Book 5 — LATER POEMS

1 RECOLLECTIONS OF SOLITUDE AN ELEGY Ended are many days, and now but few Remain; since therefore it is happy and true That memoried joys keep ever their delight, Like steadfast stars in the blue vault of night, While hours of pain (among those heavenly spheres Like falling meteors, the martyr's tears) Dart their long trails at random, and anon, Ere we exclaim, pass, and for aye are gone; Therefore my heedy thought will oft restore The long light-hearted days that are no more, Save where in her memorial crypt they shine Spangling the silent past with joy divine. But why in dream of this enchanted mood Should all my boyhood seem a solitude? Good reason know I, when I wander there, In that transmuted scene, why all is fair; The woods as when in holiday of spring Million buds burst, and flowers are blossoming; The meadows deep in grass, the fields unshorn In beauty of the multitudinous corn, Where the strait alleys hide me, wall'd between High bloomy stalks and rustling banners green; The gardens, too, in dazzling hues full-blown, With wafted scent and blazing petals strewn; The orchards reddening thro' the patient hours, While idle autumn in his mossy bowers Inviteth meditation to endear The sanctuaries of the mellowing year; And every spot wherein I loved to stray Hath borrowed radiance of eternal day; But why am I ever alone, alone? Here in the corner of a field my throne, Now in the branching chair of some tall tree Drinking the gale in bird-like liberty; Or to the seashore wandered in the sun To watch the fateful waves break one by one; Or if on basking downs supine I lie Bathing my spirit in blue calms of the sky; Or to the river bank am stolen by night Hearkening unto the moonlit ripple bright That warbles o'er the shallows of smooth stone; Why should my memory find me all alone, When I had such companions every day Jocund and dear? 'Twixt glimpses of their play 'Tis a vast solitude, wherein I see Only myself and what I came to be. Yet never think, dear spirits, if now ye may Remember aught of that brief earthly day, Ere ye the mournful Stygian river crost, From our familiar home too early lost,— O never think that I your tears forget, Or that I loved not well, or love not yet. Nor ye who held my heart in passion's chain,— As kings and queens succeed in glorious reign— When, as a man, I made you to outvie God's work, and, as a god, then set you by Among the sainted throng in holiest shrine Of mythic creed and poetry divine; True was my faith, and still your loves endure, The jewels of my fancy, bright and pure. Nor only in fair places do I see The picture fair now it has ceased to be: For fate once led me, and myself some days Did I devote, to dull laborious ways, By soaring thought detained to tread full low,— Yea might I say unbeauteous paths of woe And dreary abodes, had not my youthful sprite Hallow'd each nook with legends of delight. Ah! o'er that smoky town who looketh now By winter sunset from the dark hill-brow, Under the dying trees exultantly Nursing the sting of human tragedy? Or in that little room upstair'd so high, Where London's roofs in thickest huddle lie, Who now returns at evening to entice To his fireside the joys of Paradise? Once sacred was that hearth, and bright the air; The flame of man's redemption flickered there, In worship of those spirits, whose deathless fames Have thrilled the stars of heaven to hear their names; They that excell'd in wisdom to create Beauty, with mortal passion conquering fate; And, mid the sovran powers of elder time, The loveliness of music and new rhyme, The masters young that first enthrallèd me; Of whom if I should name, whom then but thee, Sweet Shelley, or the boy whose book was found Thrust in thy bosom on thy body drowned? O mighty Muse, wooer of virgin thought, Beside thy charm all else counteth as nought; The revelation of thy smile doth make Him whom thou lovest reckless for thy sake; Earthborn of suffering, that knowest well To call thine own, and with enamouring spell Feedest the stolen powers of godlike youth On dear imagination's only truth, Building with song a temple of desire; And with the yearning music of thy quire, In nuptial sacrament of thought and sense Hallowest for toil the hours of indolence: Thou in thy melancholic beauty drest, Subduest ill to serve thy fair behest, With tragic tears, and sevenfold purified Silver of mirth; and with extremest pride, With secret doctrine and unfathomed lore Remainest yet a child for evermore, The only enchantress of the earth that art To cheer his day and staunch man's bleeding heart. O heavenly Muse, for heavenly thee we call Who in the fire of love refinest all, Accurst is he who heark'neth not thy voice; But happy he who, numbered of thy choice, Walketh aloof from nature's clouded plan: For all God's world is but the thought of man; Wherein hast thou re-formed a world apart, The mutual mirror of his better heart. There is no foulness, misery, nor sin, But he who loves finds his desire therein, And there with thee in lonely commerce lives: Nay, all that nature gave or fortune gives, Joys that his spirit is most jealous of, His only-embraced and best-deserving love, Who walketh in the noon of heavenly praise, The troubled godhead of his children's gaze, Wear thine eternity, and are loved best By thee transfigured and in thee possest; Who madest beauty, and from thy boundless store Of beauty shalt create for evermore.

