Volume 14 / Book 2 — ADDITIONAL POEMS

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE

Blame me not that this epistle Is the first you have from me; Idleness hath held me fettered; But at last the times are bettered, And once more I wet my whistle Here in France beside the sea. All the green and idle weather, I have had in sun and shower Such an easy, warm subsistence, Such an indolent existence, I should find it hard to sever Day from day and hour from hour. Many a tract-provided ranter May upbraid me, dark and sour, Many a bland Utilitarian, Or excited Millenarian, —“Pereunt et imputantur”— You must speak to every hour. But (the very term’s deception) You at least, my Friend, will see That in sunny grassy meadows, Trailed across by moving shadows, To be actively receptive Is as much as man can be. He that all the winter grapples Difficulties—thrust and ward— Needs to cheer him thro’ his duty Memories of sun and beauty, Orchards with the russet apples Lying scattered on the sward. Many such I keep in prison, Keep them here at heart unseen, Till my muse again rehearses Long years hence, and in my verses You shall meet them re-arisen, Ever comely, ever green. You know how they never perish, How, in time of later art, Memories consecrate and sweeten Those defaced and tempest-beaten Flowers of former years we cherish Half a life, against our heart. Most, those love-fruits withered greenly, Those frail, sickly amourettes,— How they brighten with the distance, Take new strength and new existence, Till we see them sitting queenly Crowned and courted by regrets! All that loveliest and best is, Aureole-fashion round their head, They that looked in life but plainly, How they stir our spirits vainly When they come to us, Alcestis— Like returning from the dead! Not the old love but another, Bright she comes at memory’s call, Our forgotten vows reviving To a newer, livelier living, As the dead child to the mother Seems the fairest child of all. Thus our Goethe, sacred master, Travelling backward thro’ his youth, Surely wandered wrong in trying To renew the old, undying Loves that cling in memory faster Than they ever lived in truth. Boulogne-sur-Mer, September 1872.

II

RONDELS

1

Far have you come, my lady, from the town, And far from all your sorrows, if you please, To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas, And in green meadows lay your body down. To find your pale face grow from pale to brown, Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees; Far have you come, my lady, from the town, And far from all your sorrows, if you please. Here in this seaboard land of old renown, In meadow grass go wading to the knees; Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease; There is no sorrow but the sea can drown; Far have you come, my lady, from the town.

2

Nous n’irons plus au bois We’ll walk the woods no more, But stay beside the fire, To weep for old desire And things that are no more. The woods are spoiled and hoar, The ways are full of mire; We’ll walk the woods no more, But stay beside the fire. We loved, in days of yore, Love, laughter, and the lyre. Ah God, but death is dire, And death is at the door— We’ll walk the woods no more. Château Renard, August 1875.

3

Since I am sworn to live my life And not to keep an easy heart, Some men may sit and drink apart, I bear a banner in the strife. Some can take quiet thought to wife, I am all day at tierce and carte, Since I am sworn to live my life And not to keep an easy heart. I follow gaily to the fife, Leave Wisdom bowed above a chart, And Prudence brawing in the mart, And dare Misfortune to the knife, Since I am sworn to live my life.

4

OF HIS PITIABLE TRANSFORMATION

I who was young so long, Young and alert and gay, Now that my hair is grey, Begin to change my song. Now I know right from wrong, Now I know pay and pray, I who was young so long, Young and alert and gay. Now I follow the throng, Walk in the beaten way, Hear what the elders say, And own that I was wrong— I who was young so long. 1876.

III

EPISTLE TO CHARLES BAXTER

Noo lyart leaves blaw ower the green, Red are the bonny woods o’ Dean, An’ here we’re back in Embro, freen’, To pass the winter. Whilk noo, wi’ frosts afore, draws in, An’ snaws ahint her. I’ve seen ’s hae days to fricht us a’, The Pentlands poothered weel wi’ snaw, The ways half-smoored wi’ liquid thaw, An’ half-congealin’, The snell an’ scowtherin’ norther blaw Frae blae Brunteelan’. I’ve seen ’s been unco sweir to sally, And at the door-cheeks daff an’ dally, Seen ’s daidle thus an’ shilly-shally For near a minute— Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley, The deil was in it!— Syne spread the silk an’ tak the gate, In blast an’ blaudin’, rain, deil hae ’t! The hale toon glintin’, stane an’ slate, Wi’ cauld an’ weet, An’ to the Court, gin we ’se be late, Bicker oor feet. And at the Court, tae, aft I saw Whaur Advocates by twa an’ twa Gang gesterin’ end to end the ha’ In weeg an’ goon, To crack o’ what ye wull but Law The hale forenoon. That muckle ha’, maist like a kirk, I’ve kent at braid mid-day sae mirk Ye’d seen white weegs an’ faces lurk Like ghaists frae Hell, But whether Christian ghaists or Turk, Deil ane could tell. The three fires lunted in the gloom, The wind blew like the blast o’ doom, The rain upo’ the roof abune Played Peter Dick— Ye wad nae’d licht enough i’ the room Your teeth to pick! But, freend, ye ken how me an’ you, The ling-lang lanely winter through, Keep’d a guid speerit up, an’ true To lore Horatian, We aye the ither bottle drew To inclination. Sae let us in the comin’ days Stand sicker on our auncient ways— The strauchtest road in a’ the maze Since Eve ate apples; An’ let the winter weet our cla’es— We’ll weet oor thrapples. Edinburgh, October 1875.

