{London Poems 1866-70}

The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan

Chatto & Windus,
1884

LONDON POEMS.
(1866-70.)

BEXHILL, 1866         .          .          .          .          .          .          .          113

THE LITTLE MILLINER; OR, LOVE IN AN ATTIC  .          .          115

LIZ        .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          119

THE STARLING       .          .          .          .          .          .          .          124

JANE LEWSON        .          .          .          .          .          .          .          125

LANGLEY LANE (a Love Poem)  .          .          .          .          .          135

EDWARD CROWHURST; OR, ‘A NEW POET’        .          .          136

ARTIST AND MODEL (a Love Poem    .          .          .          .          147

NELL     .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          149

ATTORNEY SNEAK           .          .          .          .          .          .          152

BARBARA GRAY    .          .          .          .          .          .          .          155

THE BLIND LINNET           .          .          .          .          .          .          157

‘TIGER BAY’ (a Stormy Night’s Dream)
     1. The Tigress             .          .          .          .          .          .          157
     2. ‘Ratcliffe Meg’      .          .          .          .          .          .          158
     3. Intercession            .          .          .          .          .          .          159

THE CITY ASLEEP     .          .          .          .          .          .          159

UP IN AN ATTIC         .          .          .          .          .          .          160

TO THE MOON            .          .          .          .          .          .          161

SPRING SONG IN THE CITY    .          .          .          .          162

IN LONDON, MARCH 1866       .          .          .          .          163

A LARK’S FLIGHT      .          .          .          .          .          .          163

DE BERNY             .          .          .          .          .          .          .          165

THE WAKE OF TIM O’HARA    .          .          .          .          166

KITTY KEMBLE           .          .          .          .          .          .          168

THE SWALLOWS        .          .          .          .          .          .          173

TOM DUNSTAN; OR, THE POLITICIAN  .          .          174

O’MURTOGH      .          .          .          .          .          .          .          175

THE BOOKWORM      .          .          .          .          .          .          176

THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN           .          .          .          177

LONDON, 1864           .          .          .          .          .          .          .          182

THE MODERN WARRIOR            .          .          .          .          183

PAN: EPILOGUE           .          .          .          .          .          .          185

L’ENVOI TO LONDON POEMS          .          .          .          185

 

[Because of the extensive revisions to the 1866 versions of ‘Nell’ and ‘London, 1864’, the versions from the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’ are given below.]

NELL.

She gazes not at her who hears,
     But, while the gathering darkness cries,
Stares at the vacancy through tears,
     That burn upon her glistening eyes,
Yet do not flow. Her hair falls free
     Around a face grown deathly thin;
Her elbow rests upon her knee,
     And in her palms she props her chin.

SEE, Nan! his little face looks pinch’d with fright,
His little hands are clench’d together tight!
Born dead, that’s comfort! quiet too; when one
     Thinks of what kill’d him! Kiss him, Nan, for me.
Thank God, he never look’d upon the sun
     That saw his father hang’d on gallows-tree.
O boy, my boy! you’re better dead and sleeping,
Kill’d by poor mother’s fear, and shame, and weeping:
She never loved another living man,
     But held to father all thro’ right and wrong—
Ah, yes! I never turn’d against him, Nan,
     I stuck by him that stuck by me so long!

You’re a kind woman, Nan! ay, kind and true!
     God will be good to faithful folk like you!
You knew my Ned?
     A better, kinder lad never drew breath—
We loved each other true, though never wed
     In church, like some who took him to his death:
A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost
     His senses when he took a drop too much—
Drink did it all—drink made him mad when cross’d—
     He was a poor man, and they’re hard on such.
O Nan! that night! that night!
     When I was sitting in this very chair,
Watching and waiting in the candle-light,
     And heard his foot come creaking up the stair,
And turn’d, and saw him standing yonder, white
     And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair!
And when I caught his arm and call’d, in fright,
     He push’d me, swore, and to the door he pass’d
     To lock and bar it fast!
Then down he drops just like a lump of lead,
     Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter,
     And—Nan!—just then the light seem’d growing brighter,
And I could see the hands that held his head,
All red! all bloody red!
What could I do but scream? He groan’d to hear,
     Jump’d to his feet, and gripp’d me by the wrist;
‘Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell!’ he hiss’d.
And I was still, for fear.
‘They’re after me—I’ve knifed a man!’ he said.
‘Be still!—the drink—drink did it—he is dead!’
And as he said the word, the wind went by
With a whistle and cry—
The room swam round—the babe unborn seem’d to scream out, and die!

     Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn’t weep—
     All I could do was cling to Ned and heark—
And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep,
But breathing hard and deep.
     The candle flicker’d out—the room grew dark—
And—Nan!—although my heart was true and tried,—
     When all grew cold and dim,
I shudder’d—not for fear of them outside,
     But just afraid to be alone with him.
For winds were wailing—the wild rain cried,—
Folk’s footsteps sounded down the court and died—
What could I do but clasp his knees and cling?
     And call his name beneath my breath in pain?
Until he threw his head up, listening,
     And gave a groan, and hid his face again;
‘Ned! Ned!’ I whisper’d—and he moan’d and shook—
But did not heed or look!
‘Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not true!’
     At that he raised his head and look’d so wild;
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw
     His arms around me, crying like a child,
And held me close—and not a word was spoken—
     While I clung tighter to his heart and press’d him—
And did not fear him, though my heart was broken—
     But kiss’d his poor stain’d hands, and cried, and bless’d him!

     Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold
     With sound o’ falling rain,—
When I could see his face, and it look’d old,
     Like the pinch’d face of one that dies in pain;
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun,
We never thought to hide away or run,
Until we heard those voices in the street,
That hurrying of feet.
And Ned leap’d up, and knew that they had come.
     ‘Run, Ned!’ I cried, but he was deaf and dumb!
‘Hide, Ned!’ I scream’d, and held him—‘hide thee, man!’
He stared with bloodshot eyes, and hearken’d, Nan!
And all the rest is like a dream—the sound
     Of knocking at the door—
A rush of men—a struggle on the ground—
     A mist—a tramp—a roar;
For when I got my senses back again,
     The room was empty—and my head went round!
The neighbours talk’d and stirr’d about the lane,
     And Seven Dials made a moaning sound;
And as I listen’d, lass, it seem’d to me
Just like the murmur of the great dark Sea,
     And Ned a-lying somewhere, stiff and drown’d!

God help him? God will help him! Ay, no fear!
     It was the drink, not Ned—he meant no wrong;
So kind! so good!—and I am useless here,
     Now he is lost that loved me true and long.
Why, just before the last of it, we parted,
And Ned was calm, though I was broken-hearted;
And ah, my heart was broke! and ah, I cried
And kiss’d him,—till they took me from his side;
And though he died that way, (God bless him!) Ned
     Went through it bravely, calm as any there:
They’ve wrought their fill of spite upon his head,
     And—there’s the hat and clothes he used to wear!

. . . That night before he died,
I didn’t cry—my heart was hard and dried;
But when the clocks went ‘one,’ I took my shawl
     To cover up my face, and stole away,
And walk’d along the silent streets, where all
     Look’d cold and still and gray,—
Only the lamps o’ London here and there
     Scatter’d a dismal gleaming;
And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square,
     Ay, like a woman dreaming:
But just as ‘three’ was sounded close at hand,
     I started and turn’d east, before I knew,—
Then down Saint Martin’s Lane, along the Strand,
     And through the toll-gate, on to Waterloo.
How I remember all I saw, although
     ’Twas only like a dream!—
The long still lines o’ lights, the chilly gleam
     Of moonshine on the deep black stream below;
While far, far, far away, along the sky
     Streaks soft as silver ran,
And the pale Moon look’d paler up on high,
     And little sounds in far-off streets began!
Well, while I stood, and waited, and look’d down,
And thought how sweet ’twould be to drop and drown,
Some men and lads went by,
     And turning round, I gazed, and watch’d ’em go,
Then felt that they were going to see him die,
     And drew my shawl more tight, and follow’d slow.
     How clear I feel it still!
The streets grew light, but rain began to fall;
I stopp’d and had some coffee at a stall,
     Because I felt so chill;
A cock crew somewhere, and it seem’d a call
     To wake the folk who kill!
The man who sold the coffee stared at me!
I must have been a sorry sight to see!
     More people pass’d—a country cart with hay
Stopp’d close beside the stall,—and two or three
     Talk’d about it! I moan’d, and crept away!

Ay, nearer, nearer to the dreadful place,
     All in the falling rain,
I went, and kept my shawl upon my face,
     And felt no grief or pain—
Only the wet that soak’d me through and through
     Seem’d cold and sweet and pleasant to the touch—
It made the streets more drear and silent, too,
     And kept away the light I fear’d so much.
Slow, slow the wet streets fill’d, and all seem’d going,
     Laughing and chatting, the same way,
And grayer, sadder, lighter, it was growing,
     Though still the rain fell fast and darken’d day!
Nan!—every pulse was burning—I could feel
My heart was made o’ steel—
As crossing Ludgate Hill, I saw, all blurr’d,
     Saint Paul’s great clock and heard it slowly chime,
And hadn’t power to count the strokes I heard,
     But strain’d my eyes and saw it wasn’t time.
Ah! then I felt I dared not creep more near,
     But went into a lane off Ludgate Hill,
And sitting on a doorstep, I could hear
     The people gathering still!
And still the rain was falling, falling,
     And deadening the hum I heard from there;
And wet and stiff, I heard the people calling,
     And watch’d the rain-drops glistening down my hair,
My elbows on my knees, my fingers dead,—
My shawl thrown off, now none could see,—my head
     Dripping and wild and bare.
I heard the crying of a crowd of men,
     And next, a hollow sound I knew full well,
For something gripp’d me round the heart!—and then
     There came the solemn tolling of a bell!
O God! O God! how could I sit close by,
And neither scream nor cry?
As if I had been stone, all hard and cold,
     I listen’d, listen’d, listen’d, still and dumb,
While the folk murmur’d, and the death-bell toll’d,
     And the day brighten’d, and his time had come. . . .
. . . Till—Nan!—all else was silent, but the knell
Of the slow bell!
And I could only wait, and wait, and wait,
     And what I waited for I couldn’t tell,—
At last there came a groaning deep and great—
Saint Paul's struck ‘eight’—
     I scream’d, and seem’d to turn to fire, and fell!

