{London Poems 1866-70}

THE SWALLOWS.

I.

     O CHURCHYARD in the city’s gloom,
          What charm to please hast thou,
     That, seated on a broken tomb,
          I muse so oft, as now?
The dreary autumn wind goes murmuring by,
And in the distant streets the ragged urchins cry.

     Thou holdest in thy sunless land
          Nought I have seen or known,
     No lips I ever kissed, no hand
          That ever clasped mine own;
And all is still and dreary to the eye,—
The broken tombs, dark walls, roofed by a sunless sky.

     Now to the murmur that mine ears
          Catch from the distant lanes,
     Dimming mine eyes with dreamy tears,
          Slow, low, my heart refrains;
And the live grass creeps up from thy dead bones,
And crawls, with slimy stains, over thy gray gravestones.

     The cries keep on, the minutes pass,
          Mine eyes are on the ground,
     The silent many-fingered grass
          Winds round, and round, and round:
I seem to see it live, and stir, and wind,
And gaze, until a weight is heavy on my mind.

 

II.

     O Churchyard in the shady gloom,
          What charm to please hast thou,
     That, seated on a broken tomb,
          I muse so oft, as now?
Haply because I learn, with sad content,
How small a thing can make the whole world different!

     Among the gravestones worn and old,
          A sad sweet hour I pass,
     Where thickest from thy sunless mould
          Upsprings the sickly grass;
For, though the earth holds no sweet smelling flower,
The Swallows build their nests up in thy square gray tower.

     While, burthened by the life we bear,
          The dull and creeping woe,
     The mystery, the pain, the care,
          I watch thy grasses grow,
Sighing, I look to the dull autumn skies,
And, lo! my heart is cheered, and tears are in mine eyes.

     For here, where stillness, death, and dream,
          Brood above creeping things,
     Over mine eyes with quick bright gleam
          Shine little flashing wings.
And a strange comfort takes thy shady air,
And the deep life I breathe seems sweetened unaware!

 

 

TOM DUNSTAN; OR, THE POLITICIAN.

‘How long, O Lord, how long?’

I.

NOW poor Tom Dunstan’s cold,
     Our shop is duller;
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost its old
     Red-republican colour!
Though he was sickly and thin,
     ’Twas a sight to see his face,—
While, sick of the country’s sin,
With bang of the fist, and chin
     Thrust out, he argued the case!
He prophesied men should be free!
     And the money-bags be bled!
‘She’s coming, she’s coming!’ said he;
‘Courage, boys! wait and see!
     Freedom’s ahead!’

 

II.

All day we sat in the heat,
     Like spiders spinning,
Stitching full fine and fleet,
While old Moses on his seat
     Sat greasily grinning;
And here Tom said his say,
     And prophesied Tyranny’s death;
And the tallow burned all day,
And we stitch’d and stitch’d away
     In the thick smoke of our breath.
Weary, weary were we,
     Our hearts as heavy as lead;
But ‘Patience! she’s coming!’ said he;
‘Courage, boys! wait and see!
     Freedom’s ahead!’

 

III.

And at night, when we took here
     The rest allowed to us,
The Paper came, with the beer,
And Tom read, sharp and clear,
     The news out loud to us;
And then, in his witty way,
     He threw the jests about:
The cutting things he’d say
Of the wealthy and the gay!
     How he turn’d ’em inside out!
And it made our breath more free
     To hearken to what he said—
‘She’s coming! she’s coming!’ said he;
‘Courage, boys! wait and see!
    Freedom’s ahead!’

 

IV.

But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer,
     Would mutter, ‘Master!
If Freedom means to appear,
I think she might step here
     A little faster!’
Then, ’twas fine to see Tom flame,
     And argue, and prove, and preach,
Till Jack was silent for shame,—
Or a fit of coughing came
     O’ sudden, to spoil Tom’s speech.
Ah! Tom had the eyes to see
     When Tyranny should be sped:
‘She’s coming! she’s coming!’ said he
‘Courage, boys! wait and see!
     Freedom’s ahead!’

 

V.

But Tom was little and weak,
     The hard hours shook him;
Hollower grew his cheek,
And when he began to speak
     The coughing took him.
Ere long the cheery sound
     Of his chat among us ceased,
And we made a purse, all round,
     That he might not starve, at least.
His pain was sorry to see,
     Yet there, on his poor sick-bed,
‘She’s coming, in spite of me!
Courage, and wait!’ cried he;
     ‘Freedom’s ahead!’

