Death

I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled
    Above the green elms, that a cottage was near.
And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world,
    "A heart that was humble might hope for it here!"
It was noon, and on flowers that languished around
    In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
    But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.

And, "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed,
    "With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,
"Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,
    How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!

"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips
    "In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,
"And to know that I sighed upon innocent l...

When the dark ivy the thorn-tree is mounting,
Sweet shielding in summer the nest of the dove,
There lies the sweet spot, by the side of the fountain,
That's dear to all sweetness that dwells upon love:
For there setting sunbeams, ere even's clouds close 'em,
Once stretch'd a long shadow of one I adore;
And there did I meet the sweet sighs of the bosom
Of one ever dear, though I meet her no more.

And who with a soul, and a share of warm feeling,
And who with a heart that owns love for the fair,
Can pass by the spot where his first look was stealing,
Or first fondness ventur'd love-tales to declare?
Ah, who can pass by it, and notice it never?
Can long days forget on first fondness to call?
Sure time kindles love to burn brighter than ever,
And nature's first c...

(As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality)


I.

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!

II.

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!
There, the whole day long, one’s life is a perfect feast;
While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.

III.

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull
Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature’s skull,
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!
I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair’s turned wool.

IV.

But the city, oh the city, the square with the ho...

Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens,
Their old rock-fences, that our day inherits;
Their doors, 'round which the great trees stand like wardens;
Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;
Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.

I see them gray among their ancient acres,
Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,--
Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,
Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,--
Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.

Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies--
Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers--
Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,
And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,
And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.

I love their orchards where the ...

I.
Lord of light, whose shine no hands destroy,
God of song, whose hymn no tongue refuses,
Now, though spring far hence be cold and coy,
Bid the golden mouths of all the Muses
Ring forth gold of strains without alloy,
Till the ninefold rapture that suffuses
Heaven with song bid earth exult for joy,
Since the child whose head this dawn bedews is
Sweet as once thy violet-cradled boy.

II.
Even as he lay lapped about with flowers,
Lies the life now nine years old before us
Lapped about with love in all its hours;
Hailed of many loves that chant in chorus
Loud or low from lush or leafless bowers,
Some from hearts exultant born sonorous,
Some scarce louder-voiced than soft-tongued showers
Two months hence, when spring’s light wings poised o’er us

The stone-grey roses by the desert's rim
Are soft-edged shadows on the moonlit sand,
Grey are the broken walls of Khangavar,
That haunt of nightingales, whose voices are
Fountains that bubble in the dream-soft Moon.

Shall the Gazelles with moonbeam pale bright feet
Entering the vanished gardens sniff the air -
Some scent may linger of that ancient time,
Musician's song, or poet's passionate rhyme,
The Princess dead, still wandering love-sick there.

A Princess pale and cold as mountain snow,
In cool, dark chambers sheltered from the sun,
With long dark lashes and small delicate hands:
All Persia sighed to kiss her small red mouth
Until they buried her in shifting sand.

And the Gazelles shall flit by in the Moon
And never shake the frail Tree's...

Observe these Pirates bold and gay,
That sail a gory sea:
Notice their bright expression:--
The handsome one is me.



We plundered ships and harbours,
We spoiled the Spanish main;
But Nemesis watched over us,
For it began to rain.

Oh all well-meaning folk take heed!
Our Captain's fate was sore;
A more well-meaning Pirate,
Had never dripped with gore.

The rain was pouring long and loud,
The sea was drear and dim;
A little fish was floating there:
Our Captain pitied him.



"How sad," he said, and dropped a tear
Splash on the cabin roof,
"That we are dry, while he is there
Without a waterproof.

"We'll get him up on board at once;
For Science teaches me,
He will be wet if he remains

Thou splendid child of southern skies!
    Thy brilliant plumes and graceful form
Are not so precious in mine eyes
    As those gray heralds of the morn,
Which in my own beloved land
    Welcome the azure car of spring,
When budding flowers and leaves expand
    On hawthorn boughs, and sweetly sing.

But thou art suited to the clime,
    The golden clime, that gave thee birth;
Where beauty reigns o'er scenes sublime,
    And fadeless verdure decks the earth;
Where nature faints beneath the blaze
    Of her own gorgeous crown of light,
And exiled eyes, with aching gaze,
    Sigh for the softer shades of night,

That memory to their dreams may bring
    Past scenes, to cheer their sleeping eye,
The dark green woods where linnets sing,
  ...

[1]


Youth's endearing charms are fled;
Hoary locks deform my head;
Bloomy graces, dalliance gay,
All the flowers of life decay.[2]
Withering age begins to trace
Sad memorials o'er my face;
Time has shed its sweetest bloom
All the future must be gloom.
This it is that sets me sighing;
Dreary is the thought of dying![3]
Lone and dismal is the road,
Down to Pluto's dark abode;
And, when once the journey's o'er,
Ah! we can return no more!

As much as 'twixt the third hour's close and dawn,
Appeareth of heav'n's sphere, that ever whirls
As restless as an infant in his play,
So much appear'd remaining to the sun
Of his slope journey towards the western goal.

Evening was there, and here the noon of night;
and full upon our forehead smote the beams.
For round the mountain, circling, so our path
Had led us, that toward the sun-set now
Direct we journey'd: when I felt a weight
Of more exceeding splendour, than before,
Press on my front. The cause unknown, amaze
Possess'd me, and both hands against my brow
Lifting, I interpos'd them, as a screen,
That of its gorgeous superflux of light
Clipp'd the diminish'd orb. As when the ray,
Striking On water or the surface clear
Of mirror, leaps unto t...

