The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, by Frederic Manning

"NOON" appeared originally in The Atlantic Monthly, "Canzone" in The Spectator, and "Kore" in The English Review. I am indebted to the Editors of these Reviews for permission to include them in this volume.

THESEUS AND HIPPOLYTA

Noon smote down on the field, Burning on spears and helms, Shining from Theseus' shield. As a wave of the sea that whelms A rock, and its crest uprears, Through the wreck of the trampled wheat The charge of the charioteers Thundering broke. A sleet Veiled light, and the air was alive, As with hissing of snakes, as with swarms Of the Spring by a populous hive, As with wind, and the clamour of storms: So hurtled the arrowy hail Loosed from the Amazon ranks, Smote ringing on brazen mail, [Pg 2] Struck fanged through the shuddering flanks Of the stallions; and half were hurled In the dust, and broken, and brayed By the chariots over them whirled, Which, eager and undismayed, Swept ruining on to the hordes Of the Amazonian camp, With the lightning of terrible swords; Till the dead were heaped, as a ramp For the quick. But the chariots shocked On the thicket of close-set spears; And the long ranks reeled, and rocked, Broke; and the charioteers Went through them, cleaving as ploughs Cleave earth: they were rent, and tossed With the tumult of tortured boughs. And the stallions, with foam embossed, Fought, tearing each other with teeth, In the red, blind rage of their lust, Screaming; and writhed underneath The wounded, trodden as must Of the grapes trodden out in the press, Empurpling the knees, and bare [Pg 3] Thighs of the men. Through the stress Of their shoulders drove as a share, Hippolyta. Avenging she came; And they streamed, and they surged round her car, The women: her face was a flame As she rode through the tempest of war; And they cried, made glad with the sight, As those desiring the dawn, When the darkness is cloven by light, Cry for gladness: they rallied, upborne, When she rayed as the sun through their cloud. But she strung the bow, and she prayed Unto Artemis, calling aloud, As a maid might call to a maid; And the Goddess of shining brows Heard, as she paused from the chace Upon Tainaros hoary with snows; And a shadow darkened her face: A shadow, and then a ray Lightening, glorying, smiled, As her thought pierced years to a day Unborn, and an unborn child, [Pg 4] With the pure fount of his praise Lifted to her, from the shrine Rock-hewn, at the three cross-ways In a waste of hills, as wine Gladdening her; and she shed A wonder, a terror, a fear, A beauty that filled with dread, A glory no eyes might bear On her maid; stooped, hushed, from the height Her thought, as a bird on the wing, Rained down from her, swifter than light. Hippolyta notched on the string An arrow, and loosed it, and smote, As he drove at her car with a jest, Agelaus, cleaving his throat Speechless; and smote through the breast Polytherses; and Euenor then Felt the teeth of the flints at his veins, As his mares dragged him back to his men All bloody, entangled in reins; Then Damastor she smote: and they fled As doves or as linnets fly When a hawk that has towered overhead [Pg 5] Stoops, ravening, out of the sky On their quires. But her arrows sighed After them, swifter than feet: They ran, shrieked, stumbled, and died, Shot through with her shafts. In the wheat, With the sunlight gilding their greaves, Helmets, and shields, and mail, They lay, strewn thickly as leaves When Autumn has swung his flail. But afar, where Thermodon rolled The deep, swift strength of its flood To the ocean turbidly gold, Drave Theseus, eager for blood; And as herds stampede in affright At the reek of the beast in the air Precipitately through the night When a lion forth comes from his lair, So the women before him fled In a rout, headlong, overborne, For he drave as a beast all red, With the blood of the prey he had torn, Circled them round; they were rent, Whirled under him, flung from him, far [Pg 6] Seaward, and lost; until spent, Heaped in a mound by her car Broken, and dying, and dead, Hippolyta saw. And she fled.

Theseus followed. Afar, Over the storm of the spears, He had seen her face as a star Shine; and no tremble of tears Softened her terrible eyes, Cruel they shone there, and blue With the beauty of windless skies. But her bowstring ever she drew, Loosening arrows that sang Through the air exulting as wind; And the clamour of battle rang Most by her car, while behind The fierce, wild women upheld Their queen, and their anger burned In staring eyeballs. She felled A man as her car overturned, Sped onward, her swift white feet The dead and the dying spurned [Pg 7] Who lay in the wasted wheat. Theseus followed his prey As a lean hound follows the fleet Quarry: the dusty way Smoked with the speed of his feet. She was swift; but he burned in the chace: He was flame, he was sandalled with fire, Hungering after her face, With a fury, a lust, a desire, As a hound that whines for the blood Of the hart flying winged with fear; And she yearned, and she longed for the wood, Seeming far from her still, though near, And she strained, and she panted, and pressed, With her head flung backward for breath, And the quick sobs shaking her breast, Agonised, now, as by death, Fearing utterly, fighting with fate, Stumbling. And swifter behind, With a love made hot by his hate, Strained he pursuing. The wind, Lifted, and played with the fold Of her chlamys; and showed made bare [Pg 8] The swift limbs shining, as gold From sunlight, and streamed through her hair As wind in a cresset of fire, As tresses of flame in the night, While she fled, desired, from desire, Till the brakes hid the flame from his sight.

Yea, but no long time he stood, As one who resigns the prize When a moment baffled. The wood Hid her indeed from his eyes, But the track of her feet lay clean As the slot of a deer in the grass. Slower he followed, and keen Were his downcast eyes. As a glass A wide lake gleamed in the ebb Of the latest tide of the light; Stars shone clear through the web Of the branches, beckoning night; The leaves fell softly, gilt With autumn, and tawny and red; And the blue of the skies lay spilt, Pooled, shining, from late rains shed; [Pg 9] The tall reeds seemed to dream By the full lake's murmuring marge. She paused by a chiming stream, Listened awhile, hung her targe From a tree with her unstrung bow, Loosened her breast-plate and greaves, Bathing her limbs: and slow, Like a snake through the fallen leaves, Theseus crept on his prize, Paused, to gaze on her grace, The fine clean curve of the thighs, Pure brow, and well-chiselled face, Beautiful knees, and the play Of muscles, splendidly wrought. Theseus leapt on his prey.

Laughing softly, he sought Ease from desire as a flame: Struggled she still, and fought, Calling on Artemis' name, Who went, unheeding her prayer, Beyond Tainaros streaming with floods, Till the cries came faint through the air, [Pg 10] Dwindling among the woods, For the numberless tongues of the leaves Echoed with myriad cries Low, and as plaintive as grieves The wood under darkening skies. The quick, sharp sobs from her breast Came thick, and she, to whom spears Hurtling close were a zest To battle, felt the hot tears Well and fall from her eyes, Struggled not long, lay still. Theseus stooped on his prize, Drank of her lips his fill.

LA TOUSSAINT

The wind wails overhead, With a grieving sore; And the little souls of the dead Beat on the door.

Crying: Light and a fire, We have travelled far Over the plowed fields' mire. Will ye lift the bar?

Would ye have us go all night On the windy ways, Who were strong men once in the light Of our own days?

Ours are the fields ye plow, And ye sow our wheat: Let us stretch our hands to the glow Of the warm, red peat.

[Pg 12] We, who have lain in earth For a long dark year, Crave for our own old hearth, And ye will not hear.

THE FOUNT

O quiring voices of the sleepless springs, O night of beauty, calm and odorous, O bird of Thrace, that ever ceaseless sings The passion of thy music amorous,

My heart is but a spring that, with its prayer, Is choric through an April plenilune; My music but a rapture in the air, A nightingale loud-voiced in leafy June.