 

VI.

A little before he died,
     To see his passion!
‘Bring me a Paper!’ he cried,
And then to study it tried,
     In his old sharp fashion;
And with eyeballs glittering,
     His look on me he bent,
And said that savage thing
     Of the Lords o’ the Parliament.
Then, dying, smiling on me,
‘What matter if one be dead?
She s coming at last!’ said he;
‘Courage boy! wait and see;
    Freedom’s ahead!’

 

VII.

Ay, now Tom Dunstan’s cold,
     The shop feels duller;
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost the old
     Red-republican colour.
But we see a figure gray,
     And we hear a voice of death,
And the tallow burns all day,
And we stitch and stitch away
     In the thick smoke of our breath;
Ay, while in the dark sit we,
     Tom seems to call from the dead—
‘She’s coming! she’s coming!’ says he;
‘Courage, boys! wait and see!
     Freedom’s ahead!’

__________

How long, O Lord! how long
     Must thy Handmaid linger—
She who shall right the wrong,
Make the poor sufferer strong?
     Sweet morrow, bring her!
Hasten her over the sea,
     O Lord! ere Hope be fled!
Bring her to men and to me! . . .
O Slave, pray still on thy knee,
     ‘FREEDOM’s ahead!’

 

 

O’MURTOGH.

(NEWGATE, 18—)

‘It’s a sight to see a bold man die!’

 

TO-NIGHT we drink but a sorrowful cup . .
Hush! silence! and fill your glasses up.
Christ be with us! Hold out and say:
‘Here’s to the Boy that died this day!’

Wasn’t he bold as the boldest here?
Red coat or black did he ever fear?
With the bite and the drop, too, ever free?
He died like a man. . . . I was there to see!

The gallows was black, our cheeks were white
All underneath in the morning light;
The bell ceased tolling swift as thought,
And out the murdered Boy was brought.

There he stood in the daylight dim,
With a Priest on either side of him;
Each Priest look’d white as he held his book,
But the man between had a brighter look!

Over the faces below his feet
His gray eye gleam’d so keen and fleet:
He saw us looking; he smiled his last . . .
He couldn’t wave, he was pinioned fast.

This was more than one could bear,
For the lass who loved him was with us there;
She stood in the rain with her dripping shawl
Over her head, for to see it all.

But when she met the Boy’s last look,
Her lips went white, she turned and shook;
She didn’t scream, she didn’t groan,
But down she dropt as dead as stone.

He saw the stir in the crowd beneath,
And I saw him tremble and set his teeth;
But the hangman came with a knavish grace
And drew the nightcap over his face.

Then I saw the Priests, who still stood near,
Pray faster and faster to hide their fear;
They closed their eyes, I closed mine too,
And the deed was over before I knew.

The crowd that stood all round of me
Gave one dark plunge like a troubled sea;
And I knew by that the deed was done,
And I opened my eyes and saw the sun.

The gallows was black, the sun was white,
There he hung, half hid from sight;
The sport was over, the talk grew loud,
And they sold their wares to the mighty crowd.

We walked away with our hearts full sore,
And we met a hawker before a door,
With a string of papers an arm’s-length long,
A dying speech and a gallows song.

It bade all people of poor estate
Beware of O’Murtogh’s evil fate;
It told how in old Ireland’s name
He had done red murther and come to shame.

Never a word was sung or said
Of the murder’d mother, a ditch her bed,
Who died with her newborn babe that night,
While the blessed cabin was burning bright.

Nought was said of the years of pain,
The starving stomach, the madden’d brain,
The years of sorrow and want and toil,
And the murdering rent for the bit of soil.

Nought was said of the murther done
On man and woman and little one,
Of the bitter sorrow and daily smart
Till he put cold lead in the traitor’s heart.

But many a word had the speech beside:
How he repented before he died;
How, brought to sense by the sad event,
He prayed for the Queen and the Parliament!

What did we do, and mighty quick,
But tickle that hawker’s brains with a stick;
And to pieces small we tore his flam,
And left him quiet as any lamb!

Pass round your glasses! now lift them up!
Powers above, ’tis a bitter cup!
Christ be with us! Hold out and say:
‘Here’s to the Boy that died this day!’

Here’s his health!—for bold he died;
Here’s his health!—and it’s drunk in pride:
The finest sight beneath the sky
Is to see how bravely a MAN can die.

