Songs of love and empire
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OUT OF HOPE
If through the rain and wind along the street,Where the wet stone reflects the flickering gas,Some weeping autumn night your wandering feet,Lost in a lonely world, should chance to pass;If, passing many doors that welcomed youWhen robes of good renown your dear name wore,Your feet again, as once they used to do,Paused at my door, —Should I shut fast my heart for the old ill,The old wrong done, the sorrow and the sin?Or – only knowing that I love you still —Should I throw wide the door and let you in?Come – with your sins – my tears shall wash them all,The heart you broke still waits to be your home.Yet if you came… Oh! lost beyond recallYou never more will come.HAUNTED
The house is haunted; when the little feetGo pattering about it in their play,I tremble lest the little one should meetThe ghosts that haunt the happy night and day.And yet I think they only come to me;They come through night of ease and pleasant dayTo whisper of the torment that must beIf I some day should be, alas! as they.And when the child is lying warm asleep,The ghosts draw back the curtain of my bed,And past them through the dreadful dark I creep,Clasp close the child, and so am comforted.Cling close, cling close, my darling, my delight,Sad voices on the wind come thin and wild,Ghosts of poor mothers crying in the night —“Father, have pity – once I had a child!”A DIRGE
Let Summer goTo other gardens; here we have no need of her.She smiles and beckons, but we take no heed of her,Who love not Summer, but bare boughs and snow.Set the snow freeTo choke the insolent triumph of the year,With birds that sing as though he still were here,And flowers that blow as if he still could see.Let the rose die —What ailed the rose to blow? she is not dear to us,Nor all the summer pageant that draws near to us;Let it be over soon, let it go by!Let winter come,With the wild mourning of the wind-tossed boughsTo drown the stillness of the empty houseTo which no more the little feet come home.IV
EVENING SONG
When all the weary flowers,Worn out with sunlit hours,Droop o’er the garden bedsTheir little sleepy heads,The dewy dusk on quiet wings comes stealing;And, as the night descends,The shadows troop like friendsTo bring them healing.So, weary of the lightOf life too full and bright,We long for night to fallTo wrap us from it all;Then death on dewy wings draws near and holds us,And like a kind friend comeTo children far from home,With love enfolds us.But when the night is done,Fresh to the morning sun,Their little faces yetWith night’s sweet dewdrops wet,The flowers awake to the new day’s new graces;And we, ah! shall we tooTurn to the daydawn newOur tear-wet faces?“THIS DESIRABLE MANSION”
The long white windows blankly stareAcross the sodden, tangled grass,Weed-covered are the pathways whereNo footsteps ever pass;No whispers wake, no kisses die,No laughter thrills the dwindling flowers,Only the night hears sigh on sighFrom ghosts of long-dead hours.None come here now to laugh or weep;The spider spins on stair and hall,And round the windows shadows creep,And loathly creatures crawl.Cold is the hearth; the door is fast;No guest the silent threshold seesSave ghosts out of the happy past, —And one who is as these.EBB-TIDE
Now the vexed clouds, wind-driven, spread wings of white,Long leaning wings across the sea and land.The waves creep back bequeathing to our sightThe treasure-house of their deserted sand,And where the nearer waves curl white and low,Knee-deep in swirling brine the slow-foot shrimpers go.Pale breadth of sand, where clamorous gulls confer,Marked with broad arrows by their planted feet;White rippled pools, where late deep waters wereAnd ever the white waves marshalled in retreatAnd the grey wind in sole supremacyO’er opal and amber cold of darkening sky and sea.ON THE DOWNS
The little moon is dead,Drowned in the flood of rainThat drips from roof of byre and shed,And splashes in the lane:The leafless lean-flanked lane where last year’s leaves are spread.The sheep cower in the fold,Where the rain beats them blind,Where scarce the rotten hurdles holdAgainst the weary windThat moans with angry tears across the pathless wold.Dim lights across the downShow where the lone farms lie,The twisted trees have lost their brown,Are black against the sky,And far below blink lights, gay lights of Brighton town.Ah, was the moon once bright?And did the thyme smell sweetWhere, between dewy dusk and light,The warm turf felt our feet,And bean-flowers scented all the enchanted summer night?Did sheep-bells tinkle clearAcross the golden haze?Were the woods ever leafy-dear,In those forgotten days?The wet wind shrieks denial: no other voice speaks here.NEW COLLEGE GARDENS, OXFORD