IV

THE SUSQUEHANNAH AND THE

DELAWARE

Of where or how, I nothing know; And why, I do not care; Enough if, even so, My travelling eyes, my travelling mind can go By flood and field and hill, by wood and meadow fair, Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. I think, I hope, I dream no more The dreams of otherwhere, The cherished thoughts of yore; I have been changed from what I was before; And drunk too deep perchance the lotus of the air, Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. Unweary, God me yet shall bring To lands of brighter air, Where I, now half a king, Shall with enfranchised spirit loudlier sing, And wear a bolder front than that which now I wear Beside the Susquehannah and along the Delaware. August 1879.

V

EPISTLE TO ALBERT DEW-SMITH

Figure me to yourself, I pray— A man of my peculiar cut— Apart from dancing and deray,1 Into an Alpine valley shut; Shut in a kind of damned Hotel, Discountenanced by God and man; The food?—Sir, you would do as well To cram your belly full of bran. The company? Alas, the day That I should dwell with such a crew, With devil anything to say, Nor any one to say it to! The place? Although they call it Platz, I will be bold and state my view; It’s not a place at all—and that’s The bottom verity, my Dew. There are, as I will not deny, Innumerable inns; a road; Several Alps indifferent high; The snow’s inviolable abode; Eleven English parsons, all Entirely inoffensive; four True human beings—what I call Human—the deuce a cipher more; A climate of surprising worth; Innumerable dogs that bark; Some air, some weather, and some earth; A native race—God save the mark!— A race that works, yet cannot work, Yodels, but cannot yodel right, Such as, unhelp’d, with rusty dirk, I vow that I could wholly smite. A river that from morn to night Down all the valley plays the fool; Not once she pauses in her flight, Nor knows the comfort of a pool; But still keeps up, by straight or bend, The selfsame pace she hath begun— Still hurry, hurry, to the end— Good God, is that the way to run? If I a river were, I hope That I should better realise The opportunities and scope Of that romantic enterprise. I should not ape the merely strange, But aim besides at the divine; And continuity and change I still should labour to combine. Here should I gallop down the race, Here charge the sterling2 like a bull; There, as a man might wipe his face, Lie, pleased and panting, in a pool. But what, my Dew, in idle mood, What prate I, minding not my debt? What do I talk of bad or good? The best is still a cigarette. Me whether evil fate assault, Or smiling providences crown— Whether on high the eternal vault Be blue, or crash with thunder down— I judge the best, whate’er befall, Is still to sit on one’s behind, And, having duly moistened all, Smoke with an unperturbed mind. Davos, November 1880.

VI

ALCAICS TO HORATIO F. BROWN

Brave lads in olden musical centuries, Sang, night by night, adorable choruses, Sat late by alehouse doors in April Chaunting in joy as the moon was rising: Moon-seen and merry, under the trellises, Flush-faced they played with old polysyllables; Spring scents inspired, old wine diluted; Love and Apollo were there to chorus. Now these, the songs, remain to eternity, Those, only those, the bountiful choristers Gone—those are gone, those unremembered Sleep and are silent in earth for ever. So man himself appears and evanishes, So smiles and goes; as wanderers halting at Some green-embowered house, play their music, Play and are gone on the windy highway; Yet dwells the strain enshrined in the memory Long after they departed eternally, Forth-faring tow’rd far mountain summits, Cities of men on the sounding Ocean. Youth sang the song in years immemorial; Brave chanticleer, he sang and was beautiful; Bird-haunted, green tree-tops in springtime Heard and were pleased by the voice of singing; Youth goes, and leaves behind him a prodigy— Songs sent by thee afar from Venetian Sea-grey lagunes, sea-paven highways, Dear to me here in my Alpine exile. Davos, Spring 1881.