1900.

2 Gay Marigold is frolic, She laughs till summer is done; She hears the Grillie chirping All day i' the blazing sun. But when the pale moon rises, She fain her face would hide; For the high Queen of sorrows Disdains her empty pride. Fair Primrose haunts the shadow With children of the Spring, Till in the bloomy woodland The nightingale will sing. And when he lauds the May-night And spirits throng the grove, The moon shines thro' the branches And floods her heart with love.

3 MATRES DOLOROSAE Ye Spartan mothers, gentle ones, Of lion-hearted, loving sons, Fal'n, the flower of English youth, To a barbarous foe in a land uncouth:— O what a delicate sacrifice! Unequal the stake and costly the price As when the queen of Love deplor'd Her darling by the wild-beast gor'd. They rode to war as if to the hunt, But ye at home, ye bore the brunt, Bore the siege of torturing fears, Fed your hope on the bread of tears. Proud and spotless warriors they With love or sword to lead the way; For ye had cradled heart and hand, The commander hearken'd to your command. Ah, weeping mothers, now all is o'er, Ye know your honour and mourn no more: Nor ask ye a name in England's story, Who gave your dearest for her glory.

May 20, 1902.

4 A VIGNETTE Among the meadows lightly going, With worship and joy my heart o'erflowing, Far from town and toil of living, To a holy day my spirit giving,... * * * Thou tender flower, I kneel beside thee Wondering why God so beautified thee.— An answering thought within me springeth, A bloom of the mind her vision bringeth. Between the dim hill's distant azure And flowery foreground of sparkling pleasure I see the company of figures sainted, For whom the picture of earth was painted. Those robèd seers who made man's story The crown of Nature, Her cause his glory. They walk in the city which they have builded, The city of God from evil shielded: To them for canopy the vault of heaven, The flowery earth for carpet is given; Whereon I wander not unknowing, With worship and joy my heart o'erflowing.

1901.

5 MILLICENT Thou dimpled Millicent, of merry guesses, Strong-limb'd and tall, tossing thy wayward tresses, What mystery of the heart can so surprise The mirth and music of thy brimming eyes? Pale-brow, thou knowest not and diest to learn The mortal secret that doth in thee burn; With look imploring 'If you love me, tell, What is it in me that you love so well?' And suddenly thou stakest all thy charms, And leapest on me; and in thy circling arms When almost stifled with their wild embrace, I feel thy hot tears sheltering on my face.

1901.

6 VIVAMUS When thou didst give thy love to me, Asking no more of gods or men I vow'd I would contented be, If Fate should grant us summers ten. But now that twice the term is sped, And ever young my heart and gay, I fear the words that then I said, And turn my face from Fate away. To bid thee happily good-bye I have no hope that I can see, No way that I shall bravely die, Unless I give my life for thee.

1901.

7 One grief of thine if truth be confest Was joy to me; for it drave to my breast Thee, to my heart to find thy rest. How long it was I never shall know: I watcht the earth so stately and slow, And the ancient things that waste and grow. But now for me what speed devours Our heavenly life, our brilliant hours! How fast they fly, the stars and flowers!

8 In still midsummer night When the moon is late And the stars all watery and white For her coming wait, A spirit, whose eyes are possest By wonder new, Passeth—her arms upon her breast Enwrapt from the dew In a raiment of azure fold With diaper Of flower'd embroidery of gold Bestarr'd with silver. The daisy folk are awake Their carpet to spread, And the thron'd stars gazing on her make Fresh crowns for her head, Netted in her floating hair As she drifteth free Between the starriness of the air And the starry lea, From the silent-shadow'd vale By the west wind drawn Aloft to melt into the pale Moonrise of dawn.

1910.

9 MELANCHOLIA The sickness of desire, that in dark days Looks on the imagination of despair, Forgetteth man, and stinteth God his praise; Nor but in sleep findeth a cure for care. Incertainty that once gave scope to dream Of laughing enterprise and glory untold, Is now a blackness that no stars redeem, A wall of terror in a night of cold. Fool! thou that hast impossibly desired And now impatiently despairest, see How nought is changed: Joy's wisdom is attired Splendid for others' eyes if not for thee: Not love or beauty or youth from earth is fled: If they delite thee not, 'tis thou art dead.

1914.

10 TO THE PRESIDENT OF MAGDALEN COLLEGE, OXFORD Since now from woodland mist and flooded clay I am fled beside the steep Devonian shore, Nor stand for welcome at your gothic door, 'Neath the fair tower of Magdalen and May, Such tribute, Warren, as fond poets pay For generous esteem, I write, not more Enhearten'd than my need is, reckoning o'er My life-long wanderings on the heavenly way: But well-befriended we become good friends, Well-honour'd honourable; and all attain Somewhat by fathering what fortune sends. I bid your presidency a long reign, True friend; and may your praise to greater ends Aid better men than I, nor me in vain.