TRISTRAM

Ah, my heart! my heart! It is weary without her. I would that I were as the winds which play about her! For here I waste and I sicken, and nought is fair To mine eyes: nor night with stars in her clouded hair, Nor all the whitening ways of the stormy seas, Nor the leafy twilight trembling under the trees: But mine hands crave for her touch, mine eyes for her sight, My mouth for her mouth, mine ears for her footfalls light, And my soul would drink of her soul through every sense, Thirsting for her, as earth, in the heat intense, [Pg 15] For the soft song and the gentle dropping of rain. But I sit here as a smouldering fire of pain, Lonely, here! And the wind in the forest grieves, And I hear my sorrow sobbing among the leaves.

THE SOUL OF MAN

In the soul of man there are many voices, That silence wakens, and sound restrains: A song of love, that the soul rejoices, With windy music, and murmuring rains;

A song of light, when the dawn arises, And earth lies shining, and wet with dew; And life goes by, in a myriad guises, Under a heaven of stainless blue.

The willows, bending over the river, Where the water ripples between the reeds, Where the shadows sway, and the pale lights quiver On floating lily, and flowing weeds,

[Pg 17] Have whispering voices, soft as showers Of April falling on upland lawns, On the nodding harebell, and pale wind-flowers, Through silver evens, and golden dawns.

But softer than love, and deeper than longing Are the sweet, frail voices of drifting ghosts; In the soul of man they are floating, thronging As wind-blown petals, pale, flickering hosts.

THE VENTURERS

Yea! even such as creep With eyes bent earthward, in the little space Between the dawn and waning of the day, Between a sleep and sleep: Even these, without a fixed abiding-place, Travel, though tardily, upon the way Labouring; while your lighter, swifter sail Soars, rising over sudden hills of foam, Exultant, through the storm; and, eager, flies Like a fleet swallow up to meet the gale, That drives with anger, through the heaven's dome, Clouds, like great silver galleons in a sea of skies.

[Pg 19] For every man, and each, Is like a venture putting forth to sea, Voyaging into unknown ways to find Kindlier lands; and urges on to reach Kingdoms which there may be Hidden the grey gloom of the sea behind: Fabulous kingdoms piled with golden toil And the slow garnering of mortal dreams: Such as lured forth the splendid sails of Spain. So, journeying, we, in hope of that great spoil, Steer hardily through all conflicting streams Of Ocean, and count all the exultant battling gain.

AFTER NIGHT

Lovely thou art, O Dawn! As a maiden, who wakes, Opening eyes on a world Filled with wonder and light, After a sleep of dreams. Issuing, clad in a robe Of blue, and silver, and green. From the tents of God in the east Comest thou; as a thought Slippeth into the mind Of a maid, awakened from sleep, By the swallows, under the eaves, Twittering to their young; As a flower awakens in Spring, After the sweet warm rains Pass away, and the sun [Pg 21] Nourishes it; and slow The curving petals unclose. And a presence escapes from its heart, An odour remote, and vague, Trembling upon the air, A frail, mysterious ghost, That comes and goes on the wind, Like the inspiration of God.

Lovely thou art, O Dawn! Coming shy as a maid, At nightfall, to meet her love By the ricks of clover and hay. They speak not, but hands Meet hands, mouth mouth, and desire Broods like a God in the night, Under the yellow moon: They speak not, having all things.

Lovely thou art, O Dawn! Healing comes in thine hands, The wide sea laughs at thy birth, The multitudinous waves [Pg 22] Ripple about thy feet, For joy at thy coming; the birds Shake the dew from the leaves, Shake the song from their throats; The full ewes call to the lambs; Lowing, the cattle come To drink at the reed-fringed pool, Bending, they drink, and lift Dripping muzzles, to gaze With patient, satisfied eyes Over the plenteous earth. While slowly out of the fens, And heavy plough-lands the mist Rises to greet thee, and spires Of thin blue smoke, that ascend Trembling into the calm Windless air, and float From the habitations of man.

Man, too, cometh forth; but he Scarcely regards thee: with eyes Bent to the earth he comes, Busy with cares of toil, [Pg 23] Plotting to gain him ease, Meat, drink, and warmth for his age: Plotting in vain! He goes Out of the ways of life, Utterly frustrate, and spent. Gone, who was king of thy fields! Gone, who was lord of thy flocks! Like a dream. And his children forget, Even they, too, that he was. They turn to their toil, and eat, Sleep, drink, as of old he did, Spinning the woof and the warp Of life, on the Looms of Stone Which the Fates rule, and God.

Yea, we are labourers all; Even as bees for man Gather the honey from flowers, So do we labour for God Unwittingly. Yea, and the days Bringeth to each his reward, A final sleep and a peace. Swiftly they pass, the days, [Pg 24] Winged with flame are their feet, Devouring us and our kin, As flame the stubble consumes. But the grain is garnered, perchance, In the great, wide barns of God, Laid up in a golden heap, As a wise king's treasury is Heaped with the yellow gold.

Lovely thou art, O Dawn! Creating, out of the dark, This bright, and beautiful world Again: and leading each day As a bride to man, whence he Begets him wonderful deeds. And, surely, because thine hands Lead us at last to peace, Lovely thou art, O Dawn!

APRIL DANCE-SONG

April with her fleet, sweet, Silver rain, and sun-rays, Cometh, and her feet beat Lightly, on the lawn. Softly, for her sake, break Flowering the wet boughs; By the brimming lake, wake Lilies every dawn.

Broken on the stream, gleam Rays, to drown where weeds wave; Shining with her dream, seem April's eyes bedewed. Shakes a silver chain, rain Chiming with her music; Life, that long hath lain slain Riseth up renewed.

[Pg 26] Softly as a dove, Love Croons beneath the twilight; While the winds above move Softly through the night. Out of all the skies, dies Light, and only stars shine: Stars to me her wise eyes, And her face a light.

SONG OF THE SOUL

My life was woven long ago, Or ever this our earth was fair, With mingled threads of love and woe, Hate, tears, and laughter, hope, despair. Yea! it was made ere water was, Ere snow fell, or the bright dew shone Upon the tender blades of grass; It sate and dreamed its life alone.

Ere golden stars swam through the blue Of heaven, singing as they came, God wrought into it every hue, And gave it wings and feet of flame: A little thing of His own breath, A word that trembled into song, To fall through mists of life and death, A frail thing conquering the strong.

[Pg 28] All things that in the heavens are, The silver-hornéd sailing moon, The golden fire of every star, Through seas of time shall slip and swoon, And be as if they had not been; But through the darkness of the night, Through silence of that peace serene, Lo! I shall fashion mine own light,

Remembering earth's shining streams And all the heavens' starry grace. Yea, dreaming once again the dreams, Which were the beauty of thy face.

A. C. S.

Ah! the golden mouth is stopped, That so sweet was with its song, Bright, and vehement as fire. Grieve we, as a star had dropped Out of Heaven's singing throng, For the lord of our desire.

Bring we blossoms, lilies bring, Such frail blooms as lured of old Proserpina from the Hours: All this April's lavishing, Flame of sudden crocus-gold, Sudden foam of starry flowers.

[Pg 30] Spring hath slain the lord of Spring: He, whose song was fire and dew, Lieth in her lap, and slain By her, whom he loved to sing, As she came, with sandals blue, Through the shifting rays, and rain.

