LYRICS.

The Beacon over Ivinghoe Lifts up into the sky A soaring shoulder out of earth, Where swift cloud-shadows fly And winds in the bent grasses make A murmured minstrelsy. There did we lie and watch at ease The armies of the spring Across the winter-guarded vale Their gallant outposts fling By Amersham and Aylesbury, By Wendover and Wing. The Saxon and the Roman here These winds and suns have felt And underneath this arch of sky At this green altar knelt And the same night has gathered all, The Roman, Saxon, Celt. I saw your eyes turn strange, your lips Were cold against my kiss And far behind your speech there dwelt Strange wavering mysteries —The patient legions of the dead Spoke from their world to this— And “Ah!” you cried “you cherish now My beauty like a flower, But how, when the soft graces fade, The magic lights lose power And Time that did my body build Unbuilds it hour by hour? And will you, when deep winter chills The seasons of desire, And love, the tattered balladist, Thrums on a ragged wire, Past the grey hair and glazing eye Discern the hearted fire?” * * * * * * Alone I climb the Beacon now And watch the world outrolled, The farms, the fields, the breadth of sky, The wide unbroken wold, And autumn’s traitor banners hung Above the woods of gold. It was my fault, that in Love’s wells I troubled the clear springs And, looking in his burning eyes, Recked little of his wings And, being but a mortal made, Dreamed of immortal things.

The exultant hours that clamour on the wing, Rejoicing blooms and merry birds that sing And all the wind and wonder of the spring— These things are good and all these things are mine. Dreams many-hued and visions strong to fly And over earth’s low lands continually The wind of beauty passing in the sky— These things are good and all these things are mine. Thoughts that get strength above life’s night to tower And hear beyond these clouds and glooms that lour The ringing clarions of the morning hour— These things are good and all these things are mine. Strength with night’s terrors and day’s toils to cope And far above the mortal moment’s scope Flung heavenward, the indomitable hope— These things are good and all these things are mine. But, after the wild noises of the street, The double peace that makes life’s round complete And on my floors the sound of little feet— These things are best and these things are not mine.

Let us ride out, O lady mine, By hedges robed in eglantine, Until we stand Where spring has breathed his peace divine In lilac and laburnam land. Let us go forth and watch once more How morning spends his sunny store And dew begems The leafy walls, the grassy floor, The willows and the chestnut stems. Let us be swift. The cuckoos cry, The blackbirds flute a rich reply; And down the vale Have we not heard them, you and I, The low sobs of the nightingale? Let us be merry, as of old, When song upon your lips was gold And music made Warm pulsing worlds of planets cold And sunshine in a night of shade. This is the end of spring; and spring Has found no magic yet to bring Lost glories back, But, with fled blossom and flown wing, Must travel still the appointed track. Dorsington, 1 June, 1909.

We heard the note Of the last bells across the waters float; The birds that sing The silver secrets of the evening. We watched the day Pass far and far and very far away; Saw from each farm The silent smoke ascending into calm. We watched expire The fainting onsets of the waves of fire; And, mist-enfurled, The moon rose past the shoulder of the world. Then loud and low, Clear and confused, and strangely swift and slow, We heard the wail And passionate hunger of the nightingale. He sang desire, And all the darkling thickets thrilled with fire; He sang despair, And all the woodland wept and all the air. And last the song Soared in a rapture confident and strong And was the call Of Love triumphant always over all.

These are the trees that saw them pass The happy fields among, When they were only lad and lass, That now are dead so long. When they were only lass and lad, The nesting birds would sing As though their little hearts were mad With the new wine of spring. And far across the wooded vale, How clear and sweet and strong The love-bedrunken nightingale Would sing their mating song! They saw the summer glories glow And rain of autumn leaves, Nor wept that earth’s own kind should go Where earth’s own bosom heaves. When winter waved a snowy hand And bade the world be white, They went about the silent land And carolled their delight. And they are gone! The trees remain, The birds are singing still, The footsteps of the wind and rain Are silver on the hill. But still I see them dancing on, The bridegroom and the bride; The pained and mortal flesh is gone, The immortal joys abide. Their eyes in every flower are glad, Their voice in every song, As they were still but lass and lad That now are dead so long.

I saw a child at Golder’s Hill Rule the wide kingdom of sweet will And catch an innocent employ From the abundant heart of joy. He teased the mossy-antlered stag And taught a puppy’s tail to wag; He made a playful ripple shake The water-lilies in the lake; Smelt at a rose, tiptoed to kiss The overarching clematis, Ran shouting up the hill to stare And watch the dying sunset flare; Then from his calling mother hid And would not answer when she chid. So glad, he seemed no human birth, But some wild spirit of the earth, Some rapture of delirious mood, Not yet betrayed to flesh and blood, But elemental, swift and free As sunlight dancing on the sea. O happy heart, could you but keep Safe from the heavy mortal sleep, Wherein we wander, having sold A heavenly hope for earthly gold; Then would your morning of delight Reach far into the realms of night, Rich with the rapture that uncloses Your brother lilies, sister roses, And take for its eternal treasure This sweet simplicity of pleasure.

I am the apple-tree that stood Ere song had raised the walls of Troy; Round me the shepherd folk renewed With every Spring their piping joy. My branches swayed with every breath, My wealth of blossom showering snowed; They had no thought of pain and death, For life and joy unchanged abode. But in a strange and shadowed Spring Sharp tremors ran through all my leaves; Men came about me whispering, “Destiny some dark purpose weaves.” And as the year to Winter turned, My leaves began to fade and fall, A ruddy-golden apple burned High on the topmost branch of all. They took the golden fruit away, And took the simple rustic joy: Men come no longer from that day And I am lonely after Troy.

I know not where I heard it, The song more sweet than all, No music may re-word it, So rich its rise and fall. I know not where I saw them, The roses red with joy, It seemed no rain could flaw them, Nor any wind destroy. We are lost in worlds we know not And faint with wandering; For O! such roses grow not, And no such voices sing.