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Title: Bread and Circuses

Author: Helen Parry Eden

Release date: February 26, 2020 [eBook #61517]

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Tim Lindell, Paul Marshall, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)

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from page images generously made available by
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Book Cover.

BREAD AND CIRCUSES

BY
HELEN PARRY EDEN

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY

TORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN MCMXIV

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH

ERRATA
Page  4, line 11, for “about” read “above.”
” 15, ”  5, for “who” read “Who.”
” 55, ” 11, for “saw I” read “saw that I.”
” 87, ” 15, for “Close” read “close.”

TO
THE MEMORY OF MY SISTER
JOAN ABBOTT PARRY

THESE, AND MUCH MORE

[Pg vii]

NOTE

Of the verses contained in this book, the greater part have already appeared, notably in the Westminster Gazette, The Englishwoman, The Daily Chronicle, The Catholic Messenger, The Pall Mall Magazine, T.P.’s Magazine, and Punch. To the proprietors of Punch I am especially indebted for leave to reprint thirteen numbers of which they own the copyright.

H. P. E.

[Pg viii]

[Pg ix]

CONTENTS

  PAGE
The Brook along the Romsey Road  3
The Poet and the Wood-louse  5
“Jam Hiems Transiit”  7
“Vox Clamantis”  8
Sorrow  9
The Mulberry 10
The Window-sill 11
The Angelus-bell 12
The Apple-man from Awbridge 13
Of Dulcibel 15
The Lady Pheasant 16
Time’s Tyranness 17
The Ginger Cat 19
Μονοχρόνος Ἡδόνη 21
A Song in a Lane 22
Cries of London 23
The Third Birthday 25
One-eyed Jocko 26
A Suburban Night’s Entertainment 27
“A Purpose of Amendment” 30
Helena to Hermia 31
“Effany” 32 [Pg x]
The Ark 34
An Upland Station 36
The Worshippers 38
Lines to a Journalist, on his Praising a Noble Lord  
  Recently Created 39
The Belgian Pinafore 41
The Wind 43
To Betsey-Jane, on her Desiring to go  
  incontinently to Heaven 45
In Bethlehem Town 46
The Moon 48
A Lady of Fashion on the Death of her Dog 49
To a Little Girl 51
Lines written for D. E. in a copy of  
  “The Child’s Garden of Verses” 52
Epistle to Thomas Black, Cat to the Soane Museum 53
For My Mother, with a New Button-box 56
A Child before the Crib 57
To Mass at Dawn 59
The Nuns’ Chapel 60
The Snare 61
A House in a Wood 63
The Confessional 65
Epitaph on a Child, run over and Killed by [Pg xi]
 a Motor-car in the street 67
The Water-meads of Mottisfont 70
The Senior Mistress of Blyth 72
The First Party 75
Souvenir of Michael Drayton 77
“Four-paws” 79
“Four-paws” in London 81
To my Sister Dorothy, with a Paste Brooch 83
Sestina, to D. E. 84
Lullaby for a Little Girl 86
Rondeau of Sarum Close 87
The Knobby-green 88
The Carcanet 89
To a Town Crier 90
The Tale of Jocko, a Story for a Child 91
The Wag-tail 98
High Tide at Battersea 100
To my Daughter, who tells me she can Dress Herself 101
The Baby Goat 103
Bournemouth to Poole:  
 (1) Bournemouth 105
 (2) Poole Harbour 105
The Japanese Duckling 107
The Privet Hedge 108
The Vegetarian’s Daughter 109[Pg xii]
Honey Meadow 110
An Elegy, for Father Anselm, of the Order of Reformed  
 Cistercians, Guest-master and Parish Priest 112
The Regret 117
First Snow 118
To a Child Returning Home upon a Windy Day 119
The Death of Sir Matho 120
The Petals 124
Post-Communion 126
Index to First Lines 127

[Pg 1]

[Pg 2]

BREAD AND CIRCUSES

[Pg 3]

THE BROOK ALONG THE
ROMSEY ROAD

The brook along the Romsey road With cresses fringed about, Holds waving fins and streaming weeds And bubbles bright as crystal beads And root-bound reaches whither speeds Startled the shadowy trout.
As southward runs the Romsey road The sunny wind blows harsh With yellow shale and whirling sands That sting the faces and the hands Of us who leave the wooded lands Of pleasant Michelmarsh.
Where southward runs the Romsey road Southward lagged Betsey-Jane Clutching my hand, and still the grit Lay rough between our fingers, it Smarted on Betsey’s face and knit Her little brows with pain. [Pg 4]
A bend was in the Romsey road, Shut off by elms the wind Was stilled, below a bridge the brook Came dimpling forth, and Betsey shook Her fingers free and ran to look,— I held her frock behind.
On the far shore a wag-tail dipped His beak,—we gazed below, And Betsey was content to stand And see the trout and hold my hand, And watch them wave above the sand Until we turned to go.
The brook along the Romsey road With cresses fringed about Ran all day long in Betsey’s head, She played at wag-tails while she fed, And even as she went to bed She babbled of the trout. [Pg 5]

THE POET AND THE
WOOD-LOUSE

A portly Wood-louse, full of cares, Transacted eminent affairs Along a parapet where pears Unripened fell And vines embellished the sweet airs With muscatel.
Day after day beheld him run His scales a-twinkle in the sun About his business never done; Night’s slender span he Spent in the home his wealth had won— A red-brick cranny.
Thus, as his Sense of Right directed, He lived both honoured and respected, Cherished his children and protected His duteous wife, And nought of diffidence deflected His useful life.
One mid-day, hastening to his Club, He spied beside a water-tub The owner of each plant and shrub A humble Bard Who turned upon the conscious grub A mild regard. [Pg 6]
“Eh?” quoth the Wood-louse, “Can it be A Higher Power looks down to see My praiseworthy activity And notes me plying My Daily Task?—Not strange, dear me, But gratifying!”
To whom the Bard: “I still divest My orchard of the Insect Pest, That you are such is manifest, Prepare to die.— And yet, how sweetly does your crest Reflect the sky!
“Go then forgiven, (for what ails Your naughty life this fact avails To pardon) mirror in your scales Celestial blue, Till the sun sets and the light fails The skies and you.”
May all we proud and bustling parties Whose lot in forum, street and mart is Stand in conspectu Deitatis And save our face, Reflecting where our scaly heart is Some skyey grace. [Pg 7]

“JAM HIEMS TRANSIIT”

When the wind blows without the garden walls Where from high vantage of the budding boughs The wanton starling claps his wing and brawls And finches to their half-erected house Trail silver straws; when on the sand-pit verges The young lambs leap, when clouds on sunny tiles Pass and re-pass, then the young Spring emerges From Winter’s fingers panoplied with smiles. So some bright demoiselle but late returning To her old home with new-acquirèd graces Learnt in some strait academy and burning To kindle wonderment in homely faces Smileth, while she who taught her all her arts, The dark duenna, with a sigh departs. [Pg 8]

“VOX CLAMANTIS”

How late in the wet twilight doth that bird Prolong his ditty; from what darkling thorn, Dim elder wand or blackest box unstirred By drip of rain, is the dear descant borne? So late it is, two seeming candles shine Athwart blue panes in the extremest hedge, Ev’n the child’s bunch of daisies close their eyne In their horn goblet on the window ledge. Sad is the night, doth it so smell of spring And wake such ardours in thy pelted breast? Aye, thou wert ever one to stay and sing Of surgent East to the declining West:— And now thou’rt gone, the last of a bright breed, Draw-to the curtains, it is night indeed. [Pg 9]

SORROW

Of Sorrow, ’tis as Saints have said— That his ill-savoured lamp shall shed A light to Heaven, when, blown about By the world’s vain and windy rout, The candles of delight burn out.
Then usher Sorrow to thy board, Give him such fare as may afford Thy single habitation—best To meet him half-way in his quest, The importunate and sad-eyed guest.
Yet somewhat should he give who took Thy hospitality, for look, His is no random vagrancy, Beneath his rags what hints there be Of a celestial livery.
Sweet Sorrow, play a grateful part, Break me the marble of my heart And of its fragments pave a street Where, to my bliss, myself may meet One hastening with piercèd feet. [Pg 10]

THE MULBERRY

Within our garden walls you see A huge old-fashioned mulberry Whose purple fruit in summer falls Into the shade below the walls.
Its blackened trunk grows grim and hard From the harsh gravel of the yard, Its crest beholds the winds go by And scans the milky evening sky.
And like this tree my soul makes mirth, (Though rooted deep in blackened earth) For it shall grow till it hath sight (The walls o’er-topped) of endless light. [Pg 11]

THE WINDOW-SILL

The fuchsias dangle on their stem, The baby girl looks up at them, The light comes through the muslin frill Upon the painted window-sill.
She cannot see the world outside Where men in snorting motors ride, Each speeding from his far abode To town, along the Fulham Road. [Pg 12]

THE ANGELUS-BELL

My night-dress hangs on fire-guard rail And my cup of milk on the table stands, The day goes down like a distant sail And leaves me undressed in my Mother’s hands.
She has washed me clean of the long day’s grime And the pillow is cool for my sleepy head, For the Angelus-bell with its three-fold chime Has tolled the sun and myself to bed. [Pg 13]

THE APPLE-MAN FROM
AWBRIDGE

While I stand upon the pavement and I dress the dusty stall, Where they sell the travelled apples, I bethink me most of all How the Quarentines are ripening in Michelmarsh again And the Apple-man from Awbridge comes a-clinking up the lane.
Sweet and slim the Ladies’ Fingers fall around you as you pass, And the Hollycores are mellow by the pig-hole in the grass, ’Tis but green they look, you pluck them, and you list the ratt’ling core— And the Apple-man from Awbridge comes a-chaffering at the door.
Then the first baked batch of Profits, ’twas a treat my mother planned, Drew them foaming from the oven with the dishcloth round her hand, She who poured the amber cider to the pewter’s polished brink And the Apple-man from Awbridge wet the bargain with a drink. [Pg 14]
For he buys them by the bushel and he buys them on the trees And he sends them from the orchard plot to places such as these; And there’s money in your pocket and a hollow at your heart When the Apple-man from Awbridge comes a-loading of his cart.
And maybe the nameless apples on the stall in Fulham Road Once were piled behind his pony in that fresh and fragrant load And maybe it was my mother pulled the Ladies’ Fingers down; And the Apple-man from Awbridge turned them over to the town. [Pg 15]

OF DULCIBEL

When by the fire-light Dulcibel Stirs the red ash with lively grace, Is it the glow of Heaven or Hell That mantles in her rosy face?
They know, Who for despair and joy All fateful loveliness have blent, Who do both comfort and destroy With the indifferent element. [Pg 16]

