ANDROMEDA AND OTHER POEMS

Contents:

Andromeda
   Hypotheses Hypochondriacæ
   Trehill Well
   In an Illuminated Missal
   The Weird Lady
   Palinodia
   A Hope
   The Poetry of a Root Crop
   Child Ballad
   Airly Beacon
   Sappho
   The Bad Squire
   Scotch Song
   The Young Knight
   A New Forest Ballad
   The Red King
   The Outlaw
   Sing Heigh-ho!
   A March
   A Lament
   The Night Bird
   The Dead Church
   A Parable from Liebig
   The Starlings
   Old and New
   The Watchman
   The World’s Age
   The Sands of Dee
   The Tide Rock
   Elegiacs
   Dartside
   My Hunting Song
   Alton Locke’s Song
   The Day of the Lord
   A Christmas Carol
   The Oubit
   The Three Fishers
   Sonnet
   Margaret to Dolcino
   Dolcino to Margaret
   The Ugly Princess
   Sonnet
   The Swan-neck
   A Thought from the Rhine
   The Longbeards’ Saga. A.D. 400
   Saint Maura. A.D. 304
   On the Death of a Certain Journal
   Down to the Mothers
   To Miss Mitford
   Ballad of Earl Haldan’s Daughter
   Frank Leigh’s Song. A.D. 1586
   Ode to the North-east Wind
   A Farewell
   To G. A. G.
   The South Wind
   The Invitation
   The Find
   Fishing Song
   The Last Buccaneer
   The Knight’s Return
   Pen-y-gwrydd
   Ode
   Songs from ‘The Water-babies’
      The Tide River
      Young and Old
      The Summer Sea
      My Little Doll
   The Knight’s Leap
   The Song of the Little Baltung. A.D. 395
   On the Death of Leopold, King of the Belgians
   Easter Week
   Drifting Away
   Christmas Day
   September 21, 1870
   The Mango-tree
   The Priest’s Heart
   ‘Qu’est Qu’il Dit’
   The Legend of La Brea
   Hymn
   The Delectable Day
   Juventus Mundi
   Valentine’s Day
   Ballad
   Martin Lightfoot’s Song

Over the sea, past Crete, along the Syrian coast to the south,
Lives in the well-farmed lowland a dark-haired Ethiopian people,
Skilled with needle and loom, and the arts of the dyer and carver,
Skilled, but weak of heart; for they do not know the gods of Olympus,
Lovers of men; neither broad-browed Zeus, nor Pallas Athena,
Teacher of wisdom to heroes, giver of strength in battle;
Share none of Hermes' cunning, nor listen to the songs of Apollo.
Fearing the stars in the sky and the roll of the blue salt water,
Fearing everything that has life in the depths of the sea and its creatures,
Eating no fish to this day, nor sailing the sea like the Phoenicians,
Brave with their black-beaked ships, they live in a sorrowful land,
Afflicted by earthquakes, fire, and floods, posing the wrath of Poseidon.
   Overwhelming the homes of men and the toils of sluggish oxen,
Drowning the barley and flax, and the hard-earned gold of the harvest,
Up to the hillside vineyards and the pastures by the woods,
Inland the floods came every year; and after the waters, a monster,
Born from the mud, like the worms bred from the muck of the Nile,
Shapeless, a sight to fear; and by night it swam out to the sea,
Daily coming back at dawn, to devour the finest,
Cattle, children, and maidens, until the frightened people fled inland.
   Fasting in sackcloth and ashes, both the king and his people came,
To the mountain of oaks, to the house of the terrible sea gods,
Close by the gulf in the rocks, where long ago the worldwide flood
Sank into the inner abyss; and the lake where the fish of the goddess,
Holy, undying, reside; whom the priests feed daily with delicacies.
There to the mystical fish, high-throned in her cedar chamber,
They burned the fat of the flock; until the flame shone far out to sea.
For three days they prayed while fasting; but on the fourth day, the priests of the goddess,
Cunning in spells, drew lots to discover the crime of the people.
All day long they drew lots, until the house of the king was chosen,
Cepheus, king of the land; and the faces of all became grim.
Then once more they drew lots; and Cassiopeia was chosen,
Deep-bosomed wife of the king, whom often far-sighted Apollo
Watched with pleasure from the sky, the fairest of Ethiopian women:
The fairest, except for her daughter; for her hair flowed down to her ankles,
Blue-black as night, ambrosial, a joy to behold.
Awful and beautiful she rose,
Most like in her coming to Hera,
Queen before whom the Immortals rise as she walks on Olympus,
Out of the golden chamber, made by her son Hephaestus.
Such was her stature and eyes, and the broad white light of her forehead.
Majestic she came from her place, and spoke amidst the people.
   ‘Pure are my hands from blood: most pure is this heart in my chest.
Yet one fault I remember today; one word I have spoken;
Rashly I spoke on the shore, and I fear the sea may have heard it.
Watching my child at her bath, as she plunged in the joy of her girlhood,
I called her more beautiful than Atergatis, queen of the ocean.
Judge if this is my sin, for I know no other.’ She finished;
Wrapping her head in her mantle, she stood, and the people were silent.
   The dark-browed priests replied, ‘No word, once spoken, returns,
Even if it was said unwittingly. Shall gods excuse our rashness?
What is done, remains; and the wrath of the sea is against us;
Hers, and the anger of her brother, the Sun-god, lord of the flocks.
Fairer than her was your daughter, you foolish one! For hateful,
Hateful are they to the gods, whoever, impious, compares a mortal,
Fair though they may be, to their glory; and that which is compared,
Grieves the eyes of their pride, and is abominable, doomed to their anger.
What can be compared to gods? The unknown, who dwell in darkness,
Always present, multi-formed, many-handed, terrible, formless.
Woe to the queen; for the land is defiled, and the people accursed.
Take her therefore at night, you ill-starred Cassiopeia,
Take her with us when the moon sinks low in the west;
Bind her high for a sacrifice, a feast for the monster,
Far on the sea-washed rock, which is forever battered by the waves;
So may the goddess accept her, and so the land may make amends,
Cleansed by her blood from its sin: so obey the fate of the rulers.’
   Bitter in heart they went out, Cepheus and Cassiopeia,
Bitter in heart; and their minds spun round, like leaves in a whirl.
Weak was the queen, and rebelled: but the king, like a shepherd of people,
Refused to let the land suffer; so he surrendered his daughter’s life.
   Deep in the late night, as the moon sank low to the west,
They, by the shadows of the cliffs, in the darkness around them,
Stole, ashamed, to a deed that did not suit the light of day,
Slowly, the priests, the queen, and the maiden tied in the ship,
Slowly they rowed to the rocks: but Cepheus far in the palace
Sat in the midst of the hall, on his throne, like a shepherd of people,
Choking his sorrow, dry-eyed, while the servants wailed loudly around him.
They on the sea-washed rock, which is forever beaten by the waves,
Placed her in silence, the guiltless, facing the east.
Under a crag of the stone, where a ledge sloped down to the water;
There they set Andromeda, the most beautiful, shaped like a goddess,
Lifting her long white arms wide to the basalt walls,
Chained there, mercilessly, with brass; and they called on the might of the Rulers.
   ‘Mystical fish of the seas, dread Queen whom Ethiopians honor,
Overwhelming the land in your wrath, unavoidable, sharp as a stingray,
You, and your brother the Sun, brain-smiting, lord of the sheepfolds,
Scorching the earth all day, and then resting at night in your embrace,
Take this one life for many, appeased by the blood of a maiden,
The fairest, and born of the fairest, a queen, most priceless of sacrifices.’
   Thrice they spat as they passed by the maiden: but her mother, lingering,
Held her child to the last, heartbroken; and the warmth of her tears
Fell on the breast of the maiden, as her grief broke out into wailing.
   ‘Daughter! my daughter! forgive me! Oh do not curse the murderer! Curse not!
How have I sinned, but in love? Do the gods begrudge glory to mothers?
In love I bore you in vain in the fate-cursed bed of Cepheus,
In love I nourished you and cared for you, and in love rejoiced in your beauty,
Blessing your limbs as I bathed them, and blessing your hair as I combed it;
Adorning you, maturing into womanhood, I blessed you: yet through blessing I doomed you!
How have I sinned, but in love? Oh swear to me, swear to your mother,
Never to haunt me with a curse, as I go to my grave in my sorrow,
Childless and alone: may the gods never send me another, to slay it!
Look, I embrace your knees—soft knees, where no babe will be cradled—
Swear to me never to curse me, the unfortunate one, not in the death-pangs.’
   Weeping she clung to the knees of the maiden; and the maiden softly answered—
‘Curse you! Not in the death-pangs!’ The heart of the lady felt lightened.
Slowly she went by the ledge; and the maiden was left alone in the darkness.
   Watching the pulse of the oars fade as her own did,
Tearless, dumb with amazement she stood, like a storm-stunned fledgling
Fallen from branch or eave, which the passerby
Mistakes for a stone, until he catches the light of its terrified eye.
So through the long hours the maiden stood helpless and hopeless,
Wide-eyed, gazing down in vain at the profound darkness.
Finally, she started speaking, while wild thoughts bubbled inside her—
‘I am innocent: why is this happening to me? Are the gods more ruthless than mortals?
Have they no mercy for youth? No love for those who have loved them?
Even as I loved you, fearsome sea, as I played by your edge,
Blessing your wave as it cooled me, your wind as it caressed my forehead,
Bowing my head to your storms, and opening my heart to your offspring,
Silvery fish, wreathed shells, and the strange, graceful creatures of the sea,
Tenderly returning them to their mother, as they gasped on the beach in sunshine,
O false sea! false sea! I dreamed what I did of your goodness;
Dreamed of a smile in your glimmer, of laughter in the splash of your waves:
False and devouring you are, and the great world is dark and spiteful.’
   Awed by her own rash words, she was silent; and her eyes to the sea
Looked for an answer of wrath: far off, in the heart of the darkness,
White mists rose slowly; under them the wandering ocean
Glimmered and shone down to the deepest abyss; and the knees of the maiden
Trembled and sank in fear, as afar, like dawn in night,
Rose from their seaweed dwelling the choir of the mystical sea-maids.
Toward her they came, and her heart beat loud at their approach,
Watching the delight of the gods as they stirred the cliffs with their laughter.
   Onward they came in their joy, and before them the swell of the waves
Sunk, as the breeze fell still, into smooth green foam-flecked marble,
Awed; and the cliffs, and the pines of the mountains were silent.
Onward they came in their joy, and around them the lights of the sea-nymphs,
Countless fiery orbs, swam puffing and soaring; and rainbows
In crimson, azure, and emerald were shattered in star-showers, lighting
Deep in the wine-dark depths of crystal, the gardens of Nereus,
Coral, sea-fans, and tangles, the blooms and palms of the ocean.
   Onward they came in their joy, whiter than the foam they scattered,
Laughing and singing, tossing and twirling, while eagerly, the Tritons
Blinded with kisses their eyes, unrebuked, and above them in reverence
Hovered the terns, and the seagulls swept past them on silvery wings
Echoing softly their laughter; around them the frolicking dolphins
Sighed as they dove, full of love; and the great sea-horses which bore them
Curved up their backs in pride to the delicate arms of the maidens,
Pawing the spray into gems, until a fiery rainfall, harmless,
Sparkled and shimmered on the limbs of the nymphs, and the curls of the mermen.
   Onward they went in their joy, surrounded by the fiery coolness,
Needing neither sun nor moon, self-lit, immortal: but others,
Pitying, floated in silence apart; in their hearts the sea-boys,
Slain by the wrath of the seas, swept down by Nereus's anger;
Unfortunate, whom never again on shore or pier shall their mothers
Welcome with flowers and vows to the temple, but wearily pining
Gaze over island and bay for the sails of the drowned; they heedless
Sleep in soft beds forever, and dream of the surge and the sea-maids.
   Onward they passed in their joy; on their brows neither sorrow nor ire;
Self-sufficient, as gods, never noticing the maiden's pain.
She would have shrieked for their mercy: but shame rendered her mute; and their eyes
Gazed at her, unconcerned and steady, like the eyes in the room of idols.
Seeing, they saw not, and passed, like a dream, on the murmuring waves.
   Astonished by the wonder she stared, wide-eyed, as the glory faded.
‘O fair beings! far fairer than me! Too beautiful to be unkind!
Gladden my eyes once more with your brilliance, unlike to my dreams;
You, then, smiled in the sea's shine, and laughed in the splash of the waves.
Fearful I thought you were and formless; inhuman, monstrous like idols;
Lo, when you came, you were women, more loving and lovelier, only;
Similar in all else; and I blessed you: why did you not bless me for my devotion?
Did you have no mercy for me, thus innocent? You pitied the sea-boys:
Why not me, then, more unfortunate by far? Does your sight and knowledge
End at the edge of the waves? Is the world where you dwell not our world?’