On this old lawn, where lost hours passAcross the shadows dark with dew,Where autumn on the thick sweet grassHas laid a weary leaf or two,When the young morning, keenly sweet,Breathes secrets to the silent air,Happy is he whose lingering feetMay wander lonely there.The enchantment of the dreaming limes,The magic of the quiet hours,Breathe unheard tales of other timesAnd other destinies than ours;The feet that long ago walked hereStill, noiseless, walk beside our feet,Poor ghosts, who found this garden dear,And found the morning sweet!Age weeps that it no more may holdThe heart-ache that youth clasps so close,Pain finely shaped in pleasure’s mould,A thorn deep hidden in a rose.Here is the immortal thorny roseThat may in no new garden grow —Its root is in the hearts of thoseWho walked here long ago.TO A TULIP-BULB
Sleep first,And let the storm and winter do their worst;Let all the garden lieBare to the angry sky,The shed leaves shiver and dieAbove your bed;Let the white coverletOf sunlit snow be setOver your sleeping head,While in the earth you sleepWhere dreams are dear and deep,And heed nor wind nor snow,Nor how the dark moons go.In this sad upper world where Winter’s handHas bound with chains of ice the weary land.Then wakeTo see the whole world lovely for Spring’s sake;The garden fresh and fairWith green things everywhere,And winter’s want and careBanished and fled;Primrose and violetIn every border set,With rain and sunshine fed.Then bless the fairy songThat cradled you so long,And bless the fairy kissThat wakened you to this —A world where Winter’s dead and Spring doth reignAnd lovers whisper in the budding lane.FEBRUARY
The trees stand brown against the gray,The shivering gray of field and sky;The mists wrapt round the dying dayThe shroud poor days wear as they die:Poor day, die soon, who lived in vain,Who could not bring my Love again!Down in the garden breezes coldDead rustling stalks blow chill between;Only, above the sodden mould,The wallflower wears his heartless greenAs though still reigned the rose-crowned yearAnd summer and my Love were here.The mists creep close about the house,The empty house, all still and chill;The desolate and trembling boughsScratch at the dripping window sill:Poor day lies drowned in floods of rain,And ghosts knock at the window pane.THE PROMISE OF SPRING
Just a whisper, half-heard,But our heart knows the word;Caresses that seemLike love’s lips in a dream;Yet we know she is here,The desirèd, the dear,The love of the year!In the murmur of boughs,In the softening of skies,In the sun on the house,In the daffodil’s green(Half an inch, half-unseenMid the mournful brown mouldWhere the rotten leaf lies)Her story is told.O Spring, darling Spring,O sweet days of blue weather!The thrushes shall sing,Fields shall grow green again,Daisies be seen again,Hedges grow white;Then down the lane,Grown leafy again,Shall go lovers together —Lovers who see againSunshine and showers,Perfume and flowers,Dewy dear hours,Dream and delight.Warm shall nests be again,Winter’s behind us;Springtime shall find us,Taking our hands,Lead us away from the cold and the snow,Into the green world where primroses grow.Winter, hard winter, forgotten, forgiven;All the old pain paid, to seventy times seven,All the new glory a-glow.Love, when Spring calls, will you still turn away?Winter has wooed you in vain, and shall May?Love, when Spring calls, will you go?MEDWAY SONG
(Air: Carnaval de Venise)Let Housman sing of Severn shore,Of Thames let Arnold sing,But we will sing no river moreSave this where crowbars ring.Let others sing of Henley,Of fashion and renown,But we will sing the thirteen locksThat lead to Tonbridge town!Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.When on the level golden meadsThe evening sunshine lies,The little voles among the reedsLook out with wondering eyes.The patient anglers lingerThe placid stream beside,Where still with towering tarry prowThe stately barges glide.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.On Medway banks the May droops white,The wild rose blossoms fair,O’er meadow-sweet and loosestrife bright,For water nymphs to wear.And mid the blowing rushesPan pipes a joyous song,And woodland things peep from the shadeAs soft we glide along.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.You see no freight on Medway boatsOf fashions fine and rare,But happy men in shabby coats,And girls with wind-kissed hair.The world’s a pain forgotten,And very far away,The stream that flows, the boat that goes —These are our world to-day.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.CHAINS INVISIBLE