THE LADY PHEASANT

Whom meet we, Betsey, in the wood? The Lady Pheasant and her Brood; So stand we still, to let them pass On oak-leaves through the tasselled grass.
Down dappled aisles of hazel shade They disappear along the glade, My Lady in her rusty gown, Ten children clad in useful brown.
But one fledged laggard stops to eat The plantain seeds at Betsey’s feet, Who plucks my fingers: “Mother, come We’ll pick him up and take him home!”
The nestling joins the hidden nine Deep in the copse; and I lift mine And bear her home along the lane,— “I want him!” still pouts Betsey-Jane. [Pg 17]

TIME’S TYRANNESS

How few alack, There be along the track Of life which hear not at their back
(Though small birds sing And blessèd belfries ring) The creaking of Time’s iron wing;
And, in mad flight From an untempted might, Trample the lovely fields of light,
Nor for a space Pause in their fearful race To look their tyrant in the face.—
In you alone, Dear child, there ever shone Divine deliberation.
And now in weed And grass you bid Time speed Away in dandelion seed,
Till your bright hair, For the down mingled there, His very greyness looks to wear. [Pg 18]
Ah happy she Whose gentle hours be Told by such kind chronometry!
For now Time saith, Who smiling listeneth, “Lo, a child flouts me with a breath!”
And so, to assuage Sweetly a feignèd rage, He dims your hair with mimic age. [Pg 19]

THE GINGER CAT

’Tis the old wife at Rickling, she Has lost her ginger cat, ’twas he Who used to share the Master’s tea Beside the settle, Or on his corduroy-clad knee Out-purr the kettle;
Who followed when she pinned a-row Her flapping gowns of indigo And watched the apple-petals blow, With stealthy rapture Rehearsing in a mimic show Some mouse’s capture.
At dew-fall, with uncovered head, What tidings have the old wife led Hither where oak and hazel shed Their shadow deeper? —They say the ginger cat is dead, Shot by the Keeper.
Through coverts dim her searches lie (Howe’er so hardly sorrows try The burden of uncertainty To bear were harder) To where things dangle when they die— The Keeper’s larder. [Pg 20]
A bough the larder hangs upon— Rats, and decaying hedge-hogs grown Shapeless, and owls their features gone,— A grisly freight, And many a weasel skeleton With hairless pate,
And trophy of cats’ tails arrayed, Tabby and white and black displayed, The adornment of the still green glade— More gay for that Of him who in the morning strayed, The ginger cat.
She knows it, and she cuts it down; Then warm beneath her folded gown Bestows the severed brush’s brown And orange bands— So soft of fur, the tears fall down Upon her hands.
The copse-wood parts, ’tis she who goes, Whom shades obscure and star-light shows, Treading between the hazel rows The fallen sticks, Home, where the careless fire-light glows Along the bricks. [Pg 21]

Μονοχρόνος Ἡδόνη.

Pull out my couch across the fire, Let the flames warm me through, Though the pain gnaw my back away There shall be pleasure too!
Search out the desolate garden walks— What though the year be spent— There shall be marigolds enough For the bowl we bought in Ghent:
Fire shall bring out their acrid scents For a walled garden’s sweets, With the melody of Flemish bells And the angles of Flemish streets.
Fire and blossom and dreamful shapes And I, while the long pain stays, Ward off the shot of the savage hours On my rampart of yesterdays. [Pg 22]

A SONG IN A LANE

When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down— The elms their spacious branches swing, The hidden hedgelings sing and sing, The nettle draws aside his sting And kindly weeds their shadows fling Across your sunny gown;— When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down.
When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down— Your tresses, for a gusty space, Discover all your merry face And the Wind drops with pinioned grace To kiss the small white forehead place Above your summer brown;— When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down. [Pg 23]

CRIES OF LONDON

What dusky branches fret the yellow sky, Betsey, beyond our urban balcony How darkly looms the street; And from below how many a note assails Your unaccustomed ears where London wails About your little feet.
Here, princess of a sombre citadel, You stand, the muffin-man with twilight bell Preludes your early tea And where the milk-man on melodious ways Slowly meanders, you incline to praise His clear delivery;
How pitiful you scan the vagabond Who cries his ferns as though each arid frond Sprang from his arid heart, And list the lamentable sweep complain Urging in wrath against the slanting rain The sable of his cart.
These for your little ears, so lately blest With cluck of painted poultry on the nest And rooks’ loquacious flight, Who, when the pear-blossom was hardly blown, Answered the cuckoo’s folly with your own And chid the owls at night. [Pg 24]
Dear, I could thank you for your brave content— But, ah, beware, when spring is gone and spent, Lest summer’s dusty stir Lead gypsies Londonwards from scented loam Of Mitcham and the furrows nearer home With song of “Lavender!”
Then close your casement, shun the outer air, Let no sublime virago mount the stair And bring the rustic South, Lest some quick memory of all before And the great silver bush beside the door, Deject your happy mouth. [Pg 25]

THE THIRD BIRTHDAY

Three candles had her cake, Which now are burnt away; We wreathed it for her sake With currant-leaves and bay And the last graces Of Michaelmas Daisies Pluckt on a misty day.
Curled (as she cut her cake) In mine her fingers lay; Purple the petals brake, Bruised was the scented bay; Like a yellow moth On the white white cloth One currant-leaf flew away.
Three candles lit her state; Dimmed is their golden reign— Leaves on an empty plate, Petals and tallow-stain; Nor will she Nor the candles three Ever be three again. [Pg 26]

ONE-EYED JOCKO

The Baby slumbers through the night With One-eyed Jocko close to her, She clasps his fluffy limbs so tight Beside her cheek, her breathings stir His agèd fur.
When Mother, with the shaded light Held from the sleepy pillow, stays To smooth the counterpane, this sight Of Friendship’s sweet nocturnal ways Arrests her gaze.
Yet in the nursery by day Jocko doth all neglected lie Prone on the hearth-rug, while away The Baby stalks, unheeded by His vacant eye. [Pg 27]

A SUBURBAN NIGHT’S
ENTERTAINMENT

With a full house of other folks I pass the night at Sevenoaks; And, for the air is still outside, Push the new-painted lattice wide Where night’s blue decent quilt is drawn Over the shrubs and tennis-lawn Up to the very star-lit face Of the dim unacquainted place. A yellow street-lamp, hid to me, Haloes a dusky-headed tree, And, by a hedge-row screened from sight, Paves the still road with tranquil light, Save where the path gold-parapetted Lies by a shade of leaves o’erfretted; Leaves dangle dark above the fence, Their shadowy forms sole evidence Of their sweet-breath’d nocturnal sleeping And leaves out-face the light which leaping A war with monstrous gloom to wage Spangles a den of foliage. A second lamp that burns in sight Fronts shops fast closèd for the night Whose white façades are all as mild As eye-lids of a sleeping child Which in their mute mendacity The bustle of the day belie. [Pg 28] Among the darkling trees set back, With many a swarthy chimney-stack, The great, rich houses of the place Lie all unlit, while the slow pace Of night goes on and still lets be Their dark inert felicity. Here is all still, save when again The shuddering cries of the hid train, Deep in the cutting no one sees, Muffled below the heavy trees, Waken the sleeping shrubberies; And, with red speed and scudding spark, Disperse the arboreal-scented dark. Were’t not for these, there is no doubt But some fair daemon long cast out (The authentic goddess of the place Who far too long hath screened her face And beauty in some beechen bole Gigantic in the woods of Knole) Would choose this night for her returning, The lawns with silent footfall spurning; And such mis-shapen woodland gods As work-men with their laden hods Scattered, when Progress came with Pride And bound in brick the country-side And Sevenoaks was edified. To-night the wan demesne out-spread By star-light waits her wonted tread;— Fair! (for the dripping herb is so Fragrant and dark) forget to know [Pg 29] That the dim grass, your sweet resort, Is branded for a tennis-court, Where silent conies scrambled through The grey-clumped fox-gloves drenched with dew In the old days so dear to you. O pardon and forget it all, The long insulting interval, Know all a dream, believe them gone, The urban race, nor having done Hurt to your oaks nor stained your streams; So stay, until the windy gleams Of dawn the occult sweet minstrels wake. Then through the gloaming by-ways take Your way bent-headed whence you stole Last night, the covert ferns of Knole, Ere the first yawning maid unbars The door and drives away the stars; Lest haply from the northern sky Smite on your ear the long-drawn sigh (There where the silence was most deep) Of London turning in her sleep. [Pg 30]

“A PURPOSE OF AMENDMENT”

He who a mangold-patch doth hoe, Sweating beneath a sturdy sun, Clearing each weed-disguisèd row Till day-light and the task be done,
Standeth to view his labour’s scene— Where now, within the hedge-row’s girth, The little plants untrammelled green Stripes the brown fabric of the earth.
So when the absolution’s said Behind the grille, and I may go, And all the flowers of sin are dead, And all the stems of sin laid low,
And I am come to Mary’s shrine To lay my hopes within her hand— Ah, in how fair and green a line The seedling resolutions stand. [Pg 31]

HELENA TO HERMIA
(FOR WINIFRED MORGAN-BROWN)

Throw up the cinders, let the night wear through And all the dear accustomed things be said Ere up the sleepy stair-case I and you Take our warm ways to bed. Then let us loose our hands’ reluctant hold Lest the uneasy dawn behind dim groves Stir the still leaves and any hint of cold Blow on our loves. [Pg 32]

“EFFANY”

When elm-buds turn from red to green And growing lambs more staidly graze And brighter nettle-tops are seen Along the hedge-rows’ rambling ways; When leaves unclose where late the hail Rustled in naked hawthorn twig, April comes laughing up the vale And Effany comes round to dig.
Aloof among her nursery toys From her high casement Betsey sees His vellum-coloured corduroys Stirring behind the apple-trees, Clutching her trowel she descends, With unimagined projects big, For Effany and she are friends, And she helps Effany to dig.
Deep in the flowering currant-rows The robin twitters gentle mirth Where Effany with Betsey goes Triumphant o’er the new-turned earth; And the wind wanders out and in As doubting which it loves the best— The grizzly stubble round his chin, Or her be-ruffled golden crest. [Pg 33]
His coat, lined with carnation red, Hangs in the plum-tree’s forkèd boughs, Till sun is low and the day sped And Betsey called into the house— He scrapes his spade, her trowel she, She looks and lingers loath to start With little earth-bound feet to tea, He takes his coat down to depart.
Half musing on the little maid He trudges towards the coming night, Stooping beneath his shouldered spade, To where across the curtained light With leaves upon its fiery fold His wife’s thin shadow falls alone— For she and Effany are old And all their little ones are gone. [Pg 34]