Over the mountain, there was a rush and a roar;
Downward the breeze came angrily, howling as it leapt to the water,
Roaring in every crack and crevice, until the pillars
And gaps of the basalt
Rang like a godly lyre, driving her mind to madness with the noises;
The crashing and lapping of waves, the sighing
And tossing of seaweed,
The gurgle and whisper and hiss of the foam, while the thundering surges
Boomed in the weathered halls, gnashing against the roots of the mountain.
Hour after hour in the darkness,
The wind charged fiercely landward,
Drenching the maiden with spray; she, shivering, weary, and drooping,
Stood with her heart full of thoughts, until the foam-crests shimmered in the twilight,
Leaping and laughing around, and the east blushed with dawn.
Then, on the ridge of the hills, the bright sun rose in glory,
Casting his rays upon the sparkling crests of the waves,
Gilding the soft, rounded hills of the woodlands and the coastland;
Gilding the seaweed at her feet, and the foam-laced edges of the cliffs,
Revealing the maiden her home through the veil of her hair, as it floated
Glistening, damp with spray, in a long black cloud towards the land.
High in the distant valleys rose thin blue curls from the homesteads;
Softly, the lowing of the herds and the pipe of the outgoing herdsman
Drifted to her ears on the water, melting her heart into tears.
Shuddering, she tried to forget them; straining her eyes towards the sea,
Waiting for her fate as she cried out, but in vain, to the fearsome Sun-god.
‘Do you not take pity on me, Sun, even if your wild dark sister is merciless;
Do you not see me here, desolate, weary,
Sick with shame and despair, like a kid torn away from its mother?
What if my beauty offends you? Then destroy it: but spare me—Oh, spare me!
Spare me, before he arrives, fierce, tearing, unbearable! See me,
See me, how tender and soft, and thus helpless! Look at me shudder,
Fearing only my doom. Will you shine this brightly when it claims me?
Are there no other deaths besides this, great Sun? No fiery arrow,
Lightning, or deep wave? Why like this? What music is in shrieking,
What pleasure in warm live limbs being slowly torn? And do you dare to witness it?
Oh, you have seen worse deeds! All sights are the same to your brightness!
What if you wake the birds to their song, do you awaken no sorrow;
No sick to their pain; no captive to long for freedom?
You smile on the garden and pasture, and on maidens singing at milking;
You flash into decorated chambers, and peek into the eyes of lovers,
Showing the blissful their bliss—Do you love, then, the place where you shine?
Do you love cities ablaze, fierce blows, and the cries of the widow?
Do you love corpse-strewn fields as you light the path of the vulture?
Do you love these, that you gaze so cheerily on my tears, and my mother’s,
Laughing at the horror of one and the joy of another?
What do you care, in your sky,
For the joys and sorrows of mortals?
Colder are you than the nymphs: in your broad bright eye there is no understanding.
If you had a soul—as much soul as the slaves in my father’s house,
Wouldn’t you save me? Poor thralls! they pitied me, clung to me weeping,
Kissing my hands and my feet—What, are gods more ruthless than mortals?
Worse than the souls they govern? Let me die: they do not war with ashes!’
Suddenly she stopped, with a shriek:
In the spray, like a floating foam-bow,
Hovered, more beautiful than the foam-bow, a young man in the prime of his manhood,
Golden-haired, ivory-limbed, divine; over his shoulder
Draped for a veil of his beauty was the gold-fringed folds of a goat-skin,
With the gleam of his shield shining brightly in the sunlight.
Curved on his thigh lay a sword, and under the shine of his helmet
Eyes bluer than the ocean shone fiercely; around him Athené
Bestowed, in her love, such grace, such presence, and tremendous courage.
Hovering over the water, he came on glittering wings,
Alive, a wonder, leaping from wave to wave, sweeping the crests like a seagull;
Jumping the troughs of the surge, laughing in the joy of his leaps.
Fair and majestic, he sprang to the rock; and the maiden, amazed,
Stared for a moment, then hid in the dark, rolling waves of her hair,
Fearful, the light in her eyes; while the boy (for her sorrow had awed him)
Blushed at her blushes, and vanished, like mist on the cliffs at sunrise.
Finally, she looked out, fearful: he was gone: wild with amazement,
She cried out for her mother, but the wind was her only answer.
Suddenly he flashed back into view, at her side; in his pity and anger
His eyes were damp; and his breath like a bed of roses, as, bolder and bolder,
He hovered above her, under her brows, like a swallow that haunts the eaves,
Gently, he lifted the veil of her hair; while the maiden
Stood motionless, frozen with fear, weeping loudly; until he opened his lips
Pouring forth the musical flow of his wonder.
‘Ah, well said she, the wise one, the gray-eyed Pallas Athené,—
Known only to the Immortals are the rewards that lie at the feet of heroes,
Ready and prepared; for requiring little, the rulers
Return the favor tenfold to the man who, unconcerned with pleasure,
Thirsting for honor and toil, sets forth on a dangerous quest,
Guided by the gods, strong in the might of the Immortals.
Thus they have led me to you: from afar, unknowingly, I marked you,
Shining, a snow-white cross against the dark-green walls of the sea-cliff;
I thought you carved in marble, a perfect work of the craftsman.
Like Amphitrité, or the famed Queen Cythereia.
Curious, I approached, until I saw how your hair streamed in the sea-wind,
Glistening, black as night, and your lips moved slowly in your wailing.
Speak again now—Oh, speak! For my soul is moved to avenge you;
Tell me what savage horde, lawless, ruthless,
Hateful to gods and men, has thus bound you, a shame to sunlight,
Contempt and prize to sailors: but prize now for me; for a coward,
A coward and shameless is he, who finding such a glorious jewel
Cast aside by fools, would not take it and keep it and wear it,
Even as I will you; for I swear by my father’s head,
Bearing you over the waves, to wed you in Argos, the fruitful,
Beautiful, reward of my toil no less than this head I carry,
Hidden here, fearful—Oh speak!’
But the maiden, still dumb with amazement,
Watered her chest with weeping, longing for her home and mother.
Beautiful, eager, he wooed her, and kissed away her tears as he floated,
Wandering at will, like a bee, on the brows of a rock nymph-haunted,
Adorned with vines, and acanthus, and climbing roses,
Cool in the fierce still noon, where streams sparkle clear in the mossbeds,
Hums from blossom to blossom, mingling the sweet as he tastes them.
Beautiful, eager, he kissed her, and held her closer and closer,
Begging her still to speak—
‘Not cruel nor harsh did my mother
Bear me to broad-browed Zeus in the depths of the brass-covered dungeon;
Neither in vain, as I believe, have I conversed with the cunning Hermes,
Face to face, as a friend; or from gray-eyed Pallas Athené
Learned what is right, and about respecting myself, to respect in my dealings
Those whom the gods should love; so fear not; to pure unions
Only I woo you,
And swear that as a queen, alone and without rival
You will sit by me in Argos of Hellas, the throne of my fathers,
Worshiped by fair-haired kings: why do you still call for your mother?
Why did she leave you here? For no enemy has bound you;
No foe who earns such a prize would abandon it.’
Just like at first some wild-eyed colt, with quivering nostrils,
Plunges in fear of the bridle and the fluttering robes of the rider;
Soon, grown bold by despair, he submits to the will of his master,
Tamer and tamer each hour, and at last, in the pride of obedience,
Returns the heel with a leap, and arches his neck to be petted,
Cowed by need, the maiden grew tame; while the hero, indignant,
Struggled against the bonds that held her: the brass, too cunningly tempered,
Held to the rock with nails, deep wedged: until the boy, flushed with anger,
Drew from his ivory thigh, shining, a sharp diamond sword—
‘Now let the smith's work test strength against the arms of Immortals!’
It fell dazzling; and the blade, like the vine-hook shearing off a vine-bough,
Sliced through the strength of the brass, until her arms fell gently on his shoulder.
Once, she tried to escape: but the ring of the water was around her,
Around her was the ring of his arms; and despairing, she sank into his chest.
Then, like a startled fawn, she looked with a shriek toward the sea.
‘Do not touch me, wretch that I am! For cursed, a shame and a mockery,
Guiltless, no less cursed, I await vengeance from the sea-gods.
There it comes! Ah, go! Let me perish unseen, if I must perish!
Spare me the shame of your gaze, when merciless fangs must tear me
To pieces! Enough to endure alone in sunlight,
Guiltless, the death of a kid!’
But the boy still lingered near her,
Reluctant, like a boy, to leave her, and rouse the cliffs with his laughter.
‘Is that the enemy, then? A sea beast? I had thought it immortal,
A Titan, or Proteus himself, or Nereus, foe of sailors:
Yet I would fight with them all, but Poseidon, the shaker of mountains,
My uncle, whom I fear, as I should; for he haunts Olympus,
Holding a third of the world; and the gods all rise at his approach.
To none else will I yield, aided by the gods: how then to a monster,
Child of earth and night, mindless, shapeless, accursed?’
‘Are you, too, a god?’
‘I am no god,’ he answered, smiling;
‘Mortal like you, yet divine:
But mortal are the herds of the ocean,
Equal to men in this only, and lacking in everything else; for they nurture
The lives of the mouths blindly, untaught by the gods, without wisdom:
It would be a shame to flee before such!’
In her heart, a new life was ignited,
Love and trust, the fair parents of affection: but she responded to him with a sigh.
‘Beautiful, why do you want to die? Is the sunlight so worthless,
Worthless to romp with your companions in the flowery meadows of the forest,
Under the broad green oaks, where I will never again roam,
Tossing the ball with my maidens, or adorning the altar with garlands,
Carefree, dancing and singing until the glens echoed with our laughter?
Too full of death the sorrowful earth is already: the halls full of mourners,
Tombs quarry all cliffs, and the bones gleam white on the sea floor,
Countless, devoured by the herds who serve the merciless sea-gods,
Just as mine will be soon: and yet it seems noble to me, in dying,
To give my life for a people, to save to the arms of their lovers
Maidens and youths for a while: you, fairest of all, shall I slay you?
Do not add your bones to the many, thus idly angering the dread ones!
Either the monster will crush you or the sea-queen herself will overwhelm you,
Vengeful, in storm and foam, and the crashing walls of the surges.
Why do you want to follow me down? Can we love in the deep dark?
Love in the realm of the dead, in the land where all is forgotten?
Why do you want to follow me down? Is it joy, in deserted deeps,
To flit, gray spirits in the depths of the gray salt water?
Beautiful! Why will you die, and deprive beautiful maidens of your manhood?
Surely someone is waiting for you, longing, far off in the ocean isles.
Go your way; I will go mine; for the gods begrudge pleasure to mortals.’
Sobbing, she ended her moan, as her neck, like a storm-bent lily,
Bowed under the weight of her woe, and her limbs sunk, weary from watching,
Soft on the hard rock ledge: but the boy, with his eye on the monster,
Held her, and stood like a god; and his lips curved proudly as he answered—
‘Great are the merciless sea-gods: but greater are the Lords of Olympus;
Greater is the wielder of the Ægis, and greater she who stands by him.
Clear-eyed Justice her name is, the beloved counselor of Athené;
Helper of heroes, who dare, in the god-given strength of their manhood,
To boldly do and to endure, and far in the marshes and the woods
Strike down the devourers of men, Heaven-hated, offspring of the giants,
Two-formed, strange, without equal, who do not obey the gold-haired Rulers.
In vain rebelling, they rage, until they die by the swords of heroes,
Even as this beast must die; for I burn with the anger of my father,
Wandering, led by Athené; and dare whatever may come.
Led by Athené I gained from the gray-haired, terrible sisters
Secrets hidden from mankind, when I found them asleep on the sand dunes,
Keeping their eye and their tooth, until they showed me the perilous path
Across the waterless ocean, the valley leading to the Gorgon.
Her too I slew in my cunning, Medusa, the beautiful terror;
Taught by Athené, I killed her, and did not see her but her reflection,
Watching it in the brass mirror of the shield the goddess lent me.
Cleaving her brass-scaled throat, as she lay with her serpents around her,
Fearlessly I took her head, in the folds of the mystical goat-skin
The hide of Amaltheié, fair nurturer of the Ægis-wielder.
Here I bring it, a gift to the gods, and death to my enemies,
Turning the seer to stone; to shield your eyes from the horror.
Kiss me just once, and I will go.’
Then lifting her neck,
Like a seabird
Peeking over the wave, from the foam-white swells of her bosom,
Blushing, she kissed him: far away, on the highest Idalian summit
The joy of her heart shone, as the queen Aphrodité smiled.
Releasing his arms from her waist, he flew upward, waiting for the sea beast.
It came from the south, bulky and black as a ship,
Lazily cruising, as fish fled leaping before it;
Lazily cutting through the waves, watching by sandbar and headland,
Listening for the laughter of maidens at bleaching, or the song of the fisherman,
Children playing on the pebbles, or cattle pawing the sand dunes.
Rolling and dripping, it approached, where propped in shimmering purple
Cold on the cold sea-weeds lay the long white sides of the maiden,
Trembling, her face in her hands, and her hair floating in the water.
As when an osprey aloft, dark-eyed, royally crested,
Flies by cove and creek, scornful of the ire of Nereus
Ranging, the king of the shore; if he sees on a glistening shallows,
Chasing the bass and mullet, the dorsal fin of a blundering dolphin,
Halted, he circles around slowly, doubting the weight of his catch,
Whether to clutch it alive, or to fall on the wretch like a plummet,
Stunning with terrible talons the life from its spine in the back of its head:
Then he rushes upward with a scream, diving down,
As the wrath of his eyebrows falls from the sky, like a star, while the wind rattles hoarse in his wings.
Over him the foam covers for a moment; and then from the sandbed
Rises the great fish, dead, its side gleaming white in the sun.
Thus the boy fell upon the beast, unveiling the face of the Gorgon;
Thus the boy fell upon the beast; thus the beast rolled in its horror,
Once, as the dead eyes glared into his; then its sides, sharpened by death,
Stiffened and stood, brown rock, in the wash of the wandering water.
Beautiful, eager, triumphant, he leaped back to his treasure;
Leapt back again, fully blessed, towards arms spread wide to welcome him.
Full of honor he took her, and full of love she embraced him,
Answering lip with lip; while above them the queen Aphrodité
Poured on their foreheads and limbs, unseen, ambrosial fragrances,
Givers of longing, and ecstasy, and pure joy in unions.
Happy is he whom, before they wed, anoints she, the Queen Aphrodité!
Laughing, she called to her sister, the chaste Tritonid Athené,
‘Do you see your pupil yonder, you maid of the Ægis-wielder?
How he has turned completely to love, and is embracing a maiden,
No longer dreaming of honor, danger, or Pallas Athené?
Sweeter, it seems, are my gifts to the young; so give me the boy;
Give him to me now, lest he die in his prime, like unfortunate Adonis.’
Smiling, she responded in turn, the chaste Tritonid Athené:
‘Dear to me, no less than to you, is the marriage of heroes;
Dear, to find a wife worthy of him; and noble,
Pure with the pure to beget brave children, the children like their father.
Happy is he who thus stands connected to the heroes who were, and who will be;
Girdled with holy reverence, not sparing of himself; for his mother
Watches over his steps with the eyes of the gods; and his wife and children
Encourage him to plan and act in the fields, and the camp, and the council.
From such comes prosperity to a nation: but woe upon woe, when the people
Mingle in love at their will, like beasts, not considering the future.’
Then from her gold-strung loom, where she worked in her cedar chamber,
Awful and beautiful she rose; and she passed through the glens of Olympus;
Passed through the islands of the sea, and the wind never ruffled her mantle;
Passed by the waters of Crete, and the black-beaked fleets of the Phœnicians;
Came to the sea-washed rock that is forever being washed by the waves,
Bringing the wealth of the gods, as a gift to the bride of a hero.
There she encountered Andromede and Perseus, shaped like Immortals;
Solemn and sweet was her smile, while their hearts thudded with joy at her arrival;
Solemn and sweet was her smile, as she spoke to the pair with her wisdom.
‘Three things we, the Rulers, who sit by the fountains of Olympus, hold,
Wisdom, and prowess, and beauty; and freely we pour them on mortals;
Pleased with our image in man, as a father is with his in his children.
One thing only we begrudge to mankind: when a hero, ungrateful,
Boasts of our gifts as his own, stubborn, and dishonors the givers,
Turning our weapons against us. Him, Até follows for retribution;
Slowly she tracks him with certainty, like a hunting dog; suddenly she seizes him,
Crushing him, blind in his pride, as a warning and terror to those who act foolishly.
This we avenge, as is right; never weary of giving in all else.
Come, then, maiden, and see if the gods begrudge pleasure to mortals.’
Loving and gentle her words: but the maiden stood in awe, as the goddess
Wove with her soft, swift fingers through her hair, and adorned her with jewels,
Armlet and anklet and earbell; and over her shoulders a necklace,
Heavy, enameled, the finest of gold and the brass of the mountain.
Trembling with joy, she gazed, so well had Hephaestus made it,
Deep in the forges of Ætna, while Charis, his lady, beside him
Blended her grace in his craft, as he labored for his sister Athené.
Then on the maiden’s brow, a veil was bound Pallas Athené;
Ample it fell to her feet, richly fringed, a marvel of weaving.
Ages and ages ago it was created on the heights of Olympus,
Woven in the gold-strung loom, by the finger of cunning Athené.
In it, she wove all creatures that teem in the womb of the ocean;
Nereids, sirens, tritons, and dolphins, and swift fish
Glittering around, fiercely colored, on the flame-red folds of the mantle.
In it, she also wove a city, where gray-haired kings sat in judgment;
Scepter in hand they sat in the marketplace, doing right by the people,
Wise: while above them watched Justice, and nearby, far-seeing Apollo.
Around it, she wove as a fringe all herbs of the earth and the water,
Violet, asphodel, ivy, and vine leaves, roses and lilies,
Coral and sea-fan and seaweed, the blooms and palms of the ocean:
Now from Olympus, she bore it, a dowry to the bride of a hero.
Over the limbs of the maiden she draped it: the girl still trembled,
Covering her face with her hands; for the gaze of the goddess was daunting.
Then, as a pine on Ida when southwest winds blow towards land,
Stately she bent to the maiden, and breathed on her: under her breath,
She grew taller and more beautiful; and the goddess spoke with her wisdom.
‘I grant you courage; the heart of a queen, and the mind of Immortals;
Godlike in discourse with the gods, and to gaze on their eyes unflinching;
Fearing no more the sun or the stars, nor the blue salt water;
Only fearing us, lords of Olympus, friends of heroes;
Chastely and wisely to govern yourself, and your home and your people,
Bearing a godlike lineage for your husband, until, dying, I set you
High as a star in the heavens, a sign and hope to the sailors,
Spreading your long white arms all night in the heights of the ether,
Close to your father and your hero husband, while near you your mother
Sits in her ivory chair, as she braids ambrosial locks.
All night long you will shine; all day you will feast on Olympus,
Happy, guest of the gods, by your husband, the god-born.’
Blissful, they turned to leave: but the fair-haired Pallas Athené
Rose, like a pillar of tall white cloud, towards silver Olympus;
Far above ocean and shore, and the peaks of the isles and the mainland;
Where no frost nor storm exists, in clear blue calm abysses,
High in the summer home, the seats of the joyful Immortals,
Shrouded in sharp, deep light, unreachable; there ever youthful
Hebé, Harmonié, and Jupiter's daughter, Aphrodité,
Whirled in the white-linked dance with the golden-crowned Hours and the Graces,
Hand in hand, while clear piped Phœbe, queen of the woodlands.
All day long they reveled: but Athené still in her chamber
Bowed over her loom, as the stars rang with her singing,
Chanting of order and right, and foresight, guardian of nations;
Chanting of labor and craft, and of wealth in the harbor and the granary;
Chanting of valor and glory, and the man who can fall with the foremost,
Fighting for his family and wife, and the land which his father left him.
Sweetly and seriously she sang, planning new lessons for mortals:
Happy, who listening obey her, the wise untainted Athené.