11 TO JOSEPH JOACHIM Belov'd of all to whom that Muse is dear Who hid her spirit of rapture from the Greek, Whereby our art excelleth the antique, Perfecting formal beauty to the ear; Thou that hast been in England many a year The interpreter who left us nought to seek, Making Beethoven's inmost passion speak, Bringing the soul of great Sebastian near: Their music liveth ever, and 'tis just That thou, good Joachim, so high thy skill, Rank (as thou shalt upon the heavenly hill) Laurel'd with them, for thy ennobling trust Remember'd when thy loving hand is still And every ear that heard thee stopt with dust.

12 TO THOS. FLOYD How fares it, friend, since I by Fate annoy'd Left the old home in need of livelier play For body and mind? How fare, this many a day, The stubborn thews and ageless heart of Floyd? If not too well with country sport employ'd, Visit my flock, the breezy hill that they Choose for their fold; and see, for thence you may, From rising walls all roofless yet and void, The lovely city, thronging tower and spire, The mind of the wide landscape, dreaming deep, Grey-silvery in the vale; a shrine where keep Memorial hopes their pale celestial fire: Like man's immortal conscience of desire, The spirit that watcheth in me ev'n in my sleep.

1906.

13 LA GLOIRE DE VOLTAIRE A DIALOGUE IN VERSE. A. Je donnerais pour revivre à vingt ans L'or de Rothschild, la gloire de Voltaire. I like that: Béranger in his printems, Voltaire and Rothschild: what three graces there Foot it together! But of old Voltaire, I'd ask what Béranger found so sublime In that man's glory to adorn his rhyme. Was it mere fame? B. Nay: for as wide a fame Was won by the gold-garnering millionaire, Who in the poet's verse might read his name And what is that? when so much froth and scum Float down the stream of Time (as Bacon saith), What is that for deliverance from the death? Could any sober man be proud to hold A lease of common talk, or die consoled For thinking that on lips of fools to come He'll live with Pontius Pilate and Tom Thumb? That were more like eternal punishment, The true fool's Paradise by all consent. Béranger thought to set a crown on merit. A. Man's merit! and to crown it in Voltaire? The modest eye, the gentle, fearless heart, The mouth of peace and truth, the angelic spirit! Why Arouet was soufflé with the leaven, Of which the little flock was bid beware: His very ambition was to play a part; Indifferent whether he did wrong or right, So he won credit; eager to deny A lie that failed, by adding lie to lie; Repaying evil unto seven-times-seven; A fount of slander, flattery and spite; Vain, irritable; true but to his face Of mockery and mischievous grimace, A monkey of the schools, the saints' despair! B. Yet for his voice half Europe stood at pause To hear, and when he spoke rang with applause. A. Granted he was a wonder of his kind. There is a devilish mockery in things Which only a born devil can enjoy. True banter is of melancholy mind, Akin to madness; thus must Shakespeare toy With Hamlet's reason, ere his fine art dare Push his relentless humour to the quick; And so his mortal thrusts pierce not the skin. But for the superficial bickerings That poison life and never seem to prick, The reasonable educated grin, Truly no wag is equal to Voltaire; His never-dying ripple, wide and light, Has nigh the force of Nature: to compare, 'Tis like the ocean when the sky is bright, And the cold north-wind tickles with surprise The briny levels of the infinite sea. —Shall we conclude his merit was his wit, His magic art and versatility? B. And think of those foredoom'd in Dante's pit, Who, sunk at bottom of the loathly slough, Made the black mud up-bubble with their sighs; And all because they were unkind to Mirth, And went with smoky heart and gloomy brow The while they lived upon the pleasant earth In the sweet air that rallies to the sun, And ne'er so much as smiled or gave God thanks: Surely a sparkle of the Frenchman's fun Had rescued all their souls. A. I think I see The Deity who in this Heaven abides, Le bon Dieu, holding both his aching sides, With radiant face of Pan, ruddy and hairy: Give him his famous whistles and goat-shanks, And then present him to Alighieri. B. Nay, 'twixt the Frenchman and the Florentine I ask no truce, grave Dante weaving well His dark-eyed thought into a song divine, Drawing high poetry from heaven and hell— And him who lightly mockt at all in turn. A. It follow'd from his mundane thought of art That he contemn'd religion: his concern Was comfort, taste, and wit: he had no heart For man's attempt to build and beautify His home in Nature; so he set all by That wisdom had evolved with purpose kind; Stamped it as folly, or as fraud attacked; Never discerning how his callow zest Was impiously defiling his own nest; Whereas the least philosophy may find The truths are the ideas; the sole fact Is the long story of man's growing mind. B. Upon your thistle now I see my fig— Béranger thought of Voltaire as a seer, A latter-day John Baptist in a wig; A herald of that furious gospel-storm Of words and blood, that made the nations fear; When sickening France adulterously sinn'd With Virtue, and went mad conceiving wind. He ranks him with those captains of reform, Luther and Calvin; who, whate'er they taught, Led folk from superstition to free thought. A. They did. But whence or whither led Voltaire? The steward with fifty talents given in charge, Who spent them on himself, and liv'd at large; His only virtue that he did not hide The pounds, but squander'd them to serve his pride; His praise that, cunning in his generation, He of the heavenly treasure did not spare To win himself an earthly habitation. B. Deny him not this laurel, nor to France The apostolate of modern tolerance: Their Theseus he, who slew the Minotaur, The Dragon Persecution, in which war He tipp'd the shafts that made the devil bleed; And won a victory that hath overcome Many misdoings in a well-done deed; And more, I think, the mind of Christ revealing, Yea, more of common-sense and human feeling Than all the Creeds and Bulls of Christendom. A. Yet was he only one of them that slew: The fiend had taken a deadly wound from Bayle; And did he 'roar to see his kingdom fail' 'Neath Robespierre, or raise his head anew? Nay, Voltaire's teaching never cured the heart: The lack of human feeling blots his art. When most his phrase with indignation burns, Still to the gallery his face he turns. B. You bear him hard. Men are of common stuff, Each hath some fault, and he had faults enough: But of all slanderers that ever were A virtuous critic is the most unfair. In greatness ever is some good to see; And what is character, unless it be The colour of persistent qualities, That, like a ground in painting, balances All hues and forms, combining with one tone Whatever lights or shades are on it thrown? Now Voltaire had of Nature a rich ground, Two virtues rarely in conjunction found: Industry, which no pedant could excel, He matched with gaiety inexhaustible; And with heroic courage held these fast, As sailors nail their colours to the mast, With ruling excellence atoning all. Though, for the rest, he still for praise may call; Prudent to gain, as generous to share Le superflu, chose si nécessaire; To most a rare companion above scorn, To not a few a kind, devoted friend Through his long battling life, which in the end He strove with good works richly to adorn. I have admired, and why should I abuse A man who can so long and well amuse? A. To some Parisian art there's this objection, 'Tis mediocrity pushed to perfection. B. 'Judge not,' say I, 'and ye shall not be judged!' A. Let me say, 'praise men, if ye would be praised:' Let your unwholesome flattery flow ungrudged, And with ungrudging measure shall men pour Their stifling homage back till ye be crazed, And sane men humour you as fools past cure. But these wise maxims deal not with the dead, 'Tis by example that the young are led, And judgement owes its kindness but to them; Nor will I praise, call you me hard or nice, One that degraded art, and varnished vice. They that praise ill thereby themselves condemn. B. Béranger could not praise. A. Few are who can; Not he: if ever he assay'd to impart A title loftier than his own renown, Native irreverence defied his art, His fingers soil'd the lustre of his crown. Here he adored what he was envious of, The vogue and dazzling fashion of the man. But man's true praise, the poet's praise, is love. B. And that, perhaps, was hardly his affair.... Pray, now, what set you talking of Voltaire? A. This only, that in weeding out my shelves, In fatherly regard for babes upgrown, Until they learn to garden for themselves, Much as I like to keep my sets entire, When I came out to you I had just thrown Three of his precious works behind the fire.