THE ARK

Vainly, my Betsey, to the weeping day You sing the rhyme that drives the rain away; And from your window mourn the patient trees Buffeted by the peevish Hyades. Come, let us shut the lattice, do you slide From your old Ark the gaudy-painted side And let the enlargèd captives walk about; For though a deluge be at work without, Secure within we’ve no concern for that, And all the nursery is Ararat. Not on the rug,—a space of oaken boards A firmer footing for the crew affords: Softly, my Betsey, lest your fervour harm The extreme frailness of a leg or arm— Poor limbs, so often and so rudely tossed And rattled down, no wonder some be lost Beyond the aid of glue! What skill did cram Into the hold vermilion-hatted Ham And Shem with the green top-knot and the slim Contours of Japheth, Noah (somewhat grim With buttons) and his consort after him! The wives are at the bottom, dear, but now Come the black pig and terra-cotta cow, Three foxes, this a purple collar round His rigid neck proclaims the faithful hound; The birds are not so nice, tradition fails To account for such a quantity of quails, [Pg 35] But the old weary crow that flew and flew Away from Noah has come back for you. Where is the dove? For if my memory speak The truth there was a dove and in his beak The olive leaves he plucked upon the day When, as you know, the waters ebbed away; Who perched on Noah’s window with pink feet, And without whom no Ark is thought complete. Where is the missing dove? For now I see, Standing or prone the whole menagerie, And the rain’s stopped without and all above Beams the benignant sky; and still no dove, Of the same beautiful fact the feathered proof! Why here—upon the ripples of the roof— Here is your truant painted, to abide When Shem and Ham are scattered far and wide, And all the beasts are broke, to brood with furled Pacific wings over the new-washed world. [Pg 36]

AN UPLAND STATION

O  the trucks that leave Southampton bring a smell of twine and tar, And fishy like the asphalt ways that front the glittering bar, And they steam into the station where the laurel bushes are;
And the trucks be wet and slippery as sea-weed on the rocks With their cumbrous coils of cordage from the ships beside the docks, And they creak along the platform like the clank of ogres’ locks.
What send we to Southampton for our upland valley’s freight? Comes a band of armoured milk-cans through the level-crossing’s gate And cabbages with leaves a-curl and sprouting through the crate.
And ducklings in a wicker coop and gilly-flowers to fall, Dusty-petalled in a bucket under some Southampton stall, And sons who sail for ’Meriky and bid good-bye to all. [Pg 37]
Then it’s “Forward for Southampton!” They are gone and we turn back, Past the river and the orchard and the warm dishevelled stack, And again the silent barriers are swung across the track;
Again the platform is at peace, the idle metals shine, And the tendrils are untroubled on the station-master’s vine, And the sun is on the laurels and the sparrows on the line. [Pg 38]

THE WORSHIPPERS

When the young Spring in Betsey’s fingers sets The first white violets, And she hath reared them in her soft brown fist, Ev’n to my stooping mouth till they be kist:— Shall I allow my kiss more fainly lingers Among her baby fingers, Where (for all pride of perfume that they shed), The very violets be out-violetted?
Great is her portion whose auriferous mines Yield new-coin’d celandines, Her dowry hoarded in the hedge-row’s heart Till the March wind hath blown the buds apart; For her delight these gay-wrought tassels be By name Dog’s Mercury, For her delight I scour from wood to wood, Lured by one lode-star with her Babyhood.
Dare I avow then, Betsey, that your grove Hath not mine only love? Have we not quit a brave and bustling world For catkins and the cuckoo-pint uncurl’d? So, while your wind-blown cheek to mine you press, I know you’ll never guess Whereto my woodland incense I prefer— And that I worship you, dear worshipper. [Pg 39]

LINES TO A JOURNALIST, ON HIS
PRAISING A NOBLE LORD
RECENTLY CREATED

[“Finally it is proof of his faith in his race and his country that he owns twenty thousand acres in England and fifteen thousand in Scotland; and he has no terrors even of Mr. Lloyd George’s budgets.”]

Permit, Dear Sir, that the judicious grieve Hearing you thus old Mammon’s faith profess And the career of commerce interweave With terms of more than standard unctuousness;
For (you yourself have said it) what reward Hope you enrolled among the sworn defenders Of one who, while you tender your regard, Remains impassive and regards his tenders?
True he has great possessions, well they might Stagger your brain and sway your understanding, His English leagues—while English paupers fight To hang their washing on a London landing;
Also (’tis as you say) while they the facts Deplore of governmental tolls, his rest Is still secure, nor any Georgian Acts Rouse panic terror in that sturdy breast. [Pg 40]
And yet, and yet, Dear Sir, it would not do For all of us to kiss the feet that Fate Has set upon our necks although (with you) We own they are superlatively great;—
Here is a rule to save the like mistakes And sift the patriots from the money-makers, These take an interest in their country’s aches, And those an interest on their country’s acres. [Pg 41]

THE BELGIAN PINAFORE

’Twas bought in Bruges, the shop was poor, One read “Au Bébé” flourished o’er The ancient lintel; to that door No English guinea Had ever come nor travelled gold Gladdened her gaze, that woman old, Who tottered from the gloom and sold The Belgian “pinny.”
I mind me choosing in the place A cap with frills of little lace; “That too,” I said, “shall come to grace My Small and Sweet.” Prim in her pinafore arrayed I pictured Betsey while I strayed Where, all the time, the proud bells played Above the street.
Now, Betsey, on the roguish back That stalks around the sunny stack The turkey’s truculence or the track Of stable cats The Belgian “pinny” flaunts its hue, Still the same stripe of white and blue As when ’twas dyed, no doubt for you, In Flemish vats. [Pg 42]
Still of its old lost life it tells And alien provenance, there are spells And glamour of the Town of Bells About it shed; And when my Belgian Betsey climbs My knee I’ve heard a hundred times The clash and ripple of the chimes Around her head.
As though the child herself did play Without some white estaminet Shuttered and silent where, all day In sun and shower, Two little lions with stone grins Hold ’scutcheons under paws and chins And their divine appellant dins The honoured hour. [Pg 43]

THE WIND

The sun sank, and the wind uprist whose note Piped on amid the stubble melodies Of such appeal as ’scape the limber throat Of robin singing under saffron skies;— Then did he breathe like winding of a horn, Whereat some sable flock of clouds affrighted Huddled across their rosy pasturage Behind the troubled leaves,— Larger he loomed, a traveller benighted, Hinting of menace and insurgent rage Around the placid twilight of our eaves.
The sun was gone; beneath the steady stars That watched the spectral anticks of the oak The plumèd elm-tops met in savage wars, The smitten pools in argent splinters broke; While, as a labourer among the boughs Cudgels a harvest from the branches crooked, Within the orchard fence one plied a flail That woke the sleeping house, Till from the shivered lattice faces looked Whitely, because the apples fell like hail.
The sun uprose, serenely gold and fair, And Morning in a little ruffled pond Scanned her sweet face and prinkt her yellow hair. Around her mirror lapped the leaves, beyond [Pg 44] Jetsam of mast and acorn hid the strand, Thick in the orchard was the wreckage piled Of twig and fruit, the pitifullest noise Of sobbing filled the land:— The wind was sleeping sadly as a child Littered about by all its broken toys. [Pg 45]

TO BETSEY-JANE,
ON HER DESIRING TO GO
INCONTINENTLY TO HEAVEN

My Betsey-Jane it would not do, For what would Heaven make of you, A little honey-loving bear, Among the Blessèd Babies there?
Nor do you dwell with us in vain Who tumble and get up again And try, with bruisèd knees, to smile— Sweet, you are blessèd all the while
And we in you: so wait, they’ll come To take your hand and fetch you home, In Heavenly leaves to play at tents With all the Holy Innocents. [Pg 46]

IN BETHLEHEM TOWN

In Bethlehem Town by lantern light Installèd is our King to-night Who for us men shall come to weep Our sins alone while very deep In shade of leaves His comrades sleep. To-night we rise with Thee to pray, O parve Jesu Domine.
In Bethlehem Town the shepherds spread Their fairest fleeces for Thy head Which for us men with buffets broke Shall stain the mockery of Thy cloak For the rude scorn of sinful folk. No scorn know we who sing and say, O parve Jesu Domine.
In Bethlehem Town soft linens wrap Thy limbs upon Thy Mother’s lap Which for us men shall soon be bound Fast to the pillar whilst around The plying scourges fall and wound. Alas, our sins be sharp as they, O parve Jesu Domine.
In Bethlehem Town Thou scarce couldst hold The three Kings’ gift of myrrh and gold [Pg 47] Who for us men shall come to groan Beneath a guerdon not Thine own, Thy most dispiteous cross, alone. Now Simon’s part be ours to play, O parve Jesu Domine.
In Bethlehem Town Thy Mother’s knee Bore Bliss Itself in bearing Thee Who for us men with arms outspanned The Cross shall bear while she doth stand With pardon at Thy piercèd hand. So may we stand with her alway, O parve Jesu Domine. [Pg 48]

THE MOON

Playthings my Betsey hath, the snail’s cast shell, Pebbles and small unripened pears, she dotes On gentle things with furred or feathered coats, A bunch of keys, a little brazen bell; But none of these enticements please so well, Nor pouring tea nor sailing paper boats, As the rare moon that of an evening floats In anchorages inaccessible. On frost-bound nights a portly yellow moon She kissed her hand to him before she slept, The slim white stripling of an afternoon In summer, still she longed for him and wept Seeking to coax him down an elder wand, For once, that she might hold him in her hand. [Pg 49]

A LADY OF FASHION ON
THE DEATH OF HER DOG

“Amongst the many others that were present that Cup Day were ... Mr. and Mrs. W.—— L.—— (the latter by the way has just lost a dear dog in London).”—The Lady.