Ah! the golden mouth is stopped Whence the whole of April's song, All her sudden, wilful fire, All her stores of honey dropped. Yet about our ways they throng, Words he winged with his desire.

TO A BUSH-BABY

Little one, so soft and light, Haunting silent, darkened ways, In the shadow of the night, Thee I praise.

Such an elf as danced of old, Light as thistle-down or froth, By Titania's throne of gold, Little Moth.

What strange fate linked thee and me, In this world of hope and fears? Surely God hath sheltered thee From our tears.

Hands thou hast, and eyes that seem Troubled, by some pain obscure, As though life were but a dream, Nothing sure.

[Pg 32] Is thy tiny spirit vext, As our own, by vague distress, Haunted, by our life's perplext Weariness?

Wondering, at all the strange Loveliness of lapsing days; Change that passeth into change, Rain or rays?

Little hands that cling to me, Helpless as mine own, and weak, What in this world's mystery Do we seek?

CANZONE

Mine eyes have seen the veiled bride of the night, Before whose footsteps souls of men are blown, As are dead leaves, about the wind's swift feet. Wherefore great sorrow cometh through my song: A wind of grieving, through the branches wet, When all the alleys of the woods are lit With yellow leaves, and sere, and full of sighs.

Through the bare woods she came, and pools of light Were darkened at her coming; and a moan Broke from the shuddering boughs, and all the fleet Leaves whirled about her passage, with the throng Of her lamenting ghosts, who cried regret, And passed as softly as the bats that flit Down silent ways, beneath the clouded skies.

[Pg 34] Wherefore I grieve, that no more in my sight Are mortal women lovely. I am grown Amorous of her lips with kisses sweet, For her deep eyes in their enchantment strong. Yea! I am wasted with my passion's fret: Restless, that my poor worship may not quit The pure light of her face, which made me wise.

Great peace she hath, and dreams for her delight, Wherewith she weaves upon the Looms of Stone, Choosing such colours as she deemeth meet, Gold, blue, and vermeil skeins; and there among Her spools of weaving threads, her dreams beget Life, from her nimble fingers and quick wit, Mirrored in mortal life, which fades and dies.

These are made whole and perfect in the bright Broideries of her hands, while by her throne Move unborn hours, which in her cave discrete She hideth, though her secret thoughts prolong Soft moments mortal hearts so soon forget, Bright, supple forms, with swift limbs strongly knit, Moving as light in dance as melodies.

[Pg 35] Wherefore, though in the cold I wail my plight, And wander, through the hoary woods, alone, Hunted, and smitten of the wind and sleet, Among these rooted souls, I would not wrong The intense white flame of beauty mine eyes met, And married for a moment: in this pit My blinded soul feeds on her memories.

Go, thou, my song! Tell her, though weeping, yet Her face is mine: such joy have I in it I cannot shut the splendour from mine eyes.

EROS GLITTERING

Love is born as the day over the floods, rising in tides of light, Quenching glitter of stars, gloom of the woods, flowing into the night. Out of delicate dreams, out of a sleep, Love awakens, his eyes Filled with marvellous light as from the deep wells in the wakened skies. Glad is he of the earth, glad of the gems morning strews on the lawn, Trembling on every flower bright diadems: Love, Love too is a dawn!

[Pg 37] Ah! but not with a peace, not with a light, cometh he always down Like a swallow in swift beautiful flight! Nay, as swimmers who drown Those who strive with his strength: even as fire fallen out of the skies, Even as lightning hurled, so his desire, bright, and blending the eyes. Glittering through the storm cometh he then, rending all in his path, Thus the implacable lord, master of men, smites his foes in his wrath.

KORE

Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves, And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms, And all the tawny and the crimson leaves. Yea, she hath passed, with poppies in her arms, Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist, And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.

With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes, And eyelids heavy with the coming sleep, With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs, She passed, as shadows pass, among the sheep; While the earth dreamed, and only I was ware Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.

[Pg 39] The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams; There was no sound amid the sacred boughs, Nor any mournful music in her streams: Only I saw the shadow on her brows, Only I knew her for the yearly slain, And wept; and weep until she come again.

STILL LIFE

Pale globes of fragrant ripeness, amber grapes And purple, on a silver dish; a glass Of wine, in which light glows, and fires to pass Staining the damask, and in dance escapes; Two Venice goblets wrought in graceful shapes; A bowl of velvet pansies, wherein mass Blues, mauves, and purples; plumes of meadow-grass; And one ripe pomegranate, that splits and gapes, Protruding ruby seeds: a feast for eyes Better than all those topaz, beryl fruits Aladdin saw and coveted: these call, To minds contented and in leisure wise, Visions of blossoming boughs, and mossy roots, And peaches ripening on a sunny wall.

BLODEUWEDD

Math, upon a summer day, Gathered blossoms of the May; Cherry-blossom, too, which fell On the surface of a well; Silver froth, and foam of flowers, Golden rays on drifting showers; Dew, and frost, and flames of fire, And he fashioned his desire: Made a woman, slim and fair, Blodeuwedd of the lovely hair.

Blodeuwedd of the shining face Ranged the forest, with the grace Of a forest-thing, as wild, Wilful as a wanton child. How could men withhold their eyes From her? She was light, the skies, [Pg 42] Dawn, and dew to them. It seemed, Looking at her, that they dreamed All the joys of heaven had been Hidden her twin breasts between, Bound upon her tranquil brows That were white as winter snows, Hidden in her curving lips, Folded round her flowing hips. Yea! for them she seemed to shine With a beauty all divine.

Blodeuwedd of the little ears Had, alas! no gift of tears, Had no heart at all to love, Knew not what deep sorrows move Through the dim ways of our heart, Knew of mortal grief no part. She, like sunlight through the rain, Drifted through our world of pain, Fed her joy with myriad kisses, Stolen pleasures, honeyed blisses; Then danced on her wanton way Like a gleam of gold through gray. Men fell, knowing they would fall, For Math gave no heart at all.

[Pg 43] Blodeuwedd, I have made in thee Of my love's deep sorcery, Even as Math made the gay Heartless one from flowers of May, Foam, and frost, and shining dew, Shall I find a heart in you?

HELGI OF LITHEND

What are ye women doing? Get ye hence, Nor weary God with prayers. But when I die, Lay me not there among the peaceful graves Where sleep your puny saints. I would go hence, Over the loud ways of the sea again, In my black ship, with all the war-shields out, Nor, beaten, crawl unto the knees of God, To whine there a whipped hound. Yea, send me forth As when I sought rich lands, and glittering gold, And warm, white-breasted women, and red wine, And all the splendour and the lust of war.