 

 

THE BOOKWORM.

WITH spectacles upon his nose,
     He shuffles up and down;
Of antique fashion are his clothes,
     His napless hat is brown.
A mighty watch, of silver wrought,
     Keeps time in sun or rain
To the dull ticking of the thought
     Within his dusty brain.

To see him at the bookstall stand
     And bargain for the prize,
With the odd sixpence in his hand
     And greed in his gray eyes!
Then, conquering, grasp the book half blind,
     And take the homeward track,
For fear the man should change his mind,
     And want the bargain back!

The waves of life about him beat,
     He scarcely lifts his gaze,
He hears within the crowded street
     The wash of ancient days.
If ever his short-sighted eyes
     Look forward, he can see
Vistas of dusty Libraries
     Prolonged eternally.

But think not as he walks along
     His brain is dead and cold;
His soul is thinking in the tongue
     Which Plato spake of old;
And while some grinning cabman sees
     His quaint shape with a jeer,
He smiles,—for Aristophanes
     Is joking in his ear.

Around him stretch Athenian walks,
     And strange shapes under trees;
He pauses in a dream and talks
     Great speech, with Socrates.
Then, as the fancy fails—still mesh’d
     In thoughts that go and come—
Feels in his pouch, and is refresh’d
     At touch of some old tome.

The mighty world of humankind
     Is as a shadow dim,
He walks through life like one half blind,
     And all looks dark to him;
But put his nose to leaves antique,
     And hold before his sight
Some press’d and withered flowers of Greek,
     And all is life and light.

A blessing on his hair so gray,
     And coat of dingy brown!
May bargains bless him every day,
     As he goes up and down;
Long may the bookstall-keeper’s face,
     In dull times, smile again,
To see him round with shuffling pace
     The corner of the lane!

A good old Ragpicker is he,
     Who, following morn and eve
The quick feet of Humanity,
     Searches the dust they leave.
He pokes the dust, he sifts with care,
     He searches close and deep;
Proud to discover, here and there,
     A treasure in the heap!

 

 

THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN.

A GROTESQUE.

What place is snugger and more pretty
Than a gay green Inn outside the City,
To sit in an arbour in a garden,
With a pot of ale and a long churchwarden!

Amid the noise and acclamation,
He sits unknown, in meditation:
’Mid church-bells ringing, jingling glasses,
Snugly enough his Sunday passes.

 

BEYOND the suburbs of the City, where
Cheap stucco’d villas on the brick-field stare,
Where half in town, half country, you espy
The hay-cart standing at the hostelry,—
Strike from the highway down a puddly lane
Skirt round a market-garden, and you gain
A pastoral footpath, winding on for miles
By fair green fields and over country stiles;
And soon, as you proceed, the busy sound
Of the dark City at your back is drowned,
The speedwell with its blue eye looks at you,
The yellow primrose glimmers through the dew;
Out of the sprouting hedgerow at your side,
Instead of the town sparrow starveling-eyed,
The blackbird whistles and the finches sing;
Instead of smoke, you breathe the pleasant Spring;
And shading eyes dim from street dust you mark,
With soft pulsations soaring up, the LARK,
Till o’er your head, a speck against the gleam,
He sings, and the great City fades in dream!

     Five miles the path meanders; then again
You reach the road, but like a leafy lane
It wanders now; and lo! you stand before
A quaint old country Inn, with open door,
Fresh-watered troughs, and the sweet smell of hay.

     And if, perchance, it be the seventh day—
Or any feast-day, calendar’d or not—
Merry indeed will be this smiling spot;
For on the neighbouring common will be seen
Groups from the City, romping on the green;
The vans with gay pink curtains empty stand,
The horses graze unharness’d close at hand;
Bareheaded wenches play at games in rings,
Or, strolling, swing their bonnets by the strings;
’Prentices, galloping with gasp and groan,
On donkeys ride, till out of breath, or thrown;
False gipsies, with pale cheeks by juice stain’d brown,
And hulking loungers, gather from the town.
The fiddle squeaks, they dance, they sing, they play,
Waifs from the City casting care away,
And with the country smells and sights are blent
Loud town-bred oaths and urban merriment.    