I  am not lightly moved, my grief was dumb At Great-Aunt Cohen’s death, nor did I whine When Uncle Monty did at last succumb, Aged close on sixty-nine.
Dear are my friends, and yet my heart still light is, Undimmed the eyes that see our set depart, Snatched from the Season by appendicitis Or something quite as smart.
But when my Chin-Chin drew his latest breath On Marie’s out-spread apron, slow and wheezily, I simply sniffed, I could not take his death So Pekineasily.
All day at Goodwood, where I planned to go, Superb in pink and Coronation-blue, I mourned, until my husband sought to know What good would mourning do? [Pg 50]
“Fool,” I replied, “grief courts these sad ovations, And many press my sable-suèded hand, Noting the blackest of Lucile’s creations, Inquire, and understand:
And he who lies among the plane-trees shady, May rest in peace below the fallen leaf, For one, the Correspondent of ‘The Lady,’ Shares and respects my grief.” [Pg 51]

TO A LITTLE GIRL

You taught me ways of gracefulness and fashions of address, The mode of plucking pansies and the art of sowing cress, And how to handle puppies, with propitiatory pats For mother dogs, and little acts of courtesy to cats.
O connoisseur of pebbles, coloured leaves and trickling rills, Whom seasons fit as do the sheaths that wrap the daffodils, Whose eyes’ divine expectancy foretells some starry goal, You taught me here docility—and how to save my soul. [Pg 52]

LINES WRITTEN FOR D. E.
IN A COPY OF
“THE CHILD’S GARDEN OF VERSES”

You that have fenced about my storm-swept ways With a green hedge-row of your hard-won bays And set the flints with flowers such as start Deep in the dear Child’s Garden of your heart— Take this small gift from her to whom ’tis life To be your Dearest Debtor and your Wife. [Pg 53]

EPISTLE TO THOMAS BLACK,
CAT TO THE SOANE MUSEUM

Pardon, Dear Sir, if with intrusive pen I would remind you that we met last week; Not that you showed me any favour then Nor that I have forgot the infernal cheek You tendered to your fellow-citizen, Veiling your yellow eyes, where black and sleek You graced the hearth-rug in the glittering gloom Of Sir John Soane’s be-mirrored breakfast-room.
Which snub to soften, an official leant Hinting, behind his tactful fingers, that It was but seldom that you quite unbent Being almost a Statutory cat; If not retained by Act of Parliament (As is your noble shrine) at least you sat, Kept up by twenty shillings and tradition, As part and parcel of the exhibition.
For when (he added in an undertone) Each Reynolds, Fuseli, and Bartolozzi, Hogarth and Lawrence were bequeathed by Soane With Roman marbles and Athenian pots, he Begrudged to leave them lifeless and alone, So, having ranged them in appropriate spots, he Said—“There shall be a Cat,” and, in effect, you’re His last word in Domestic Architecture. [Pg 54]
Thus far Authority. Now, might I ask it,— How came you, Thomas, by this lofty station From kitten-hood and the maternal basket? Was there, perchance, some stiff examination Such as tests candidates whose pleasant task it Is to advance the cause of education, In places advertised, you often see ’em, On outside pages of the Athenæum?
Or how were you appointed? Was it Fate or The cat before, some mid-Victorian mouser, Left you the seat Death bade him abdicate or Did hirelings kidnap you like Kaspar Hauser? Did rich relations canvass the Curator And the Trustees on your behalf? Allow, Sir, Some little light to play upon the mystery Of Thomas Black his entrance into History.
O happy he for whom does not exist Our later London—that superb disaster, Who in his Georgian hermitage has missed Our schemes of girders overlaid with plaster, Who has not met a Post-Impressionist Nor heard a maniac acclaimed a master, But sits with those who draw their weekly salary Soothed by dim models of the Dulwich Gallery.
For, be their outlook dull, at least ’tis clean. Not so the cat’s whose whole existence spent is [Pg 55] In some half-lighted haunt of the obscene— The studio of that modern idle ’prentice Who thinks he has the trick of Hogarth’s spleen (Of course he’s twice the draughtsman) if his bent is To paint that vice with intimate elation Which Hogarth limned, apart, with detestation.
All this you’re spared; and so you might have paid Some courtesy to those, a very few, Who come withdrawn from that exterior shade To spend an hour with sanity and you,— And, when you saw that I had gladly stayed, Not closed your eye-lids and our interview But told me what the contents of each case meant And let me come with you to see the basement.
Yet, after all, you know your part, doze on; You are no common cat, you rather seem, If not the incarnation of Sir John, To be at least the creature of his dream; Visitors enter, sign their names, are gone— You stay, the centre of his classic scheme. Blink not an ear for me—t’were not expedient— But let me rest, Dear Sir, your most obedient. [Pg 56]

FOR MY MOTHER, WITH
A NEW BUTTON-BOX

When I was small, great joy it was to see Your button-box: the deathless comedy Of blowing on the lid enacted, wide It flew, I scanned the treasure-trove tongue-tied, Cassim in caves of Haberdashery! The small pearl “glove” evoked essential glee, The large white linen was an ecstasy And each gilt hook was covetously eyed When I was small. Lost are the clothes whereon those buttons be— But not the love that planned the stitchery, The button-baby is herself a bride— But sends you this with love, and writes inside “You are far dearer than you were to me When I was small.” [Pg 57]

A CHILD BEFORE THE CRIB

We came on Christmas Day Within the church to pray And lit by candle-ray I Mary saw And Joseph and the mild Ox and that little Child With open arms who smiled Amid the straw.
Behind a press of folk We knelt and no one spoke, Our Lady in her cloak Made not less noise, With folded fingers, than Each silent kneeling man, And sweet small girls who can Be still, and boys.
But for that Babe divine, His cot compared to mine, There in the candle-shine Was poor and hard. Yet did He never cry, Laid on such stems of rye As we see blowing by The stable yard. [Pg 58]
And I who lie and wail, Pent by the polished rail Of my white cot while pale The night-light gleams, Who spurn my sheets and stain The patchwork counterpane With tears, then sink again Into my dreams,
Must mind me of His lot Whose mother poor had got No whitely pillowed cot To ease His head, But was at pains to shake The straws up for His sake And did a manger make Into His bed.
Sweet Jesus let me wear My swaddling-bands of care Smiling, and still forbear To be so nice; That thus I may behold Thy True Face, being old, Where straws are turned to gold In Paradise. [Pg 59]

TO MASS AT DAWN
“EX UMBRIS ET IMAGINIBUS IN VERITATEM”

On the high frosty fields afoot at dawn I start:—with rarest mist the vale below Brims like a milky cup, the elm-tops show As floating islets, not a sound is borne Up from the river, shadowy on the lawn Two monstrous pheasants fight and strangely low The white sun peers between a spectral row Of quicksets spanned by spider-webs untorn. And the return:—the high sun over-head, The fair sleek fallows spread before my sight, The garrulous clear waters in their bed Of greenest sedge, the multitudinous flight Of little wings—O miracle of light— The self-same track, with all the shadows fled. [Pg 60]

THE NUNS’ CHAPEL

Now night hath fallen on the little town, Lights glimmer from each ancient window-pane, On darkling chimney-cowl and weather-vane The buoyant moon looks equitably down; The portico’s be-shadowed columns frown At the market’s verge, and the long lights again Stream from the inn,—I to the convent lane Pass betwixt looming walls and ilex brown. The little door’s ajar, the moon in the porch Gleams on the water-stoup, “In Nomine Patris et Filii....” God’s rosy light Plays on its swinging chain, the auguster torch Of prayer hath burnt to fragrance here all day Whose ashes lie about His feet to-night. [Pg 61]

THE SNARE

Dear, the delightful world I see Holdeth its attributes for thee, Nor on my heart doth earth intrude Save to thy grace it hath some rude Inadequate similitude.
So lilac leaves the showers bespatter, The dropping acorns’ elfin patter— These are but echoes of thy feet, Naked or shod, how fair and fleet On oaken board or paven street.
The burnish of thy hair is far Dearer to me than sunsets are— When, from sheer Compton looking west, Such gilded after-glows invest The twilight on the Vale of Test.
Grey mirrors to the blue of the skies Are the fringed candours of your eyes— So hoof-prints in the grassy lane, Goblets full-brimmed of Heaven, contain Celestial leavings of the rain.
But vain the wordy nets I make To trap the look of thee and take Thy graces by the wings which be So sturdy as to flutter free [Pg 62]
Yet shall the broke words cast away Serve for thy monument which say— “Behold us, all too weak a gin Too slack a toil to fetter in The shadows on her childish chin.” [Pg 63]

A HOUSE IN A WOOD

So ’tis your will to have a cell, My Betsey, of your own and dwell Here where the sun for ever shines That glances off the holly spines— A clearing where the trunks are few Here shall be built a house for you, The little walls of beechen stakes, Wattled with twigs from hazel brakes, Tiled with white oak-chips that lie round The fallen giants on the ground; Under your little feet shall be A ground-work of wild strawberry With gadding stem, a pleasant wort Alike for carpet and dessert. Here Betsey, in the lucid shade, Come, let us twine a green stockade, With slender saplings all about, And a small window to look out, So that you may be “Not at Home” If any mortal callers come. Then shall arrive to make you mirth The four wise peoples of the earth: The thrifty ants who run around To fill their store-rooms underground, The rabbit-folk, a feeble race, From out their rocky sleeping place, The grasshoppers who have no king Yet come in companies to sing, [Pg 64] The lizard slim who shyly stands Swaying upon his slender hands— I’ll give them all your new address. For me, my little anchoress, I’ll never stir the bracken by Your house; the brown wood butterfly, Passing you like the sunshine’s fleck That gilds the nape of your warm neck, Shall still report me how you do And bring me all the news of you, And tell me (where I sit alone) How gay you are and how you’re grown A fox-glove’s span in the soft weather.
No? Then we’ll wander home together. [Pg 65]

THE CONFESSIONAL

My Sorrow diligent would sweep That dingy room infest With dust (thereby I mean my soul) Because she hath a Guest Who doth require that self-same room Be garnished for His rest.
And Sorrow (who had washed His feet Where He before had been) Took the long broom of Memory And swept the corners clean, Till in the midst of the fair floor The sum of dust was seen.
It lay there, settled by her tears, That fell the while she swept— Light fluffs of grey and earthy dregs; And over these she wept, For all were come since last her Guest Within the room had slept.
And, for nor broom nor tears had power To lift the clods of ill, She called one servant of her Guest Who came with right good will, For, by his sweet Lord’s bidding, he Waiteth on Sorrow still; [Pg 66]
Who, seeing she had done her part As far as in her lay And had intent to keep the place More cleanly from that day, Did with his Master’s dust-pan come And take the dust away.
She thankèd him, and Him who sent Such succour, and she spread Fair sheets of Thankfulness and Love Upon her Master’s bed, Then on the new-scoured threshold stood And listened for His tread. [Pg 67]