Eversley, 1852

And if she dies, her grave should be
On the top of a sunny hill,
In the moorlands of her beautiful land,
Surrounded by a circle of old, moss-covered stones
In gorse and heather all around.
There shouldn't be a tall headstone or a marble tomb
Above her gentle body;—the heavy structure
Would weigh too harshly on those delicate limbs.
The grass should softly cover the spot that marked her home.
It would be a sacred place—every bird
That came to visit her lonely grave would be blessed.
The deer should graze around her in peace;
The whin bird should build her nest nearby
Without fear, for in life she loved to see
Joy in everything—
And we would come on summer days
When everything was bright, and sit down
And think of all that lay beneath that grass
Where the careless moor-bird sits and sings
His long, shrill, sad song, as if he mourned
For her who loved him and his lovely hills;
And we would dream again of days gone by
Until our eyes filled with natural tears
For bright hopes—all faded away!
Like on the sands of Irak, where getting closer
Destroys the traveler’s vision of still lakes,
And beautiful streams lined with reeds, and green meadows;
And leaves behind the bleak reality
Of featureless, shifting, yet unchanging sand!
And when dark clouds gathered above
Mountains upon mountains rolling—and thick mist
Wrapped itself around the hilltops like a shroud,
When the moaning wind swept across her grave,
Bending the heather-bells—then I would come
And keep watch by her, in quiet solitude,
And smile at the storm—knowing well
The lightning’s flash would surely veer away,
And not disturb the humble mound, where peacefully rests
All that gave life and love to one caring heart!
I speak of things that aren't real; and if my prayers
By night and day worked from my weak lips,
Then they should never happen! until I'm gone,
Before the friends I cherished, to my final resting place.
Oh forgive me if I ever say too much; my mind
Too often strangely drifts to inappropriate laughter,
As if I had no doubt or hope beyond—
Or deep melancholy weighs down my soul
With thoughts of days wasted, of time lost
And bitter feelings buried in jokes.
Then strange and frightening thoughts flit through my mind
Made more terrifying by their vagueness,
And nightmares mock me with fierce eyes
On my bed: and crude, horrifying visions,
Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity,
Space, time, thought, existence, empty nothingness,
Incorporeal things, images of the mind,
Seen, heard, as if they were real,
All tangled in sickening patterns, disturb me,
And pull my soul away from earth and heaven
Until I question whether I exist or not!
And then I see all kinds of terrifying shapes—thin ghosts,
Monsters, mythical creatures, endless sands,
Barren and devoid of living sound—tall mountains
Piercing the sky with immeasurable heights,
Up which perhaps I climb for endless years; wide seas,
Littered with countless islands that stretch
Beyond the sun’s reach, and fade
Into great distances, or dreary clouds,
Cold, dark, and watery, where I wander forever!
Or empty space, where I drift eternally!
A speck, an atom—indestructible—
Immortal, hopeless, silent, powerless!
And often I think, I am weak and old,
And all who loved me, one by one, have died,
And I am left alone—and cannot die!
Surely there is no rest on earth for souls
Whose dreams are like those of a madman! I am young
And there is still so much ahead of me—after years
May bring peace to my weary heart!

Helston, 1835.

There was a low, ivy-covered roof,
As watching country folks say,
In the days of knights and songs
'Called the holy well.

Above the gray ivy branches
In shining clusters gleamed;
While around the base the bright grass blades
And spiky foxglove grew.

The brambles wrapped around in elegant loops,
Covering the old gray stone
With shiny leaves, whose vivid surface
In autumn’s colors gleamed.

Around the fountain’s eastern base
   A babbling brook sped,
With a soft, sleepy murmur flowing gently
   Down its gravelly bed.

Within the cell, the delicate ferns
To attract the
clear wave leaned;
And soft mosses to the stone
Their charming embroidery added.

The fountain's surface was as calm as glass—
   Except where the little stream
Trickled over the basin's rough edge
   Flowing quietly.

Above the well, a small nook
   Once held, as the locals say,
All adorned with garlands, an image of
   The Lady of the Well.

They tell stories of mystery,
   Of dark deeds of sorrow;
But no! such actions can’t disturb
   The sacred stream’s flow.

Oh, don’t tell me about bitter thoughts,
   About sad dreams,
By that lovely fountain whose bright wall
   Soaks up the western sun.

When I last saw that little stream,
   A shape of light stood there,
That looked like a precious gem,
   Beneath that rough archway:

And as I looked at that delicate being with love and wonder
   I thought that ethereal figure must be
   The fairy of spring.

Helston, 1835.

I would have loved: there are no friends in heaven;
I would be great: there’s no pride in heaven;
I would have sung, like the nightingale
On a summer night beneath the pale moon,
But only saints' hymns can be heard in heaven.
My love, my song, my skill, my high hopes,
I have contained within this humble book:
And all the beauty that I cherished in my heart,
Whether it was a lovely face or form,
Or a plant or flower, or a grand cathedral,
Lies spread across these pages below,
In intricate designs carefully displayed.
Lord, in this book I dedicate to you
The sinful fruits of worldly imagination.

1839.

The dreams surrounded Harold the Earl,
   Like dust in the beam of sunlight;
And above him stood the Weird Lady,
In her enchanted castle by the sea,
   Sang
‘Lie still and dream.’

‘Your horse is dead in his stall, Earl Harold,
   Since you’ve been with me;
The rust has eaten your shiny harness,
And the rats have eaten your light greyhound,
   That was so beautiful and free.’

Mary Mother, she came down from heaven;
She woke Earl Harold
out of his dream,
   To put on his armor;
And
over the land and over the sea
He traveled back to his own country,
   A long and tiring way to go.

Oh, but his beard was white with age,
   Oh, but his hair was gray;
He stumbled over roots and rocks,
And as he traveled, he groaned
   Along that tired path.

Earl Harold arrived at his castle wall;
   The gate was burned with fire;
The roof and rafters had collapsed,
The people were all strangers in the town,
   And strangers throughout the shire.

Earl Harold arrived at a convent,
   And he heard the death bell ring;
He saw the caretaker by a grave;
‘Now Christ have mercy, who saved us,
   On that beautiful nun’s soul.’

The nuns came from the convent gate
   One by one, two by two, three by three;
They sang for the soul of a shining lady
Who died for the love of a treacherous knight:
   It was his own lady.

He kept the body next to the grave;
   ‘A sign, a sign!’ he said.
‘Mary Mother who rules heaven,
Send me a sign if I am forgiven
   By the woman who loved me so much.’

A white dove flew out of the coffin;
kissed Earl Harold’s mouth;
He fell on his face, wherever he was;
And the white dove took his soul to God
before the bearers knew.

Durham, 1840.

You mountains, with your steep, ravaged slopes,
And your bare and silent peaks reaching for the sky,
I often envied the spirit that inhabits
Your vastness of pure, intense beauty, and stillness
Uninterrupted by the trivial happenings
Of noisy life: Oh hear me once more!

Winds, with your chaotic swirls high above,
Beyond the noise of the restless world,
My thoughts joyfully found their path:
Your soft whispers through the rustling grove
Once sounded to me like otherworldly love,
Joy without a reason, wordless music, flowing
Through my entire being, until my heart raced
With aimless hope and unspoken longing—
Oh sea, you were my deep prophet
Through your restless waves and eroding shores,
Of quiet effort and endless change;
First teacher of the vast expanse
Of ever-moving life, in your strange shapes
Of fish, shell, worm, and slimy seaweed:
To me, both your turmoil and your calm
Have brought a profound and breathless joy: Oh hear!

Mountains, winds, and waves, take back your child!
Upon your soothing embrace, Mother Nature,
Where my young spirit dreamed its years away,
Let me once more find comfort: I have wandered
Far into another world, which is not yours.
Through sunless cities,
And the tired places of smoke-filled work and wild parties
My tired wings have flown. A lonely bird’s
My journey has been; through sin and doubt,
And darkness, searching for love.
Oh hear me, Nature!
Welcome me back: but not alone;
No more alone, Great Mother!
I have brought
One who has strayed, yet has not sinned, like me.
Upon your lap, let us lie as twin children;
And in the light of your eternal eyes
Let our souls blend, until
The Father calls
To some eternal home the duty He gives you.

Cambridge, 1841.

Twin stars, high in the clear sky,
   Always spinning around each other,
In their own shared atmosphere
   Of their mutual light and day.

And countless joyful eyes are focused
On their eternal love always;
As, united by their shared purpose,
They bring forth the flow of life and light.

So we, through this world's fading night, hand in hand, make our way; Surround us with order, love, and light, And shine into the perfect day.

1842.

Under their down blankets
Brown turnip and golden globe,
Feathered carrot, burrowing deep,
Steadfast wait in charmed sleep;
Treasure-houses where they lie,
Locked by angels’ magic,
Milk and hair,
and blood, and bone,
Children of the barren stone;
Children of the fiery Air,
With his keen and bare blue eye,
Spirit-populated, smiling down
On frozen fields and busy towns—
Busy towns that won’t listen
To God’s voice for rage and greed;
Frozen fields that lie in white,
Gazing patiently at the sky;
Like some marble-carved nun,
With her hands folded when work is done,
Who silently on her tomb does pray,
Until the resurrection day.

Eversley, 1845.

Jesus loves everyone,
Jesus loves little kids,
Their souls are gathered around His feet
Up high, before His mercy seat.

While He walked down here
Little children came to Him,
They knelt at His feet and prayed,
He laid His hands on their heads.

A spirit came to them then,
Better than that of strong men,
A spirit faithful, pure, and gentle,
A spirit suitable for both king and child.

Oh! that Spirit grant to me,
Jesus Lord, wherever I am!

1847.

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
   Oh what a lovely view to see
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,
   While my love climbed up to me!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
   Oh the joyful hours we spent
Lying deep in ferns on Airly Beacon,
   Wasting time through the summer day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
   Oh the tired spot for me,
All alone on Airly Beacon,
   With his child on my knee!

1847.

She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
Above her blazed the noon; beneath, the sea.
On the white horizon, Atho’s peak
Simmered in a burning haze; all winds were still;
The cicadas rested among the tamarisk’s branches;
The birds sat silent and drooping. Far
Below, the lazy seaweed sparkled in the sun;
The lazy seabirds dried their steaming wings;
The gentle swell crept whispering up the ledge,
And sank back again. Great Pan was at rest;
And Mother Earth watched over him as he slept,
And hushed her countless children for a moment.
She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
And sighed for sleep, for sleep that wouldn’t come,
But left her tossing still; for night and day
A powerful hunger yearned within her heart,
Until all her veins burned with fever; and her cheek,
Her long thin hands, and ivory-channelled feet,
Were withered by the draining of her soul.
Then, irritated, she flung herself on her face,
And hid her eyes from the blinding glare,
And fiddled with the grass, trying to cool
Her hot lips against the hot ground:
Then she lifted her head and cast
Wild glances from homeless eyes, whose
Liquid light
Gleamed out between deep waves of blue-black hair,
Like gleaming twin lakes between the purple peaks
Of deep Parnassus, under the sorrowful moon.
Beside her lay her lyre. She grabbed
The instrument,
And brought wild music from its silver strings;
Then tossed it aside sadly.—‘Oh, hush!’ she cries;
‘Dead offspring of the tortoise and the mine!
Why mock my discord with your harmonies?
Even if a thrice-Olympian fate is yours,
You only echo back every tone
Of the moods of nobler souls than yours.’

Eversley, 1847 From *Yeast*.

The cheerful brown rabbits came bounding
   Over the top of the hill,
Where the clover and corn were resting
   Under the soft moonlight.

Leaping late and early,
   Until under their bite and their tread
The swedes and the wheat and the barley
   Lie cankered and trampled and dead.

A poacher’s widow sat sighing
On the side of the white chalk bank,
Where under the gloomy fir trees
One spot in the field thrived lush.

She looked at a long bunch of clover,
   Where rabbits or hares never came;
For its dark, bitter stems concealed
   The blood of a murdered man.

She thought about the dark plantation,
   And the hares, and her husband’s blood,
And the voice of her anger
   Rose up to the throne of God.

‘I am long past crying and complaining—
   I have cried too much in my life:
I’ve spent twenty years longing
   As an English laborer’s wife.

‘A laborer in Christian England,
   Where they talk about a Savior’s name,
And yet waste men’s lives like vermin’s
   For just a few more birds to hunt.

‘There’s blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,
   There’s blood on your pointer’s feet;
There’s blood on the game you sell, squire,
   And there’s blood on the game you eat.

‘You have sold the working man, squire,
Body and soul to shame,
To pay for your seat in the House, squire,
And to pay for the feed of your game.

‘You turned him into a poacher yourself, squire,
   When you wouldn’t provide either work or food,
And your barley-fed hares
   Stole from the garden at our starving children’s feet;

‘When, squeezed into one stinking room,
   Man, woman, mother, and children lay;
While the rain dripped onto the decaying bridal bed,
   And the walls allowed the daylight in.

‘When we lay in the burning fever
   On the mud of the cold clay floor,
Till you separated us all for three months, squire,
   At the dreary workhouse door.

‘We fought like animals, and who wouldn't?
   What self-respect could we have,
Worse off than your horses and your dogs,
   Worse fed than your pigs and your sheep?