     Ay; and behind the Inn are gardens green,
And arbours snug, where families are seen
Tea-drinking in the shadow; some, glad souls,
On the smooth-shaven carpet play at bowls;
And half-a-dozen, rowing round and round,
Upon the shallow skating-pond are found,
And ever and anon will one of these
Upset, and stand there, wading to the knees,
Righting his crank canoe! Down neighbouring walks
Go ’prentice lovers in delightful talks;
While from the arbour-seats smile pleasantly
The older members of the company;
And plump round matrons sweat in Paisley shawls,
And on the grass the crowing baby sprawls.

     Now hither, upon such a festal day,
I from my sky-high lodging made my way,
And followed straggling feet with summer smile;
‘Jog on,’ I sung, ‘and merrily hent the stile,’
Until I reached the place of revelry;
And there, hard by the groups who sat at tea,
But in a quiet arbour, cool and deep,
Around whose boughs white honeysuckles creep,
A Face I saw familiar to my gaze,
In scenes far different and on darker days:—
An aged man, with white and reverent hair,
Brow patriarchal yet deep-lined with care,
His melancholy eye, in a half dream,
Watching the groups with philosophic gleam;
Decent his dress, of broadcloth black and clean,
Clean-starch’d his front, and dignified his mien.
His right forefinger busy in the bowl
Of a long pipe of clay, whence there did roll
A halo of gray vapour round his face,
He sat, like the wise Genius of the place;
And at his left hand on the table stood
A pewter-pot, filled up with porter good,
Which ever and anon, with dreamy gaze
And arm-sweep proud, he to his lips did raise.

     ’Twas Sunday; and in melancholy swells
Came the low music of the soft church-bells,
Scarce audible, blown o’er the meadows green,
Out of the cloud of London dimly seen—
Whence, thro’ the summer mist, at intervals,
We caught the far-off shadow of St. Paul’s.

     Silent he sat, unnoted in the crowd,
With all his greatness round him like a cloud,
Unknown, unwelcomed, unsuspected quite,
Smoking his pipe like any common wight;
Cheerful, yet distant, patronising here
The common gladness from his prouder sphere.
Cold was his eye, and ominous now and then
The look he cast upon those merry men
Around him; and, from time to time, sad-eyed,
He rolled his reverent head from side to side
With dismal shake; and, his sad heart to cheer,
Hid his great features in the pot of beer.

     When, with an easy bow and lifted hat,
I enter’d the green arbour where he sat,
And most politely him by name did greet,
He went as white as any winding-sheet!
Yea, trembled like a man whose lost eyes note
A pack of wolves upleaping at his throat!
But when, in a respectful tone and kind,
I tried to lull his fears and soothe his mind,
And vowed the fact of his identity
Was as a secret wholly safe with me—
Explaining also, seeing him demur,
That I too was a public character—
The GREAT UNKNOWN (as I shall call him here)
Grew calm, replenish’d soon his pot of beer
At my expense, and in a little while
His tongue began to wag, his face to smile;
And in the simple self-revealing mode
Of all great natures heavy with the load
Of pride and power, he edged himself more near,
And poured his griefs and wrongs into mine ear.

     ‘Well might I be afraid, and sir to you!
They’d tear me into pieces if they knew,—
For quiet as they look, and bright, and smart,
Each chap there has a tiger in his heart!
At play they are, but wild beasts all the same—
Not to be teased although they look so tame;
And many of them, plain as eye can trace,
Have got my ’scutcheon figured on the face.
It’s all a matter of mere destiny
Whether they go all right or come to me:
Mankind is bad, sir, naturally bad!’

     And as he shook his head with omen sad,
I answered him, in his own cynic strain:

     ‘Yes, ’tis enough to make a man complain.
This world of ours so vicious is and low,
It always treats its Benefactors so.
If people had their rights, and rights were clear,
You would not sit unknown, unhonour’d, here;
But all would bow to you, and hold you great,
The first and mightiest member of the State.
Who is the inmost wheel of the machine?
Who keeps the Constitution sharp and clean?
Who finishes what statesmen only plan,
And keeps the whole game going? You’re the Man!
At one end of the State the eye may view
Her Majesty, and at the other—you;
And of the two, both precious, I aver,
They seem more ready to dispense with her!’