God bless him, live or dead!
     Oh, he was kind and true—
They’ve wrought their fill of spite upon his head—
     Why didn’t they be kind, and take me too?
And there’s the dear old things he used to wear,
And here’s a lock o’ hair!
And Ned! my Ned!
     Is fast asleep, and cannot hear me call;—
God bless you, Nan, for all you’ve done and said,
     But don’t mind me! My heart is broke, that’s all!

 

 

LONDON, 1864.

I.

WHY should the heart seem stiller,
     As the song grows stronger and surer?
Why should the brain grow chiller,
     And the utterance clearer and purer?
To lose what the people are gaining
     Seems often bitter as gall,
Though to sink in the proud attaining
     Were the bitterest of all.
I would to God I were lying
     Yonder ’mong mountains blue,
Chasing the morn with flying
     Feet in the morning dew!
Longing, and aching, and burning
     To conquer, to sing, and to teach,
A passionate face upturning
     To visions beyond my reach,—
But with never a feeling or yearning
     I could utter in tuneful speech!

 

II.

Yea! that were a joy more stable
     Than all that my soul hath found,—
Than to see and to know, and be able
     To utter the seeing in sound;
For Art, the Angel of losses,
     Comes, with her still, gray eyes,
Coldly my forehead crosses,
     Whispers to make me wise;
And, too late, comes the revelation,
     After the feast and the play,
That she works God’s dispensation
     By cruelly taking away:
By burning the heart and steeling,
     Scorching the spirit deep,
And changing the flower of feeling,
     To a poor dried flower that may keep!
What wonder if much seems hollow,
     The passion, the wonder dies;
And I hate the angel I follow,
     And shrink from her passionless eyes,—
Who, instead of the rapture of being
     I held as the poet’s dower—
Instead of the glory of seeing,
     The impulse, the splendour, the power—
Instead of merrily blowing
     A trumpet proclaiming the day,
Gives, for her sole bestowing,
     A pipe whereon to play!
While the spirit of boyhood hath faded,
     And never again can be,
And the singing seemeth degraded,
     Since the glory hath gone from me,—
Though the glory around me and under,
     And the earth and the air and the sea,
And the manifold music and wonder,
     Are grand as they used to be!

 

III.

Is there a consolation
     For the joy that comes never again?
Is there a reservation?
     Is there a refuge from pain?
Is there a gleam of gladness
     To still the grief and the stinging?
Only the sweet, strange sadness,
     That is the source of the singing.

 

IV.

For the sound of the city is weary,
     As the people pass to and fro,
And the friendless faces are dreary,
     As they come, and thrill through us, and go;
And the ties that bind us the nearest
     Of our error and weakness are born;
And our dear ones ever love dearest
     Those parts of ourselves that we scorn;
And the weariness will not be spoken,
     And the bitterness dare not be said,
The silence of souls is unbroken,
     And we hide ourselves from our Dead!
And what, then, secures us from madness?
     Dear ones, or fortune, or fame?
Only the sweet singing sadness
     Cometh between us and shame.

 

V.

And there dawneth a time to the Poet,
     When the bitterness passes away,
With none but his God to know it,
     He kneels in the dark to pray;
And the prayer is turn’d into singing,
     And the singing findeth a tongue,
And Art, with her cold hands clinging,
     Comforts the soul she has stung.
Then the Poet, holding her to him,
     Findeth his loss is his gain:
The sweet singing sadness thrills through him,
     Though nought of the glory remain;
And the awful sound of the city,
     And the terrible faces around,
Take a truer, tenderer pity,
     And pass into sweetness and sound;
The mystery deepens to thunder,
     Strange vanishings gleam from the cloud,
And the Poet, with pale lips asunder,
     Stricken, and smitten, and bow’d,
Starteth at times from his wonder,
     And sendeth his Soul up aloud!

 

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London Poems continued

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London Poems Contents