EPITAPH ON A CHILD
RUN OVER AND KILLED BY A
MOTOR-CAR IN THE STREET

Here lies A. B. who, four years from her birth, Found there was nowhere left to play on earth. Strange, for her mother’s child had ever grown In the quaint precincts of a country town, Yet was she one whose small predestined feet Learnt nor forgot to walk upon the street. She might not ramble where the farmer spanned With consecrated quickset all his land To fill her pinafore when mushrooms swell; Nor dare she scale the lovely citadel Of brambles in the lane, for their sweet prize Was spoilt with dust that dimmed the children’s eyes When local gods dispersed the timid crowd And went before in pillars of grey cloud. Nor might a bigger child frequent the edge Of the pebbled stream to plait the flowering sedge, For aught of native life was kept without The chosen haunt of Dives and his trout; His pheasants held the coppice and its nuts, Where bearded men played peep behind their butts And wolvish keepers prowling through the woods Had a short way with all Red Riding Hoods. [Pg 68] No blade of wholesome grass shot through the hard And greasy flagstones of the narrow yard At home, nor might the children ever play Through the allotments where, a mile away, The civic cabbages congested stood, Reluctant tenants of a stony rood. One playground, one alone, for such as she, Had planned a grave adult humanity, There where grey asphalt hid the ruder ground And serried spikes begirt the place around; At the one end, of yellow brick and slate, Was reared a sort of female Traitors’ Gate, At t’other end the piety of a nation Had raised a shrine of tin to sanitation. This, thanks to man, was all the children’s share And Nature was allowed to tender air. Hence did it chance (as now and then it may) The Powers that Be decreed a holiday. And reckless childhood, whom it ever galls To sit within the compass of four walls, Loosed from its wonted pen conspired to run At random through the town beneath the sun, Rashly disporting in the common street Its rude hands and unnecessary feet. That day, so many a hooting corner crost, The marvel is that one alone was lost, She to whom poverty no tomb assigns But a low mound and these unworthy lines.— Mourn not at all that Her whose burnished wing Flies on the blissful errands of her King, [Pg 69] Whom (by a heavenly law too young to err, Accounted on the earth a Trespasser) He hath resumèd and her footfall white Enfranchised of the liberties of light: But for all those who play the part of Fate To engineer this poor and mirthless state Weep,—and for all who loved that childish hair And saw it stained with Tragedy—one prayer. [Pg 70]

THE WATER-MEADS OF MOTTISFONT

On the painted bridge at Mottisfont above the Test I’ve stood Where the dab-chick from a rushy raft directs her little brood, Where fringed with sedge and willow-weed the waters spread about And linger in pellucid glooms the sleepy spotted trout.
I’ve seen the tawny tumult of the headlong Highland spate, And the ebb round Hair-brush Island (which the map calls Chiswick Ait) Where the withy bristles shimmer and the purple mud-banks gleam And the lights come out by Thornycroft’s and glisten in the stream.
’Twere good to be at Abergeirch: the little brook again Greets the brine among the shingle on the beetling coast of Lleyn,— O the shallows on the sand-banks where the dozing flat-fish lie And the heather surging inland till it breaks against the sky! [Pg 71]
But the chalky scaurs of Compton hold the shadows; and between Lie the water-meads of Mottisfont enamelled with such green As discolours all I’ve looked upon in valleys far apart— For the water-meads of Mottisfont lie nearest to my heart. [Pg 72]

THE SENIOR MISTRESS OF BLYTH

[“Blyth Secondary School.—The Governors of the above School invite applications for the post of Senior Mistress. Candidates must be Graduates in Honours of a British University and must be well qualified in Mathematics, Latin, and English. Ability to teach Art will be a recommendation.”—Advertisement in The Spectator.]

It is told of the painter Da Vinci, Being once unemployed for a span, At the menace of poverty’s pinch he Sought work at the Court of Milan. Having shown himself willing and able To perform on the curious lyre, He presented the Duke with a table Of the talents he proffered for hire.
“I can raze you a fortress,” it ran on, “Quell castles, drain ditches and moats, Make shapely and competent cannon, Build aqueducts, bridges and boats; In peace I can mould for your Courts a Few models in marble or clay And paint the illustrious Sforza With anyone living to-day.”
Leonardo is dead, they asseverate, He has left no successor behind, [Pg 73] For the days of the specialist never rate At its value the versatile mind. Is Lord Brougham, then, our latest example? No, Time, the old churl with his scythe, Shall spare us a notable sample In the Senior Mistress of Blyth.
She shall guide Standard Three through Progressions, Study Statics and Surds with the Fourth, She shall dwell on De Quincey’s Confessions, Donne, Caedmon and Christopher North; And no class-room shall boast of a quicker row When her classical pupils rehearse Their prose, which is modelled on Cicero, And their more than Horatian verse.
She shall lead them to love Cimabue, To distinguish with scholarship ripe ’Twixt the texture of Clausen and Clouet, And the values of Collier and Cuyp. Nay, all Blyth shall reflect her ability As its brushes acquire by her aid Or South Kensington’s pretty facility Or the terrible strength of the Slade.
Yes, her duties are diverse, and this’ll Suggest to each candidate why [Pg 74] They should read Leonardo’s epistle Before they sit down to apply; For his style is itself a credential Though truly he has not a tithe Of the qualifications essential To the Senior Mistress of Blyth. [Pg 75]

THE FIRST PARTY

Follow, my Betsey-Jane, as best you can, Clutching your Mother’s fingers in firm hold, The sable progress of the serving-man, Nor stumble on your shawl’s imperial fold; Whose ceremonious pin of jade and gold Bringeth such rosy awe into your face As the white frock, the stockings silken-soled And the white shoes (with pompons) which will grace The lightness of your feet in this illumined place.
Shawls being shed, descend the ample stair And greet our Hostess. Now you’re set to see The Conjurer, nor think to leave your chair For safer eyrie of your Mother’s knee;— Still, as his tricks are tedious to Three And strange the flounce-clad children in their tiers, Turn your shy back on wiles and wizardry To hug, for comfort’s sake, two homely bears And a prepost’rous poodle, white with knitted ears.
For tea, gramercie to a thoughtful choice And nice derangement of the chairs, your seat Faces a fair acquaintance known as Joyce;— What glances under glossy tresses greet The fellow-connoisseur of cake and sweet Till the last cracker’s pulled on the last plate. [Pg 76] Now sidle through the dancers’ tortuous feet And come at last, for the time waxes late, Where in their cloudy breath the shadowy horses wait.
Glow the two tawny lanterns on the hedge, Gleam the ungainly boughs the window blurs, And Betsey nodding on the seat’s soft edge Holds to her heart those pompon’d shoes of hers; Till in my arms, most spent of revellers, I lift her slumb’ring whom nor lifting grieves Nor sudden stay nor the cold night wind stirs, Borne up the path through fragrance of box-leaves, Up to her drowsy cot under dependent eaves. [Pg 77]

SOUVENIR OF MICHAEL DRAYTON

I

Scarce hath the crookèd scythe Duly been whetted When all the mowers blithe (By the storm letted, Crouching the shed beneath At the field’s margent) See the first fallen swathe Pelted with argent. White mist the valley blurs, White the horizon, Since the cloud skirmishers Sent their first spies on. Haste away, Waters grey, Spare of your shedding, Till we bestow our hay Safe in the steading.

II

Gild, sun, the pendent leaves Silverly dripping, Call the swifts from the eaves Screaming and dipping, Raise the green docks that be To the ground beaten, All the washed earth we see [Pg 78] Comfort and sweeten; Till at soft interval On the small flowers, Drops from the thatch-ends fall— Spent are the showers. Haste away, Waters grey, Spare of your shedding, Till we bestow our hay Safe in the steading.

III

Soon may the whisp’ring blade Bow the grey grasses, Lo, the lush edge unfrayed Where the scythe passes! All with a stately speed Shorn and soft whistle Muted on nought of weed, Burdock nor thistle.— Grace hath possessed the sky, Hope hath o’er-spanned it, Parteth he hurriedly, Storm, the black bandit. Haste away, Waters grey, Spare of your shedding, Till we bestow our hay Safe in the steading. [Pg 79]

“FOUR-PAWS”

Four-paws, the kitten from the farm, Is come to live with Betsey-Jane, Leaving the stack-yard for the warm Flower-compassed cottage in the lane, To wash his idle face and play Among chintz cushions all the day.
Under the shadow of her hair He lies, who loves him nor desists To praise his whiskers and compare The tabby bracelets on his wrists,— Omelet at lunch and milk at tea Suit Betsey-Jane and so fares he.
Happy beneath her golden hand He purrs contentedly nor hears His Mother mourning through the land, The old grey cat with tattered ears And humble tail and heavy paw Who brought him up among the straw.
Never by day she ventures nigh, But when the dusk grows dim and deep And moths flit out of the strange sky And Betsey has been long asleep— Out of the dark she comes and brings Her dark maternal offerings;— [Pg 80]
Some field-mouse or a throstle caught Near netted fruit or in the corn, Or rat, for this her darling sought In the old barn where he was born; And all lest on his dainty bed Four-paws were faint or under-fed.
Only between the twilight hours Under the window-panes she walks Shrewdly among the scented flowers Nor snaps the soft nasturtium stalks, Uttering still her plaintive cries And Four-paws, from the house, replies,
Leaps from his cushion to the floor, Down the brick passage scantly lit, Waits wailing at the outer door Till one arise and open it— Then from the swinging lantern’s light Runs to his Mother in the night. [Pg 81]

“FOUR-PAWS” IN LONDON

Four-paws, we know the sun is white At dawn in Hampshire when the night Deserts those frozen miles, When robin creaks from wintry bush And early milk-boy’s breeches brush The hoar-frost from the stiles;
Yet shall you never hear him more Insistent at our cottage door Nor of his spoils partake, Alas, poor puss who stir and yawn Uneasy in the London dawn And, in a flat, awake.
Four-paws, forgive us! When apprised Of our departure you devised, No doubt, some darling plan Of exodus that should surpass His who removed last Michaelmas— Your friend the dairy-man:—
A mightier waggon on the road You pictured and so vast a load That all should turn and look,— Betsey precarious on the shaft, Master and Mistress fore and aft, The carter and the cook, [Pg 82]
Nurse, with her knitting, in mid-air, Carpets in bales, your favourite chair And (the progressive path With added glory to invest) Our Four-paws couchant on the crest Of an inverted bath.
Alas, what difference disgraced Our flight! An obscure van replaced The customary wain; And you, with many a mournful cry, Fettered by Betsey in the fly And hampered in the train.
And now you’re here. Well, it may be The sun does rise in Battersea Although to-day be dark, Life is not shorn of loves and hates While there are sparrows on the slates And keepers in the Park:
And you yourself will come to learn The ways of London and in turn Assume your cockney cares, Like other folk who live in flats, Chasing your purely abstract rats Upon the concrete stairs. [Pg 83]

TO MY SISTER DOROTHY,
A PASTE BROOCH

Time, cunning smith, hath set you in my heart Like stones in silver none may wrest apart; Not counterfeit as these our loves shall stay When sullen-footed Time hath paced away. [Pg 84]

SESTINA
TO D. E.