The lilies in my garden grow,Wide meadows ring my garden round,In that green copse wild violets blow,And pale, frail cuckoo flowers are found.For all you see and all you hear,The city might be miles away,And yet you feel the city nearThrough all the quiet of the day.Sweet smells the earth – wet with sweet rain —Sweet lilac waves in moonlight pale,And from the wood beyond the laneI hear the hidden nightingale.Though field and wood about me lie,Hushed soft in dew and deep delight,Yet can I hear the city’s sighThrough all the silence of the night.For me the skylark builds and sings,For me the vine her garland weaves;The swallow folds her glossy wingsTo build beneath my cottage eaves.But I can feel the giant near,Can hear his slaves by daylight weep,And, when at last the night is here,I hear him moaning in his sleep.Oh! for a little space of ground,Though not a flower should make it gay,Where miles of meadows wrapped me round,And leagues and leagues of silence lay.Oh! for a wind-lashed, treeless down,A black night and a rising sea,And never a thought of London town,To steal the world’s delight from me.AT EVENING TIME THERE SHALL BE LIGHT
The day was wild with wind and rain,One grey wrapped sky and sea and shore,It seemed our marsh would never againWear the rich robes that once it wore.The scattered farms looked sad and chill,Their sheltering trees writhed all awry,And waves of mist broke on the hillWhere once the great sea thundered by.Then God remembered this His land,This little land that is our own,He caught the rain up in His hand,He hid the winds behind His throne,He soothed the fretful waves to rest,He called the clouds to come away,And, by blue pathways, to the west,They went, like children tired of play.And then God bade our marsh put onIts holy vestment of fine gold;From marge to marge the glory shoneOn lichened farm and fence and fold;In the gold sky that walled the west,In each transfigured stone and tree,The glory of God was manifest,Plain for a little child to see!MAIDENHOOD
Through her fair world of blossoms fresh and bright,Veiled with her maiden innocence, she goes;Not all the splendour of the waxing lightShe sees, nor all the colour of the rose;And yet who knows what finer hues she sees,Hid by our wisdom from our longing eyes?Who knows what light she sees in skies and seasWhich is withholden from our seas and skies?Shod with her youth the thorny paths she treadsAnd feels not yet the treachery of the thorn,Her crown of lilies still its perfume shedsWhere Love, the thorny crown, not yet is borne.Yet in the mystery of her peaceful wayWho knows what fears beset her innocence,Who, trembling, learns that thorns will wound some day,And wonders what thorns are, and why, and whence?V
THE MONK
When in my narrow cell I lie,The long day’s penance done at last,I see the ghosts of days gone by,And hear the voices of the past.I see the blue-gray wood-smoke curledFrom hearths where life has rhymed to love,I see the kingdoms of the world —The glory and the power thereof,And cry, “Ah, vainly have I striven!”And then a voice calls, soft and low:“Thou gavest My Earth to win My Heaven;But Heaven-on-Earth thou mayest not know!”It is not for Thy Heaven, O Lord,That I renounced Thy pleasant earth —The ship, the furrow, and the sword —The dreams of death, the dreams of birth!Weary of vigil, fast, and prayer,Weak in my hope and in my faith —O Christ, for whom this cross I bear,Meet me beside the gate of Death!When the night comes, then let me rest(O Christ, who sanctifiest pain!)Falling asleep upon Thy breast,And, if Thou wilt, wake never again!THE CROWN OF LIFE
The days, the doubts, the dreams of painAre over, not to come again,And from the menace of the nightHas dawned the day-star of delight:My baby lies against me pressed —Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed!His little head upon my arm,His little body soft and warm,His little feet that cannot standHeld in the heart of this, my hand.His little mouth close on my breast —Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed.All dreams of deeds, all deeds of dayAre very faint and far away,Yet you some day will stand uprightAnd fight God’s foes, in manhood’s might,You – tiny, worshipped, clasped, caressed —Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.Whatever grief may come to beThis hour divine goes on for me.All glorious is my little span,Since I, like God, have made a man,A little image of God’s best —Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed.Come change, come loss, come worlds of tears,Come endless chain of empty years;They cannot take away the hourThat gives me You – my bird, my flower!Thank God for this! Leave God the rest! —Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.MAGNIFICAT