‘Our daughters with low-born babies
Have wandered away in their shame,
If your ladies had slept, squire,
Your ladies might do the same.

‘Can your lady mend hearts that are breaking
With handfuls of coals and rice,
Or by handing out flannel and sheeting
A little below the cost price?

‘You might get fed up with the jail and the workhouse,
   And move on to community gardens and schools,
But you’ve racked up a debt that will never
   Be cleared under penny-club rules.

‘In the season of shame and sadness,
   In the dark and gloomy days,
When sickness, pain, and madness
   Are devouring your people away;

‘When to kennels and liveried servants
   You have thrown away your daughter’s chance,
And, exhausted from drink and women,
   Your heir lies dead at your feet;

‘When your youngest, the soft-spoken rector,
   Lets your soul decay as you drift to the grave,
You will find in your God the protector
   Of the freeman you thought was your slave.’

She stared at the clump of clover,
   And cried until her heart felt lighter;
And finally, when her emotions calmed,
   Walked off into the night.

But the happy brown hares kept jumping
   Across the hills still,
Where the clover and corn were resting
   On the slope of the white chalk hill.

Eversley, 1847.
From *Yeast*.

Oh, off she went like a beautiful bride
To meet her charming groom,
When she noticed two lovely birds
Sitting nestled in the broom.

The house was built with the lush green moss,
   But and the grasses so nice,
And the other with a strand of lady’s hair
   Tied up with silver twine.

‘Oh where did you find the green, green moss,
   Oh where the fine bent grass?
And where did you get the lovely brown hair
   That once was a lock of mine?’

‘We got the moss from the ancient aisle,
   The grasses from the windy moor,
And a false knight threw us the
   Lovely brown hair,
   To please his fancy new partner.’

‘Go pull, go pull the soft leaves,
   And scatter them gently over me;
My token's color, my love is false,
   I’ll lie down and die.’

1847.

A young gay knight in Burley stood,
Next to him, his amazing horse pawed,
He wrung his hands as if he were made of wood
   Waiting for his love, O!

‘Oh, is she coming, or is she staying,
Or is she going to waste
The tired day
With fools who want her gone,
   And hate her for her love O?’

But then came a huge boar,
His jaw and tusks stained with blood,
And on his curled snout he wore
   A bracelet that's both rich and rare O!

The knight shouted, he ran, he rushed,
He searched the wild woods everywhere,
But found nothing except a blue cloak,
   Low hidden in the bushes O!

He twisted the wild briar, red and white,
On his head, the decorated garland
The green leaves shriveled black as night,
   And burned into his mind, oh!

A fire raged inside him,
He set off on a pointless search,
He rested his untouched lance,
   And ventured through the woods O!

By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh,
Through the stream and bramble
he quickly made his way,
Until he saw the endless ocean,
   That
called with all its waves O!

He laughed out loud at the roar,
And galloped his horse down the shore,
The deep waves rolled him over and over,
   And swept him away with the tide!

New Forest, July 12, 1847.

Oh, she stumbled over Ocknell plain,
   And fell by Bradley Water;
And the prettiest girl on the forest side
   Was Jane, the keeper’s daughter.

She walked on and on across the wide gray lawns
   As the red sun set,
And as cold as the smell of a freshly dug grave
   The mist smelled chilly and damp.

‘A sign, a sign!’ that beautiful girl exclaimed,
   ‘A sign that brings me sadness;
For those who catch a whiff of death at night
   Will see the body by tomorrow.

‘My true love in Burley Walk
   Is out hunting tonight, I worry;
And if he runs into my strict father,
   His hunt might end badly.

‘Ah, here’s a curse on hare and grouse,
   A curse on hart and hind;
And a toast to the squire in all England,
   Leaves never a head behind.’

Her true love shot a powerful deer
   In the standing rye,
When that old keeper jumped on him
   From the ferns where he was hiding.

The forest laws were strict and severe,
   The forest blood was intense;
They were bound together for life and death
   Beneath the green hollies.

The metal object and the walnut wood
   Did soon splinter and break;
They threw the scraps to the south and north,
   And fought knee to knee.

They fought up, they fought down,
   They kept on fighting, feeling sore;
Under their feet the sweet myrtle
   Was smashed into mud and gore.

Ah, cold pale moon, you cruel pale moon,
   That stare without a frown
On all the grim and ghastly things
   That are done in village and town:

And yet, cold pale moon, you cruel pale moon,
   That night never had the grace
To help two dying Christian men
   To see each other’s face.

They fought up, they fought down,
   They fought hard and still,
The demon who blinds people's eyes
   That night he got his way.

Like exhausted stags, among the grass
   They stopped for a moment to rest;
When the young man plunged his knife
   Deep into the old man’s chest.

The old man slammed his gunstock down
   On the young man’s head;
And side by side, by the muddy water,
   Those two yeomen lay dead.

They dug three graves in Lyndhurst yard;
   They dug them side by side;
Two farmers lie there, and a beautiful maiden
   A widow and never a bride.

In the New Forest, 1847.

The King was drinking in Malwood Hall,
When a monk came in
Before everyone:
He pushed past the squire, he pushed past the knight,
And stood directly across from the dais;
And said, ‘The word of the Lord,
You cruel Red King,
The word of the Lord I bring to you.
I had a grim dream last night;
I saw you lying under the holly trees,
And an arrow piercing your heart;
And from your body smoke was rising,
Blocking out the sunlight:
So if you are God’s anointed,
I advise you to take a good look at your soul.
For you have sold your crown and robes,
A false knight to Christ, for profit and wealth;
And because of this, your forest has been cleared,
Settlements, hamlets, and tall churches;
And Christ’s poor have been driven out,
To beg for bread from south to north.
So stay at home, and fast and pray,
Or demons will pursue you on judgment day.’

The monk disappeared right where he stood;
King William jumped up, angry and wild;
He said, ‘Fools’ minds will connect like that;
The Hampshire ale and the stormy weather
Have made us both lose our senses, I think;
And monks are cursed when they start drinking.
I had a terrible dream last night,
How a scary knight hovered near me,
And struck me down to the pit of hell;
I screamed and woke up, I fell so fast.
There’s Tyrrel, as grumpy as I am, indeed,
So he shall hunt with me;‘tis grimly fun to see a deer.’

The Red King came down from Malwood;
His heart was all on fire with wine,
His eyes were shot and red as blood,
He cursed and swore, no matter where he rode.
They startled a stag, that grim beast,
A stag of ten points, a fat beast,
That fled toward the king’s palace.
The sun blinded the king’s eye;
A moment behind his hocks he shot:
‘Shoot now,’ he said, ‘in the devil’s name,
To lose such a prize would bring seven years of shame.’
And he raised his hand to mark the game.
Tyrrel shot without hesitation, God knows;
Whether the saints guided the shot,
Or whether it was treachery, no one knows,
But under the arm, in a hidden spot,
The bullet pierced the king’s heart.
The ground squelched where the Red King fell;
And the demons took his soul to hell,
Saying, ‘His master’s name served him well.’

Tyrrel smiled grimly that day,
Saying, ‘Killing kings is no child’s game;’
And he kicked his horse and took off quickly.
As he sped along the Fritham plain,
The green tufts flew behind like rain;
The waters were high, and across the grass:
He swam his horse like a strong lord:
People call that water Tyrrel’s ford.
By Rhinefield and Osmondsleigh,
Through thickets and bushes, he tore through,
Until he heard the roaring sea;
He said, ‘Those beautiful waves call to me.’
By the grace of Mary, a small boat
Was floating by Christchurch bar;
He gave the shipmen a coin and a groat,
To ferry him over to Normandy,
And there he sought sanctuary;
God grant his soul all the bliss to see.

And protect our princes one and all,
From bad luck and betrayal;
But kings who harm Christian people
Shall never be welcomed in England again.

In the New Forest, 1847,

Oh, I wouldn't want to be a farmer, mom, to follow my father's trade,
To bend my back in muddy fields, with plow, hoe, and spade.
Depriving my wife, kids, and cows, to fatten some courtier lord—
Let them die of rent if they want, mom, and I’ll die by the sword.

Nor would I want to be a clerk, mom, stuck in here all the time,
Scratching away on sheets of parchment with a tired, tired pen;
Staring out the long stone windows at a narrow slice of sky,
Like a lark in a willow cage, until I waste away and die.

Nor would I be a merchant, mother, in his long fur coat,
Dragging worn-out horses through the noisy, dusty town;
Bowing low to knights and ladies, fumbling over his goods,
Telling lies, and counting cash, piling troubles on troubles.

Nor would I be a soldier, Mom, to gamble with violent gangs,
Spending exhausting months in castles, watching over ruined lands.
Burning farms, and screaming women, and the gruesome sights of war—
There’s enough blood on my hands, Mom; it’s hard to add more.

If I had married a wife, mom, I might have been calm and quiet,
And sat at home by the fireplace to chat and laugh my heart out;
Sat at home with the woman I loved, and with kids at my knee:
But death is bold, and old age is cold, and love’s not for me.

For when I first moved inside you, mom, you know very well
How you stayed up all night among the deer out on the open hill;
And that's how I earned the desire to roam far and wide,
Not caring about land or girl, just the pretty brown deer.

Yet I’m not some useless, lazy person, mom, or a thief;
I just hunt God’s animals on God’s own hills;
Because no one buys and sells the deer, and the beautiful hills are free
For a knight with a hawk in hand, and a wanderer like me.

So I'm off to the moors, mom, to hunt the deer,
Venturing far from scowling faces and the calm people here;
Crawling through streams and bracken, jumping down the slopes,
Looking out from cliffs and headlands, breathing in the summer breeze.

Oh, the scent of heather honey, and the sound of the hillside,
As I watch the large deer feeding, closer, closer all day.
Oh, to hear the eagle screaming, soaring, echoing in the sky—
That’s a better life than tripping over the mud to tend the horses and cows.

And when I'm taken and hanged, mother, a little bit of my dear,
You won't leave your child to the crows, to dangle in the air;
But you'll send up my two gentle brothers,
And you'll take me down from the tree,
And bury me on the brown moors, where I've always wanted to be.

You’ll bury me between the hill and the stream, in a glen far away,
Where I can hear the grouse call, and the stags roar;
And if my ghost can walk, mom, I’ll go staring at the sky,
The whole night on the black hillsides where the brown deer lie.

In the New Forest, 1847.

There’s a bird in every tree;
         Sing heigh-ho!
There’s a bird in every tree,
And he’s wooing his love just like I’m wooing you;
      Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
   Young women have to marry.

There’s a flower blooming on every branch;
         Sing heigh-ho!
There’s a flower blooming on every branch,
Its petals touch—I’ll show you how:
      Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
   Young women should get married.

From the ocean to the river, the salmon wander;
         Sing heigh-ho!
From the ocean to the river, the salmon wander;
Each finds a partner and brings her home;
      Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
   Young women need to get married.

The sun's the groom, the earth's the bride;
         Sing heigh-ho!
They flirt from morning till evening:
The earth may fade, but love lasts.
      Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
   Young women need to get married.

Eversley, 1847.

Gloomy east winds howl around us;
Muddy fields stretch knee-deep before us;
Slush and ice and snow and sleet;
Aching backs and frozen feet;
Knees buckle as we quicken our pace,
Lines grow thinner as bodies pile up;
While we eat alongside scavenger birds,
Pretending puddle-water is sweet,
As we toast to our general's health, who struggles just as much as we do:
What can scare us, what can turn us away, led to our doom by someone like him?

Eversley, 1848.

The joyful lark was up and singing,
   And the hare was out and grazing in the field;
And the cheerful bells below were ringing,
   When my child's laughter filled the air.

Now the hare is caught and dead next to the snow yard,
   And the lark by the bleak winter sea;
And the baby in his crib in the graveyard
   Sleeps peacefully until the bell calls me.

Eversley, 1848.

A floating, a floating
Across the calm sea,
All night I heard a bird singing
At the very top of the tree.

‘Oh, did you come from the islands of Greece,
Or from the banks of the Seine;
Or from some tree in the open forests,
That line the western sea?’

‘I didn't come from the old world
Nor from the new—
But I am one of God's birds
That sing all night long.’

‘Oh sing, and wake the dawn—
Oh whistle for the wind;
The night is long, the current strong,
My boat is falling behind.’

‘The current carries away the old world,
The current carries the new;
The wind will blow, the dawn will shine
Before you have sailed them through.’

Eversley, 1848.

Wild wild wind, will you never stop your sighing?
   Dark dark night, will you never fade away?
Cold cold church, in your death sleep lying,
   The Lent is over, your Passion is here, but not your Easter day.

Peace, weak heart, even if the night is dark and sorrowful;
   Rest, beautiful body, where your Lord has laid.
Cry, dear Lord, over your bride who is lying low;
   Your tears will revive her frozen limbs to life and health again.

Eversley, 1848.

The church bells were ringing, the devil was singing
   On the stump of a rotting old tree;
‘Oh honestly, faith is dwindling, and the beliefs are getting old,
   And the world is almost ready for me.’

The bells kept ringing, a spirit started singing,
   And smiled as he broke the tree;
‘That forest just fades to nurture new growth,
   And the world is still alive enough for you.’

Eversley, 1848.

Early in spring, on chilly and windy mornings,
Beneath the freezing eaves, I heard the starlings sing—
‘Ah dreary March, is this really a time for building so slowly?
Sad, sad, to think that the year has just started.’

Late in the autumn, on calm and clear evenings,
Among the golden reed-beds, I heard the starlings sing—
‘Oh, that sweet month of March, when we and our partners were happily courting;
   It’s so sad to think that the year is almost over.’

Eversley, 1848.

See how the autumn leaves drift by, decaying,
Down the wild swirls of the rain-swollen stream.
So quickly the works of men return to their earth again;
Ancient and sacred things fade like a dream.

No! Look at the spring blossoms coming out in May,
Dressing the orchard and glen in soft colors;
So, even though old forms fade away,
Their spirit will never die,
Look! England’s bare branches are showing green leaves again.

Eversley, 1848.

‘Watchman, what's the situation for tonight?’
‘The stars are shining in the sky;
And the cheerful round moon will be up
Soon, for us to go sailing by.’

‘Watchman, what's going on at night?’
‘The tide is coming in from the sea;
There's enough water for a small boat
That will take fisherman like us.’

‘Watchman, what’s happening at night?’
‘Night is a time of abundance;
When many couples welcome beautiful children,
To be baptized at morning's bell.’

1849.

Who will say the world is dying?
Who will say our best days are behind us?
Bright sparks from Heaven, resting inside us,
Flash, and will keep flashing until the end.
Fools! who think Christ was wrong;
That humanity is just a way to buy and sell;
That Earth is a failure, abandoned by God,
An entrance to Hell.

Still the race of Hero-spirits
Pass the lamp
from hand to hand;
Age from age the Words inherits—
‘Wife,
and Child, and Fatherland.’
Still the young hunter gathers
Fiery joy from hill and forest;
He will dare as his fathers did
Give him a worthy cause.

While a slave cries out about his chains;
While an orphan begs without hope;
While a child stumbles over his letters,
The heir to all the progress of the age;
While lips are ready for kissing;
While a man is in pain;
Know, through every need and blessing,
That the world is still young.

1849.

‘O Mary, go and bring the cattle back,
      And bring the cattle back,
      And bring the cattle back
   Across the sands of Dee;’
The western wind was wild and damp with foam,
   And she went alone.