14 TO ROBERT BURNS AN EPISTLE ON INSTINCT 1 Thou art a poet, Robbie Burns, Master of words and witty turns, Of lilting songs and merry yarns, Drinking and kissing: There's much in all thy small concerns, But more that's missing. 2 The wisdom of thy common sense, Thy honest hate of vain pretence, Thy love and wide benevolence Full often lead thee Where feeling is its own defence; Yet while I read thee, 3 It seems but chance that all our race Trod not the path of thy disgrace, And, living freely to embrace The moment's pleasure, Snatch'd not a kiss of Nature's face For all her treasure. 4 The feelings soft, the spirits gay Entice on such a flowery way, And sovran youth in high heyday Hath such a fashion To glorify the bragging sway Of sensual passion. 5 But rakel Chance and Fortune blind Had not the power:—Eternal Mind Led man upon a way design'd, By strait selection Of pleasurable ways, to find Severe perfection. 6 For Nature did not idly spend Pleasure: she ruled it should attend On every act that doth amend Our life's condition: 'Tis therefore not well-being's end, But its fruition. 7 Beasts that inherited delight In what promoted health or might, Survived their cousins in the fight: If some—like Adam— Prefer'd the wrong tree to the right, The devil had 'em. 8 So when man's Reason took the reins, She found that she was saved her pains; She had but to approve the gains Of agelong inscience, And spin it fresh into her brains As moral conscience. 9 But Instinct in the beasts that live Is of three kinds; (Nature did give To man three shakings in her sieve)— The first is Racial, The second Self-preservative, The third is Social. 10 Without the first no race could be, So 'tis the strongest of the three; Nay, of such forceful tyranny 'Tis hard to attune it, Because 'twas never made to agree To serve the unit: 11 Art will not picture it, its name In common talk is utter shame: And yet hath Reason learn'd to tame Its conflagration Into a sacramental flame Of consecration. 12 Those hundred thousand years, ah me! Of budding soul! What slow degree, With aim so dim, so true! We see, Now that we know them, Our humble cave-folk ancestry, How much we owe them: 13 While with the savage beasts around They fought at odds, yet underground Their miserable life was sound; Their loves and quarrels Did well th' ideal bases found Of art and morals: 14 One prime distinction, Good and Ill, Was all their notion, all their skill;— But Unity stands next to Nil;— Want of analysis Saved them from doubts that wreck the Will With pale paralysis. 15 In vain philosophers dispute 'Is Good or Pleasure our pursuit?'— The fruit likes man, not man the fruit; The good that likes him, The good man's pleasure 'tis to do 't; That's how it strikes him. 16 Tho' Science hide beneath her feet The point where moral reasonings meet, The vicious circle is complete; There is no lodgement Save Aristotle's own retreat, The just man's judgement. 17 And if thou wert not that just man, Wild Robin, born to crown his plan, We shall not for that matter ban Thy petty treason, Nor closely thy defection scan From highest Reason. 18 Thou might'st have lived like Robin Hood Waylaying Abbots in the wood, Doing whate'er thee-seemèd good, The law defying, And 'mong the people's heroes stood Living and dying: 19 Yet better bow than his thou bendest, And well the poor man thou befriendest, And oftentime an ill amendest; When, if truth touch thee, Sharply the arrow home thou sendest; There's none can match thee. 20 So pity it is thou knew'st the teen Of sad remorse: the Might-have-been Shall not o'ercloud thy merry scene With vain repentance, Nor forfeit from thy spirit keen My friendly sentence.