     The Great Man watched me with a solemn look,
Then from his lips the pipe he slowly took,
And answered gruffly, in a whisper hot:

     ‘I don’t know if you’re making game or not!
But, dash my buttons though you put it strong,
It’s my opinion you’re more right than wrong!
There’s not another man this side the sea
Can settle off the State’s account like me.
The work from which all other people shrink
Comes natural to me as meat and drink,—
All neat, all clever, all perform’d so pat,
It’s quite an honour to be hung like that!
People don’t howl and bellow when they meet
The Sheriff or the Gaoler in the street;
They never seem to long in their mad fits
To tear the Home Secretary into bits;
When Judges in white hats to Epsom Down
Drive gay as Tom and Jerry, folk don’t frown;
They cheer the Queen and Royal Family,
But only let them catch a sight of me,
And like a pack of hounds they howl and storm!
And that’s their gratitude; ’cause I perform,
In genteel style and in a first-rate way,
The work they’re making for me night and day!
Why, if a mortal had his rights, d’ ye see,
I should be honour’d as I ought to be—
They’d pay me well for doing what I do,
And touch their hats whene’er I came in view.
Well, after all, they do as they are told;
They ‘re less to blame than Government, I hold.
Government sees my value, and it knows
I keep the whole game going as it goes,
And yet it holds me down and makes me cheap,
And calls me in at odd times like a sweep
To clean a dirty chimney. Let it smoke,
And every mortal in the State must choke!
And yet, though always ready at the call,
I get no gratitude, no thanks at all.
Instead of rank, I get a wretched fee,
Instead of thanks, a sneer or scowl may-be,
Instead of honour such as others win,
Why, I must hide away to save my skin.
When I am sent for to perform my duty,
Instead of coming in due state and beauty,
With outriders and dashing grays to draw
(Like any other mighty man of law),
Disguised, unknown, and with a guilty cheek,
The gaol I enter like an area sneak!
And when all things have been perform’d with art
(With my young man to do the menial part)
Again out of the dark, when none can see,
I creep unseen to my obscurity!’

     His vinous cheek with virtuous wrath was flushed,
And to his nose the purple current rushed,
While with a hand that shook a little now,
He mopp’d the perspiration from his brow,
Sighing; and on his features I descried
A sparkling tear of sorrow and of pride.
Meantime, around him all was mirth and May,
The sport was merry and all hearts were gay,
The green boughs sparkled back the merriment,
The garden honeysuckle scatter’d scent,
The warm girls giggled and the lovers squeezed,
The matrons drinking tea look’d on full pleased.
And far away the church-bells sad and slow
Ceased on the scented air. But still the woe
Grew on the Great Man’s face—the smiling sky,
The light, the pleasure, on his fish-like eye
Fell colourless;—at last he spoke again,
Growing more philosophic in his pain:

     ‘Two sorts of people fill this mortal sphere,
Those who are hung, and those who just get clear;
And I’m the schoolmaster (though you may laugh),
Teaching good manners to the second half.
Without my help to keep the scamps in awe,
You’d have no virtue and you’d know no law;
And now they only hang for blood alone,
Ten times more hard to rule the mob have grown.
I’ve heard of late some foolish folk have plann’d
To put an end to hanging in the land;
But, Lord! how little do the donkeys know
This world of ours, when they talk nonsense so!
It’s downright blasphemy! You might as well
Try to get rid at once of Heaven and Hell!
Mankind is bad, sir, naturally bad,
Both rich and poor, man, woman, sad, or glad!
While some to keep scot-free have got the wit
(Not that they’re really better – devil a bit!),
Others have got my mark so plain and fair
In both their eyes, I stop, and gape, and stare.
Look at that fellow stretch’d upon the green,
Strong as a bull, though only seventeen;
Bless you, I know the party every limb,
I’ve hung a few fac-similes of him!
And cast your eye on that pale wench who sips
Gin in the corner; note her hanging lips,
The neat-shaped boots, and the neglected lace:
There’s baby-murder written on her face!—
Tho’ accidents may happen now and then,
I know my mark on women and on men,
And oft I sigh, beholding it so plain,
To think what heaps of labour still remain!’

     He sigh’d, and yet methought he smackt his lips,
As one who in anticipation sips
A feast to come. Then I, with a sly thought,
Drew forth a picture I had lately bought
In Regent Street, and begged the man of fame
To give his criticism on the same.
First from their case his spectacles he took,
Great silver-rimm’d, and with deep searching look
The picture’s lines in silence pondered he.

     ‘This is as bad a face as ever I see!
This is no common area-sneak or thief,
No stealer of a pocket-handkerchief,
No! deep’s the word, and knowing, and precise,
Afraid of nothing, but as cool as ice.
Look at his ears, how very low they lie,
Lobes far below the level of his eye,
And there’s a mouth, like any rat-trap’s tight,
And at the edges bloodless, close, and white.
Who is the party? Caught, on any charge?
There’s mischief near, if he remains at large!’