VII

A LYTLE JAPE OF TUSHERIE

By A. Tusher

The pleasant river gushes Among the meadows green; At home the author tushes; For him it flows unseen. The Birds among the Bushes May wanton on the spray; But vain for him who tushes The brightness of the day! The frog among the rushes Sits singing in the blue. By ’r la’kin! but these tushes Are wearisome to do! The task entirely crushes The spirit of the bard: God pity him who tushes— His task is very hard. The filthy gutter slushes, The clouds are full of rain, But doomed is he who tushes To tush and tush again. At morn with his hair-brushes, Still “tush” he says and weeps; At night again he tushes, And tushes till he sleeps. And when at length he pushes Beyond the river dark— ’Las, to the man who tushes, “Tush” shall be God’s remark! Hyères, May 1883.

VIII

TO VIRGIL AND DORA WILLIAMS

Here, from the forelands of the tideless sea, Behold and take my offering unadorned. In the Pacific air it sprang; it grew Among the silence of the Alpine air; In Scottish heather blossomed; and at last By that unshapen sapphire, in whose face Spain, Italy, France, Algiers, and Tunis view Their introverted mountains, came to fruit. Back now, my Booklet! on the diving ship, And posting on the rails, to home return,— Home, and the friends whose honouring name you bear. Hyères, 1883.

IX

BURLESQUE SONNET

TO ÆNEAS WILLIAM MACKINTOSH

Thee, Mackintosh, artificer of light, Thee, the lone smoker hails! the student, thee; Thee, oft upon the ungovernable sea, The seaman, conscious of approaching night; Thou, with industrious fingers, hast outright Mastered that art, of other arts the key, That bids thick night before the morning flee, And lingering day retains for mortal sight. O Promethean workman, thee I hail, Thee hallowed, thee unparalleled, thee bold To affront the reign of sleep and darkness old, Thee William, thee Æneas, thee I sing; Thee by the glimmering taper clear and pale, Of light, and light’s purveyance, hail, the king.

X

THE FINE PACIFIC ISLANDS

(HEARD IN A PUBLIC-HOUSE AT ROTHERHITHE)

The jolly English Yellowboy Is a ’ansome coin when new, The Yankee Double-eagle Is large enough for two. O, these may do for seaport towns, For cities these may do; But the dibbs that takes the Hislands Are the dollars of Peru: O, the fine Pacific Hislands, O, the dollars of Peru! It’s there we buy the cocoanuts Mast ’eaded in the blue; It’s there we trap the lasses All waiting for the crew; It’s there we buy the trader’s rum What bores a seaman through.... In the fine Pacific Hislands With the dollars of Peru: In the fine Pacific Hislands With the dollars of Peru! Now, messmates, when my watch is up, And I am quite broached to, I’ll give a tip to ’Evving Of the ’ansome thing to do: Let ’em just refit this sailor-man And launch him off anew To cruise among the Hislands With the dollars of Peru: In the fine Pacific Hislands With the dollars of Peru! Tahiti, August 1888.

XI

AULD REEKIE

When chitterin’ cauld the day sall daw, Loud may your bonny bugles blaw And loud your drums may beat. Hie owre the land at evenfa’ Your lamps may glitter raw by raw, Along the gowsty street. I gang nae mair where ance I gaed, By Brunston, Fairmileheid, or Braid; But far frae Kirk and Tron. O still ayont the muckle sea, Still are ye dear, and dear to me, Auld Reekie, still and on!

XII

THE LESSON OF THE MASTER

TO HENRY JAMES

Adela, Adela, Adela Chart, What have you done to my elderly heart? Of all the ladies of paper and ink I count you the paragon, call you the pink. The word of your brother depicts you in part: “You raving maniac!” Adela Chart; But in all the asylums that cumber the ground, So delightful a maniac was ne’er to be found. I pore on you, dote on you, clasp you to heart, I laud, love, and laugh at you, Adela Chart, And thank my dear maker the while I admire That I can be neither your husband nor sire. Your husband’s, your sire’s, were a difficult part; You’re a byway to suicide, Adela Chart; But to read of, depicted by exquisite James, O, sure you’re the flower and quintessence of dames. Vailima, October 1891.

XIII

THE CONSECRATION OF BRAILLE

TO MRS. A. BAKER

I was a barren tree before, I blew a quenchèd coal, I could not, on their midnight shore, The lonely blind console. A moment, lend your hand, I bring My sheaf for you to bind, And you can teach my words to sing In the darkness of the blind. Vailima, December 1893.

XIV

SONG

Light foot and tight foot, And green grass spread, Early in the morning, But hope is on ahead. Brief day and bright day, And sunset red, Early in the evening, The stars are overhead.

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