15 THE PORTRAIT OF A GRANDFATHER With mild eyes agaze, and lips ready to speak, Whereon the yearning of love, the warning of wisdom plays, One portrait ever charms me and teaches me when I seek: It is of him whom I, remembering my young days, Imagine fathering my father; when he, in sonship afore, Liv'd honouring and obeying the eyes now pictur'd agaze, The lips ready to speak, that promise but speak no more. O high parental claim, that were not but for the knowing, O fateful bond of duty, O more than body that bore, The smile that guides me to right, the gaze that follows my going, How had I stray'd without thee! and yet how few will seek The spirit-hands, that heaven, in tender-free bestowing, Holds to her children, to guide the wandering and aid the weak. And Thee! ah what of thee, thou lover of men? if truly A painter had stell'd thee there, with thy lips ready to speak, In all-fathering passion to souls enchanted newly, —Tenderer call than of sire to son, or of lover to maiden,— Ever ready to speak to us, if we will hearken duly, 'Come, O come unto me, ye weary and heavy-laden!'

[1880.]

16 AN INVITATION TO THE OXFORD PAGEANT, JULY 1907 Fair lady of learning, playfellow of spring, Who to thy towery hospice in the vale Invitest all, with queenly claim to bring Scholars from every land within thy pale; If aught our pageantry may now avail To paint thine antique story to the eye, Inspire the scene, and bid thy herald cry Welcome to all, and to all comers hail! Come hither, then he crieth, and hail to all. Bow each his heart a pilgrim at her shrine, Whatever chance hath led you to my call, Ye that love pomp, and ye that seek a sign, Or on the low earth look for things divine; Nor ye, whom reverend Camus near-allied, Writes in the roll of his ennobled pride, Refrain your praise and love to mix with mine. Praise her, the mother of celestial moods, Who o'er the saints' inviolate array Hath starr'd her robe of fair beatitudes With jewels worn by Hellas, on the day She grew from girlhood into wisdom gay; And hath laid by her crozier, evermore With both hands gathering to enrich her store, And make her courts with music ring alway. Love her, for that the world is in her heart, Man's rude antiquity and doubtful goal, The heaven-enthralling luxury of art, The burden'd pleading of his clay-bound soul, The mutual office of delight and dole, The merry laugh of youth, the joy of life Older than thought, and the unamending strife 'Twixt liberty and politic control. There is none holier, not the lilied town By Arno, whither the spirit of Athens fled, Escap't from Hades to a less renown, Yet joyful to be risen from the dead; Nor she whose wide imperious arms were spread To spoil mankind, until the avenger came In darkening storm, and left a ruin'd name, A triple crown, upon a vanquish't head. What love in myriad hearts in every clime The vision of her beauty calls to pray'r: Where at his feet Himâlaya sublime Holds up aslope the Arabian floods, or where Patriarchal Nile rears at his watery stair; In the broad islands of the Antipodes, By Esperanza, or in the coral seas Where Buddha's vain pagodas throng the air; Or where the chivalry of Nipon smote The wily Muscovite, intent to creep Around the world with half his pride afloat, And sent his battle to the soundless deep; Or with our pilgrim-kin, and them that reap The prairie-corn beyond cold Labrador To California and the Alaskan shore, Her exiled sons their pious memory keep: Bright memories of young poetic pleasure In free companionship, the loving stress Of all life-beauty lull'd in studious leisure, When every Muse was jocund with excess Of fine delight and tremulous happiness; The breath of an indolent unbridled June, When delicate thought fell from the dreamy moon: But now strange care, sorrow, and grief oppress. 'Ah! fewer tears shall be,—'tis thus they dream,— Ah, fewer, softer tears, when we lie low: On younger brows shall brighter laurel gleam: Lovelier and earlier shall the rosebuds blow.' For in this hope she nurs'd them, and to know That Truth, while men regard a tetter'd page, Leaps on the mountains, and from age to age Reveals the dayspring's inexhausted glow. Yet all their joy is mingled with regret: As the lone scholar on a neighbouring height, Brooding disconsolate with eyelids wet Ere o'er the unkind world he took his flight, Look'd down upon her festal lamps at night, And while the far call of her warning bell Reach't to his heart, sang us his fond farewell, Beneath the stars thinking of lost delight; 'Farewell! for whether we be young or old, Thou dost remain, but we shall pass away: Time shall against himself thy house uphold, And build thy sanctuary from decay; Children unborn shall be thy pride and stay. May Earth protect thee, and thy sons be true; And God with heavenly food thy life renew, Thy pleasure and thy grace from day to day.'