Your Eden lies among soft-slipping streams, Green meadows, orchards of o'er-laden boughs, Red with ripe apples. It hath lofty walls Beyond our scaling, that the peaceful folk [Pg 45] May sleep each night securely: white-faced priests, And convent women, such as wail all day Before lit candles, in the idle fume Of incense rising. I would go where sit Tall Odin, and his golden-mailéd sons, Thor, Hermod, Tyr and Heimdail, Frey and Niord, With the blue-vestured Mother of the Gods, And saffron-snooded Freya, and Idun, And Brage, harping. There the heroes are, Whose armour rusts in ocean; and young men Who fared with me adventuring, and lie Now in an alien earth, or derelict drift Upon the washings of the eternal tides. But they still live in Asgard, drinking joy Of battle, and of music, and of love. Only I, I grow old, and bowed in head, While the dark hour approaches and the night, Exploring mine own soul, and lost therein. I too would go and eat of Idun's apples, The golden fruit, whereof the taste gives youth Perpetual, and strength of hands renewed; Be praised by Brage, and see Freya there, [Pg 46] The saffron-snooded, whose deep eyes are lit With all love's perilous pleasures. I would ride Over the glittering Bifrost bridge with Thor And the great host of heroes; with the wind Playing upon our banners, and the dawn Leaping as flame from all the lifted swords, And press of spears: and some day we shall come Battering at the crystal walls of Heaven, With brazen clangour of arms, and burn the towers To be our torches, and make all the streets Of jasper, and chalcedony, and pearl, Slippery with the bloodshed. Will your saints Pray back the onslaught of our lusting swords With any prayers? I would not lie in earth Under the sheep; but send me once again Out through the storms, and though I lie there cold, And stiff in my bronze harness, I shall hear The exultation of the waves, the might Of Aegir, and the creaking of the helm, And dream the helm is in mine hands again, [Pg 47] While my long ship leaps up, like a live thing, Against the engulphing waters, and triumphing rides, Through thunder of turbulent surges and streaming seas, Lifting and swaying, from trough to crest and trough, With tense and grinding timbers, while the wind Screams in the cordage and the splitten sail.

Ye have loved women, some of ye, and know Therefore how I have loved the fickle sea, Blue in the sunlight, sometimes, as the eyes Of laughing children, wanton as a girl, And then all hunger for us men, all fierce Passionate longing, and then gray with rain, Sullen. A very harlot is the sea, A thing for men to master, full of moods, Treacherous, as you see it when it crawls Snakily over sunken rocks, or slinks Furtively by, and snarls to show its teeth Like a starved wolf. Many a goodly man Women have loved and slain, but more the sea! [Pg 48] Though I forget, they are meeker women here, Submissive to their master. They are not The wild things that men warred with in my youth, Haggards to gentle! These soft-bosomed doves Who flutter round our footsteps, croon and coo Amorous music through the languorous nights, Low laughter stifled by close kisses shut Hot on the laughing lips, love being a game Now of your tamer men-folk with soft speech. But love to me was no light laughter heard Under a sickle moon, when blossoming brakes Thrill with the nightingales, and eve is hushed Like a blind maid, whose eyes are shut, and seem To shut within herself her secret thoughts Lest men should know them, and be ware of love, And waken, eager. Eager! Love to me Pulsed in the fingers and would clasp what seems So aerial a vision: to have, to hold, To drink of: and I knew how flesh could bound Spirit; so that we lay drowsed, close to sleep, Near as our bodies might, yet sundered thus With how irreparable loss! All time, [Pg 49] Unborn or buried, meeting with our mouths In a swift marriage, and the sacred night Sweet with the song of arrowy desires Shot from the bow of life into our quick, And rooted there. Yea, life in one full pulse, And then the glory darkened, withered, dead, With lips dissevered, and with sundered limbs, And two, where had been one, in the gray dawn.

Sigurd, my son, look where thy mother sits, In the round archway, on her carven chair, And gazes over the unquiet waves Toward the horizon's calm, as if there lay Peace, and the heart's desire, after much pain, Fulfilled at last. Quietly sitting there, She peoples all the blue of sea and skies With golden hopes of youth, giving them life From her own yearning, though they are long dead And havened where dead years are. Such still eyes She hath; and that strange patience women have Whose dreams are broken. Love, with a keen sword, [Pg 50] Smote me; I saw the blue flame leap and fall, When first I saw her eyes: and dim the earth, And warfare, and seafaring, and the life Which sang, and went with joyful colours clad, Became until they were as frail as dreams; While, as they died in dusk, her face grew fair Swimming upon tired senses, as there swims Up from the wreck of day the night's first star Quickening through the silence. So, in her, The music and the colour of the world, The splendours of the earth and sky and sea, Were shadowed: all of life was in her eyes.

Her house a shambles; and I, standing there, A beast all red with slaughter. One white face Like a white star! Was it not kingly spoil? What man had not felt hunger in his hands To flutter over the smooth flesh, and know The wonder breathing? So even I must grasp That winged, brief, fragile beauty, with rude strength Fierce from the haste of hunger, ere I knew What God had breathed his fire into my clay.

[Pg 51] Yea! ere I knew, while yet I thought the gold Mere dross for traffic in the market-place, Such ware as I had dealt in. Mine eyes now See her, as she was then: the tall, slim grace, The golden head upon its silver stalk, As frail as April's dewy lilies are, Upon some wakening lawn; or as she lay With long, smooth, supple thighs and little breasts Bared, while mine eyes drank all the beauty in, As earth drinks dawn with gladness: but her eyes Veiled suddenly, and quick red stained her cheeks, Flickering, and the bright soul fled from sight To its obscure recesses, while my heart Filled, drop by drop, with that strange wine of joy Which raced like fire through me, until each sense Ached, for the joy it gave, and thirsted more, In plundering such pleasure. But her soul Fled beyond reach of hands, remote, and veiled. She lay there as if dead, and all my love [Pg 52] Was no more to her than the idle strength Which breaks upon the beaches. I could feel, Sometimes, she breathed beside me, and her breath Came soft, and warm, through the red parted lips, Fragrant upon my face. That night was filled With myriad voices, myriad stars, and dews, All choric! Yea, the very darkness glowed With secret heat, as if the night were quick By Love's own lord, and pregnant with a flame.

So was she mine, by the sword's right, whose heart Went dreaming out over the unquiet sea To Bergthorsknoll; and Sigurd, Olaf's son, Such an one as the hearts of maids desire, Being tall, and straight, and comely: never a man Made such a friend or foe, on land or sea His hands were skilful. I can love such men In friendship or in fighting. He had come To Swinefell in his fighting-ship, when Spring Was white and ruddy in the fields and woods; [Pg 53] And they, perchance, had bent down o'er the fire As day was closing, and had spoken low In the dim light; and he had sailed in June Southward for prey, descending toward the Seine With help from Thrain the White in ships and men. And I had come in autumn with my swords For vengeance of a wrong, and left Thrain's stead And town a heap of ash, being in wrath: Though it were shame to burn so tall a town, As men said; but the heart of me was grieved For some slight he had put on me, and black Is a man's anger; so I gave his stead A prey to the red flames; and fighting died Thrain, a man's death! But when I throned her here Men came and said, "Lo, now will Sigurd come For love of her, to take her hence again And burn Lithend for vengeance." But I said, Running my fingers down the smooth, keen blade, "Sigurd will come! Why then, let Sigurd come."