The western tide slowly moved up the beach,
      And again and again over the sand,
      And around and around the sand,
   As far as the eye could see.
The rolling mist fell and covered the land:
   And she never returned home.

‘Oh! Is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—
      A lock of golden hair,
      A drowned girl’s hair
   Above the nets at sea?
There was never a salmon that looked so beautiful
   Among the stakes on Dee.’

They rowed her in through the choppy waves,
      The harsh, creeping waves,
      The cruel hungry waves,
   To her grave by the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her calling the cattle home
   Across the sands of Dee.

Eversley, 1849.

How peacefully that rock sleeps, having finished its bath in the sun.
With its broad, shadowed side under the bright sun,
Like a tired sea nymph resting on soft moss.
Yet, as we get closer, we see her slowly weeping
From her drooping brows beneath her purple locks.
So many wives for their cruel husbands’ affection
Must suffer quietly inside but put on
A brave face for the flashy world outside.

Ilfracombe, 1849.

Weary stretches the sand to the waves, and the waves to the clouds;
Wearily I ride on, watching the water alone.
Not like before, like Homeric Achilles, κυδει yαιων,
Joyful knight-errant of God, eager for work and conflict;
No longer on a magical horse flying freely through the skies,
But, like the old horse I ride, trading my strength for money.
Fruitful autumn is gone; let the sad quiet winter hang over me—
What is spring to a soul weighed down with sorrow and shame?
Blooms would annoy me with their beauty; my heart has no time to appreciate them;
Gray rock, branch, wave, cloud, awaken no longing within.
Don’t sing, sky-lark above! even angels pass quietly by the weeper.
Scream on, sea-birds! my heart echoes your desolate cry.
Blow on, wild wind, drifting over the shell and seaweed;
Seaweed and shell, like my dreams, swept away by the merciless tide.
Just is the wave that tore us apart; it’s Nature’s own law that condemns us;
Woe to the weak who, in pride, build on the faith of sand!
Joy to the mountain oak: he relies on the strength of the rocky cliffs;
Deeply he digs, and in peace thrives on the wealth of the stone.

Morte Sands, Devon,
February 1849.

I can’t tell what you’re saying, green leaves,
   I can’t tell what you’re saying:
But I know there’s a spirit in you,
   And a message in you today.

I can't understand what you’re saying, pretty rocks,
   I can’t understand what you’re saying:
But I know there's a spirit within you,
   And a message from you today.

I can't understand what you're saying, brown streams,
   I can't understand what you're saying:
But I know that within you too a spirit lives,
   And a word speaks today.

‘Oh, green is the color of faith and truth,
And rose is the color of love and youth,
And brown is the color of fertile soil.
Sweet Earth is loyal, and bountiful, and young,
And her wedding day will come soon,
And you will understand what the rocks and the streams
And the whispering woodlands say.’

Drew’s Teignton, Dartmoor,
July 31, 1849.

Forward! Hear the call to move forward!
One more fence and we’ll be out in the open,
So come to us right away if you want to be close!
Listen to them, ride with them, beauties! as they move ahead,
Leaping and sweeping through the valley below!
Cowards and fools, whose heart or eyes are slow,
   Find themselves left behind.

So the big cause rushes by;
Closer and clearer its goals reveal themselves,
While the louder and prouder voices of the world cheer us on:
Gentlemen sportsmen, you should rise to our level,
Guide us, uplift us, and shout for our game—
We can’t call the hounds off, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of—
Don’t be left standing there by yourself!

Eversley, 1849.

Weep, weep, weep and weep,
For the poor, the fool, and the oppressed!
Listen! From the barren moors and marshes,
Feverish alley, suffocating hideout,
Rises the cry of Saxon men—
Work! or the grave!

Down, down, down and down,
   With lazy people, crooks, and tyrants!
Why should hard workers suffer for the lazy?
Anyone who won’t work for a living
Has no place on English soil!
God’s word is our warrant!

Up, up, up and up!
Face your game and play it!
The night is over, look at the sun!
The idols are falling, the lie is over!
The Judge is ready, the reckoning has started!
Who can stop it?

On Torridge, May 1849.

The Day of the Lord is near, so near:
   Its storms gather in the sky:
Nations are slumbering, starving on piles of gold;
   All dreamers toss and sigh;
The night is darkest before the dawn;
When the pain is greatest, the child is born,
      And the Day of the Lord is at hand.

Gather around, angels of God—
   Freedom, Mercy, and Truth;
Come! for the Earth has become cowardly and old,
   Come down and restore her youth.
Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Daring, and Love,
Hurry to the battlefield, descend from above,
      For the Day of the Lord is near.

Gather around, gather around, hounds of hell—
   Famine, and Plague, and War;
Idleness, Bigotry, Hypocrisy, and Misrule,
   Gather, and fall into the trap!
Paid servant and greedy opportunist, Bigot and Trickster,
Crawl to the battlefield, sneak to your grave,
      In the Day of the Lord that’s coming.

Who would sit down and sigh for a lost golden age,
   While the Lord of all time is here?
True hearts will jump at the call of God,
   And those who can endure, can take risks.
Each old golden age had its share of struggles,
And even the humblest of saints may have serious tasks to do,
      In the coming Day of the Lord.

On the Torridge, Devon,
September 10, 1849.

It was on a merry Christmas Eve,
   I walked past the church over the bleak moor—
‘Oh! this world won't ever escape sin, want, and sorrow,
   And the bells just mock the cries around; they sound so cheerful.
How long, O Lord! how long until You come again?
   Still in the cellar, the attic, and on the dreary moor,
The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor people work for nothing,
   Until the earth is tired of unfulfilled hope, even though the Christmas bells ring happily.’

Then a joyful noise arose from the wild birds on the lake,
   Beneath the stars, over the snow, like clear bells ringing,
And a voice within cried—‘Listen!—Christmas carols even here!
   Though you may be silent, yet above their work the stars and snow are singing.
Blind!  I live, I love, I reign; and all the nations through
   With the thunder of my judgments are echoing now.
Do your work just like those wild birds do,
   You won't be less aware of the sorrow, but will still hear the angels singing through it.’

Eversley, 1849.

It was a hairy owl, so proud he crept along,
A helpless hairy owl, and happily he sang—
‘My Minnie told me to stay home until I got my wings;
I’ll show her soon my soul is above the works of creeping things.’

This useless hairy owl came limping by the waterfall,
A gust of wind came down the valley and blew that owl in:
Oh when he hit the water, the salmon fry they jumped,
And tore him all to pieces, by his head and tail and toes.

Take warning then, young poets all, by this poor outcast’s shame;
Though Pegasus may neigh loudly, keep Pegasus at home.
Oh, keep your hands away from inkpots, though all the Muses entice;
For critics lie, like salmon fry, to make their meals of you.

Eversley, 1851.

Three fishermen set sail to the West,
   Away to the West as the sun was setting;
Each thought of the woman who cared for him the most,
   And the children stood watching them leave the town;
   For men have to work, and women have to cry,
   And there’s not much to earn, but a lot to provide,
      Even though the harbor bar is moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun set;
They watched the squall, and they observed the rain,
And the night mist rolled in, rough and brown.
But men have to work, and women have to weep,
Even though storms come quickly, and waters are deep,
And the harbor bar is groaning.

Three bodies lay on the shining sand
   In the morning light as the tide receded,
And the women are crying and wringing their hands
   For those who will never return to the town;
   For men have to work, and women have to mourn,
   And the sooner it's over, the sooner they can rest;
      And goodbye to the bar and its moaning.

Eversley, June 25, 1851.

Oh, you could have been a wife for Shakespeare himself!
No one, except for some world genius, should rest
Above the treasures of that perfect heart,
Or draw fresh light each night from those bright stars
Through which your soul impresses ours: yet you are stuck—
Oh, what a waste of nature!—with a cowardly fool;
To shameless lust and childish greed for money;
Athené with a Satyr: was that bond
Created by The Father’s hand? Man’s reason denies
The bans that God allowed.—Yes, that’s what we think:
Forgetting, you would have been weaker, yet truly blessed,
   Than made strong by suffering; and greater
   In martyrdom than sitting beside Caesar as his mate.

Eversley, 1851.

Ask if I love you? Oh, smiles can't say
More clearly than the tears that are showing now.
If I hadn't loved you, my sky would be clear:
If I hadn't loved you, I wouldn't be here,
      Crying by your side.

Ask if I love you? How else could I take
Pride from people's gossip, and strength from my pain?
Laugh when they mock the fanatic’s bride,
Knowing no happiness, except to work and endure
      Crying by you.

Andernach on the Rhine, August 1851.

The world rises and the world falls,
   And the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frown
   Will never happen again,
     Sweet wife:
   No, never happen again.

For a woman is warm even when a man is cold,
   And the night will make the day special;
Until the heart that was weary and old in the evening
   Can rise in the morning cheerful,
      Sweet wife;
   To its work in the morning cheerful.

Andernach, 1851.

My parents bow and lead them out,
   So everyone can see—
Oh well! the crowd probably wouldn't care
   To cheer for a little person like me.

They have no idea how much I could love,
   How I could plan and work hard,
To increase those workers’ limited earnings,
   Their small amounts of rye and oil.

They have no idea what dreams have been
   My playmates, night and day;
Of equal kindness, helpful care,
   A mother’s perfect control.

Now buried within convent walls,
   To rest in churchyard soil:
I wasn’t worthy of man,
   So I’m returned to God.

Bertrich in the Eifel, 1851.

The baby doesn’t sing while resting on its mother’s breast;
Nor do nightingales who snuggle up together;
Nor do I beside you: but let’s just part,
Then lips that should only kiss, and thus be quiet,
As if having said everything, must speak again—
O limited thoughts! O cold
And trapped rhyme
Yet my great joy, though still fully blessed,
Losing its rightful place, can find no peace:
So, like a
Child who passes the time
With dance and song until evening,
Watching its mother walk home through the valley;
Or a nightingale, who, sitting
Far away,
Tells his attentive mate within the nest
The wonder of his star-struck heart
Until all the awakened
Woodlands laugh and come alive—
All my
Being bubbles into song;
And rings out loud, not smooth, yet clear and strong.

Bertrich, 1851

Evil quickened the battle play
On Pope Calixtus’ day;
Powerful warlords, thanes, and nobles,
Slept the sleep of swords in Senlac.
Earl Harold, shot through his shield,
Lay across the autumn fields;
Such slaughter had never been
Since the Ethelings conquered England.
There came Lady Githa,
Weeping deeply from grief and shame;
How can she tell of her firstborn?
The French stripped him where he fell,
Wounded and disfigured his handsome face;
Who could recognize him in his place?
Two wise brothers then spoke,
‘Young hearts have the sharpest eyes;
The bird that leaves its mother’s nest,
Sheds its feathers, sheds its crest.
Let’s call for the Swan-neck here,
She who was his dear lover;
She will recognize him in this moment;
Wolf's foot, and the scent of hound,
Hawk's eye, and dove's wing,
Bring a woman to her love.’
The Swan-neck then spoke loudly,
‘Go! Let all your thanes cry out
How I loved him more than anyone,
I, whom people call his lover;
I knew his fair body better
Than the mother who gave him birth.
When you lived in wealth and joy,
You scorned to look at me;
God has brought the proud low,
While I walk among you in grief.’
Stirring up the gray eagle and the sallow gled,
Rousing the gray wolf from its meal,
Over free men, earls, and thanes,
Piles of slain, bare of mother’s care,
Across the bloody field tracing slowly,
The Swan-neck stooped, white as snow;
Never blushing nor turning away,
Until she found him where he lay;
She cradled him in her gentle arms,
Wrapped him in her golden hair,
Bore him from the battlefield,
Saw him laid in a leaden shroud,
Took him to a high minster,
To pray for Earl Harold’s soul.

Thus fell Harold, the giver of bracelets;
May Jesus rest his soul forever;
Deliver all Angles from bondage;
      Have mercy, Lord.

Eversley, 1851.

I heard an eagle crying all alone
Above the vineyards during the summer night,
Among the skeletons of old towers:
Because the ancient nest of his kind
Was dug out and surrounded by busy workers;
And all his forest and wildlands,
Where he fed his young with hares and deer,
Were neatly filled with grapes that swelled by the hour,
And tossed their golden tendrils to the sun
In joy over their own abundance:—So, I thought,
The great consumers of the earth will sit,
Idle and powerless, not knowing why,
Looking down from their barren heights of power
At nations that have become too wise to kill and enslave,
The puppets of the few; while peaceful knowledge
And mutual support bring joy to the heart of the earth,
With wonders that they fear and hate, just like he,
The eagle, hates the vineyard slopes below.

On the Rhine, 1851.

Over the campfires
I drank with heroes,
By the Danube
Warm in the snow trench:
I heard sagamen there,
Men of the Longbeards,
Cunning and ancient,
With voices sweet as honey.
Scaring the wolf cub,
Scaring the horned owl,
Shaking the snow wreaths
Down from the pine boughs,
Up to the starry sky
Their song rang out.
Singing how the Winil men,
Across the ice floes
Sledding from Scanland
Came to Scoring;
Singing of Gambara,
Freya’s beloved,
Mother of Ayo,
Mother of Ibor.
Singing of Wendel men,
Ambri and Assi;
How they approached the Winilfolk
With war words,—
‘You are few, strangers,
And we are many:
Pay us now toll and fee,
Cloth yarn,
Rings, and cattle:
Otherwise, at the raven’s meal
Prepare for the sharp bill’s doom.’
Grabbing the dwarf’s work then,
Grabbing the bullock’s hide,
Equipping gray iron,
The Winils all set out,
The sons of Alruna,
Ayo and Ibor.
Mad with rage they marched:
Loud wept all the women,
Loud the Alruna wife;
They were in great need.
From the morning land,
Over the snow drifts,
Beautiful Freya came,
Tripping to Scoring.
The moorlands were white,
And frozen before her:
The moorlands were green,
And blooming behind her.
From her golden locks
She shook spring flowers,
From her garments
She shook the southern wind,
Around in the birches
Awaking the thrushes,
And making chaste housewives
Long for their heroes to come home,
Loving and love-giving,
She came to Scoring.
She came to Gambara,
The wisest of Vala,—
‘Vala, why are you weeping?
Far in the wide blue,
High up in the Elfin home,
I heard your weeping.’
‘Don’t stop my weeping,
Until one can fight seven.
I have sons, tall heroes,
First in swordplay;
Today at the hands of the Wendels
Eagles must tear them apart.
Their mothers, tired from slavery,
Must grind for the Wendels.’
The Alruna wife wept;
Kissed her fair Freya:—
‘Far off in the morning land,
High in Valhalla,
A window stands open;
Its sill is the snow peaks,
Its posts are the water spouts,
Storm wreck is its lintel;
Gold cloud flakes above
Are piled for the roof,
Far up to the Elfin home,
High in the wide blue.
Every morning Odin Allfather
Smiles from there;
From under the cloud eaves
He smiles upon the heroes,
Smiles on all chaste housewives,
Smiles on the brood mares,
Smiles on the smiths’ work:
And theirs is the sword luck,
With them is the glory,—
So Odin has sworn it,—
Who first in the morning
Shall meet him and greet him.’
Still the Alruna wept:—
‘Who then shall greet him?
Women alone are here:
Far on the moorlands
Behind the war linden trees,
In vain for the bill’s doom
Watch the Winil heroes all,
One against seven.’
Sweetly the Queen laughed:—
‘Now hear my counsel;
Take wisdom,
Beloved of Freya.
Gather your women,
Maidens and wives:
Over your ankles
Lace on the white war hose;
Over your bosoms
Link up the hard mail nets;
Over your lips
Braid long tresses carefully;—
So bearded war beasts
King Odin shall deem you,
When you greet him at sunrise
From the gray seashore.’