     Gasping with indignation, angry-eyed,
‘Silence! ’tis very blasphemy,’ I cried;
‘Misguided man, whose insight is a sham,
These noble features you would brand and damn,
This saintly face, so subtle, calm, and high,
Are those of one who would not wrong a fly—
A friend of man, whom all man’s sorrows stir,
’Tis MR. MILL, the great PHILOSOPHER!’

     Then for a moment he to whom I spake
Seemed staggered, but, with the same ominous shake
O’ the head, he, rallying, wore a smile half kind,
Pitying my simplicity of mind.

     ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘from my word I will not stir—
I’ve seen that look on many a murderer;
But don’t mistake—it stands to common sense
That education makes the difference!
I’ve heard the party’s name, and know that he
Is a good pleader for my trade and me;
And well he may be! for a clever man
Sees pretty well what others seldom can,—
That those mark’d qualities which make him great
In one way, might by just a turn of fate
Have raised him in another! Ah, it’s sad—
Mankind is bad, sir, naturally bad!
It takes a genius in our busy time
To plan and carry out a bit of crime
That shakes the land and raises up one’s hair;
Most murder now is but a poor affair—
No art, no cunning, just a few blind blows
Struck by a bullet-headed rough who knows
No better. Clever men now see full plain
That crime don’t answer. Thanks to me, again!
Ah, when I think what would become of men
Without my bit of schooling now and then,—
To teach the foolish they must mind their play,
And keep the clever under every day,—
I shiver! As it is, they’re kept by me
To decent sorts of daily villany—
Law, money-lending, factoring on the land,
Share-broking, banking with no cash in hand,
And many a sort of weapon they may use
Which never brings their neck into the noose;
For if they’re talented they can invent
Plenty of crime that gets no punishment,
Do lawful murder with no sort of fear
As coolly as I drink this pot of beer!’

     The Great Man paused and drank; his face was grim,
Half buried in the pot; and o’er its rim
His eye, like the law’s bull’s-eye, flashing bright
To deepen darkness round it, threw its light
On the gay scene before him, and it seemed
Rendered all wretched near it as it gleamed.
A shadow fell upon the merry place,
Each figure grew distorted, and each face
Spake of crime hidden and of evil thought.
Darkling I gazed, sick-hearted and distraught,
In silence. Black and decent at my side,
With reverend hair, sat melancholy-eyed
The Patriarch. To my head I held my hand,
And ponder’d, and the look of the fair land
Seemed deathlike. On the darkness of my brain
The voice, a little thicker, broke again:

     ‘Ah, things don’t thrive as they throve once,’ he said,
‘And I’m alone now my old woman’s dead.
I find the Sundays dull. First, I attend
The morning service, then this way I wend
To take my pipe and drop of beer; and then,
Home to a lonely meal in town again.
’Tis a dull world!—and grudges me my hire—
I ought to get a pension and retire.
What living man has served his country so?
But who’s to take my place I scarcely know!
Well, Heaven will punish their neglect anon:—
They’ll know my merit, when I’m dead and gone!’

     He stood upon his legs, and these, I think,
Were rather shaky, part with age, part drink,
And with a piteous smile, full of the sense
Of human vanity and impotence,
Grimly he stood, half senile and half sly,
A sight to make the very angels cry;
Then lifted up a hat with weepers on—
(Worn for some human creature dead and gone)
Placing it on his head (unconsciously
A little on one side) held out to me
His right hand, and, though grim beyond belief,
Wore unaware an air of rakish grief—
Even so we parted, and with hand-wave proud
He faded like a ghost into the crowd.

     Home to the mighty City wandering,
Breathing the freshness of the fields of Spring,
Hearing the Lark, and seeing bright winds run
Between the bending rye-grass and the sun,
I mused and mused; till with a solemn gleam
My soul closed, and I saw as in a dream,
Apocalyptic, cutting heaven across,
Two mighty shapes—a Gallows and a Cross.
And these twain, with a sea of lives that clomb
Up to their base and struck and fell in foam,
Moved, trembled, changed; and lo! the first became
A jet-black Shape that bowed its head in shame
Before the second, which in turn did change
Into a luminous Figure, sweet and strange,
Stretching out mighty arms to bless the thing
Which hushed its breath beneath Him wondering.
And lo! these visions vanished with no word
In brightness; and like one that wakes I heard
The church bells chime and the cathedrals toll,
Filling the mighty City like its Soul.

