Andromeda, and Other Poems

ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN JOURNAL ⁴

 
So die, thou child of stormy dawn,
Thou winter flower, forlorn of nurse;
Chilled early by the bigot’s curse,
The pedant’s frown, the worldling’s yawn.
 
 
Fair death, to fall in teeming June,
When every seed which drops to earth
Takes root, and wins a second birth
From steaming shower and gleaming moon.
 
 
Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain;
Thou rain of God, make fat the land;
That roots which parch in burning sand
May bud to flower and fruit again.
 
 
To grace, perchance, a fairer morn
In mightier lands beyond the sea,
While honour falls to such as we
From hearts of heroes yet unborn,
 
 
Who in the light of fuller day,
Of purer science, holier laws,
Bless us, faint heralds of their cause,
Dim beacons of their glorious way.
 
 
Failure?  While tide-floods rise and boil
Round cape and isle, in port and cove,
Resistless, star-led from above:
What though our tiny wave recoil?
 

Eversley, 1852.

DOWN TO THE MOTHERS

 
Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral;
Mourn not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father,
Weeping with fast and scourge, when the bridegroom was taken from them.
Drop back awhile through the years, to the warm rich youth of the nations,
Childlike in virtue and faith, though childlike in passion and pleasure,
Childlike still, and still near to their God, while the day-spring of Eden
Lingered in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian mountains.
Down to the mothers, as Faust went, I go, to the roots of our manhood,
Mothers of us in our cradles; of us once more in our glory.
New-born, body and soul, in the great pure world which shall be
In the renewing of all things, when man shall return to his Eden
Conquering evil, and death, and shame, and the slander of conscience—
Free in the sunshine of Godhead—and fearlessly smile on his Father.
Down to the mothers I go—yet with thee still!—be with me, thou purest!
Lead me, thy hand in my hand; and the dayspring of God go before us.
 

Eversley, 1852.

TO MISS MITFORD: AUTHORESS OF ‘OUR VILLAGE’

 
The single eye, the daughter of the light;
Well pleased to recognise in lowliest shade
Some glimmer of its parent beam, and made
By daily draughts of brightness, inly bright.
The taste severe, yet graceful, trained aright
In classic depth and clearness, and repaid
By thanks and honour from the wise and staid—
By pleasant skill to blame, and yet delight,
And high communion with the eloquent throng
Of those who purified our speech and song—
All these are yours.  The same examples lure,
You in each woodland, me on breezy moor—
With kindred aim the same sweet path along,
To knit in loving knowledge rich and poor.
 

Eversley, 1853.

BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN’S DAUGHTER

 
   It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,
      She looked across the sea;
   She looked across the water;
      And long and loud laughed she:
   ‘The locks of six princesses
      Must be my marriage fee,
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
      Who comes a wooing me?’
 
 
   It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,
      She walked along the sand;
   When she was aware of a knight so fair,
      Came sailing to the land.
   His sails were all of velvet,
      His mast of beaten gold,
And ‘Hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
      Who saileth here so bold?’
 
 
   ‘The locks of five princesses
      I won beyond the sea;
   I clipt their golden tresses,
      To fringe a cloak for thee.
   One handful yet is wanting,
      But one of all the tale;
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
      Furl up thy velvet sail!’
 
 
   He leapt into the water,
      That rover young and bold;
   He gript Earl Haldan’s daughter,
      He clipt her locks of gold:
   ‘Go weep, go weep, proud maiden,
      The tale is full to-day.
Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
      Sail Westward ho! away!’
 

Devonshire, 1854

From Westward Ho!

FRANK LEIGH’S SONG.  A.D. 1586

 
Ah tyrant Love, Megæra’s serpents bearing,
   Why thus requite my sighs with venom’d smart?
Ah ruthless dove, the vulture’s talons wearing,
   Why flesh them, traitress, in this faithful heart?
Is this my meed?  Must dragons’ teeth alone
In Venus’ lawns by lovers’ hands be sown?
 
 
Nay, gentlest Cupid; ’twas my pride undid me;
   Nay, guiltless dove; by mine own wound I fell.
To worship, not to wed, Celestials bid me:
   I dreamt to mate in heaven, and wake in hell;
For ever doom’d, Ixion-like, to reel
On mine own passions’ ever-burning wheel.
 

Devonshire, 1854.

From Westward Ho!

ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND

 
Welcome, wild North-easter.
   Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr;
   Ne’er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black North-easter!
   O’er the German foam;
O’er the Danish moorlands,
   From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,
   Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
   Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
   Through the lazy day:
Jovial wind of winter
   Turns us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds;
   Crisp the lazy dyke;
Hunger into madness
   Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild-fowl;
   Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
   Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest
   Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snow-flakes
   Off the curdled sky.
Hark!  The brave North-easter!
   Breast-high lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
   Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
   Through the sleet and snow.
Who can over-ride you?
   Let the horses go!
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
   Down the roaring blast;
You shall see a fox die
   Ere an hour be past.
Go! and rest to-morrow,
   Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
   O’er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious South-wind
   Breathe in lovers’ sighs,
While the lazy gallants
   Bask in ladies’ eyes.
What does he but soften
   Heart alike and pen?
’Tis the hard gray weather
   Breeds hard English men.
What’s the soft South-wester?
   ’Tis the ladies’ breeze,
Bringing home their true-loves
   Out of all the seas:
But the black North-easter,
   Through the snowstorm hurled,
Drives our English hearts of oak
   Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
   Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
   Lords by land and sea.
Come; and strong within us
   Stir the Vikings’ blood;
Bracing brain and sinew;
   Blow, thou wind of God!
 

1854.

A FAREWELL: TO C. E. G

 
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
   No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;
Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I’ll leave you,
      For every day.
 
 
I’ll tell you how to sing a clearer carol
   Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down
To earn yourself a purer poet’s laurel
      Than Shakespeare’s crown.
 
 
Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
   Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever,
      One grand sweet song.
 

February 1, 1856.

TO G. A. G

 
A hasty jest I once let fall—
   As jests are wont to be, untrue—
   As if the sum of joy to you
Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball.
 
 
Your eyes met mine: I did not blame;
   You saw it: but I touched too near
   Some noble nerve; a silent tear
Spoke soft reproach, and lofty shame.
 
 
I do not wish those words unsaid.
   Unspoilt by praise and pleasure, you
   In that one look to woman grew,
While with a child, I thought, I played.
 
 
Next to mine own beloved so long!
   I have not spent my heart in vain.
   I watched the blade; I see the grain;
A woman’s soul, most soft, yet strong.
 

Eversley, 1856.

THE SOUTH WIND: A FISHERMAN’S BLESSINGS

 
O blessed drums of Aldershot!
   O blessed South-west train!
O blessed, blessed Speaker’s clock,
   All prophesying rain!
 
 
O blessed yaffil, laughing loud!
   O blessed falling glass!
O blessed fan of cold gray cloud!
   O blessed smelling grass!
 
 
O bless’d South wind that toots his horn
   Through every hole and crack!
I’m off at eight to-morrow morn,
   To bring such fishes back!
 

Eversley, April 1, 1856.

THE INVITATION: TO TOM HUGHES

 
Come away with me, Tom,
Term and talk are done;
My poor lads are reaping,
Busy every one.
Curates mind the parish,
Sweepers mind the court;
We’ll away to Snowdon
For our ten days’ sport;
Fish the August evening
Till the eve is past,
Whoop like boys, at pounders
Fairly played and grassed.
When they cease to dimple,
Lunge, and swerve, and leap,
Then up over Siabod,
Choose our nest, and sleep.
Up a thousand feet, Tom,
Round the lion’s head,
Find soft stones to leeward
And make up our bed.
Eat our bread and bacon,
Smoke the pipe of peace,
And, ere we be drowsy,
Give our boots a grease.
Homer’s heroes did so,
Why not such as we?
What are sheets and servants?
Superfluity!
Pray for wives and children
Safe in slumber curled,
Then to chat till midnight
O’er this babbling world—
Of the workmen’s college,
Of the price of grain,
Of the tree of knowledge,
Of the chance of rain;
If Sir A. goes Romeward,
If Miss B. sings true,
If the fleet comes homeward,
If the mare will do,—
Anything and everything—
Up there in the sky
Angels understand us,
And no ‘saints’ are by.
Down, and bathe at day-dawn,
Tramp from lake to lake,
Washing brain and heart clean
Every step we take.
Leave to Robert Browning
Beggars, fleas, and vines;
Leave to mournful Ruskin
Popish Apennines,
Dirty Stones of Venice
And his Gas-lamps Seven—
We’ve the stones of Snowdon
And the lamps of heaven.
Where’s the mighty credit
In admiring Alps?
Any goose sees ‘glory’
In their ‘snowy scalps.’
Leave such signs and wonders
For the dullard brain,
As æsthetic brandy,
Opium and cayenne.
Give me Bramshill common
(St. John’s harriers by),
Or the vale of Windsor,
England’s golden eye.
Show me life and progress,
Beauty, health, and man;
Houses fair, trim gardens,
Turn where’er I can.
Or, if bored with ‘High Art,’
And such popish stuff,
One’s poor ear need airing,
Snowdon’s high enough.
While we find God’s signet
Fresh on English ground,
Why go gallivanting
With the nations round?
Though we try no ventures
Desperate or strange;
Feed on commonplaces
In a narrow range;
Never sought for Franklin
Round the frozen Capes;
Even, with Macdougall,⁵
Bagged our brace of apes;
Never had our chance, Tom,
In that black Redan;
Can’t avenge poor Brereton
Out in Sakarran;
Tho’ we earn our bread, Tom,
By the dirty pen,
What we can we will be,
Honest Englishmen.
Do the work that’s nearest,
Though it’s dull at whiles,
Helping, when we meet them,
Lame dogs over stiles;
See in every hedgerow
Marks of angels’ feet,
Epics in each pebble
Underneath our feet;
Once a year, like schoolboys,
Robin-Hooding go,
Leaving fops and fogies
A thousand feet below.
 