Dark frost was in the air without,
The dusk was still with cold and gloom,
When less than even a shadow came
And stood within the room.

But of the three around the fire,
None turned a questioning head to look,
Still read a clear voice, on and on,
Still stooped they o'er their book.

The children watched their mother's eyes
Moving on softly line to line;
It seemed to listen too - that shade,
Yet made no outward sign.

The fire-flames crooned a tiny song,
No cold wind moved the wintry tree;
The children both in Faërie dreamed
Beside their mother's knee.

And nearer yet that spirit drew
Above that heedless one, intent
Only on what the simple words
Of her small story meant.

No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind,
N...

Rise and hold up the curved glass,
And pour us wine of the morning, of El Andar.

Pour wine for us, whose golden colour
Is like a water stream kissing flowers of saffron.

Pour us wine to make us generous
And carelessly happy in the old way.

Pour us wine that gives the miser
A sumptuous generosity and disregard.

O Oum-Amr, you have prevented me from the cup
When it should have been moving to the right;
And yet the one of us three that you would not serve
Is not the least worthy.

How many cups have I not emptied at Balbek,
And emptied at Damas and emptied at Cacerin!

More cups! more cups! for death will have his day;
His are we and he ours.

            *            *            *            *            *

By he...

    (W. H. S., Capt. [Acting Major] R.F.A.; killed April 12, 1917)

    We sha'n't see Willy any more, Mamie,
    He won't be coming any more:
    He came back once and again and again,
    But he won't get leave any more.

    We looked from the window and there was his cab,
    And we ran downstairs like a streak,
    And he said "Hullo, you bad dog," and you crouched to the floor,
    Paralysed to hear him speak,

    And then let fly at his face and his chest
    Till I had to hold you down,
    While he took off his cap and his gloves and his coat.
    And his bag and his thonged Sam Browne.

    We went upstairs to the studio,
    The three of us, just as of old,
    And you lay down and I sat and talked to him
    As round the...

Of dogs who sav'd a living friend,
    Most nobly, ye have read:
Now to a nobler still attend,
    A guardian of the dead.

As o'er wild Alpine scenes I stray'd,
    Not far from that retreat,
Where Bruno, with celestial aid,
    First plann'd his sacred seat.

An anchorite of noble mien,
    Attracted my regard;
Majestic as that savage scene,
    Or as a Cambrian bard.

He to no silent dome belongs,
    The rock is his domain;
It echoes to his nightly songs
    Devotion's lonely strain.

His mansion is a tranquil grot,
    Form'd in the living stone:
My view of the sequester'd spot,
    I owe to chance alone.

For happening near his cell to rove,
    Enamour'd of the wild;
I heard within a piny grove

Now had I left those spirits, and pursued
The steps of my Conductor, when beheld
Pointing the finger at me one exclaim'd:
"See how it seems as if the light not shone
From the left hand of him beneath, and he,
As living, seems to be led on." Mine eyes
I at that sound reverting, saw them gaze
Through wonder first at me, and then at me
And the light broken underneath, by turns.
"Why are thy thoughts thus riveted?" my guide
Exclaim'd, "that thou hast slack'd thy pace? or how
Imports it thee, what thing is whisper'd here?
Come after me, and to their babblings leave
The crowd. Be as a tower, that, firmly set,
Shakes not its top for any blast that blows!
He, in whose bosom thought on thought shoots out,
Still of his aim is wide, in that the one
Sicklies and wast...

Thou shouldst be purchased, Wisdom, for much gold
If all they say of thee is truly told:
That thou canst root out from the mind the host
Of longings and canst change a man almost
Into an angel whom no grief can sap,
Who is not prone to fear nor evil hap.
Thou seest all things human as they are -
Trifles. Thou bearest in thy breast a star
Fixed and tranquil, and dost contemplate
Death unafraid, still calm, inviolate.
Of riches, one thing thou dost hold the measure:
Proportion to man's needs - not gold nor treasure;
Thy searching eyes have power to behold
The beggar housed beneath the roof of gold,
Nor dost thou grudge the poor man fame as blest
If he but hearken him to thy behest.
Oh, hapless, hapless man am I, who sought
If I might gain thy thresholds by ...

Because my faltering feet may fail to dare
The first descendant of the steps of Hell
Give me the Word in time that triumphs there.
I too must pass into the misty hollow
Where all our living laughter stops: and hark!
The tiny stuffless voices of the dark
Have called me, called me, till I needs must follow:
Give me the Word and I'll attempt it well.

Say it's the little winking of an eye
Which in that issue is uncurtained quite;
A little sleep that helps a moment by
Between the thin dawn and the large daylight.
Ah! tell me more than yet was hoped of men;
Swear that's true now, and I'll believe it then.

    Illustrious fathers of the human race,
    Of you, the song of your afflicted sons
    Will chant the praise; of you, more dear, by far,
    Unto the Great Disposer of the stars,
    Who were not born to wretchedness, like ours.
    Immedicable woes, a life of tears,
    The silent tomb, eternal night, to find
    More sweet, by far, than the ethereal light,
    These things were not by heaven's gracious law
    Imposed on you. If ancient legends speak
    Of sins of yours, that brought calamity
    Upon the human race, and fell disease,
    Alas, the sins more terrible, by far,
    Committed by your children, and their souls
    More restless, and with mad ambition fixed,
    Against them roused the wrath of angry gods,
    The hand of all-sustaining Natu...