Collected Poems Volume II Part 23

His friends are the old grey glorious waves, The wide world round, the wide world round, That have roared with our guns and covered our graves From Nombre Dios to Plymouth Sound; And his crown shall s.h.i.+ne, a central sun Round which the planet-nations sing, Going their ways, but linked in one, As the s.h.i.+ps of our sailor-king.

Many the s.h.i.+ps, but a single fleet; Many the roads, but a single goal; And a light, a light where all roads meet, The beacon-fire of an Empire's soul; The worth of that light his seamen know, Through all the deaths that the storm can bring The crown of their comrade-s.h.i.+p a-glow, The signal-fire of the king.

THE FIDDLER'S FAREWELL

With my fiddle to my shoulder, And my hair turning grey, And my heart growing older I must shuffle on my way!

Tho' there's not a hearth to greet me I must reap as I sowed, And--the sunset shall meet me At the turn of the road.

O, the whin's a dusky yellow And the road a rosy white, And the blackbird's call is mellow At the falling of night; And there's honey in the heather Where we'll make our last abode, My tunes and me together At the turn of the road.

I have fiddled for your city Thro' market-place and inn!

I have poured forth my pity On your sorrow and your sin!

But your riches are your burden, And your pleasure is your goad!

I've the whin-gold for guerdon At the turn of the road.

Your village-lights 'll call me As the lights of home the dead; But a black night befall me Ere your pillows rest my head!

G.o.d be praised, tho' like a jewel Every cottage cas.e.m.e.nt showed, There's a star that's not so cruel At the turn of the road.

Nay, beautiful and kindly Are the faces drawing nigh, But I gaze on them blindly And hasten, hasten by; For O, no face of wonder On earth has ever glowed Like the One that waits me yonder At the turn of the road.

Her face is lit with splendour, She dwells beyond the skies; But deep, deep and tender Are the tears in her eyes: The angels see them glistening In pity for my load, And--she's waiting there, she's listening, At the turn of the road.

TO A PESSIMIST

Life like a cruel mistress woos The pa.s.sionate heart of man, you say, Only in mockery to refuse His love, at last, and turn away.

To me she seems a queen that knows How great is love--but ah, how rare!-- And, pointing heavenward ere she goes, Gives him the rose from out her hair.

MOUNT IDA

[This poem commemorates an event of some years ago, when a young Englishman--still remembered by many of his contemporaries at Oxford--went up into Mount Ida and was never seen again.]

I

Not cypress, but this warm pine-plumage now Fragrant with sap, I pluck; nor bid you weep, Ye Muses that still haunt the heavenly brow Of Ida, though the ascent is hard and steep: Weep not for him who left us wrapped in sleep At dawn beneath the holy mountain's breast And all alone from Ilion's gleaming sh.o.r.e Clomb the high sea-ward glens, fain to drink deep Of earth's old glory from your silent crest, Take the cloud-conquering throne Of G.o.ds, and gaze alone Thro' heaven. Darkling we slept who saw his face no more.

II

Ah yet, in him hath Lycidas a brother, And Adonas will not say him nay, And Thyrsis to the breast of one sweet Mother Welcomes him, climbing by the self-same way: Quietly as a cloud at break of day Up the long glens of golden dew he stole (And surely Bion called to him afar!) The tearful hyacinths and the greenwood spray Clinging to keep him from the sapphire goal, Kept of his path no trace!

Upward the yearning face Clomb the ethereal height, calm as the morning star.

III

Ah yet, incline, dear Sisters, or my song That with the light wings of the skimming swallow Must range the reedy slopes, will work him wrong!

And with some golden shaft do thou, Apollo, Show the pine-shadowed path that none may follow; For, as the blue air shuts behind a bird, Round him closed Ida's cloudy woods and rills!

Day-long, night-long, by echoing height and hollow, We called him, but our tumult died unheard: Down from the scornful sky Our faint wing-broken cry Fluttered and perished among the many-folded hills.

IV

Ay, though we clomb each faint-flushed peak of vision, Nought but our own sad faces we divined: Thy radiant way still laughed us to derision, And still revengeful Echo proved unkind; And oft our faithless hearts half feared to find Thy cold corse in some dark mist-drenched ravine Where the white foam flashed headlong to the sea: How should we find thee, spirits deaf and blind Even to the things which we had heard and seen?

Eyes that could see no more The old light on sea and sh.o.r.e, What should they hope or fear to find? They found not thee;

V

For thou wast ever alien to our skies, A wistful stray of radiance on this earth, A changeling with deep memories in thine eyes Mistily gazing thro' our loud-voiced mirth To some fair land beyond the gates of birth; Yet as a star thro' clouds, thou still didst shed Through our dark world thy lovelier, rarer glow; Time, like a picture of but little worth, Before thy young hand lifelessly outspread, At one light stroke from thee Gleamed with Eternity; Thou gav'st the master's touch, and we--we did not know.

VI

Not though we gazed from heaven o'er Ilion Dreaming on earth below, mistily crowned With towering memories, and beyond her shone The wine-dark seas Achilles heard resound!

Only, and after many days, we found Dabbled with dew, at border of a wood Bedded in hyacinths, open and a-glow Thy Homer's Iliad.... Dryad tears had drowned The rough Greek type and, as with honey or blood, One crocus with crushed gold Stained the great page that told Of G.o.ds that sighed their loves on Ida, long ago.

VII

See--_for a couch to their ambrosial limbs Even as their golden load of splendour presses The fragrant thyme, a billowing cloud up-swims Of springing flowers beneath their deep caresses, Hyacinth, lotus, crocus, wildernesses Of bloom_ ... but clouds of sunlight and of dew Dropping rich balm, round the dark pine-woods curled That the warm wonder of their in-woven tresses, And all the secret blisses that they knew, Where beauty kisses truth In heaven's deep heart of youth, Might still be hidden, as thou art, from the heartless world.

VIII

Even as we found thy book, below these rocks Perchance that strange great eagle's feather lay, When Ganymede, from feeding of his flocks On Ida, vanished thro' the morning grey: Stranger it seemed, if thou couldst cast away Those golden musics as a thing of nought, A dream for which no longer thou hadst need!

Ah, was it here then that the break of day Brought thee the substance for the shadow, taught Thy soul a swifter road To ease it of its load And watch this world of shadows as a dream recede?

IX

We slept! Darkling we slept! Our busy schemes, Our cold mechanic world awhile was still; But O, their eyes are blinded even in dreams Who from the heavenlier Powers withdraw their will: Here did the dawn with purer light fulfil Thy happier eyes than ours, here didst thou see The quivering wonder-light in flower and dew, The quickening glory of the haunted hill, The Hamadryad beckoning from the tree.

The Naiad from the stream; While from her long dark dream Earth woke, trembling with life, light, beauty, through and through.

X

And the everlasting miracle of things Flowed round thee, and this dark earth opposed no bar, And radiant faces from the flowers and springs Dawned on thee, whispering, _Knowest thou whence_ we _are_?