Night’s son was driving
His golden-haired horses up;
Over the eastern bays
High flashed their manes.
Allfather Odin smiled
From the edges of the clouds,
Waiting for the battle:
Freya stood by him.
'Who are these tall heroes,—
Strong-limbed Longbeards?
Why are they calling out to me
Over the swans’ bath?
Bones should be breaking fast,
Wolves should be well-fed,
Where such, wild-hearted,
Swing hands in the sword-fight.'

Sweetly laughed Freya:—
‘You’ve given them a name,
That brings no shame to you or them,
They can wear it well.
Grant them victory,
They greeted you first;
Grant them victory,
My partner!
These are maidens and wives,—
Wives of the Winils;
Few are their heroes,
And far along the war-road,
So over the swans’ bath
They call out to you.’

He laughed heartily then;
That skill meant a lot to him,
Odin Allfather,
Shaking the clouds.
'Women are all clever,
Confident and relentless!
Longbeards will be their name,
Ravens will thank them:
Where women are heroes,
What must the men be?
They are the victors;
No need for me!'

Eversley, 1852.
From Hypatia.

Thank God! Those prying eyes are finally gone!
The guards are crouched under the rock;
The lights are dimming in the town below,
Around the cottage that was ours this morning.
Kind sun, set and leave us here alone;
Alone on our crosses with our God;
While all the angels watch us from the stars.
Kind moon, shine brightly on him,
And bathe his limbs in glory, as a sign
Of what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord!
Look, and remember how he saved your lamb!
Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love,
Never loved like this until now! Oh say,
Say you forgive me! No—you must not speak:
You said it hours ago—long hours!
Now you must rest, and when tomorrow comes
Speak to the people, call them back to God,
A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church;
And plead from off the tree with outstretched arms,
To show them that the Son of God endured
For them—and me. Hush! I will speak alone,
And pass the hours until dawn for you.
I know you have forgiven me; as I lay
Beneath your feet, while they were binding me,
I knew I was forgiven then! When I cried
‘Here am I, husband! The lost lamb returned,
All re-baptized in blood!’ and you said, ‘Come!
Come to your bride-bed, martyr, wife once more!’
From that moment all my pain was gone;
And ever since those sightless eyes have smiled
Love—love! Alas, those eyes! They made me fall.
I couldn't bear to see them, bleeding, dark,
Never, no never to look into mine;
Never to watch me around the little room
Singing about my work, or flash on me
Looks bright with advice.—Then they drove me mad
With talk of nameless tortures waiting for you—
And I could save you! You would hear your love—
They knew you loved me, cruel men! And then—
Then came a dream; to say one little word,
One easy wicked word, we both might say,
And no one hear us, but the executioners around;
One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains,
And both, both free! And life had just begun—
Only three months—short months—your wedded wife
Only three months within that cottage—
Hoping I might bear your child…
Ah! husband! Savior! God! think gently of me!
I am forgiven!
And then another dream;
A flash—so quick, I could not bear the blaze;
I could not see the smoke among the light—
To wander out through unknown lands, and lead
You by the hand through village, port, and town,
On, on, until we died; and stand each day
To glory in you, as you preached and prayed
From stone and rock, with that voice, those words,
Mingled with fire and honey—you would wake,
Bend, save whole nations! Wouldn't that atone
For one short word?—yes, make it right, to save
You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord?
And so—and so—alas! you knew the rest!
You answered me…
Ah cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words.
You would have done nobly had you struck me dead,
Instead of striking me to life!—the temptress!…
‘Traitor! apostate! dead to God and me!’—
‘The smell of death upon me?’—so it was!
True! true! well spoken, hero! Oh they snapped,
Those words, my madness, like the angel’s voice
Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs.
All was clear.
There was only one right thing in the world to do;
And I must do it… Lord, have mercy! Christ!
Help through my womanhood: or I shall fail
Yet, as I failed before!
I could not speak—
I could not speak for shame and misery,
And fear of my sin, and of the things
I knew were coming: but in heaven, in heaven!
There we should meet, perhaps—and by that time
I might be worthy of you once again—
Of you, and of my God…So I went out.
Will you hear more, and so forget the pain?
And yet I dread to tell you what comes next;
Your love will feel it all again for me.
No! it is over; and the woe that’s dead
Rises next hour a glorious angel. Love!
Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are dry!
Tomorrow, when they come, we must ask,
And they will give you water. One today,
A soldier, gave me water in a sponge
On a reed, and said, ‘Too fair! too young!
She might have been a gallant soldier’s wife!’
And then I cried, ‘I am a soldier’s wife!
A hero’s!’
And he smiled, but let me drink.
God bless him for it!
So they led me back:
And as I went, a voice was in my ears
Which rang through all the sunlight, and the breath
And blaze of all the garden slopes below,
And through the harvest-voices, and the moan
Of cedar forests on the cliffs above,
And around the shining rivers, and the peaks
Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west,
And around the ancient stones about my feet.
Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried,
‘My hand hath made all these. Am I too weak
To give you strength to say so?’ Then my
soul
Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast,
While all the people made a ring around,
And in the midst, the judge spoke smilingly—
‘Well! Have you brought him to a better mind?’
‘No! He has brought me to a better mind!’—
I cried, and said beside—I know not what—
Words I learned from you—I trust in God
Nothing fierce or rude—for was I not a girl
Three months ago beneath my mother’s roof?
I thought of that. She might be there! I looked—
She was not there! I hid my face and wept.
And when I looked again, the judge’s eye
Was on me, cold and steady, deep in thought—
‘She knows what shame is still; so strip her.’
‘Ah!’
I shrieked, ‘Not that, Sir! Any pain!
So young
I am—a wife too—I am not my own,
But his—my husband’s!’ But they took my shawl,
And tore my tunic off, and there I stood
Before them all…
Husband! you love me still?
Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out, kind moon,
And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed,
While some cried ‘Shame!’ and some, ‘She is too young!’
And some mocked—ugly words: God shut my ears.
And yet no earthquake came to swallow me.
While all the court around, and walls, and
roofs,
And all the earth and air were full of eyes,
Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame,
Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow:
And yet no earthquake came!
And then I knew
This body was not yours alone, but God’s—
His loan—He needed it: and after that
The worst had come, and any torture more
A change—a lightening; and I didn’t shriek—
Once only—once, when first I felt the whip—
It coiled so keen around my side, and sent
A fire-flash through my heart which choked me—then
I shrieked—that once. The foolish echo rang
So far and long—I prayed you might not hear.
And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes,
Swam by me, and a murmur
In my ears
Of humming bees around the limes at home;
And I was all alone with you and God.
And what they did to me I hardly know;
I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back,
It was not after all so very sharp:
So do not pity me. It made me pray;
Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you,
And you in God: and once, when I looked down,
And saw an ugly sight—so many wounds!
‘What matter?’ thought I. ‘His dear eyes are dark;
For them alone I kept these limbs so white—
A foolish pride! As God wills now. ’Tis just.’
But then the judge spoke out in haste: ‘She is mad,
Or fenced by magic arts! She feels no pain!’
He did not know I was on fire within:
Better he should not; so his sin was less.
Then he cried fiercely, ‘Take the slave away,
And crucify her by her husband’s side!’
And at those words a film came on my face—
A sickening rush of joy—was that the end?
Was that my reward? I rose, and tried to go—
But all the eyes had vanished, and the judge;
And all the buildings melted into mist:
So how they brought me here I cannot tell—
Here, here, by you, until the judgment day,
And after that forever and ever!
Ah! If I could just reach that hand! One touch!
One fingertip, to send the thrill through me
I felt just yesterday!—No! I can wait:
Another body!—Oh, new limbs are ready,
Free, pure, filled with soul through every nerve,
Kept for us in the treasuries of God.
They will not mar the love they try to speak,
They will not fail my soul, as these have done!
Will you hear more? Nay—you know all the rest:
Yet those poor eyes—alas! they could not see
My awakening when you hung
Above me there
With hands outstretched to bless the penitent—
Your penitent—even like The Lord Himself—
I gloried in you!—like The Lord Himself!
Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown
Of thorns which they had put on that dear brow
To make you like Him—show you as you were!
I told them so! I urged them to look on you,
And see there what was the highest throne on earth—
The throne of suffering, where the Son of God
Endured and triumphed for them. But they laughed;
All but one soldier, old, with many scars;
And he stood silent. Then I crawled to you,
And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud—
You heard me! You know all! I am at peace.
Peace, peace, as still and bright as the moon
Upon your limbs, came over me at your smile,
And kept me happy when they dragged me back
From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross,
And bound my wrists and ankles—Do not sigh:
I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me up
My eyes have never left your face, my own, my own,
Nor will, till death comes!…
Do I feel much pain?
Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot bear.
It has become like part of my own life,
Or part of God’s life in me—honor—bliss!
I dreaded madness, and instead, comes rest;
Rest deep and smiling, like a summer’s night.
I should be easy, now, if I could move…
I cannot stir. Ah God! these shoots of fire
Through all my limbs! Hush, selfish girl! He hears you!
Who ever found the cross a comfortable bed?
Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil
Unless it conquers us. These little wrists now—
You said, one blessed night, they were too slender,
Too soft and slender for a deacon’s wife—
Perhaps a martyr’s:—You forgot the strength
That God can give. The cord has cut them through;
And yet my voice has never faltered yet.
Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and pray
That you may die: and you must not die yet.
Not yet—they told us we might live three
days…
Two days for you to preach! Two days to speak
Words that may wake the dead!…
Hush! is he sleeping?
They say that men have slept upon the cross;
So why not him?… Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe:
And he will preach Your word tomorrow!—save
Souls, crowds, for You! And they will know his worth
Years from now—poor things, they do not know what they do!—
And crown him martyr; and his name will ring
Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars
Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see
His triumph—Preacher! Martyr!—Ah—and me?—
If they must couple my poor name with his,
Let them tell all the truth—say how I loved him,
And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord!
Returning good for evil! and was this
The payment I deserved for such a sin?
To hang here on my cross, and look at him
Until we kneel before Your throne in heaven!

Eversley, 1852.

So die, you child of a stormy dawn,
You winter flower, abandoned
by a caregiver;
Chilled early by the bigot’s curse,
The pedant's frown, the worldling's yawn.

Fair death, to come in bustling June,
When every seed that falls
To the ground
Takes root and gets a new chance
From warm rain and shining moon.

Autumn, warm and quick, you mellow rain;
You rain from God, nourish the land;
So that roots that dry out in the burning sand
Can bloom into flowers and fruit once more.

To perhaps bring beauty to a brighter morning
In stronger lands across the sea,
While honor is given to those like us
From the hearts of heroes who have yet to be born,

Who in the bright light of day,
Of clearer science, better laws,
Bless us, timid messengers of their cause,
Faint beacons of their amazing path.

Failure? While the tides rise and surge
Around the cape and island, in harbor and cove,
Unstoppable, guided by the stars above:
What if our small wave pulls back?

Eversley, 1852.

Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey, cell, and cathedral;
Don’t mourn for the holy ones who grieved long ago, those who didn’t know the Father,
Weeping with fasting and punishment, when the bridegroom was taken from them.
Drop back for a moment through the years, to the warm, rich youth of the nations,
Childlike in virtue and faith, yet also childlike in passion and pleasure,
Childlike still, and still close to their God, while the dawn of Eden
Lingering in rosy rays on the peaks of the Ionian mountains.
Down to the mothers, as Faust went, I go, to the roots of our manhood,
Mothers of us in our cradles; of us once again in our glory.
New-born, body and soul, in the great pure world that will be
In the renewal of all things, when humanity will return to its Eden
Conquering evil, death, shame, and the slander of conscience—
Free in the light of Godhead—and smiling fearlessly at his Father.
Down to the mothers I go—yet still with you!—be with me, you purest!
Lead me, your hand in my hand; and the dawn of God goes before us.

Eversley, 1852.

The single eye, the daughter of the light;
Glad to see
Some hint of its parent beam even in the darkest shadows, and made
Brighter by the daily doses of light it takes.
The taste is strict, yet elegant when properly nurtured,
With classic depth and clarity, and rewarded
With gratitude and respect from the wise and steady—
With skillful criticism that both challenges and pleases,
And high-level conversations with the talented
Of those who refined our language and music—
All these are yours. The same examples attract,
You in every forest, me on the windy moor—
With the same purpose, we walk the same sweet path,
To connect in loving knowledge, rich and poor alike.

Eversley, 1853.

It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,
      She looked across the sea;
   She looked across the water;
      And long and loud she laughed:
   ‘The hair of six princesses
      Must be my wedding gift,
So hey beautiful boat, and ho beautiful boat!
      Who’s coming to court me?’

It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,
      She walked along the sand;
   When she noticed a knight so handsome,
      Coming ashore.
   His sails were all velvet,
      His mast made of gold,
And ‘Hey, pretty boat, and ho, pretty boat!
      Who sails here so boldly?’

‘The locks of five princesses
      I won across the sea;
   I clipped their golden hair,
      To trim a cloak for you.
   One handful is still missing,
      But one is left of the story;
So hey pretty boat, and ho pretty boat!
      Furl up your velvet sail!’

He jumped into the water,
      That young and daring rover;
   He grabbed Earl Haldan’s daughter,
      He snipped her golden locks:
   ‘Go cry, go cry, proud girl,
      The story is complete today.
Now hey pretty boat, and ho pretty boat!
      Sail Westward ho! away!’

Devonshire, 1854
   From *Westward Ho*!

Ah tyrant Love, carrying Megæra’s snakes,
   Why do you repay my sighs with painful stings?
Ah cruel dove, clutched by the vulture’s claws,
   Why betray this faithful heart, traitor?
Is this my reward?  Must only dragons’ teeth be sown
In Venus’ fields by lovers’ hands?

No, sweetest Cupid; it was my pride that ruined me;
   No, innocent dove; I fell because of my own wound.
The gods command me to worship, not to marry:
   I dreamed of joining in heaven, only to wake in hell;
Forever doomed, like Ixion, to spin
On the endless wheel of my own burning desires.

Devonshire, 1854.
From Westward Ho!

Welcome, fierce North-easter.
  It’s a shame to see
Odes to every gentle breeze;
  Not a single verse for you.
Welcome, dark North-easter!
  Over the German waves;
Over the Danish moors,
  From your frozen home.
We’re tired of summer,
  Tired of the bright glare,
Soft, steamy showers,
  Hot and suffocating air.
We’re done with aimless dreaming,
  Through the lazy day:
Upbeat wind of winter
  Gets us ready to play!
Sweep the golden reed beds;
  Crisp the lazy dykes;
Drive hunger to madness
  In every diving pike.
Fill the lake with wildfowl;
  Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moors
  Lonely curlews call.
Through the dark fir forest
  Roars harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snowflakes
  From the clouded sky.
Listen! The bold North-easter!
  The scent rises high,
On by glades and headlands,
  Over heath and grass.
Ring, you spotted darlings,
  Through the sleet and snow.
Who can control you?
  Let the horses flow!
Ring, you spotted darlings,
  Down the roaring wind;
You’ll see a fox fall
  Before an hour’s gone.
Go! Rest tomorrow,
  Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
  On the frozen streams.
Let the warm South wind
  Breathe in lovers’ sighs,
While the idle gallants
  Bask in ladies’ eyes.
What does he do but soften
  Heart and pen?
It's the harsh gray weather
  That makes tough English men.
What’s the gentle South-wester?
  It’s the ladies’ breeze,
Bringing home their true loves
  From across all the seas:
But the fierce North-easter,
  Through the snowstorm thrown,
Drives our English hearts of oak
  Seaward around the globe.
Come, as our fathers came,
  Heralded by you,
Conquering from the east,
  Lords by land and sea.
Come; and strong within us
  Stir the Vikings’ blood;
Sharpen our minds and strength;
  Blow, O wind of God!