I  saw myself encircled in the grey Of your grey eyes, Dear Love, as in a glass; In place of lurking glooms I come their way As idle ghosts through magic mirrors pass Or shifty clouds bewilder a spring day Or windy shadows dusk the summer grass.
And as swift sickles lop the hedge-row grass, As ghosts scent out the dawn with faces grey And flee before the stirring feet of day, As magic shivers in a splintered glass, So all the shaken pictures of me pass Even with the moving of your head away.
Yet would your head be ever turned my way, Only our peace is fugitive as grass:— Beyond the clapping lintels footsteps pass, Shake the snared joy from quiet’s cobweb grey— O who drinks silence from a jolted glass, Who deals in stillness on a market-day?
Our joys go begging for a gentle day, They are swayed as weed-stems in a water-way, Hurt as blind lips that drain a broken glass, Blown down by breath as petals flung on grass, Thinned as gold hair dull sorrow braids with grey, Lopped short as willow-tufts where cattle pass. [Pg 85]
This noisy horde of minutes never pass, This patchwork crew;—they throng us day by day, Hint of silk linings to their cloaks of grey, Cleave out strong-elbowed their ungentle way, Bruise the poor joy as legions tread the grass, Or as wet fingers rub a moaning glass.
There is no day ringed round with seas of glass, No island day, where like-faced minutes pass Fingered on gathered mouth through breathless grass With close-girt garment lest the bloom of day Be brushed or pollen spilt along their way,— Or lest my face be shook from your eyes’ grey.
O dear grey eyes, though ruder minutes pass And dusk the glass, your heart is turned my way Wherein all day my face springs up like grass. [Pg 86]

LULLABY FOR A LITTLE GIRL

Now candle-flames disperse the rout Of shadows and their giant wars; And though the roof of night without Be spanned with dusk and set with stars, ’Tis lullaby, The elm-tops cry, And lullaby, the leaves that pass In stealth across the window-glass.
The comb shall sleek your drooping head And through the darling tangles go And all your night attire is spread Before the fire to face the glow, And lullaby, The cinders sigh, For ev’ry rosy palace gone, Fall’n in their dwarfish Ilion.
Now rest, your prayers said aright And timely supped your milky bowl, Your little body all as white And sweet as your unsoilèd soul; And lullaby, Her melody, Who from the quilted bedside goes, A-tiptoe, when your eye-lids close. [Pg 87]

RONDEAU OF SARUM CLOSE

In Sarum Close, when she had said her say, He stood bare-headed where dim vapours lay Heavy on vacant lawn, athwart the stone Of that great pile that stands unsought, alone,— Himself as still and derelict as they. Here, when morn’s gleaming hand had rolled away From the green plot of this their week-old play Her misty curtain, each to each was shown, In Sarum Close.
Void the discoloured fane before him lay, Void the dark-sodded precincts,—far away One closed a window, night’s appeal had grown Perchance too urgent, even as his own Had seemed to her whose friendship did with day In Sarum close. [Pg 88]

THE KNOBBY-GREEN

O  thou who ’neath the umbrageous trees That line the Avenue Louise Did’st spread in Belgian sun and breeze Thy buds about, I come to weep thy destinies My Brussels Sprout:
Who, on this drear December day, Rearest above mine Essex clay Thy wand of buds as green as they Who spend their Yule Hearing remoter church-bells play In St. Gudule.
Hail, noble alien, I see Thou bear’st in exile and for me A neat-curl’d row of progeny, (Not all unlike Some purse-proud donor’s family, By John van Eyck)
For me unmindful of thy place (Comrade of carpets and of lace) Who class thee with the vulgar race Of Beet and Bean, And call thee—to thy very face— The Knobby-green. [Pg 89]

THE CARCANET

The world’s a quarry for whose spoils Love, the untiring miner, toils Early and late, such stones to get As may be cut devised and set Into his mistress’ carcanet.
Alack that love can never choose But bring thee pebbles of no use:— Glance at the gift and thou shalt see Each facet in his treasury Of stones doth but diminish thee. [Pg 90]

TO A TOWN CRIER

“Whiffin, proclaim silence!”—Pickwick

Whiffin, with all thy faults, I love thee still, Thee and thine ancient office and the sweet Metallic peal that quelled the popular heat When party strife ran high in Eatanswill; Who now with quavering eloquence would’st fill, And tidings of a pilfered purse, the street Maddened with motors and the armoured fleet Of base mechanical engines out to kill. Go, thou sole arbiter of Buff and Blue, Time hath prevailed against thee, yield the floor, Toll, on bare sufferance, from door to door, The hooters hold the highway;—as for you, You voice the missing ha’pence of the poor, And they the incomes of the well-to-do. [Pg 91]

THE TALE OF JOCKO
A STORY FOR A CHILD

I

An old white Jocko, kindly and urbane, Lived with a little girl called Betsey-Jane, He was her oldest friend, thin was his hair, One arm he lacked, but Jocko did not care, No more did Betsey-Jane;—his eyes were gone, His figure flat, but all his teeth were on, Stitched to his mouth, a row of beady pearls More white than those of many little girls. All day to please he did his docile best And only squeaked when Betsey punched his chest; When bed-time came and Nurse tucked Betsey in, Warm in her cot he slept beneath her chin.

II

Now Betsey-Jane was rather more than two And just about as good as I and you;— She’d learnt to talk, but not learnt when to stop, Her yellow hair swung round her in a mop, Round was her face, her eyes were opened wide And only blinked in sleep or when she cried; White frocks she had and blue her pinafore With scarlet stitching at the neck, and more Delights she had than many girls and boys,— Father and Mother, Nurse and many toys To comfort her, but, more than all the rest, There is no doubt she loved her Jocko best. [Pg 92]

III

Yet Jocko’s life was not a life of ease,— We think to do entirely as we please, Age teaches otherwise. One evil day A cat approached the cushion where he lay And tore away his inoffensive hair And left him with his leathern skin laid bare, Silent upon the rug. His Betsey-Jane Found him with tears and kissed him well again; But she herself, forgetful of her grief, Laughed when they dressed him in a handkerchief Just like a doll, but Jocko did not mind, He still forgave her for his heart was kind.

IV

Thus did our Jocko play, for Betsey’s sake, The Grand Domestic Game of Give and Take, Until her rudeness to her friend was such As makes men say “This is a straw too much.” One day he sat, as docile as a lamb, By Betsey-Jane who, upright in her pram, Refused to sleep and went from bad to worse, Kicked off her rug and disobeyed her nurse; And though her Jocko did not speak his mind And only stared to see her so unkind, In Endless Street, some yards from their abode, She picked him up and flung him in the road. [Pg 93]

V

On sped the pram nor did the nurse’s pace Leave time to miss our hero from his place. Flat by the curb lay Jocko, still and pale, Till a rude sparrow plucked him by the tail And up he sat;—the sparrow hopped around And eyed him seated sadly on the ground, Propped up against the parapet and grey With grime and dust that in the gutter lay. Then Jocko spoke, he smoothed his sullied fur With one long trembling paw, and thought of her And said, all torn betwixt his love and pain,— “I will go back no more to Betsey-Jane.”

VI

“I will arise and go beyond the din Of towns to where the endless woods begin, There among tangled oaks and lowly ways Of undergrowth to end my dreary days; I will seek acorns, beech-nuts, hips and haws And pluck them down with my prehensile paws; While the grey rabbits, never shy with me, From holes around my sandy-rooted tree Come out to nibble in the gentle rain,— A calmer life than that with Betsey-Jane. Long is the way, but I will make a start, A carrier shall take me in his cart.” [Pg 94]

VII

This said, he rose, and sought with feeble pace, For he was stiff and sore, the Market Place; Where, without horses and their shafts turned down, Are ranged the carts that come into the town; Until at dusk, all loaded up, they’re gone. He found the cart that went to Clarendon. Beneath it lay a yellow dog who shook His brazen collar, but his churlish look Passed off when Jocko hailed the man inside Who, loading parcels and not looking, cried,— “We start in Butcher Row, sir, from the Bear. At four o’clock.” Said Jocko “I’ll be there.”

VIII

All was arranged, and he could do no more But pass the time until the clock struck four. He wandered up the Market; far and wide The burly drovers elbowed him aside, The sheep regarded him with mild surprise Behind their hurdles, and the hairy eyes Of families of little porkers stared And cart-horses with braided tresses glared And stamped upon the cobbles. From their shed The calves looked bluntly round and many a head Of penned-up fowls peered through a wiry door,— “Jocko!” they cackled, “we will meet once more!” [Pg 95]

IX

Out of the Market Place an alley led To Poultry Cross and old white Jocko sped Beneath its shelter and surveyed the stalls Which here sell hobby horse, tops and balls, And tins for little cakes. One stall was full Of button-cards and reels and hanks of wool, Another sold you sage and pansy roots, And this, red carpet-slippers, hob-nailed boots And clogs, and hanging on a string by twos A row of little russet leather shoes; Tears filled his eyes, he turned to look again,— “Those shoes,” said he, “are just like Betsey-Jane.”

X

While thus he spake two farmers sauntered past And turned to stare at Jocko, said the last,— “I saw that monkey next a Spanish hen, The little beast has wandered from his pen!” Jocko is captured by the portly pair, They lead him, passive, to the Market Square; Once more the hens their throats exultant crane,— “Jocko!” they cackle; “Here he is again!” The farmers stuff our hero, sad and sore, Into a vacant pen and slam the door:— Through the grim wires the searching breezes moan And Jocko sits there shivering alone. [Pg 96]

XI

The time lagged on; some children through his door Prodded his fur with sticks, the clock struck four. Now is the time, but Jocko does not care, When carriers are starting from the Bear; Fast in his pen, and all his anger gone, No longer would he live at Clarendon. Home was his one desire. “At six,” he said, “My Betsey-Jane is kissed, and goes to bed, Her bath-tub by the nursery fire will be, She will come in and look around for me And sob all night beneath her counterpane For her lost Jocko—little Betsey-Jane!”

XII

While Jocko thus lamented, through the crowd There came a little girl who sobbed aloud And clutched her Mother’s hand; ’twas Betsey-Jane, Who all the afternoon had sought in vain Her Jocko cast away in Endless Street; Tired are her little gaitered legs, her feet So weary, each new thought of Jocko brings New tears to wet her woollen bonnet strings And drip from each blue tassel to the ground. She would not look on all the beasts around, But Jocko saw her coat, and “Betsey-Jane,” He cried, “Do come and take me home again!” [Pg 97]

XIII

Alas, they did not hear, his voice was low, With chill and hunger, Mother turned to go; But Betsey-Jane looked sadly back and then Beheld him upright in his distant pen. She dropped her Mother’s hand and with a shout Of “Jocko, Jocko!” ran to get him out;— Two shame-faced men undid at her commands His cage and Mother put him in her hands, She clasped him closely, not a word was said, And laid her tearful cheek against his head.