[Pg 54] But they all feared him, and again one spoke, Saying, "Thy love will burn us, and our town. Are there not many women in the world To mate with, but the one he loves?" I struck The craven fool a damned blow in the face, Whereat they kept their counsel, and were still. But one man, riding over a wild moor When the black night was blacker with a storm Saw in the play of lightnings from the clouds Twelve armoured women riding, and they swooped Eagle-wise on the earth, and riding came To a lone house; and, spying through a chink, He saw them weave a scarlet web of war, With swords for shuttles, and men's heads for weights, And they sang at their weaving. In those days We sowed our corn with axes in our belts, And each man armoured, and my people went Fearfully, gazing out with anxious eyes Over the seas for an unfriendly sail, While I sat silent, eating mine own heart, Until one ran with speed to me, as night [Pg 55] Came, dropping silence on the shining sea, A man with lucky eyes, who cried, "They come!" Pointing toward the rim of ocean, red With the sun's blood; and that sight gladdened me, To see their slack sails, idle, in a gore Of dying glories, while their oars dripped fire, Labouring up against the ebbing tide. "They will come weary," said I, "and, perchance, Lack water." And I set an ambush, there Where Rangriver turns bitter with the sea, If thirst should lure them; and they came with skins To fill; and there we played a little while With knives and axes, while they ran, and tripped Over gnarled roots and boulders in the dark, Calling their friends, and knew not where they ran, For we would call the names we heard them call In feigning, and thus lure them from the path. Twenty tall fellows slew we in this wise, Making the odds more even, and that night [Pg 56] They watched their ships, and lit the beach with fires So that they might not fight an unseen foe, Who struck them through the darkness. But I went Homeward, and to the chamber where she lay Sleeping, with tears upon her face; but sleep Had stilled her troubles. As I looked on her, Her breath came softly, like a child's. I watched, Wondering if death might hold as fair a thing, Hungering, though I would not break her dreams. All night I watched her, that mine heart might keep One face to dream of through the dark of death If he should slay me. Then a sense of dawn Stole gradually through the blue, wet air; Cool dawn, with dew and silence, fair and fresh! In the white light she lay there, and I looked Long on her: and I left her then, and went, Calling my men, and led them thence afield To a smooth level sward, for fighting made, Between the gray bents and the leafy woods, A dancing-ground for maidens. Such a stir [Pg 57] Came from the beached black ships, as April, hears About the populous hives, when the blown scents Lure, to their garnering, the frugal bees, And they swarm forth: so swarmed upon the shore Sigurd's well-armoured men: some by the fires Eating, some buckling on their gleaming arms, Shouting their war-songs, beating on their shields Full of rude jests; and I saw Sigurd there, Standing apart, long-haired, and great of limb, With a soft silken kirtle, and his helm, Winged, flaming in the sunlight. Then my men Halted, for vantage of the broken ground, While I strode out upon the sward, and called To Sigurd; but blind rage gat hold of him, And he came at me, whirling his bright axe. And I leapt out to meet him, so men say, Laughing, and ran upon him, and his blow Broke down my guard, and bit the shoulder-bone, But mine axe clove clean through the angry face, Right to the brain; and, as I drew it back, He swayed, and fell, and his bronze armour rang [Pg 58] Loudly; and from both armies came a shout Crying, "Sigurd is slain! Sigurd is slain!" One mourning and one joyous, while my men Stood round him prone, and marvelled at his strength, And no one feared him now. But they came on Avenging, and the crashing of their shock Broke round us; and the ringing blows, and shouts, And screams of dying men were born aloft With dust of battle; and lightening axes whirled, Lifting and falling: keen, and bright, and blue They fell, but they were lifted dull and red, While we rolled backward and forward in waves of fight, And fluctuating chance, and those who fell, Drowned there, amid the press of trampling feet.

So, all day long, the uncertain combat flowed, Between the gray bents and the broken ground; And the smooth sward was cumbered with the dead, On whom we stumbled. But at last the night [Pg 59] Came, shadowing with her blue veils the sea, And we and they drew off; and when the noise Of war was stilled, and only moans of men Broke silence, with the laughter of the sea That curled, and foamed, and rippled on the beach, I hailed them, and they answered me, and sent Tall Flosi, son of Gunnar, their best man Since Sigurd fell. Over the level sward, Now with the dead strown thick as shocks of corn After a reaping, strode he; and the moon Tipped his bright spear with silver, lit his helm And burnished shield; but when his eyes and mine Met, and he knew me, he stood waiting there. And I spoke, pointing, with my spear, to those White faces staring sightless to the moon From the smooth sward: "Lo! let us make a truce And mourn these dead, for they were goodly men. My friends or thine, who lie there strengthless now With Sigurd whom I slew. Him men shall mourn In Bergthorsknoll, as the bright gods in heaven [Pg 60] Mourn golden Balder; but his praise shall be Within the hearts and on the lips of men A song for ever. Him I hated not, Nay, rather loved! Though he bore hate to me For Swinefell's spoiling, and for Gudrun's sake, Her, whom mine eyes beholding, straight mine heart Desired with all its strength. So for one prize Strove we, nor could we yield, but one must die: Whence lies he there. The gods have willed it so! But let us build a pyre within his ship Heaped up with spoil, and let us mourn for him, And launch him, burning, on the eternal sea. And when the dawn of the third day is red, If your mind is for fighting, we shall fight Again; or ye shall launch your ships and go Over the bright ways of the shining sea." I spake, and Flosi answered, gazing down Upon the dead, whose armour glimmered there Under the shining moon, as glimmer pools Innumerable in the leafless woods: "Yea, one slim maid hath slain too many men.

[Pg 61] Well is she Gudrun called, unto men's hearts A snare and peril! What is in one face That men should die for it? A kitchen slut To some dull clown is royal. But he lies There, and I cannot hold mine heart from tears So loved I him: I count all women light As flax beside his loss. Why didst not thou, When we two met amid the ringing blows And mine axe failed me, strike?" And I, to him, Impatient, for my wound was cold and irked My shoulder: "Go, and boast among the ships That Helgi fled thee. Helmsdale held me once. I could not slay thee for Kiartan's sake." And he, astonied, stood there, as if light Fell on remembered places in his heart: "Kiartan! O Kiartan!" broke from him In one long sigh; and he drew in his breath Quickly, remembering his brother's stead Above the land-locked bays; and his heart saw His mother bend down over the bright hearth, With her sweet, patient face, so old and wise, Lit by the flickering firelight. Thus he stood, Forgetting war and death; and when he spoke [Pg 62] Again, his voice was changed, and soft in speech, While we went down toward the twinkling fires That lit the shore, and set a watch with brands To scare the wolves, who barked within the woods, Snuffing the tainted air. And Flosi came, Alone of all the Jarls, up to mine house, While they abode there. And when dawn was red Upon the third day, launching their black ships, They went upon the bright ways of the sea.

Softly the sails dropped down that sea of light Under the milky skies; all liquid gold The pure fire broken by the cleaving prows And whitening in their wake; as I watched them I thought all life went thus, man's voyaging heart, Over the loud, glad, golden ways of time. With oars taught by a song, to seek some joy, Some rapture, some warm isle in happy seas, Adventuring. A lure there is for us In far horizons, dreamed-of, misty lands. A voice that calls us. Yea, but look on love! She lay there who, but two nights past, had watched [Pg 63] One burning ship drift over the sea's rim Into the dark. Was she not mine indeed, Now, whom mine arm had won? All mine! all mine! The long, bright braids of hair; the little breasts, Like cups of carven ivory; the smooth, Cool, marble whiteness; curves one knew by touch Only, too gradual for eyes: it seemed God's hands, there, had felt joy in them, and wrought Delighting: and the blue eyes, brimmed with light; And thee, my son, forged in the intense hour's flame And inmost heat of whiteness. Mine! all mine! All mine: and yet some shadow slipped from me, Some frail, soft, sweet, intangible delight Escaping from mine hands. So have I gone Over blue windless seas, bare of all life, And urged the labouring oars; but every dawn Showed still the same blue, stainless shield, whose boss [Pg 64] Was our one ship, until it hushed our songs, That deep, vast, desolating blue of sky And tranquil waters. I had all of her But some few drops of joy she yielded not, They being hers to give or keep, a dew Distilled within her soul. Yea, I loved her! I think no love is peace, and we but break Against each other; and our hands are vain To grasp what is worth holding; and our sense Too coarse a net to snare what no speech saith, We go alone through all our days, alone Even when all is given! But him she loved; And dreamed upon his face, remembering.