1854.

My beautiful child, I have no song to give you;
   No lark could sing in skies so dull and gray;
Yet, if you want, I’ll leave you one quiet hint,
      For every day.

I’ll show you how to sing a clearer song
   Than the lark that greets the dawn or the gentle breeze
To win a purer poet’s honor
      Than Shakespeare’s crown.

Be a good, sweet girl, and let those who can be clever;
   Do beautiful things, not just dream about them, all day long;
And in this way, make Life, and Death, and Forever,
      One big sweet song.

February 1, 1856.

A quick joke I once tossed out—
   As jokes often are, untrue—
   As if all the joy you know
Were just hunting and picnics, parties and dances.

Your eyes met mine: I didn't blame;
   You saw it: but I got too close
   To some noble nerve; a silent tear
Spoke quiet reproach, and high shame.

I don't want those words left unspoken.
Untouched by compliments and joy, you
In that one glance became a woman,
While I thought I was just playing with a child.

Next to my own beloved for so long!
I haven’t wasted my heart.
I watched the blade; I see the grain;
A woman’s soul, soft yet strong.

Eversley, 1856.

O blessed drums of Aldershot!
   O blessed Southwest train!
O blessed, blessed Speaker’s clock,
   All predicting rain!

O blessed woodpecker, laughing loud!
   O blessed falling glass!
O blessed fan of cool gray clouds!
   O blessed smelling grass!

O blessed South wind that blows your horn
Through every hole and crack!
I’m off at eight tomorrow morning,
To bring such fish back!

Eversley, April 1, 1856.

Come away with me, Tom,
The term and talks are over;
My poor lads are working,
All busy each one.
Curates look after the parish,
Cleaners take care of the court;
We’ll go to Snowdon
For our ten days of fun;
Fishing in the August evening
Until the night is done,
Whooping like boys, at fish
Caught and on the grass.
When they stop moving,
Dive, and swerve, and jump,
Then up over Siabod,
Pick our spot, and sleep.
Up a thousand feet, Tom,
Around the lion’s head,
Find soft stones to shield us
And make up our bed.
Eat our bread and bacon,
Smoke the peace pipe,
And, before we get sleepy,
Give our boots a polish.
Homer’s heroes did that,
Why not us?
What are sheets and servants?
Just excess!
Let’s pray for wives and kids
Safe and curled up in sleep,
Then chat till midnight
About this talkative world—
About the workers’ college,
The price of grain,
The tree of knowledge,
The chances of rain;
If Sir A. heads to Rome,
If Miss B. sings well,
If the fleet heads home,
If the mare will run,—
Anything and everything—
Up there in the sky
Angels understand us,
And no ‘saints’ around.
Down, and swim at dawn,
Hike from lake to lake,
Washing our minds and hearts
With every step we take.
Leave to Robert Browning
Beggars, fleas, and vines;
Leave to mournful Ruskin
Papal Apennines,
Dirty stones of Venice
And his Seven Gas-lamps—
We’ve got the stones of Snowdon
And the lamps of heaven.
Where’s the big deal
In admiring the Alps?
Any fool sees ‘glory’
In their ‘snowy tops.’
Leave such wonders
For the dull-witted brain,
Like fancy brandy,
Opium, and cayenne.
Give me Bramshill common
(St. John’s harriers nearby),
Or the vale of Windsor,
England’s golden view.
Show me life and progress,
Beauty, health, and man;
Nice houses, tidy gardens,
Wherever I can.
Or, if tired of ‘High Art,’
And such fancy stuff,
One’s poor ear needs a break,
Snowdon’s high enough.
While we find God’s mark
Fresh on English ground,
Why go off wandering
With other nations all around?
Though we try no daring
Or strange adventures;
Feed on common things
In a narrow path;
Never sought Franklin
Around the frozen caps;
Even with Macdougall, {295}
Caught our pair of apes;
Never had our shot, Tom,
In that dark Redan;
Can’t avenge poor Brereton
Out in Sakarran;
Although we earn our living, Tom,
By the messy pen,
What we can we will be,
Honest Englishmen.
Do the work that’s closest,
Though it’s dull at times,
Helping, when we meet them,
Lame dogs over stiles;
See in every hedgerow
Signs of angels’ feet,
Epic tales in each pebble
Underneath our feet;
Once a year, like schoolboys,
Going Robin-Hooding,
Leaving fops and fogies
A thousand feet below.

Eversley, August 1856.

That sound isn’t from a sheep’s bell or a dog’s bark,
   They’re running—they’re running, Go check it out!
   The fun could be lost with just a moment’s wait;
   So get the puppies moving and hurry up.
Dash down through the bushes by the glade and the hollow,
There’s a gate at the bottom—I know it for sure;
And they’re running—they’re running,
      Go check it out!

They’re running—they’re running, Go listen!
   One more fence and we’re out of the park;
   Sit tight in your saddles and race to the brook,
   Then go after the bullfinch; no time to stop;
Leave cowards and stragglers to lag behind;
He’s off to the moors against the wind,
And they’re running—they’re running,
      Go listen!

They’re running—they’re running, Go listen!
   Let them keep running until it’s dark!
   We’re doing great with them, and we’ll keep doing great,
   As long as our horses have wind and there’s light to see:
Then let’s head home, talk about the fight,
And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night
Of—They’re running—they’re running,
      Go listen!

Eversley, 1856.

Oh, Mr. Froude, how clever and kind,
         To show us this path to greatness—
      Those Snowdon Lakes aren’t really anything special,
         And all their hype is just legend and tale.
Forget Snowdon! What’s Lake Gwynant compared to Killarney,
Or choppy Welsh to sweet blarney, blarney, blarney?

So Thomas Hughes, if you're up for it,
      I’ll let you know where we're thinking of heading,
      To sweet and distant places over cliffs and scars,
      Hear the faint sounds of Elfland's horns;
Blow Snowdon! There are a hundred lakes to explore,
And fresh caught salmon every day, grilling, grilling, grilling.

Geology and botany
         A hundred wonders will be discovered,
      We’ll explore every nook and cranny,
         And collect the best from lake and river,
Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my coins,
Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and—Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!

Eversley, 1856

Oh England is a nice place for the wealthy and elite,
But England is a harsh place for poor folks like me;
And such a harbor for sailors I’ll never see again
As the lovely Isle of Avès, next to the Spanish main.

There were forty ships in Avès that were both fast and strong,
All equipped nicely with small weapons and cannons all around;
And a thousand people in Avès created laws that were fair and free
To choose their brave captains and follow them loyally.

Then we sailed against the Spaniard with his treasure of silver and gold,
Which he extracted with cruel tortures from the ancient Indian people;
Also the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as rock,
Who whip men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

Oh, the palm trees stood tall in Avès, and the fruits sparkled like gold,
And the hummingbirds and parrots were stunning to see;
And the black maids escaped from slavery to Avès,
To greet brave sailors coming in from the sea.

Oh, how wonderful it was in Avès to hear the breeze from the land,
Swinging with good tobacco in a net between the trees,
With a Black girl to fan you while you listened to the sound
Of the waves crashing on the reef outside that never reached the shore.

But the Scripture says, everything good must come to an end;
So the King’s ships sailed on Avès, and we were completely defeated.
All day we fought like bulldogs, but they broke the barriers at night;
And I escaped in a small boat, seriously injured, from the battle.

Nine days I floated, starving, with a Black girl next to me,
Until despite all my efforts to comfort her, the poor young thing died;
But as I lay gasping, a Bristol ship passed by,
And brought me home to England, where I’ll beg until I die.

And now I'm old and leaving—I really can't say where;
One comfort is, this world is so tough, it can't be worse for me there:
If I could just be a sea dove, I'd fly
Across the ocean, to the lovely Isle of Avès, to see it once more.

Eversley, 1857,

Hush! Hush! Hush!
The lark sings high in the dark.
The werewolves mumble, the night hawks cry,
The raven caws from the Raven-stone;
What do I care for his ominous groan,
Riding the moorland to get to my own?
Hush! Hush! Hush!
The lark sings high in the dark.

Listen! Listen! Listen!
The lark sings high in the dark.
I've wandered long by land and by sea,
I've ridden long through the moorland and meadow;
There she is with my baby on her knee,
Sitting by the window, waiting for me!
Listen! Listen! Listen!
The lark sings high in the dark.

Written for music, 1857.

There’s no inn in Snowdon that isn’t ridiculously pricey,
Except for Pen-y-gwrydd (you can’t pronounce it, dear),
Which sits at the junction of three beautiful valleys—
One is the Gwynant valley, which I love dearly,
One leads to Capel-Curig, but I can’t remember its name,
And one is Llanberris Pass, which everyone knows;
Between these valleys, vast mountains rise,
Full of ponds as a sieve is full of holes, where big fish will come up,
That is, just one day a year, if you’re there, my friend,
Around ten o’clock at night; and then good luck to you.
Now I plan to write to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn,
(Skipping the post town out of Froude, since I can’t quite recall it),
And book a room or two, let’s say for a week,
To escape from gents, and Manichees, and quiet reading groups,
And live like kings for almost a pound a day,
And then head towards the sea and make our getaway,
All to catch some bold salmon in Aberglaslyn pool,
And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and I will, or I’m a fool.
And that’s my plan; if you like it,
Respond to me by mail;
But I worry it won’t last, my son, maybe just thirteen days at most.
Flies are no issue; I can tell you three or four will work,
And John Jones, the Clerk, knows the rest, ties them, and sells them too.
Other than that, I have nothing more to say, at least for now,
So, I’ll head to my kids’ school and humbly take my leave.

Eversley, 1857.

So for a while, stricter Muses;
Give your followers a break till dull October.
Go away;
because Alma Mater doesn’t want to be serious all the time:
But, like
a dignified gray matron,
calling her children and grandchildren around her,
will at least be joyful for them;
Share their holiday just this once;
And, knowing she’ll sleep better,
with a lighter heart on the next day,
she grandly leads the dance down, and
joins in the children’s play.
      So go, for in your places
      Already,
(Her tears for some deep sorrow hardly dried),
Venus holds court among her innocent beauties,
With many a nymph from many a park and meadow.
She, thoughtful, awaits the happier faces
Of those your funnier sisters three,
who still oversee
jest, dance, and song,
to cheer her during this mixed time of joy and sorrow;
   And
invites us, whether she smiles or sighs,
   to tune our imaginations by her gaze.

Then let the young be happy,
   Beautiful girl and brave guy,
   And soak up the sun today
   By the bright lawn and garden;
   It’s playtime in the afternoon
   Of June, dressed in rosy hues:
   Who can frown if the sky is smiling?
   Blessed are those who can forget for a bit;
   The world is theirs to explore, and
   Above them shines the light of universal love.
Go, then, let the young be joyful;
From their hearts, as from their clothes,
Let darkness and mourning fade away,
While we, the serious and weary, watch and bless.

Cheers to strong and bold courage!
   Cheers to Granta’s spirit of chivalry!
   Smartly discovering, day by day,
   Fun in work and work in fun.
   Granta welcomes them, flowing down
   By the park, the spire, and the town;
   Buzzing mills and golden fields,
   Shaded by elm and poplar yields;
   Tall groves and intellectual halls;
   Sacred temples and painted walls.
   Yet she doesn't stay here; around
   Lies the Muses’ hallowed ground.
   She often lingers, where below
   Slipping boats come and go;
   Strong footsteps shake the shores;
   The beats of powerful oars it roars;
   A triumphant shout rings high
   For a victory without a fight.
   There she welcomes the games that create
   Brave young men for England’s fate;
   Smartly discovering, day by day,
   Fun in work and work in fun.
   Cheers to strong and bold courage!
   Cheers to Granta’s spirit of chivalry!

Yet stay for a moment, serious Muses, stay,
For you also have your rightful roles today.
Known to you for a long time, and known through you
Are Chatsworth’s halls and the name of Cavendish.
You too, then, Alma Mater calls to honor
A worthy patron for your historic seat;
And urge her sons to take example from him,
Of knowledge sought purely for knowledge’s sake,
Of humble worth, power dedicated to duty;
And see, fulfilled in him, her noble purpose.

Come, Euterpe, awaken your choir;
      Tune your notes to our desire.
      May he long remain the leader here,
      Join us and greet us, year after year;
      May father and son long inherit,
      All that their lineage has achieved and earned,
      Since that great Cavendish returned,
      Around the world and across the sea,
      Sailing up the Thames with his bold crew,
      Past good Queen Bess’s old palace;
      With jewels and gold ingots packed in his hold,
      And sails of damask and cloth of gold;
      And not a single sailor-boy on board
      Who wasn't dressed as splendid as a Spanish lord,
         With the treasures he had claimed
         From the Isles of the Sun,
         And the shores of Fairy-land,
      Yet still held for the crown of the fine display,
      That royal smile from the Palace window,
         And that wave of a regal hand.
      Yes, let the young revel,
      And bask in the sun today;—
   And from their hearts,
      As from their attire,
      Let sadness fade away.
But not for us, who see our years rapidly passing,
And grabbing as they go, fresh pieces of our being.
      Can we forget even one friend,
      Can we forget even one face,
      That cheered us on toward our end,
      That strengthened us for our race?
      Oh it's painful to toil, yet give up
      One presence that made us realize
      To Godlike souls how deep our obligation!
      We wouldn't, even if we could, forget.

Severer Muses, linger a little longer;
   Speak for us one pure and deep regret.
   You, Clio, who, with your powerful pen,
   Carve great names into the hearts of people,
   Speak of a fate beyond our understanding;
   A gem discovered late but lost too soon; {306}
   A sunset at the peak of noon;
   A tree rooted in Odin’s ancient history,
   That produced for humanity the age-old fruits,
   Advice, faith, and a disdain for wrong,
   And clever knowledge, and comforting song,
   Snapped in mid-growth, leaving unwittingly
   The flock unprotected and the field bare.
   No, let us accept what God sends our way,
   Trusting in endless abundance.
   God always lives; and Nature,
   Under His supreme authority,
   Strong and full of life, can replace
   Strength with strength, and grace with grace,
   Hope with hope, and friend with friend:
   Trust, and accept what God sends our way.
   So shall Alma Mater see
      Daughters beautiful and wise
   Cultivate new lands of liberty
      Under foreign skies;
   Spreading across the vibrant earth
   English science, character, and value.

1862.

Clear and cool, clear and cool,
By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool;
Cool and clear, cool and clear,
By shining pebbles, and foaming waves;
Under the rock where the ouzel sings,
And the ivy-covered wall where the church bell rings,
Unblemished, for the pure;
Play with me, bathe with me, mother and child.