     Then, like a spectre strange and woe-begone,
Uprose again, with mourning weepers on,
His hat a little on one side, his breath
Heavy and hot, the gray-hair’d Man of Death,
Tottering, grog-pimpled, with a trembling pace
Under the Gateway of the Silent Place,
At whose sad opening the great Puppet stands
The rope of which he tugs with palsied hands.

     Christ help me! whither do my wild thoughts run?
And Christ help thee, thou lonely agëd one!
Christ help us all, till all’s that dark grows clear—
Are those indeed the Sabbath bells I hear?

 

 

THE MODERN WARRIOR.

     O WARRIOR for the Right,
     Though thy shirt of mail be white
As the snows upon the breast of The Adored,
     Though the weapon thou mayest claim
     Hath been temper’d in the flame
Of the fire upon the Altar of the Lord,
     Ere the coming of the night,
     Thy mail shall be less bright,
And the taint of sin may settle on the Sword!

     For the foemen thou must meet
     Are the phantoms in the street,
And thine armour shall be foul’d in many a place,
     And the shameful mire and mud,
     With a grosser stain than blood,
Shall be scatter’d ’mid the fray upon thy face;
     And the helpless thou dost aid
     Shall shrink from thee dismayed,
Till thou comest to the knowledge of things base.

     Ah, mortal, with a brow
     Like the gleam of sunrise, thou
May’st wander from the pathway in thy turn,
     In the noontide of thy strength
     Be stricken down at length,
And cry to God for aid, and live, and learn;
     And when, with many a stain,
     Thou arisest up again,
The lightning of thy look will be less stern.

     Thou shalt see with humbler eye
     The adulteress go by,
Nor shudder at the touch of her attire;
     Thou shalt only look with grief
     On the liar and the thief,
Thou shalt meet the very murtherer in the mire—
     And to which wouldst thou accord,
     O thou Warrior of the Lord!
The vengeance of the Sword and of the Fire?

     Nay! batter’d in the fray,
     Thou shalt quake in act to slay,
And remember thy transgression and be meek;
     And the thief shall grasp thy hand,
     And the liar blushing stand,
And the harlot if she list shall kiss thy cheek;
     And the murtherer, unafraid,
     Shall meet thee in the shade,
And pray thee for the doom thou wilt not wreak.

     Yet thou shalt help the frail
     From the phantoms that assail,
Yea, the strong man in his anger thou shalt dare;
     Thy voice shall be a song
     Against wickedness and wrong,
But the wicked and the wronger thou shalt spare.
     And while thou lead’st the van,
     The ungrateful hand of man
Shall smite thee down and slay thee unaware.

     With an agonisëd cry
     Thou shalt shiver down and die,
With stainëd shirt of mail and broken brand;
     And the voice of men shall call,
     ‘He is fallen like us all,
Though the weapon of the Lord was in his hand;’
     And thine epitaph shall be,
     ‘He was wretched ev’n as we;’
And thy tomb may be unhonoured in the land.

     But the basest of the base
     Shall bless thy pale dead face
And the thief shall steal a bloody lock of hair;
     And over thee asleep,
     The adulteress shall weep
Such tears as she can never shed elsewhere,
     Shall bless the broken brand
     In thy chill and nerveless hand,
Shall kiss thy stainëd vesture with a prayer.

     Then, while in that chill place
     Stand the basest of the base,
Gather’d round thee in the silence of the dark,
     A white Face shall look down
     On the silence of the town,
And see thee lying dead with those to mark,
     And a voice shall fill the air,
     ‘Bear my Warrior lying there
To his sleep upon my Breast!’ and they shall heark.

     Lo, then those fallen things
     Shall perceive a rush of wings
Growing nearer down the azure gulfs untrod,
     And around them in the night
     There shall grow a wondrous light,
While they hide affrighted faces on the sod,
     But ere again ’tis dark,
     They shall raise their eyes, and mark
White arms that waft the Warrior up to God!

 

 

PAN: EPILOGUE.

'Pan, Pan is dead!' – E. B. Browning. ¹

THE broken goblets of the Gods
     Lie scatter’d in the Waters deep,
Where the tall sea-flag blows and nods
     Over the shipwreck’d seamen’s sleep;
The gods like phantoms come and go
     Amid the wave-wash’d ocean-hall,
Above their heads the bleak winds blow;
They sigh, they shiver to and fro—
     ‘Pan, Pan!’ those phantoms call.