Even so, I am glad! Yea, all my heart is glad I had her for mine own. I grasped the joy, The quick, warm, breathing life; and if the dream Fled from me, yet mine hands held priceless things, And dreams are winged to fly. They are poor fools Who deem the better love is a bowed heart [Pg 65] And silent lips. If thou hadst beauty close, Because the white bird fluttered on thy breast, Wouldst loose it? Or would not a quicker pulse Beat in thine heart, and eager fingers close More firmly on the snowy, ruffled plumes, Till the thing yielded, panting? Will ye win? Then must ye dare. There is a lean saint stalled Somewhere among my scullions, in the stead: A half-drowned rat we haled from out the sea, Who says God saved him! He stakes his poor life, Having not strength enough to lift mine axe, Against a greater glory. Love to him Is as a golden net to snare his feet, And women perilous lures: he would keep them maids, Nor make one mother, but would rather see Life, which the gods made lovely, fade and die Ashen as winter woods, nor break again In all the foaming blossom of the spring, Whitening every field. He never knew The keen, sweet joy that smites through every sense [Pg 66] Into the shuddering soul, and whelms the world In an immortal glory, while God builds Life beyond us, creating out of clay The world's imperishable dream, the hope, The wonder, the desire, that gives us sight Beyond our mortal doom. I have little wit; I only know that in the looms of time God's will moves like a shuttle to and fro. I have heard him in the waves, and on the wind; I have seen his splendour shine among the swords, Soften the eyes of women, light and smile On a child's lips; and know his presence there Where all the waves stream eagerly to lick The sunset's bloody splendours. Balder, the bright Beautiful Balder, whose eyes hold our hope, Who hath made love a light, and life a song, In all men's eyes, and on their lips, who hath sown The fields of heaven thick with golden fires, As men sow corn: and forges in this flame, Of life, with ringing blows, a strong man's soul As swords are fashioned, keen-edged, straight, and blue, [Pg 67] How shall I die dispraising thee, whose praise Comes, laden with the blown scents of the spring, Opening dewy eyelids of bright buds, And brings the swallows? Thee I will not curse, Nor life, nor women, nor the fool himself Who blinks weak eyes, and calls the glory vain.

The sea is darkened now; and I can hear The long moan of the waves upon the shore. Some fret is on me! I would go again Over the gray fields of the restless sea, Among the vexed waves and the stinging spray. Nay, one drowns here in death; and why not there To wash about among the changing tides Under the changing moon? I would not rest Within a little earth. As Sigurd went, Send me; and she will watch me burning, drift Over the rim of Ocean, ere I sink Into the dark still deeps, where are ribbed wrecks And strong men dead. Lo! it is time to die, For the old glory fades out of the world [Pg 68] And the swords rust in peace. Yea, I would go Now, for this death is but another sea To venture on; a strong man will win through And cast up somewhere on another shore With his old lust for fighting. All of life I have seen, and many cities of proud kings, And I have gotten gold, and wine, and fame, Among strange peoples, and white girls were mine To love a little while on drowsy nights, When a low, yellow moon lights up a land Full of ripe stooks. Now it is time to go, Regretting nothing. Gudrun, come to me! Come to me, Gudrun! Lean thy lovely face Over me once again. 'Tis wet with tears: We have grown close together. Weep no more; Let the old wonder light up in thine eyes; Death will be dark without it.

LES HEURES ISOLÉES

Tout homme à s'expliquer se diminue. On se doit son propre secret. Toute belle vie se compose d'heures isolées.

THE POOL

My soul is like a lake, whose waters glass Stars, and the silver clouds which uncontrolled Sail through the heavens, and the hills which fold Its valley in a peace, tall reeds, and grass, And all the wandering flights of birds, that pass Through the bright air; and, in itself, doth hold Naiads with smooth white limbs and hair of gold: So is my dreaming soul. And yet, alas! It holds but visions, unsubstantial things. Transient, momentary; and the feet Of winds that smite the waters, blur the whole. Shattering with the hurrying pulse of wings That crystal quiet, which hath grown so sweet With fragile reveries. Such is my soul.

NOON

Charmed into silence lay The forest, dimly lit; No wind that summer day Moved the least leaf of it;

No choric branches stirred Its calm profound and deep, Nor voice of any bird, But silence dreamed like sleep.

Like dew upon the grass It fell upon my soul, Loosed it to soar, and pass Beyond the stars' control.

Vague memories it woke, Shapes far too frail for touch; And then the silence broke, Lest I should learn too much.

BEAUTY'S WISDOM

As light, as fragrance from her face, A beauty is distilled More deep and tranquil than Youth's grace, The love that is fulfilled.

Nor transient this: the touch of years But strengthens it with peace; She reaps the moments as the ears Are reaped, of Earth's increase.

THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD

I build of fair and fleeting things A little home for Love, In thickets where the linnet sings; My house is roofed above With aspen leaves, that never cease Their whispering, though winds have peace.

And when the Autumn comes, the roof Is shed in golden showers; So sing I this for thy behoof, Love passes with the flowers: Ruined our house with wind and rain Till Spring shall build it up again.

But though old age may dim our fire, This first close kiss will keep Sacred for us our old desire; And though the heavens weep, Its fragile memory will be All of our life for thee and me.

BUTTERFLIES

Fluttering, haphazard things, Delicate as flowers ye fly, Wandering on airy wings,

Creatures of a tranquil sky, Born for one brief, golden day, Dying ere the roses die.

Butterfly of colours gay Flutter in capricious flight, Hover in thy wanton play,

Gather honey of delight! Not such harvest as the bee Carries to his hive at night.

Night shall keep no place for thee, Death at dusk shall mock thy wings, So our poor souls seem to me

Fluttering, haphazard things.

THE SWALLOW

O swallow, thou art come at last! The rain is sweet upon the leaves Now Winter's wrath is overpast, A wreath of blossom April weaves.

Swift through the air thy light wings pass, Young willows droop their garlands green Over the tranquil pool, thy glass Where silver lilies float serene,

O songless bird! The cuckoo sings, Filling the valley with his voice; The larks, on their exultant wings, In the blue deep of skies rejoice.

There is more music in thy flight, Through sun or showers, swift and strong, A creature of the air and light Thou art, the very soul of song.

LIGHT

Hills that are bleak and bare Lit by the light of noon, Grow like a vision rare In radiance of the moon.

So have I seen thy face, Beautiful ever, lit By some informing grace Which all transfigured it.

LOVE'S HOUSE

Build for this little hour A house where Love may sleep, Some tranquil, fragrant bower.

A place where Grief may weep Build for a little while, In thine heart's hidden deep;

A place where Joy may smile To make the hours fly fast, And time and tears beguile.

Build not a house to last; Perishes every flower When Autumn once is past.

Build for this little hour.

FOREST MURMURS

Lyres of the woods, that awaken Longings and infinite tears, Memories stretching, forsaken, Hands through the mist of the years, Crowd through the branches that listen, Shining with tears of the skies, Dew-silvered branches that glisten, Pools where the radiance lies, Lighting a shadowy chamber With glory of magical dreams, Pearl, crystal, and wavering amber In arrowy gleams.

[Pg 79] Myriad lyres! O voices Of Earth, and Ocean, and Air, The pulse of thy music rejoices With passion, the heart of despair; Singing, eternally singing. Ye are wasted with pain as with fire, But voyaging ever and winging, Arrayed in the wings of desire, Through the ocean of light to the portals Shining with silver that bar The house of the deathless immortals, Divine but afar.

