Poems by George Meredith Volume Iii Part 26

May she not call herself her own?

That is her cry, and thence her spits Of fury, thence her graceless tone At justice given in bits and bits.

The limbs once raw with gnawing chains Will fret at silken when G.o.d's beams Of Freedom beckon o'er the plains From mounts that show it more than dreams.

She, generous, craves your generous dole; That will not rouse the crack of doom.

It ends the blundering past control Simply to give her elbow-room.

Her offspring feels they are a race, To be a nation is their claim; Yet stronger bound in your embrace Than when the tie was but a name.

A nation she, and formed to charm, With heart for heart and hands all round.

No longer England's broken arm, Would England know where strength is found.

And strength to-day is England's need; To-morrow it may be for both Salvation: heed the portents, heed The warnings; free the mind from sloth.

Too long the pair have danced in mud, With no advance from sun to sun.

Ah, what a bounding course of blood Has England with an Ireland one!

Behold yon shadow cross the downs, And off away to yeasty seas.

Lightly will fly old rancour's frowns When solid with high heart stand these.

THE YEARS HAD WORN THEIR SEASONS' BELT

The years had worn their seasons' belt, From bud to rosy prime, Since Nellie by the larch-pole knelt And helped the hop to climb.

Most diligent of teachers then, But now with all to learn, She breathed beyond a thought of men, Though formed to make men burn.

She dwelt where 'twixt low-beaten thorns Two mill-blades, like a snail, Enormous, with inquiring horns, Looked down on half the vale.

You know the grey of dew on gra.s.s Ere with the young sun fired, And you know well the thirst one has For the coming and desired.

Quick in our ring she leapt, and gave Her hand to left, to right.

No claim on her had any, save To feed the joy of sight.

For man and maid a laughing word She tossed, in notes as clear As when the February bird Sings out that Spring is near.

Of what befell behind that scone, Let none who knows reveal.

In ballad days she might have been A heroine rousing steel.

On us did she bestow the hour, And fixed it firm in thought; Her spirit like a meadow flower That gives, and asks for nought.

She seemed to make the sunlight stay And show her in its pride.

O she was fair as a beech in May With the sun on the yonder side.

There was more life than breath can give, In the looks in her fair form; For little can we say we live Until the heart is warm.

FRAGMENTS

Open horizons round, O mounting mind, to scenes unsung, Wherein shall walk a l.u.s.ty Time: Our Earth is young; Of measure without bound; Infinite are the heights to climb, The depths to sound.

A wilding little stubble flower The sickle scorned which cut for wheat, Such was our hope in that dark hour When nought save uses held the street, And daily pleasures, daily needs, With barren vision, looked ahead.

And still the same result of seeds Gave likeness 'twixt the live and dead.

From labours through the night, outworn, Above the hills the front of morn We see, whose eyes to heights are raised, And the world's wise may deem us crazed.

While yet her lord lies under seas, She takes us as the wind the trees'

Delighted leaf.a.ge; all in song We mount to her, to her belong.

This love of nature, that allures to take Irregularity for harmony Of larger scope than our hard measures make, Cherish it as thy school for when on thee The ills of life descend.

IL Y A CENT ANS

That march of the funereal Past behold; How Glory sat on Bondage for its throne; How men, like dazzled insects, through the mould Still worked their way, and bled to keep their own.

We know them, as they strove and wrought and yearned; Their hopes, their fears; what page of Life they wist: At whiles their vision upon us was turned, Baffled by shapes limmed loosely on thick mist.

Beneath the fortress bulk of Power they bent Blunt heads, adoring or in shackled hate, All save the rebel hymned him; and it meant A world submitting to incarnate Fate.

From this he drew fresh appet.i.te for sway, And of it fell: whereat was chorus raised, How surely shall a mad ambition pay Dues to Humanity, erewhile amazed.

'Twas dreamed by some the deluge would ensue, So trembling was the tension long constrained; A spirit of faith was in the chosen few, That steps to the millennium had been gained.

But mainly the rich business of the hour, Their sight, made blind by urgency of blood, Embraced; and facts, the pa.s.sing sweet or sour, To them were solid things that nought withstood.

Their facts are going headlong on the tides, Like commas on a line of History's page; Nor that which once they took for Truth abides, Save in the form of youth enlarged from age.

Meantime give ear to woodland notes around, Look on our Earth full-breasted to our sun: So was it when their poets heard the sound, Beheld the scene: in them our days are one.

What figures will be shown the century hence?

What lands intact? We do but know that Power From piety divorced, though seen immense, Shall sink on envy of the humblest flower.

Our cry for cradled Peace, while men are still The three-parts brute which smothers the divine, Heaven answers: Guard it with forethoughtful will, Or buy it; all your gains from War resign.

A land, not indefensibly alarmed, May see, unwarned by hint of friendly G.o.ds, Between a hermit crab at all points armed, And one without a sh.e.l.l, decisive odds.

YOUTH IN AGE