mass, Older and newer than time, Charming the shadows to pass Ringeth His voice in a chime. Firm is the touch of His hands, Soft as my mother’s caress, Loosing my misery’s bands, Calming the wrath I confess. Child, who hast healed all my pain, Joy of my soul, must we part Just when the bank we shall gain? Blest be these feet on my heart! They too have bled. LI THE LIGHT INVISIBLE O LIGHT that lives on every hill and shore, Beyond the light that dies at close of day, The tears fill up the chalice of mine eyes With gladness, when I see Thee far away. O Stream that flows until the world shall end, Past fretful town and hermitage and field, Red are thy waters, but they throb with peace; I touch their dew and all my wounds are healed. O Voice that speaks in every grove and street, Above the song of birds and oaths of men, I hear and follow Thee, although my steps Begin a course that lies beyond my ken. O Face returning at each Eucharist, More close than forms that change with changing years, I am the veil between myself and Thee, Burn Thou the veil, and burning, kill my fears. O Guest that comes to take away our best, And all the loves we garner at our side, Thou art our Best, our Home art Thou. For Thee, Attentive I will labour and abide. LII ONWARD FAR, and how far it is not mine to tell, The hills of silken grey Enfold the vale, and yet above that fell The Shepherd knows a way. Far, and how far it is not mine to guess, A sea of hungry waves Surrounds me, but the Pilot thwarts their stress With skill that guides and saves. Far, and how far is all unknown to me, The many mansions lie Beyond the grave, yet will the Builder see And come to meet my cry. LIII THE FAITHFUL DEPARTED SAY what good-bye We owe to those who lived unstained by guile, Who seemed to die, But made their death a smile, As though to promise we should meet within A little while. Is this good-bye, To sorrow o’er the blood-red pall of day, Till in the sky Faint tapers coldly pray; And think our joy died like the buried sun’s Last golden ray? Is this good-bye, To tread on sallow leaves in autumn rain, And hear winds sigh An echo of our pain; And think that never can the bud-crowned spring Return again? Is this good-bye, To watch the myriad falling flakes of snow Whirl down and lie Upon the fields below; And think the wonted path is now too dim For us to know? Not so: good-bye Means faith in love kept warm by robes of white, Faith to deny The death of any light, Faith that to-morrow will be yesterday Without its night. LIV LETHE ERE we shall touch the jasper parapet, That God has set About His garden and the sea of glass, Shall we first pass Through some calm stream of soft forgetfulness And wash our hapless little joys away? And shall our souls in infant nakedness Emerge to bathe in God’s eternal day? Shall we forget the garden roundelays Of piping Mays, When thrushes sang around the dewy lawns In roseleaf dawns, And tulips—purple, saffron, red and white,— Below the shade of box and fragrant bay, Would lift to heaven their well-poised heads, as bright As ever bloomed in Shiraz or Cathay? Shall we forget the music of the sea, The virgin glee Which swayed beneath her robes dyed emerald, And so enthralled The vernal sun that he would downward shower More silver on her violet crystal fringe Than ever Sultan made his daughter’s dower Or locked in Istamboul with key and hinge? Shall we forget our hearts did ever ache And slowly break, Because a dream by lightning truth was rent, Or we had spent A love too deep for one whole life to speak To gain a joy which proved too light to stay, As quickly fading as the tulip’s cheek, As fickle as the sea in witching May? LV AVE ATQUE VALE OUR life is but a rosary Of Hail and then Farewell; Some never read the mystery The onyx beads foretell. They think each bead falls on the ground And spells another loss: God gathers them to make a round And seals it with His cross. WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH FOOTNOTES {6} This poem is founded on a genuine study of the history of the gipsies, whose language was learnt by the writer in his boyhood. {19} This poem refers to the mother of one of my friends. She was believed by the peasants on her estate to have been stolen by the fairies. ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DARK AGES*** ******* This file should be named 46112-0.txt or 46112-0.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/6/1/1/46112 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. 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