THE CRYSTAL DREAMER

Sweet white mother of rose-white dreams, Through my windows the song of birds pours in And the sunlight on to my table streams.

As a clear globe prisons the golden light, So I prison the dreams you shed on me, Sweet white mother of dreams rose-white.

In a crystal globe I prison all things: Sound is frozen to silence there; Cover me over with wide white wings, Prison my life in thy crystal sphere, As a clear globe prisons the golden light, Sweet white mother of dreams rose-white.

SOLEIL COUCHANT

Love is but a wind that blows Over waves, or fields of corn, Floating petals, falling snows, The swift passing of the dawn.

These are all Love's signs, perchance, Floating, fragile, drifting things! Dead leaves are we in the dance, Moved by his unresting wings.

Love is light within thine eyes, Dearest! Love is all thy tears. Let us for this hour be wise: What have we to hope from years?

TOUT PASSE

Like foam and fire and frost The hours dissolve and go; Let not our time be lost.

Though the day seemeth slow, Its feet are shod with fire. Ceaseless the minutes flow.

Love, let us slake desire At Life's deep well. Alas! Full soon our Youth will tire

And we be mown like grass. Make of this hour the most, Ere on light wings it pass

Like foam and fire and frost.

LOVE ALONE

Breathe soft, my flute, to-night thy wonted melody Until, with careful hands, she lift the lattice-bars, Showing her face among the faces of the stars; Breathe soft, my flute, to-night till she come forth to me.

The choirs of birds are hushed within their bower of leaves, But thou must pierce the darkness and the gathered gloom, Climbing toward the lattice of her little room, Where the sweet vines have hung their garlands from the eaves.

[Pg 84] Surely no cheating dream, nor sightless depth of sleep Will close her sense to music wrought for her delight; Bid her come forth, like Cynthia, into the night; Tell her, my flute, that here I sit alone and weep.

Fill the green orchard paths with music wrought of tears, With kisses hot, with love my lips have left unshed, Stretch hands for me through all this darkness to her bed, Touch her soft hair, and breathe my message in her ears.

Lo! I have gifts for thee, gifts from Amyclae brought, Shoes for the feet I love, and shawls of scarlet wool, Come, my beloved! we shall sit beside the pool And watch within its glass the heavens star-inwrought.

[Pg 85] Sleep hath thy mother lapped in heavy shrouds of peace; Steal forth on silent feet, mine arms leap out for thee.... Shy as the moon she comes and bends her face to me, Heavy with love to give my heart from love release.

LARK AND NIGHTINGALE

When light wells up from her secret springs And the stars are quenched in a purer fire, From the blue of the heavens a blithe bird sings Of the day's delight and the earth's desire. Heart of my being, reply, reply! So Love singeth Out of the deep of a dawning sky, A little moment is all he bringeth.

When silver rays into shadows swoon, A bird sings out of the calm of night To the wandering sail of the wasted moon And the stars that jewel the skies with light. Heart of my being, rejoice, rejoice! Night hath given To all thy yearnings one faultless voice, A prayer to trouble the peace of heaven.

REVENANTS DES ENFANTS

Softly, on little feet that make no sound, With laughter that one does not hear, they tread Upon the primroses that star the ground, Latticed by shade from branches overhead, Swaying in moonlight; but their footsteps make A twinkling like the raindrops on the lake.

The shy things that love silence and the night Are fearless at their coming; as they pass, Neither the nightingale nor owl take flight, So gentle is each footfall on the grass; They are a part of silence, and a part Of sweetness sprung from tears hid in the heart.

[Pg 88] Their faces we may not caress, nor hear The little bodies that are soft as dreams; Their life is rounded by another sphere, They are as frail as shadows seen in streams: A ripple might efface them, but they keep Shadows of their existence in our sleep.

AD CINARAM

Sweet, though death may have thee utterly, Thou art with me: For when I sleep, mine ear Wakes for thy voice, to hear Thee; and I know at last that thou art near.

My soul then seems to put out hands, At thy commands, Through the thin veils of flesh That hold it in a mesh, For thy two hands to consecrate afresh.

Thoughts that all day are hidden deep Rise up in sleep: The reconciling night Holds thee for my delight, Beyond the senses or of sound or sight.

PAST

The wind is still And the night full of sighs. Hast thou drunk thy fill Of mine eyes?

Yea, of thine eyes; But my heart is a-thirst For what stirred first, Like a light in the skies

Like a light that flows Over barriers: It has come and it goes, Love full of tears.

SERENADE

Sleep, sleep, curtained round By dim-coloured tapestries, Wrought of dreams, nor let the sound Stir thee of my melodies. May sleep come to thee as slow And as soft as falling snow!

Stars set in their spheres Presage for thee all delight; Sleep fall soft as tears Of the stars the dews of night; All fair things about thee keep, Music that doth mix with sleep.

Dreams come, shining things, Through the curtains of thy bed; Doves fly with soft wings Round thy golden, drowsy head: Sleep, dream, dreaming smile, Curtained from the world awhile.

MEMORY

Sweet as the lutes of love, from fields of sleep Come murmurs of the rain; and reveries Haunt the green ways their tryst with eve to keep.

Slumberous music, fragile melodies, Move in the chiming leaves, like that loved pain, Which fills the heart with restless memories.

Chime of the leaves and murmur of the rain In mine own soul there are, and voices sweet, Which help me the lost moments to regain.

The hours dance round me on their slender feet With joys that pierce my heart, as keen as spears Remembered sorrows, pleasures that were fleet

[Pg 93] To vanish, or dissolve in dew of tears: Seeing them thus, I cannot choose but weep. Surely in this wise God shall reap the years.

Sweet with the fruits of love, from fields of sleep.

L'AUBE

Yea, it is dawn, alas! Gray is the earth, and cold; Swift was our night to pass.

Thy hair is like fine gold, Over the pillows spread And on the sheet's white fold

The light falls on thine head And trembles in thine eyes From which the dreams have fled.

But they keep memories; Love burnt us up like grass: Surely Love never dies!

Yea, it is dawn, alas!

DEATH AND MEMORY

Death hath not slain thee all: when twilight spends Her liquid amber in the latest ebb Withdrawing, and the day in silence ends, Expectant of the stars, when through the web Of woven boughs fall glimmering silver spears, Our dreaming heart will stir, as if a light Caress had touched it, and fill up with tears, Remembering: nor only with the night Fall that sweet sadness, light in a dark place, Memory. Shrouded in her shrine of flesh, The soul sits brooding, veiled of form and face By Time, and in our mortal nature's mesh Trammelled, yet sometimes hears the sound of wings And sees, far off, divine, immortal things.

DEATH AND NATURE

When my poor bones are hearsed in quiet clay, And final sleep hath sealed my wondering eyes, The moon as now will sail through tranquil skies; The soft wind in the meadow-grasses play; And sacred Eve, with half-closed eyelids, dream; And Dawn, with rosy fingers, draw the veils Of silver from her shining face; and gales Sing loudly; and the rain from eaveshoots stream With bubbling music. Seek my soul in these; I am a part of them; and they will keep Perchance the music which I wrought with tears. When the moon shines above the silent trees Your eyes shall see me; and when soft as sleep Come murmurs of the rain, ah, bend your ears!

WORKS BY FREDERIC MANNING

SCENES AND PORTRAITS

"It is excellent work of a rare kind, and will leaven a large lump of current literature."—Times.

"Son imagination, sa curiosité amusée, son érudition lui donnent cette tournure d'esprit et cette originalité d'expression qui nous séduisent si particulièrement chez M. Remy de Gourmont."—Mercure de France.