17 IN MEMORY OF THE OLD-ETONIANS WHOSE LIVES WERE LOST IN THE S. AFRICAN WAR An ode set to music by Sir Hubert Parry and performed when K. Edward VII inaugurated the Memorial Hall at Eton College I Resound! Resound! To jubilant music ring! Your birthday trumpets sound the alarm of strenuous days. Ye new-built walls, awake! and welcome England's King With a high GLORY-TO-GOD, and holy cheer of praise. Awake to fairest hope of fames unknown, unseen, When ye-too silver and solemn with age shall be: For all that is fair upon earth is reared with tend'rest teen, As the burden'd years to memory flee. II Lament, O Muse of the Thames, in pride lament again, With low melodious grief remember them in this hour!— Beyond your dauntless joy, my brother, was our pain. Above all gold, my country, the lavish price of thy power— The ancient groves have mourn'd our sons, for whom no more The sisterly kisses of life, the loved embraces. Remember the love of them who came not home from the war, The fatherly tears and the veil'd faces. III Now henceforth their shrine is builded, high and vast, Alway drawing noble hearts to noble deeds; In the toil of glory to be, and the tale of glory past: While ever the laughing waves of youth pass over the meads, And the tongue of Hellas is heard, and old Time slumbereth light In the cradle of Peace. O let thy dancing feet Roam in our land and abide, dear Peace, thou child of Right, Giver of happiness, gentle and sweet.