Eversley, August 1856.

THE FIND

 
   Yon sound’s neither sheep-bell nor bark,
   They’re running—they’re running, Go hark!
   The sport may be lost by a moment’s delay;
   So whip up the puppies and scurry away.
Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell,
There’s a gate at the bottom—I know it full well;
And they’re running—they’re running,
      Go hark!
 
 
   They’re running—they’re running, Go hark!
   One fence and we’re out of the park;
   Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook,
   Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look;
Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;
He’s away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,
And they’re running—they’re running,
      Go hark!
 
 
   They’re running—they’re running, Go hark!
   Let them run on and run till it’s dark!
   Well with them we are, and well with them we’ll be,
   While there’s wind in our horses and daylight to see:
Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight,
And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night
Of—They’re running—they’re running,
      Go hark!
 

Eversley, 1856.

FISHING SONG: TO J. A. FROUDE AND TOM HUGHES

 
      Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good,
         To point us out this way to glory—
      They’re no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,
         And all their pounders myth and story.
Blow Snowdon!  What’s Lake Gwynant to Killarney,
Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?
 
 
      So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose,
         I’ll tell you where we think of going,
      To swate and far o’er cliff and scar,
         Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon!  There’s a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.
 
 
      Geology and botany
         A hundred wonders shall diskiver,
      We’ll flog and troll in strid and hole,
         And skim the cream of lake and river,
Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies,
Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and—Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!
 

Eversley, 1856

THE LAST BUCCANEER

 
Oh England is a pleasant place for them that’s rich and high,
But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;
And such a port for mariners I ne’er shall see again
As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.
 
 
There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,
All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;
And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free
To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.
 
 
Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,
Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;
Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,
Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.
 
 
Oh the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold,
And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;
And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee,
To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.
 
 
Oh sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze,
A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees,
With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar
Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.
 
 
But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;
So the King’s ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we.
All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night;
And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.
 
 
Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,
Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;
But as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by,
And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.
 
 
And now I’m old and going—I’m sure I can’t tell where;
One comfort is, this world’s so hard, I can’t be worse off there:
If I might but be a sea-dove, I’d fly across the main,
To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again.
 

Eversley, 1857,

THE KNIGHT’S RETURN

 
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,
The raven croaks from the Raven-stone;
What care I for his boding groan,
Riding the moorland to come to mine own?
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
 
 
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Long have I wander’d by land and by sea,
Long have I ridden by moorland and lea;
Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee,
Sits at the window and watches for me!
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
 

Written for music, 1857.

PEN-Y-GWRYDD: TO TOM HUGHES, ESQ

 
There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear,
Excepting Pen-y-gwrydd (you can’t pronounce it, dear),
Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three—
One is the vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me,
One goes to Capel-Curig, and I can’t mind its name,
And one it is Llanberris Pass, which all men knows the same;
Between which radiations vast mountains does arise,
As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish will rise,
That is, just one day in the year, if you be there, my boy,
Just about ten o’clock at night; and then I wish you joy.
Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write,
(Axing the post town out of Froude, for I can’t mind it quite),
And to engage a room or two, for let us say a week,
For fear of gents, and Manichees, and reading parties meek,
And there to live like fighting-cocks at almost a bob a day,
And arterwards toward the sea make tracks and cut away,
All for to catch the salmon bold in Aberglaslyn pool,
And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and will, or I’m a fool.
And that’s my game, which if you like, respond to me by post;
But I fear it will not last, my son, a thirteen days at most.
Flies is no object; I can tell some three or four will do,
And John Jones, Clerk, he knows the rest, and ties and sells ’em too.
Besides of which I have no more to say, leastwise just now,
And so, goes to my children’s school and ’umbly makes my bow.
 

Eversley, 1857.