"Since Mr. Arnold, there has been no such ironist in this country as the author of 'Scenes and Portraits.' Irony is not an English quality; and Mr. Manning's is distinctly not an English book. It is Latin in its intelligence, in its disregard of consequences, in its presentation of the pure idea. If Lucian, Landor, Renan, and Anatole France could have collaborated, the result would have been some such work as this."—Edinburgh Review, October 1909.

"They have a curious originality, and, though fantastic in the extreme, are always singularly alert and attractive. They will be welcomed because they contain much that is fresh and unexpected and stimulating."—Observer.

THE VIGIL OF BRUNHILD

The name of Brunhild raises memories of tragedy, of her rivalry with the murderous Fredegonde, and of her cruel death by wild horses. But, though she is one of the greatest figures in early French history, she has never been celebrated, so far as is known, in English poetry; nor has she received the honour she deserves from her own countrymen.

In this poem the author refrains from any sensational description of her end. Brunhild is represented as giving an account of her life and of its high political aims in blank verse of a high standard, which is worthy of her romantic life and of her coloured history.

IN THE EVENING

A volume of observations and reflections from the point of view of a man of varied experience on miscellaneous topics, ranging from sport, political economy, and other practical matters to those deeper subjects which exercise the mind as active life draws to a close.

WORKS BY HENRY NEWBOLT

SONGS OF MEMORY AND HOPE

"To spend an evening with Mr. Newbolt's little volume brings a rare refreshment to the spirit. There is a quality in his verse which braces the reader up with a sweet, winning freshness, just as a morning breeze will cheer the tramper over an upland within sight of the sea. Sincerity breathes in every line of it."—Daily Mail.

THE SAILING OF THE LONG-SHIPS
AND OTHER POEMS

"This volume will be acquired and valued by all who care for vigorous and tender verse."—Globe.

"Admirable verses ... themes of patriotism expressed in lines of true poetry."—St. James's Gazette.

CLIFTON CHAPEL AND OTHER
SCHOOL POEMS

This is a selection from the Author's well-known volumes, "The Island Race" and "The Sailing of the Long-ships," with a longer poetical Epistle, addressed to Sir Francis Younghusband when in Thibet, and now reprinted for the first time. The whole collection deals with English School life, mainly in its imperial aspect; it is published by special request for the use of Clifton College, and will, it is hoped, commend itself to members of other Public Schools.

THE YEAR OF TRAFALGAR

"This combination of naval history, tactical criticism, and poetical appreciation affords a theme which seems specially suited to Mr. Newbolt's genius.... We can only be grateful to Mr. Newbolt for giving us a book at once opportune for the moment, and withal so written as to be valuable and interesting for much more than the moment."—Times Literary Supplement, July 7th, 1905.

ON THE FORGOTTEN ROAD

"This brilliant historical novel.... Its style is so distinguished; it is so skilfully interlarded with mediævalisms. It reads as if it were an old chronicle; it is full of the quaint people of the Middle Ages, with their pointed shoes and fur-edged robes; it is full of the unruly youth of the thirteenth century.... 'On the Forgotten Road' has the flavour of Giotto in its pages."—Queen.

WORKS BY LADY GREGORY

A BOOK OF SAINTS AND WONDERS

"The work imparts a fresh literary charm to the fine old tales about Saint Brigit, about Columcille, about St. Patrick, about the voyagers Maeldune and Brendan, and about many old legendary wonder-workers and uncanny adventurers. For an Irish youngster, or indeed for any one interested, to have the old Irish tales simply, faithfully, and sympathetically told, it would be hard indeed to find a better book."—Scotsman.

POETS AND DREAMERS

"Lady Gregory has written the most charming book that has come out of Ireland for many a long day. It consists of original sketches and of translations from the Irish, and from beginning to end the atmosphere, which is delightful, is the same.... It has charm, and there is everywhere a felicity of simple phrase that is infinitely refreshing.... We are grateful to Lady Gregory for some hours that could not have been more pleasant if they had been spent in the country in actual converse with poets and dreamers."—Morning Post.

GODS AND FIGHTING MEN

"Lady Gregory has added another leaf to the crown of laurel she is winning by her studies in ancient Gaelic folk-lore and legend. Her 'Gods and Fighting Men' is as naïvely delightful, as mentally refreshing and invigorating as her previous books.... She is at heart a poet, and the limitless wealth of imagination of the Irish mind, its quaintness and simplicity, its gravity and peculiar humour, have passed into her possession and inspired her pen to fine issues."—Yorkshire Post.

CUCHULAIN OF MUIRTHEMNE

"Lady Gregory's altogether charming 'Cuchulain of Muirthemne.'"—Pall Mall Gazette.

"In my judgment it would be hard to overpraise it."—Mr. Stephen Gwynne, in Macmillan's Magazine.

A CHEAPER EDITION OF
A. C. BENSON'S TWO WORKS

THE HOUSE OF QUIET

"These sketches are done with a delicate sympathy, with observation, and with an amused quiet humour which has great charm.... They are attractive, sweet, and human. This is a book out of the common."—Athenæum.

THE THREAD OF GOLD

"The author of 'The House of Quiet' has now given us a delightful successor.... It is presented in a style that is full of much literary charm."—Daily Telegraph.

ESSAYS OF POETS AND POETRY

ANCIENT AND MODERN

By T. Herbert Warren,
Vice-Chancellor of Oxford and President of Magdalen;
Author of "Prince Christian Victor," "By Severn Seas," etc.

"This is a delightful book, and will, we predict, give an immense deal of pleasure wherever sound learning and true literature are loved and flourish.... We cannot leave Mr. Warren's book without expressing once more our delight in work so sound, so sane, and so vigorous."—Spectator.

SIX OXFORD THINKERS

"Mr. Cecil's style is vigorous and thoroughly alive. He has a real knowledge of his subject and a real interest in it.... No one will fail to feel the attraction of his obvious honesty and earnestness, or to enjoy the atmosphere of good literature which pervades his book."—Times.

THE WORKS OF LORD BYRON

A New Text, collated with the original MSS. and revised proofs, which are still in existence, with many hitherto unpublished additions. Poetry edited by E. H. Coleridge. Letters edited by R. E. Prothero, M.V.O.

	Page
THESEUS AND HIPPOLYTA	1
LA TOUSSAINT	11
THE FOUNT	13
TRISTRAM	14
THE SOUL OF MAN	16
THE VENTURERS	18
AFTER NIGHT	20
APRIL DANCE-SONG	25
SONG OF THE SOUL	27
A. C. S.[Pg x]	29
TO A BUSH-BABY	31
CANZONE	33
EROS GLITTERING	36
KORE	38
STILL LIFE	40
BLODEUWEDD	41
HELGI OF LITHEND	44

LES HEURES ISOLÉES	69
THE POOL	70
NOON	71
BEAUTY'S WISDOM	72
THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD	73 [Pg xi]
BUTTERFLIES	74
THE SWALLOW	75
LIGHT	76
LOVE'S HOUSE	77
FOREST MURMURS	78
THE CRYSTAL DREAMER	80
SOLEIL COUCHANT	81
TOUT PASSE	82
LOVE ALONE	83
LARK AND NIGHTINGALE	86
REVENANTS DES ENFANTS	87
AD CINARAM	89 [Pg xii]
PAST	90
SERENADE	91
MEMORY	92
L'AUBE	94
DEATH AND MEMORY	95
DEATH AND NATURE	96