XIV

So back to Endless Street and once again Our Jocko slumbers close to Betsey-Jane, Clutched in her little fingers’ rosy snare, Among the sleepy tangles of her hair, Seen dimly through her cot’s surrounding rail. And here are morals tied to Jocko’s Tale:— “Though hurt your feelings never try to roam For there are many places worse than home.” And yet another,—“Never slight or spurn A good old friend, they say a worm will turn; And such-like stories end in deeper pain Than that of Jocko and his Betsey-Jane.” [Pg 98]

THE WAG-TAIL

By brook and bent, Alert and diligent, All day my merry wag-tail went,
Soberly clad She seemed, in feathers sad Which yet a fair white braiding had;
Nor did she fail With jerking beak and tail Quite to dislodge th’ incurious snail,
And thence away To the pollard where all day Her brown big-footed babies lay.
—I do desire No better, nor look higher, Pied wag-tail, than thy plain attire;
Nor would I roam Afar, but kindly come Back to th’ acclaiming mouths at home. [Pg 99]
Like thee to run About my works begun And pluck delights from ev’ry one.
Where (might I do’t) Living, my only suit, And dead, my dearest attribute. [Pg 100]

HIGH TIDE AT BATTERSEA

So now my Thames is fairly on the turn And plain it is the sum of water seeks That ocean which the flood so late did spurn With long reluctance in the little creeks; Now the great barges tethered to their buoys (Their gulls still seated in deliberate loads) Swing round majestical and, with no noise, Face the hid sea beyond these sullen roads. Even so my soul which did so long abide With thoughts so fledged and meditative freighted Hath veered about and answered to the tide, Glad, and her faithless station abdicated;— Lord, ere this lovely ebb shall set for me, Slip thou my chain and lure me out to sea. [Pg 101]

TO MY DAUGHTER
WHO TELLS ME SHE CAN DRESS HERSELF

So, dear, have you and Nurse conspired In secret, and all eyes evaded, Till you can boast yourself attired Unwatched, uncounselled and unaided?
Perfect in button, tape and hook, You’ve learned the knack, you come to tell us, And while you turn that we may look I own I am a little jealous
That she has taught you with success How to assume your frock and shed it, That you have learnt the art to dress And Abigail’s is all the credit.
Yet my devotion has its will, Nor can I lightly yield to Nurse all The praise, for I have prompted still A spiritual dress rehearsal;
On your soft hair a helmet placed, Fastened your breastplate like a bib on, And tied the Truth about your waist Where she is proud to tie your ribbon. [Pg 102]
Each has her task, decorous, sweet, Fair, to surpass your friends, she made you, While for your hidden foes’ defeat I in your Pauline arms arrayed you.
For, though you tire of sash and gown And fold them up for good, there’s no day When these, that I have made your own, Shall be a burden or démodés.
Yet, though the clasps endure, I know I’ll wish our handiwork were neater When at celestial gates you show The well-worn harness to St. Peter. [Pg 103]

THE BABY GOAT

Four alders guard a bridge of planks And waveless waters filmed with brown, A rugged lawn’s uneven banks Slope gently down, And there, still chafing at the chain That girds his slim pathetic throat, They’ve picketed our friend again— The Baby Goat.
Treading alone the watered vale, Betsey and I, beside the marsh Often we linger to bewail His durance harsh; What plaints allure my baby’s feet, What tethered struggles claim her sighs, What shrill protestant whinnies greet Her long good-byes.
Once we repassed the lonely ground Below the alders where he feeds And spied his stunted horns girt round With flow’ring weeds, Two merry wenches and a child Caressed his grey ill-fitting coat And, lolling in the sedge, beguiled The Baby Goat. [Pg 104]
Now, for long days companionless, His soft blunt nose, his agate eyes, His raised remonstrant brows express The sad surprise Wherewith the desolate green waste O’erloads his heart who at the edge Of stagnant waters kneels to taste The thankless sedge.
His Mother is his chiefest lack Who in some heathy upland place Tidied his sturdy socks of black And licked his face; He turns to see us saunter by The level highway hand-in-hand— I think the Baby Goat knows why We understand. [Pg 105]

BOURNEMOUTH TO POOLE

I BOURNEMOUTH

Quite given o’er to shameful destinies Yet may I muse what graces once were thine Whose little brooks descend the tawny chine So silver-silent on their gold degrees; Whose smiles, like hers of Cyprus, from the seas Have drawn the tremulous mirth wherewith they shine Under the coif of heaven that doth confine Thy tender headlands and their tress of trees. Poor beauty, with thy dowry of bright sand, Poured out in softness, to chance comers shown, So fallen;—doth it much import what hand Cast the rude lot that shred thy purple gown, Or, on this lovely and reluctant land, Who stamped this monstrous image of a town?

II POOLE HARBOUR

O  valiant reach of land that doth include The striving sea in such a large embrace! O valiant homes that overlook the face Of water by a hundred keels subdued! Poole, thou art map of thine own fortitude, [Pg 106] And, in thy building, eloquent of a race That singed the beard of Spain and for a lace Fought on this quay the Georgian excise-brood. Old, and thy harbour skies more scantly sparred, Thy constant stones survey the fickle flow Of Tide and Time; and on thy casements barred Burns Memory like a crimson afterglow, Bright as the blood-red hollyhocks that blow Through the grey timber in this silent yard. [Pg 107]

THE JAPANESE DUCKLING

The shop-girl in my fingers laid The Yellow Duckling, Mother paid A silver coin to set him free And so he came to live with me.
I kissed his baby feathers sweet, His callow bill and parchment feet; And so his love for me began— My Yellow Duckling from Japan.
And he forgot his native nest, Forgot the way his plumy breast Parted the waters as they ran Amid strange weeds in far Japan.
And he forgot the yellow child Whose narrow eye-lids on him smiled:— I kissed him, and he settled down To live with me in London town. [Pg 108]

THE PRIVET HEDGE

The common pavement dull and grey Is strewn with leafy wands to-day, And sceptres green to the curb’s edge— For they have cut the privet hedge.
My Baby gathers, bending down, The branches swept by Mother’s gown And carries home into the house Those magical and royal boughs.
But O the milky blossoms sweet That scented all the sunny street— Crushed by the Baby’s sandalled tread They lie behind her, brown and dead. [Pg 109]

THE VEGETARIAN’S DAUGHTER

She ate her oat-cake by the fire, Her bath was done and dried her hair, Her nightgown was her sole attire, Her towel steamed across a chair.
And as the oat-cake contour grew Eroded as a tide-worn cape, She named the jagged residue After the beast most like its shape.
“This is a pig, a growly bear, A baa-sheep” (and she bit him)—thus Her speech flowed on, to my despair Incredibly carnivorous.
At last, all wreathed in drowsy smiles, She munched the final gee-gee’s head— “Ah, Betsey, what would Eustace Miles, And what would Bernard Shaw have said?” [Pg 110]

HONEY MEADOW

Here, Betsey, where the sainfoin blows, Pink and the grass more thickly grows, Where small brown bees are winging To clamber up the stooping flowers, We’ll share the sweet and sunny hours Made murmurous with their singing.
Dear, it requires no small address In such a billowy floweriness For you, so young, to sally: Yet would you still out-stay the sun And linger when his light was done Along the haunted valley.
O small brown fingers, clutched to seize The biggest blooms, don’t spill the bees; Imagine what contempt he Would meet who ventured to arrive Home, of an evening, at the hive, With both his pockets empty!
Moreover, if you steal their share, The bees become too poor to spare Their sweets nor part with any Honey at tea-time; so for you What were for them a cell too few Would be a sell too many! [Pg 111]
Or, what were worse for you and me, They might admire the industry So thoughtlessly paraded, And, tired of their brown queen, maintain That no one needed Betsey-Jane As urgently as they did.
So should you taste in some far clime The plunder of eternal thyme And you would quite forget us, Our cottage and these English trees, When you were Queen of Honey Bees At Hybla or Hymettus. [Pg 112]

AN ELEGY, FOR FATHER ANSELM, OF THE
ORDER OF REFORMED CISTERCIANS,
GUEST-MASTER AND PARISH PRIEST

“Et pastores erant in regione eadem vigilantes”

You to whose soul a death propitious brings Its Heaven, who attain a windless bourne Of sanctity beyond all sufferings, It is not ours to mourn;
For you, to whom the earth could nothing give, Who knew no hint of our inspirèd pride, You could not very well be said to live Until the day you died.
’Tis upon us—father and kindly friend, Holy and cheerful host—the unbidden guests You welcomed and the souls you would amend, The weight of sorrow rests.
From Sarum in the mesh of her five streams, Her idle belfries and her glittering vanes, We are clomb to where the cloud-race dusks and gleams On turf of upland plains.
Southward the road through juniper and briar Clambers the down, untrodden and unworn [Pg 113] Save where some flock pitted the chalky mire With little feet at dawn.
Twice in a week the hooded carrier’s lamp, Flashing on wayside flints and grasses, spills Its misty radiance where the dews lie damp Among the untended hills;
Here lies the hamlet ringed with grassy mound And brambled barrow where, superbly dead, The dust of pagans turned to holy ground Beneath your humble tread.
Here we descend at drooping dusk the side Of the stony down beneath the planted ring Of beeches where you showed with pastoral pride The folded lambs in spring;
Here pull at eve the self-same bell that hastened Your rough-shod feet behind the hollow door— Yet never see you stand, the chain unfastened, Your lantern on the floor.
Others will spread the board now you are gone Here where you smiled and gave your guests to eat, Learning your menial kingliness from One Who washed His servants’ feet; [Pg 114]
Along the slumbering corridor betimes Others will knock and other footsteps pass Down the wet lane e’er the thin shivering chimes Toll for the early mass.
Yet in the chapel’s self no sorrows sing In the strange priest’s voice, nor any dolour grips The heart because it is not you who bring Your Master to its lips.
Here let us leave the things you would not have— Vain grief and sorrow useless to be shown— “God’s gift and the Community’s I gave And nothing of my own,”
You would have said, self-deemed of no more worth Than the green hands that guard a poppy’s grace,— Blows the eternal flower and back to earth Tumbles the withered case.
Nay, but Our Lord hath made renouncement vain, Himself into those humble hands let fall, Guerdon of willing poverty and pain, The greatest gift of all;
To you and all who in that life austere Mid fields remote your harsher labours ply Singing His praise, girt round from year to year With sheep-bells and the sky— [Pg 115]
This, that to you is larger audience given Where prayer and praise with sighing pinions shod Piercing the starry ante-rooms of Heaven Sway the designs of God:
And now yourself, standing where late hath stood The echo of your voice, are prayer and praise— O sweet reward and unsurpassing good For that small gift of days.
Yourself, who now have heard such summoning And seen such burning clarities alight As broke the vigilant shepherds’ drowsy ring On the predestined night,
Who made such haste as theirs who rose and trod To Bethlehem the dew-encumbered grass, Trustful to see the showing forth of God And the Word come to pass;
With how much more than home-spun Israelites’ Poor hungry glimpse of Godhead are you blest Whom Mary shows for more than mortal nights The Jewel on her breast.
Yet, as one kneeling churl might chance to think Of the wan herd behind their wattled bars, Moving unshepherded with bells that clink And stir beneath the stars, [Pg 116]
And, for the thought’s space wishing he were back, Pray to that Sum of Sweetness for his sheep— “Take them, O Thou that dost supply our lack, Into Thy hands to keep,”
So you who in His presence move and live Recall amid your glad celestial cares Your chosen office, to your children give The charity of prayers. [Pg 117]