18 ODE TO MUSIC WRITTEN FOR THE BICENTENARY COMMEMORATION OF HENRY PURCELL Music composed by Sir Hubert Parry, and performed at the Leeds Festival and Commemoration Festival in London, 1895 I Myriad-voiced Queen, Enchantress of the air, Bride of the life of man! With tuneful reed, With string and horn and high-adoring quire Thy welcome we prepare. In silver-speaking mirrors of desire, In joyous ravishment of mystery draw thou near, With heavenly echo of thoughts, that dreaming lie Chain'd in unborn oblivion drear, Thy many-hearted grace restore Unto our isle our own to be, And make again our Graces three. II Turn, O return! In merry England Foster'd thou wert with infant Liberty. Her gloried oaks, that stand With trembling leaves and giant heart Drinking in beauty from the summer moon, Her wild-wood once was dear to thee. There the birds with tiny art Earth's immemorial cradle-tune Warble at dawn to fern and fawn, In the budding thickets making merry; And for their love the primrose faint Floods the green shade with youthful scent. Come, thy jocund spring renew By hyacinthine lakes of blue: Thy beauty shall enchant the buxom May; And all the summer months shall strew thy way, And rose and honeysuckle rear Their flowery screens, till under fruit and berry The tall brake groweth golden with the year. III Thee fair Poetry oft hath sought, Wandering lone in wayward thought, On level meads by gliding streams, When summer noon is full of dreams: And thy loved airs her soul invade, Haunting retired the willow shade. Or in some walled orchard nook She communes with her ancient book, Beneath the branches laden low; While the high sun o'er bosom'd snow Smiteth all day the long hill-side With ripening cornfields waving wide. There if thou linger all the year, No jar of man can reach thine ear, Or sweetly comes, as when the sound From hidden villages around, Threading the woody knolls, is borne Of bells that dong the Sabbath morn. IV I The sea with melancholy war Moateth about our castled shore; His world-wide elemental moan Girdeth our lives with tragic zone. He, ere men dared his watery path, Fenced them aloof in wrath; Their jealous brotherhoods Sund'ring with bitter floods: Till science grew and skill, And their adventurous will Challenged his boundaries, and went free To know the round world, and the sea From midday night to midnight sun Binding all nations into one. 2 Yet shall his storm and mastering wave Assure the empire to the brave; And to his billowy bass belongs The music of our patriot songs, When to the wind his ridges go In furious following, careering a-row, Lasht with hail and withering snow: And ever undaunted hearts outride His rushing waters wide. 3 But when the winds fatigued or fled Have left the drooping barks unsped, And nothing stirs his idle plain Save fire-breathed ships with silvery train, While lovingly his waves he layeth, And his slow heart in passion swells To the pale moon in heav'n that strayeth, And all his mighty music deep Whispers among the heapèd shells, Or in dark caverns lies asleep;— Then dreams of Peace invite, Haunting our shore with kisses light: Nay—even Love's Paphian Queen hath come Out of her long retirèd home To show again her beauty bright; And twice or thrice in sight hath play'd Of a young lover unaffray'd, And all his verse immortal made. V I Love to Love calleth, Love unto Love replieth: From the ends of the earth, drawn by invisible bands, Over the dawning and darkening lands Love cometh to Love. To the pangs of desire; To the heart by courage and might Escaped from hell, From the torment of raging fire, From the sighs of the drowning main, From shipwreck of fear and pain, From the terror of night. 2 All mankind by Love shall be banded To combat Evil, the many-handed: For the spirit of man on beauty feedeth, The airy fancy he heedeth, He regardeth Truth in the heavenly height, In changeful pavilions of loveliness dight, The sovran sun that knows not the night; He loveth the beauty of earth, And the sweet birds' mirth; And out of his heart there falleth A melody-making river Of passion, that runneth ever To the ends of the earth and crieth, That yearneth and calleth; And Love from the heart of man To the heart of man replieth: On the wings of desire Love cometh to Love. VI I To me, to me, fair hearted Goddess, come, To Sorrow come, Where by the grave I linger dumb; With sorrow bow thine head, For all my beauty is dead, Leave Freedom's vaunt and playful thought awhile, Come with thine unimpassioned smile Of heavenly peace, and with thy fourfold choir Of fair uncloying harmony Unveil the palaces where man's desire Keepeth celestial solemnity. 2 Lament, fair hearted queen, lament with me: For when thy seer died no song was sung, Nor for our heroes fal'n by land or sea Hath honour found a tongue: Nor aught of beauty for their tomb can frame Worthy their noble name. Let Mirth go bare: make mute thy dancing string: With thy majestic consolation Sweeten our suffering. Speak thou my woe; that from her pain My spirit arise to see again The Truth unknown that keeps our faith, The Beauty unseen that bates our breath, The heaven that doth our joy renew, And drinketh up our tears as dew. VII DIRGE Man born of desire Cometh out of the night, A wandering spark of fire, A lonely word of eternal thought Echoing in chance and forgot. I He seeth the sun, He calleth the stars by name, He saluteth the flowers.— Wonders of land and sea, The mountain towers Of ice and air He seeth, and calleth them fair: Then he hideth his face;— Whence he came to pass away Where all is forgot, Unmade—lost for aye With the things that are not. 2 He striveth to know, To unravel the Mind That veileth in horror: He wills to adore. In wisdom he walketh And loveth his kind; His labouring breath Would keep evermore: Then he hideth his face;— Whence he came to pass away Where all is forgot, Unmade—lost for aye With the things that are not. 3 He dreameth of beauty, He seeks to create Fairer and fairer To vanquish his Fate; No hindrance he— No curse will brook, He maketh a law No ill shall be: Then he hideth his face;— Whence he came to pass away Where all is forgot, Unmade—lost for aye With the things that are not. VIII Rejoice, ye dead, where'er your spirits dwell, Rejoice that yet on earth your fame is bright, And that your names, remember'd day and night, Live on the lips of those who love you well. 'Tis ye that conquer'd have the powers of Hell Each with the special grace of your delight; Ye are the world's creators, and by might Alone of Heavenly love ye did excel. Now ye are starry names Behind the sun ye climb To light the glooms of Time With deathless flames. IX Open for me the gates of delight, The gates of the garden of man's desire; Where spirits touch'd by heavenly fire Have planted the trees of life.— Their branches in beauty are spread, Their fruit divine To the nations is given for bread, And crush'd into wine. To thee, O man, the sun his truth hath given, The moon hath whisper'd in love her silvery dreams; Night hath unlockt the starry heaven, The sea the trust of his streams: And the rapture of woodland spring Is stay'd in its flying; And Death cannot sting Its beauty undying. Fear and Pity disentwine Their aching beams in colours fine; Pain and woe forgo their might. After darkness thy leaping sight, After dumbness thy dancing sound, After fainting thy heavenly flight, After sorrow thy pleasure crown'd: O enter the garden of thy delight, Thy solace is found.