This is Christ’s birthday: long agoHe lay upon His Mother’s knee,Who kissed and blessed Him soft and low —God’s gift to her, as you to me.My baby dear, my little one,The love that rocks this cradling breastIs such as Mary gave her Son:She was more honoured, not more blest.He smiled as you smile: not more sweetThan your eyes were those eyes of His,And just such little hands and feetAs yours Our Lady used to kiss.The world’s desire that Mother bore:She held a King upon her knee:O King of all my world, and moreThan all the world’s desire to me!I thank God on the Christmas morn,For He has given me all things good:This body which a child has borne,This breast, made holy for his food.High in high heaven Our Lady’s throneBeside her Son’s stands up apart:I sit on heaven’s steps aloneAnd hold my king against my heart.Across dark depths she hears your cry;She sees your smile, through worlds of blueWho was a mother, even as I,And loved her Child, as I love you.And to her heart my babe is dear,Because she bore the Babe Divine,And all my soul to hers draws near,And loves Him for the sake of mine!EVENING PRAYER
Not to the terrible God, avenging, bright,Whose altars struck their roots in flame and blood,Not to the jealous God, whose merciless mightThe infamy of unclean years withstood;But to the God who lit the evening star,Who taught the flower to blossom in delight,Who taught His world what love and worship areWe pray, we two, to-night.To no vast Presence too immense to love,To no enthronèd King too great to care,To no strange Spirit human needs aboveWe bring our little, intimate, heart-warm prayer;But to the God who is a Father too,The Father who loved and gave His only SonWe pray across the cradle, I and you,For ours, our little one!CHRISTMAS HYMN
O Christ, born on the holy day,I have no gift to give my King;No flowers grow by my weary way;I have no birthday song to sing.How can I sing Thy name and praise,Who never saw Thy face divine;Who walk in darkness all my days,And see no Eastern stars a-shine?Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring,How can I leave Thy praise unsung?How stay from homage to the King,And hold a silent, grudging tongue?Lord, I found many a song to sing,And many a humble hymn of praiseFor Thy great Miracle of Spring,The wonder of the waxing days.When I beheld Thy days and years,Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth?The moons of love, the years of tears,The mysteries of death and birth?Have I not sung with all my soulWhile soul and song were mine to yield,Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control,The dewy clover of Thy field?Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts,Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade;Have I not made me holy feastsOf all the beauty Thou hast made?What though my tear-tired eyes, alas!Won never grace Thy face to see?I heard Thy footstep on the grass,Thy voice in every wind-blown tree.No music now I make or win,Yet, Lord, remember I have beenThe lover of Thy world, whereinI found nought common or unclean.Grown old and blind, I sing no more,Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong,Yet take the songs I made of yoreFor echoes to Thy birthday song.ABSOLUTION
Unbind thine eyes, with thine own soul confer,Look on the sins that made thy life unclean,Behold how poor thy vaunted virtues were,How weak thy faith, thy deeds how small and mean,How far from thy high dreams thy life hath been,How poor thy use of all thou hast received,How little of all God’s glory thou hast seen,How misconstrued that which thou hast perceived.Turn not thine eyes away from thine unworth,The cup of shame drink to the bitter lees;And when thou art lowerèd to the least on earth,And in the dust makest common cause with these,Then shall kind arms enfold thee, bringing peace,The Earth, thy Mother, shall assuage thy pain,Her woods and fields, Her quiet streams and seasShall touch thy soul, and make thee whole again.But if thy heart holds fast one secret sin,If one vile script thy soul shrinks to erase,The mighty Mother cannot bring thee inUnto the happy, holy, healing place;But thou shalt weep in darkness, out of grace,And miss the light of beauty undefiled;For he who would behold Her, face to face,Must be in spirit as a little child.