THE REGRET

The mallow blooms in late July Along the dusty track To Romsey where the waters run And Norman stones confront the sun— Ah, Dear, that all our work were done And we were getting back!
The whinchat in the willow runs From silver stair to stair, Cocks his white eyebrow, tunes his throat And plans his little creaking note To please the leaves that past him float— Ah, Dear, that we were there!
Now all the world is carrying hay And all the world is wise, And O to trudge it once again There in the wake of a green wain That over-tops the rustling lane Beneath familiar skies! [Pg 118]

FIRST SNOW

Now Hertha hath, without a doubt, Got all her winter peltry out; And, for the weeds dispersèd show Dark through that field of fallen snow, We may felicitate in her The happy choice of minever.
The well beside the rusty shed Hath screened his pent-house lapt in lead In candour of Carthusian cowl, (Soft as the plumage of white owl), Whose pail, for all the long night’s drouth, Hath foam about his sable mouth.
How dark my cottage window eyes Her wonted landscape’s white disguise— Ho, Sulky-face, thine own brick ledge Beareth such burden as the hedge, And thatch, for all the warmth within, Is bearded like a Capuchin! [Pg 119]

TO A CHILD RETURNING HOME
UPON A WINDY DAY

Prythee what mad contentments canst thou find, Rosy-cheeked Betsey, in this blust’rous wind Loved of thy Babyhood? Without the door His leaves as running footmen go before Thy lagging feet who with compliant grace Smilest, his kisses mantling on thy face.
Go back and bid him use while yet he may His favour brief and pre-determined day; Bear with his wooing, nor forbid him now Lift the light hair from thine untroubled brow, Whom thou shalt dub a churl, when thou art grown A woman, but for ruffling of thy gown. [Pg 120]

THE DEATH OF SIR MATHO

[“Nam quis iniquæ Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus ut teneat se Causidici nova cum veniat lectica Mathonis Plena ipso.”—Juvenal, I. 30.]
When Sir Matho lay a-dying and his feet were growing cold, For the fire was out and left the place in gloom, And he could not see the night-light on his cornices of gold And the nurses that were hired for him some grisly gossip told As they lingered in the little dressing-room, There was none to light him candles or to kneel by him and pray And the youth that fed the fire-dogs had packed up and gone away— For where’s the sense of waiting on a man whose days are done? And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run.
As Sir Matho lay a-shivering, for Death crept on apace, Came an agèd woman in the flickering light; Like the women of the village, but he didn’t know her face, [Pg 121] For his 50-h.p. Panhard used to go at such a pace That he never knew his cottagers by sight. He saw her twist her apron in her ugly withered hands As the poor did who awaited, while he lived, his high commands And Sir Matho blinked upon her like an old dog in the sun. And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run.
Then Sir Matho saw she looked on him and waited his desire And he conjured the poor mis-shapen witch To bring some logs of cedar and of oak to light his fire, For he counted on the pity that is never had for hire And is all the poor possess to give the rich. But she wrung her hands and cried to him, “Ah, Sir, I’ve done the oil Wherewith upon a little stove my mess of greens I boil; And coal is dear, and very dear, and fuel have we none.” And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run. [Pg 122]
She knelt her at his couch’s foot, he saw her sorrow rise, Her tears bestarred his fair embroidered sheet, She pierced his silken coverlid with pity of her eyes, Her tenderness descended, like the dews of Paradise Or grace of shining chrism, upon his feet— The feet that trod the russet woods and broke the bracken curls; And crushed the purple whinberries, that grow for little girls, When the silly foreign feathers fell a-screaming to his gun. And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run.
And her tears recalled Sir Matho to a Woman ’neath a Tree, ’Twas an old pietà in his hall below (Bought to pass the time at Christie’s for a song) wherein you see How a Mother holds the Body of her Son upon her knee, But her eyes are red for them that dealt the blow. “This woman has forgiven me, and You forgive,” he cried. [Pg 123] “So He may still be merciful.” With that Sir Matho died. But Satan ceased to blow the fire that he had well begun. And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run. [Pg 124]

THE PETALS

Yourself in bed (My lovely Drowsy-head) Your garments lie like petals shed
Upon the floor Whose carpet is strewn o’er With little things that late you wore.
For the morrow’s wear I fold them neat and fair And lay them on the nursery chair;
And round them lie Airs of the hours that die With all their stored-up fragrancy.
As a flower might Give out to the cool night The warmth it drank in day-long light
So wool and lawn From your soft skin withdrawn (Whereon they were assumed at dawn)
Breathe the spent mood, Lost act and attitude, Of the small sweetness they endued. [Pg 125]
Ere all turn cold No garment that I hold But shakes a vision from its fold
Of little feet That vainly would be fleet, Tangled about with meadow-sweet,
And of bent knees When Betsey kneeling sees, In the parched hedge-row, strawberries.
Such things I see Folding your clothes, which be Weeds of the dead day’s comedy.
The while I pray Your part may be alway So simple and so good to play,
And do desire Your life may still respire Such sweetness as your cast attire. [Pg 126]

POST-COMMUNION

Lord, when to Thine embrace I run Gathered like waters to the Sun, Shape me to such celestial mirth As may go back and glad the earth. Let Thy rays compass me, and crowd Into the semblance of a cloud Mine idle and dispersèd powers; That I, the casket of Thy showers, May, for my closeness, coloured be (Howe’er so faintly) like to Thee,
And when Thou loosest me to go Diffused into Thy world below, May I, till drip of words shall cease, Sing of Refreshment, Light and Peace; And, poured into the Time’s abyss, Revive one blossom for Thy bliss.

[Pg 127]

INDEX TO FIRST LINES

  PAGE
The brook along the Romsey road  3
A portly Wood-louse, full of cares  5
When the wind blows without the garden walls  7
How late in the wet twilight doth that bird  8
Of Sorrow, ’tis as Saints have said  9
Within our garden walls you see 10
The fuchsias dangle on their stem 11
My night-dress hangs on fire-guard rail 12
While I stand upon the pavement and I dress the dusty stall 13
When by the fire-light Dulcibel 15
Whom meet we, Betsey, in the wood? 16
How few alack 17
’Tis the old wife at Rickling, she 19
Pull out my couch across the fire 21
When the Wind comes up the lane 22
What dusky branches fret the yellow sky 23
Three candles had her cake 25
The Baby slumbers through the night 26
With a full house of other folks 27
He who a mangold-patch doth hoe 30
Throw up the cinders, let the night wear through 31 [Pg 128]
When elm-buds turn from red to green 32
Vainly, my Betsey, to the weeping day 34
O the trucks that leave Southampton bring a smell of twine and tar 36
When the young Spring in Betsey’s fingers sets 38
Permit, Dear Sir, that the judicious grieve 39
’Twas bought in Bruges, the shop was poor 41
The sun sank, and the wind uprist whose note 43
My Betsey-Jane it would not do 45
In Bethlehem Town by lantern light 46
Playthings my Betsey hath, the snail’s cast shell 48
I am not lightly moved, my grief was dumb 49
You taught me ways of gracefulness and fashions of address 51
You that have fenced about my storm-swept ways 52
Pardon, Dear Sir, if with intrusive pen 53
When I was small, great joy it was to see 56
We came on Christmas Day 57
On the high frosty fields afoot at dawn 59
Now night hath fallen on the little town 60
Dear, the delightful world I see 61
So ’tis your will to have a cell 63
My Sorrow diligent would sweep 65
Here lies A. B. who, four years from her birth 67
On the painted bridge at Mottisfont above the Test I’ve stood 70 [Pg 129]
It is told of the painter Da Vinci 72
Follow, my Betsey-Jane, as best you can 75
Scarce hath the crookèd scythe 77
Four-paws, the kitten from the farm 79
Four-paws, we know the sun is white 81
Time, cunning smith, hath set you in my heart 83
I saw myself encircled in the grey 84
Now candle-flames disperse the rout 86
In Sarum Close, when she had said her say 87
O thou who ’neath the umbrageous trees 88
The world’s a quarry for whose spoils 89
Whiffin, with all thy faults, I love thee still 90
An old white Jocko, kindly and urbane 91
By brook and bent 98
So now my Thames is fairly on the turn 100
So, dear, have you and Nurse conspired 101
Four alders guard a bridge of planks 103
Quite given o’er to shameful destinies 105
O valiant reach of land that doth include 105
The shop-girl in my fingers laid 107
The common pavement dull and grey 108
She ate her oat-cake by the fire 109
Here, Betsey, where the sainfoin blows 110
You to whose soul a death propitious brings 112 [Pg 130]
The mallow blooms in late July 117
Now Hertha hath, without a doubt 118
Prythee what mad contentments canst thou find 119
When Sir Matho lay a-dying and his feet were growing cold 120
Yourself in bed 124
Lord, when to Thine embrace I run 126

SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS

“A poem by Mrs. Helen Parry Eden, ‘A Suburban Night’s Entertainment,’ is in itself good enough to sustain the Englishwoman’s reputation as a judge of verse.”

“A delightful fable.”

“The most sensational feature of this number.”

The Westminster Gazette.

“A very pretty and finished piece of descriptive verse.”

The Queen.

“A little masterpiece.”

“Jacob Tonson” in The New Age.

 

 

 

 

Transcriber’s Notes:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Typographical errors have been silently corrected.