X To us, O Queen of sinless grace, Now at our prayer unveil thy face: Awake again thy beauty free; Return and make our Graces three. And with our thronging strength to the ends of the earth Thy myriad-voicèd loveliness go forth, To lead o'er all the world's wide ways God's everlasting praise, And every heart inspire With the joy of man in the beauty of Love's desire.

19 A HYMN OF NATURE AN ODE WRITTEN FOR MUSIC The music composed by Sir Hubert Parry, performed at the Gloucester Festival, 1898 I Power eternal, power unknown, uncreate: Force of force, fate of fate. Beauty and light are thy seeing, Wisdom and right thy decreeing, Life of life is thy being. In the smile of thine infinite starry gleam, Without beginning or end, Measure or number, Beyond time and space, Without foe or friend, In the void of thy formless embrace, All things pass as a dream Of thine unbroken slumber. II Gloom and the night are thine: On the face of thy mirror darkness and terror, The smoke of thy blood, the frost of thy breath. In silence and woful awe Thy harrying angels of death Destroy whate'er thou makest— Makest, destroyest, destroyest and makest. Thy gems of life thou dost squander, Their virginal beauty givest to plunder, Doomest to uttermost regions of age-long ice To starve and expire: Consumest with glance of fire, Or back to confusion shakest With earthquake, elemental storm and thunder. III In ways of beauty and peace Fair desire, companion of man, Leadeth the children of earth. As when the storm doth cease, The loving sun the clouds dispelleth, And woodland walks are sweet in spring; The birds they merrily sing And every flower-bud swelleth. Or where the heav'ns o'erspan The lonely downs When summer is high: Below their breezy crowns And grassy steep Spreadeth the infinite smile of the sunlit sea; Whereon the white ships swim, And steal to havens far Across the horizon dim, Or lie becalm'd upon the windless deep, Like thoughts of beauty and peace, When the storm doth cease, And fair desire, companion of man, Leadeth the children of earth. IV Man, born to toil, in his labour rejoiceth; His voice is heard in the morn: He armeth his hand and sallieth forth To engage with the generous teeming earth, And drinks from the rocky rills The laughter of life. Or else, in crowded cities gathering close, He traffics morn and eve In thronging market-halls; Or within echoing walls Of busy arsenals Weldeth the stubborn iron to engines vast; Or tends the thousand looms Where, with black smoke o'ercast, The land mourns in deep glooms. Life is toil, and life is good: There in loving brotherhood Beateth the nation's heart of fire. Strife! Strife! The strife is strong! There battle thought and voice, and spirits conspire In joyous dance around the tree of life, And from the ringing choir Riseth the praise of God from hearts in tuneful song. V Hark! What spirit doth entreat The love-obedient air? All the pomp of his delight Revels on the ravisht night, Wandering wilful, soaring fair: There! 'Tis there, 'tis there. Like a flower of primal fire Late redeem'd by man's desire. Away, on wings away My spirit far hath flown, To a land of love and peace, Of beauty unknown. The world that earth-born man, By evil undismay'd, Out of the breath of God Hath for his heaven made. Where all his dreams soe'er Of holy things and fair In splendour are upgrown, Which thro' the toilsome years Martyrs and faithful seers And poets with holy tears Of hope have sown. There, beyond power of ill, In joy and blessing crown'd, Christ with His lamp of truth Sitteth upon the hill Of everlasting youth, And calls His saints around. VI Sweet compassionate tears Have dimm'd my earthly sight, Tears of love, the showers wherewith The eternal morn is bright: Dews of the heav'nly spheres. With tears my eyes are wet, Tears not of vain regret, Tears of no lost delight, Dews of the heav'nly spheres Have dimm'd my earthly sight, Sweet compassionate tears. VII Gird on thy sword, O man, thy strength endue, In fair desire thine earth-born joy renew. Live thou thy life beneath the making sun Till Beauty, Truth, and Love in thee are one. Thro' thousand ages hath thy childhood run: On timeless ruin hath thy glory been: From the forgotten night of loves fordone Thou risest in the dawn of hopes unseen. Higher and higher shall thy thoughts aspire, Unto the stars of heaven, and pass away, And earth renew the buds of thy desire In fleeting blooms of everlasting day. Thy work with beauty crown, thy life with love; Thy mind with truth uplift to God above: For whom all is, from whom was all begun, In whom all Beauty, Truth, and Love are one.