O Pan, great Pan, thou art not dead,
     Nor dost thou haunt that weedy place,
Tho’ blowing winds hear not thy tread,
     And silver runlets miss thy face;
Where ripe nuts fall thou hast no state,
     Where eagles soar, thou now art dumb,
By lonely meres thou dost not wait;—
But here ’mid living waves of fate
     We feel thee go and come!

O piteous one!—In wintry days
     Over the City falls the snow,
And, where it whitens stony ways,
     I see a Shade flit to and fro;
Over the dull street hangs a cloud—
     It parts, an ancient Face flits by,
’Tis thine! ’tis thou! Thy gray head bowed,
Dimly thou flutterest o’er the crowd,
     With a thin human cry.

Ghost-like, O Pan, thou glimmerest still,
     A spectral Face with sad dumb stare;
On rainy nights thy breath blows chill
     In the street-walker’s dripping hair;
Thy ragged woe from street to street
     Goes mist-like, constant day and night;
But often, where the black waves beat,
Thou hast a smile most strangely sweet
     For honest hearts and light!

Where’er thy shadowy vestments fly
     There comes across the waves of strife,
Across the souls of all close by,
     The gleam of some forgotten life:
There is a sense of waters clear,
     An odour faint of flowery nooks;
Strange-plumaged birds seem flitting near
The cold brain blossoms, lives that hear
     Ripple like running brooks.

And as thou passest, human eyes
     Look in each other and are wet—
Simple or gentle, weak or wise,
     Alike are full of tender fret;
And mean and noble, brave and base
     Raise common glances to the sky;—
And lo! the phantom of thy Face,
While sad and low thro’ all the place
     Thrills thy thin human cry!

Christ help thee, Pan! canst thou not go
     Now all the other gods are fled?
Why dost thou flutter to and fro
     When all the sages deem thee dead?
Or, if thou still must live and dream,
     Why leave the fields of harvest fair—
Why quit the peace of wood and stream—
And haunt the streets with eyes that gleam
     Through white and holy hair?

 

[Notes:
¹ From ‘The Dead Pan’ by Elizabeth  Barrett Browning:

And that dismal cry rose slowly
And sank slowly through the air,
Full of spirit’s melancholy
And eternity’s despair!
And they heard the words it said—
Pan is dead! great Pan is dead!
Pan, Pan is dead!   

(back) ]

L'ENVOI TO LONDON POEMS.

I DO not sing for Maidens. They are roses
     Blowing along the pathway I pursue:
No sweeter things the wondrous world discloses,
     And they are tender as the morning dew.
Blessed be maids and children: day and night
Their holy scent is with me as I write.

I do not sing for School-boys or School-men.
     To give them ease I have no languid theme
When, weary with the wear of book and pen,
     They seek their trim poetic Academe;
Nor can I sing them amorous ditties, bred
Of too much Ovid on an empty head.

I do not sing aloud in measured tone
     Of those fair paths the easy-soul’d pursue;
Nor do I sing for Lazarus alone,
     I sing for Dives and the Devil too.
Ah! would the feeble song I sing might swell
As high as Heaven, and as deep as Hell!

I sing of the stain’d outcast at Love’s feet,—
     Love with his wild eyes on the evening light;
I sing of sad lives trampled down like wheat
     Under the heel of Lust, in Love’s despite;
I glean behind those wretched shapes ye see
In the cold harvest-fields of Infamy.

I sing of death-beds (let no man rejoice
     Till that last piteous touch of all is given!);
I sing of Death and Life with equal voice,
     Heaven watching Hell, and Hell illumed by Heaven.
I have gone deep, far down the infernal stair—
And seen the spirits congregating there.

I sing of Hope, that all the lost may hear;
     I sing of Light, that all may feel its ray;
I sing of Soul, that no one man may fear;
     I sing of God, that some perchance may pray.
Angels in Hosts have praised Him loud and long,
But Lucifer’s shall be the harvest song.

Oh, hush a space the sounds of voices light
     Mix’d to the music of a lover’s lute.
Stranger than dream, so luminously bright,
     The eyes are dazzled and the mouth is mute,
Sits Lucifer; singing to sweeten care,
He twines immortelles in his hoary hair!

 

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London Poems Contents