ODE ON THE INSTALLATION OF THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, 1862  ⁶

 
Hence a while, severer Muses;
Spare your slaves till drear October.
Hence; for Alma Mater chooses
Not to be for ever sober:
But, like stately matron gray,
Calling child and grandchild round her,
Will for them at least be gay;
Share for once their holiday;
And, knowing she will sleep the sounder,
Cheerier-hearted on the morrow
Rise to grapple care and sorrow,
Grandly leads the dance adown, and joins the children’s play.
      So go, for in your places
      Already, as you see,
(Her tears for some deep sorrow scarcely dried),
Venus holds court among her sinless graces,
With many a nymph from many a park and lea.
She, pensive, waits the merrier faces
Of those your wittier sisters three,
O’er jest and dance and song who still preside,
To cheer her in this merry-mournful tide;
   And bids us, as she smiles or sighs,
   Tune our fancies by her eyes.
 
 
   Then let the young be glad,
   Fair girl and gallant lad,
   And sun themselves to-day
   By lawn and garden gay;
   ’Tis play befits the noon
   Of rosy-girdled June:
   Who dare frown if heaven shall smile?
   Blest, who can forget a while;
   The world before them, and above
   The light of universal love.
Go, then, let the young be gay;
From their heart as from their dress
Let darkness and let mourning pass away,
While we the staid and worn look on and bless.
 
 
   Health to courage firm and high!
   Health to Granta’s chivalry!
   Wisely finding, day by day,
   Play in toil, and toil in play.
   Granta greets them, gliding down
   On by park and spire and town;
   Humming mills and golden meadows,
   Barred with elm and poplar shadows;
   Giant groves, and learned halls;
   Holy fanes and pictured walls.
   Yet she bides not here; around
   Lies the Muses’ sacred ground.
   Most she lingers, where below
   Gliding wherries come and go;
   Stalwart footsteps shake the shores;
   Rolls the pulse of stalwart oars;
   Rings aloft the exultant cry
   For the bloodless victory.
   There she greets the sports, which breed
   Valiant lads for England’s need;
   Wisely finding, day by day,
   Play in toil, and toil in play.
   Health to courage, firm and high!
   Health to Granta’s chivalry!
 
 
Yet stay a while, severer Muses, stay,
For you, too, have your rightful parts to-day.
Known long to you, and known through you to fame,
Are Chatsworth’s halls, and Cavendish’s name.
You too, then, Alma Mater calls to greet
A worthy patron for your ancient seat;
And bid her sons from him example take,
Of learning purely sought for learning’s sake,
Of worth unboastful, power in duty spent;
And see, fulfilled in him, her high intent.
 
 
      Come, Euterpe, wake thy choir;
      Fit thy notes to our desire.
      Long may he sit the chiefest here,
      Meet us and greet us, year by year;
      Long inherit, sire and son,
      All that their race has wrought and won,
      Since that great Cavendish came again,
      Round the world and over the main,
      Breasting the Thames with his mariners bold,
      Past good Queen Bess’s palace of old;
      With jewel and ingot packed in his hold,
      And sails of damask and cloth of gold;
      While never a sailor-boy on board
      But was decked as brave as a Spanish lord,
         With the spoils he had won
         In the Isles of the Sun,
         And the shores of Fairy-land,
      And yet held for the crown of the goodly show,
      That queenly smile from the Palace window,
         And that wave of a queenly hand.
      Yes, let the young be gay,
      And sun themselves to-day;—
   And from their hearts, as from their dress,
      Let mourning pass away.
But not from us, who watch our years fast fleeing,
And snatching as they flee, fresh fragments of our being.
      Can we forget one friend,
      Can we forget one face,
      Which cheered us toward our end,
      Which nerved us for our race?
      Oh sad to toil, and yet forego
      One presence which has made us know
      To Godlike souls how deep our debt!
      We would not, if we could, forget.
 
 
      Severer Muses, linger yet;
   Speak out for us one pure and rich regret.
   Thou, Clio, who, with awful pen,
   Gravest great names upon the hearts of men,
   Speak of a fate beyond our ken;
   A gem late found and lost too soon;⁷
   A sun gone down at highest noon;
   A tree from Odin’s ancient root,
   Which bore for men the ancient fruit,
   Counsel, and faith and scorn of wrong,
   And cunning lore, and soothing song,
   Snapt in mid-growth, and leaving unaware
   The flock unsheltered and the pasture bare
   Nay, let us take what God shall send,
   Trusting bounty without end.
   God ever lives; and Nature,
   Beneath His high dictature,
   Hale and teeming, can replace
   Strength by strength, and grace by grace,
   Hope by hope, and friend by friend:
   Trust; and take what God shall send.
   So shall Alma Mater see
      Daughters fair and wise
   Train new lands of liberty
      Under stranger skies;
   Spreading round the teeming earth
   English science, manhood, worth.
 

1862.