Dank and dirty, dank and dirty,
   By the smoky town in its grimy cloak;
      Dirty and dank, dirty and dank,
   By the docks and the sewer and slimy bank;
Getting darker the farther I go,
More depraved the richer I grow;
      Who dares play around with the sin-soaked?
   Stay away from me, turn away from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free,
   The floodgates are open, heading out to sea.
      Free and strong, free and strong,
   Cleansing my streams as I rush along
To the golden sands and the jumping bar,
And the pure tide that waits for me afar,
As I lose myself in the endless ocean,
Like a soul that has sinned and found redemption.
      Undefiled, for the innocent;
   Play with me, swim in me, mother and child.

From *The Water-Babies*. Eversley, 1862.

When the whole world is young, buddy,
   And all the trees are green;
And every goose is a swan, buddy,
   And every girl is a queen;
Then let’s grab our gear and horse, buddy,
   And ride around the world;
Young blood needs to run free, buddy,
   And every dog deserves its day.

When the whole world is old, kid,
   And all the trees are brown;
And all the fun is boring, kid,
   And all the wheels have slowed down;
Creep home, and take your place there,
   With the tired and broken among:
God grant you find one face there,
   You loved when everything was young.

From *The Water-Babies*. 1862

Gentle, light wind, gliding in from the sweet south,
Carry your silver cloud layers across the summer sea;
   Delicate strands of mist twining on dewy fingers
Weave a veil of dappled fabric to shade my baby and me.

Deep, deep Love, dwelling in your own depths,
Pour yourself out, O Lord, on earth, air, and sea;
Worn, weary hearts hiding within your holy temple,
Shield my helpless baby and me from sorrow, sin, and shame.

From The Water-Babies. 1862

I once had a lovely little doll, my dears,
   The most beautiful doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white, my dears,
   And her hair was so beautifully curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, my dears,
   While I was playing in the heath one day;
And I cried for more than a week, my dears,
   But I could never find where she was.

I found my poor little doll, dear,
as I played in the heath one day:
People say she’s really changed, dear,
because her paint has all washed away,
and her arms were stepped on by the cows,
and her hair isn’t curled at all:
But for old times’ sake, she’s still, dear,
the prettiest doll in the world.

From The Water-Babies.
Eversley, 1862.

‘So the enemies have burned the gate, my men;
And is the water all used up?
Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine:
I will only drink this one.

‘And bring me my armor, and saddle my horse,
   And lead him around to the door:
He has to make a leap tonight,   As no horse has ever made before.

‘I’ve fought my battles, I’ve lived my life,
   I’ve had my share of wine;
From Trier to Cologne, there was never a knight
   Who led a happier life than mine.

‘I have lived by the saddle for over forty years;
And if I must die on a tree,
Then the old saddle tree, which has carried me in the past,
Is the best wood for me.

‘So now to show the bishop, the townsman, and the priest,
   How the Altenahr hawk can die:
If they smoke the old falcon out of his nest,
   He must spread his wings and fly.’

He secured himself in the bright moonlight,
   And he got on his horse at the front door;
And he downed a drink of the red Ahr-wine,
   Like no one had ever done before.

He urged the old horse on and held him tight,
   And they jumped over the wall;
Out over the cliff, into the night,
   Three hundred feet down.

They discovered him the next morning down in the valley,
   With not a single bone intact—
A mass or a prayer, now, good
   gentlemen,
   For such a daring rider’s soul.

Eversley, 1864.

A harp player crossed the wide Danube,
   And he entered Alaric’s hall,
And he sang the song of the little Baltung
   For him and all his heroes.

How the old Balt and the young Balt
Rode out of Caucaland,
With the royal elephant’s trunk on their helmet
And the royal lance in hand.

Thuringian heroes, counts and knights,
  Strutting
with pride in their group;
For they were heading to the great Emperor,
  In Byzantium by the sea.

And when they reached the wide Danube
   They shouted from the shore,
‘Come over, come over, you Roman slaves,
   And ferry your masters across.’

And when they arrived at Adrian's castle,
   With its towers so sleek and tall,
‘Come out, come out, you Roman scoundrels,
   And watch your lords ride by.’

But when they arrived at the long, long walls
   That stretch from sea to sea,
That old Balt lowered his chin,
   And he became a thoughtful man.

‘Oh, I’ve often mocked brave Fridigern,
   But I will never mock him again,
If these are the walls that kept him out
   From Micklegard over there on the shore.’

Then out there came the great Kaiser,
   With twice ten thousand men;
But never a Thuring was coward enough
   To wish himself home again.

‘Bow down, you rebel, old Athanarich,
   And beg for your life today;
The Kaiser is the lord of the entire world,
   And who dares to oppose him?’

‘I never came out of Caucaland
To beg for less nor more;
But to see the pride of the great Kaiser,
In his Micklegard here by the shore.

‘I never came out of Caucaland
   To bow to a mortal being,
But to shake the hand of the great Kaiser,
   And God defend my right.’

He shook hands with that sly Kaiser,
   And he kissed him politely,
And he has ridden with Athanarich
   To see that amazing town.

He showed him his walls of shining white marble—
   A mile overhead they gleamed;
Said the Balt, ‘Whoever wants to jump into that garden,
   Must wear King Siegfried’s boots.’

He showed him his arithmetic machines
   And his wells of unquenchable fire,
And his flying rocks, which protected
   His walls from all who came against him.

He showed him his temples and pillared halls,
   And his streets of tall houses;
And his tall watchtowers, where his star-gazers
   Sit reading the signs in the sky.

He showed him his ships with their hundred oars,
  And their sides like a castle wall,
That bring back the loot from all over the world,
  At the Kaiser’s command.

He showed him all the nations of every language
   That are born under the sun,
How they came together in Micklegard street
   Like streams flowing into one.

He showed him the stores selling china,
   And silk and fine fabrics too,
And he pointed out the baths and the waterpipes
   On elevated arches that go.

He showed him an ostrich and a unicorn,
   Ape, lion, and sharp-eyed tiger;
And wise elephants roared ‘Hail Kaiser!’
   As if they had been Christians.

He showed him the treasures of the dragons and trolls,
   Rare jewels and piles of gold—
‘Have you seen, in all your hundred years,
   Anything like this, you old king?’

Now that clever Kaiser was a wise scholar,
And could work magic,
And he cast a spell on that ancient Balt,
Until he spoke humbly and submissively.

‘Oh, I've often heard of the Micklegard,
   What I thought were just merchant tales;
But now I know of the Micklegard,
   By seeing it with my own eyes.

‘Woden in Valhalla,
   But you on earth are God;
And whoever dares to stand against you, Kaiser,
   On their own head lies their blood.’

Then out spoke that little Baltung,
   Rode at the king’s right knee,
He said, ‘Fridigern killed the false Emperor Valens,
   And he died just like you or me.’

‘And who are you, you pretty bold boy,
Riding at the king’s right knee?’
‘Oh I am the Baltung, boy Alaric,
And just as good a man as you.’

‘As good as me, you pretty bold boy,
   With hair on your chin?’
‘Oh, a witch put a curse on me,
   The best of your kingdom to win.’

‘If you’re so fierce, you little wolf cub
   Or before your teeth have even grown;
Then I must protect my two young sons
   Lest they should lose their own.’

‘Oh, I'll protect your two slender boys,
   In their town by the sea,
And I’ll be a faithful man to them
   If they will be faithful to me.

‘But you must warn your two slender boys,
   And warn them seriously,
That if I find them two false Kaisers,
   They both will be hanged high.’

Now they’ve gone into the Kaiser’s palace
   To eat the fine peacock,
And they’ve gone into the Kaiser’s palace
   To drink the good Greek wine.

The Kaiser alone, and the very old Balt,
   They sat at the cedar table;
And around them, many Roman lords served on bended knee.

‘What’s wrong, what’s wrong, friend Athanarich?
What makes you look so pale?’
‘I’m afraid I’m poisoned, you crafty Kaiser,
For I feel my heartstrings weakening.

‘Oh, if only I had kept that huge oath
   I swore by the horse’s head,
I would never step on Roman soil
   Until the day I lay dead.

‘Oh, how I wish I were home in Caucaland,
   To hear my musicians play,
And to drink my last of the dark ale,
   While I gave away the gold rings.

‘Oh, if only I were home in Caucaland,
   To hear the Gothmen’s horn,
And watch the wagons and the brown brood mares
   And the tents where I was born.

‘But now I must die between four stone walls
In Byzant beside the sea:
And just as you will treat my little Baltung,
So God will treat you.’

The Kaiser swore oaths to clear his name,
And he gave him a grand burial,
And placed a golden idol on his grave,
Where all Romans must kneel.

And now the Goths are the Kaiser’s soldiers,
   And protect him with lance and sword,
And the little Baltung is his loyal squire,
   And dines at the Kaiser’s table,

And the Kaiser’s two sons are just two fake white guys
that a clerk could easily hit with a cane.
The clerk who dared to hit that little Baltung
would never sing mass again.

Oh, the gates of Rome are steel on the outside,
   And beaten gold on the inside:
But they will swing open for little Baltung
   With the fuzz on his chin.

Oh, the most beautiful flower in the Emperor's garden
   Is Rome and Italian land:
But it will all fall to the little Baltung
   When he takes the lance in hand.

And when he’s dividing the spoils of Rome,
   He will pay for this song of mine,
Not with a maiden or land, neither jewel nor gold,
   But with one cup of Italian wine.

Eversley, 1864.

A King is dead! Another mastermind
Is called from the global council hall.
Ah, for some seer, to
reveal what’s behind—
To read the mysterious writing on the wall!

Be still, dear man: don’t seek to know your fate.
 Face bravely what each moment brings, sent from the gods.
Above you rules in love, through good times and bad,
 Guiding your leaders and you, the King of kings.

Windsor Castle,
   November 10, 1865.

(Written for music to be sung at a parish industrial exhibition)

See the land, celebrating Easter,
   Rising just as her Creator did.
Seeds, long buried in darkness,
   Finally break through the winter snow.
The earth rejoices with the heavens;
   Fields and gardens welcome spring;
Shrubs and woodlands echo with voices,
   As the wild birds build and sing.

You, to whom your Creator gave
   Powers to those sweet birds unknown,
Use the skill God has placed in you;
   Use the reason that isn’t just yours.
Here, while heaven and earth celebrate,
   Everyone brings their Easter offering—
Crafts created by hands, songs from voices,
   Like the birds that build and sing.

Eversley, 1867.

They float away. Ah, God! they float forever.
I watch the current rush on to the ocean,
Like some weathered buoy on a raging river,
Surrounded by the debris of the tide—then drift out to sea.

I watch them float away—the old familiar faces,
Who fished and rode with me, by stream and field,
Until ghosts, not people, fill old beloved spots,
And, oh! the land is thick with graveyard soil.

I watch them float—young dreams,
Coastlines, landmarks,
guiding lights, all drifting away.
. . . . .
I see them float—the
poets and politicians;
Even the rivers flow up from the ocean.
   . . . . .
   But above, the endless sky
   Still turns to night, still bursts into
day.
   . . . . .
   Oh, God! My God! You won’t drift away.

November 1867.

How will Christmas Day dawn?
A northern Christmas,
Like the ones artists love,
And family, only shaking hands once a year,
And women sharing old stories by the fire?
Bright sun, clear blue sky, white snow, and sparkling ice,
Sharp, crisp air that sets the blood on fire,
And makes the old man joyful with the young,
Through the brief sunlight, through the long night?
Or a southern Christmas, dark and damp with mist,
Heavy with the scent of steaming leaves,
And rosebuds rotting on the dripping porch;
One twilight, without sunrise or sunset,
Until beetles buzz along the empty lane,
And around the bare hawthorns, flitting bats
Hunt the pale moths of winter? Welcome then
At best, the fleeting shine, the passing shower,
The puddles sparkling on the long white roads,
And shadows sweeping on from hill to hill
Before the salty Atlantic wind: yet come
In whatever clothes, whether cheerful or grim,
Come fair, come foul, it will still be Christmas Day.
How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day?
For sailors lounging on the lonely deck
Beneath the rushing trade winds? Or for him,
Who by some stinky harbor in the East,
Watches dark hands unload the precious bales,
Spoils of the tropical forests; year after year
Amid the noise of foreign voices, groaning
Himself half foreign? How about those—brave souls!
Who toil with heavy loads and weary steps
Beside the bitter wells of treeless sands
Toward the peaks that flood the ancient Nile,
To free the captives of a tyrant? How about those—
New leaders of the newly discovered underworld—
Who stand, like Jacob, on the untouched lawns,
And count their flocks’ increase? For them that day
Shall dawn in glory, with the blazing light
Of a full midsummer sun: for them that morning,
Bright flowers beneath their feet, cheerful birds above,
Shall speak of nothing but summer: but for them,
Before, unwarned by song or chime,
They leap into the saddle, thrills may come
From that great heart of Christendom which beats
Around all the worlds; and kind thoughts of youth;
Of steadfast people who worship God at home;
Of wise lessons learned by their mothers’ knee;
Of innocent faces turned up once again
In awe and joy to listen to the tale
Of God made man, and laid in a manger—
May soften, purify, and lift the soul
From selfish concerns and growing greed,
And illusions of this life some call reality,
Toward the eternal truths; for here or there,
Summer or winter, it will be Christmas Day.

Blessed day that reminds us, year after year,
What it means to be human: to control and reject
The tyrant within us; that lesser self
Which boasts, rather than loathes, its resemblance to the beast,
And knows no good except comfort, no wrong except pain,
No purpose, except its part in that wild struggle
Where, across countless ages, living beings
Compete in relentless greed.—Ah God!
Are we like crawling things with no master?
We know too well that we are beasts, great God;
More refined apes; foolish birds that flaunt
Their feathers, oblivious to the hunter’s approach;
Spiders that catch with paper, not webs;
Tigers that kill with guns and sharp blades,
Instead of teeth and claws;—this is all we are.
Are we any more than these, except in degree?
No more than these; born only to compete—
To envy and consume, like beast or plant;
Fools of nature; puppets of powerful desires,
Wielding the sword, only to perish by it
On the universal battlefield,
Just like the creatures on the moor outside?
The heath feeds on green grass and delicate flowers,
The pine consumes the heath, the grub the pine,
The finch the grub, the hawk the unsuspecting finch;
And man, the mightiest of all predators,
Eats whatever he wants; the strong prey on the weak,
The many devour the few; great nations and small;
And he who comes in the name of all—
He, the greediest, triumphs through the greed of all;
And, supported by his own victims, consumes everything:
While from the eternal heavens
Looks patiently down the great, generous God,
Who, Maker of all worlds,
Did He sacrifice
All to Himself? No, but Himself for one;
Who taught humanity on that first Christmas Day,
What it means to be human; to give, not take;
To serve, not rule; to nourish, not consume;
To help, not overpower; if necessary, to die, not live.
O blessed day, which gives the eternal lie
To self, and to the senses, and all the beast within;
Oh, come to us, amid this struggle of life;
To hall and hovel, come; to all who labor
In the senate, shop, or study;
And to those
Who, separated by the vastness of half the world,
Ill-prepared and sorely tempted, always face
Nature’s brute powers, and men turned into beasts—
Come to them, blessed and a blessing,
Christmas Day.
Tell them once more the story of Bethlehem;
The kneeling shepherds, and the Divine Baby:
And keep them truly human, fair Christmas Day.

Eversley, 1868.