that wear our lives away?

  Why, then, and for what are we waiting?

  There are three words to speak;

  WE WILL IT, and what is the foeman

  but the dream-strong wakened and weak?

  O why and for what are we waiting?

  while our brothers droop and die,

  And on every wind of the heavens

  a wasted life goes by.

  How long shall they reproach us

  where crowd on crowd they dwell,

  Poor ghosts of the wicked city,

  the gold-crushed hungry hell?

  Through squalid life they laboured,

  in sordid grief they died,

  Those sons of a mighty mother,

  those props of England’s pride.

  They are gone; there is none can undo it,

  nor save our souls from the curse;

  But many a million cometh,

  and shall they be better or worse?

  It is we must answer and hasten,

  and open wide the door

  For the rich man’s hurrying terror,

  and the slow-foot hope of the poor.

  Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched,

  and their unlearned discontent,

  We must give it voice and wisdom

  till the waiting-tide be spent.

  * * * * *

  Come, then, since all things call us,

  the living and the dead,

  And o’er the weltering tangle

  a glimmering light is shed.

  Come, then, let us cast off fooling,

  and put by ease and rest,

  For the Cause alone is worthy

  till the good days bring the best.

  Come, join in the only battle

  wherein no man can fail,

  Where whoso fadeth and dieth,

  yet his deed shall still prevail.

  Ah! come, cast off all fooling,

  for this, at least, we know:

  That the Dawn and the Day is coming,

  and forth the Banners go.

  EARTH THE HEALER, EARTH THE KEEPER.

  So swift the hours are moving

  Unto the time un-proved:

  Farewell my love unloving,

  Farewell my love beloved!

  What! are we not glad-hearted?

  Is there no deed to do?

  Is not all fear departed

  And Spring-tide blossomed new?

  The sails swell out above us,

  The sea-ridge lifts the keel;

  For They have called who love us,

  Who bear the gifts that heal:

  A crown for him that winneth,

  A bed for him that fails,

  A glory that beginneth

  In never-dying tales.

  Yet now the pain is ended

  And the glad hand grips the sword,

  Look on thy life amended

  And deal out due award.

  Think of the thankless morning,

  The gifts of noon unused;

  Think of the eve of scorning,

  The night of prayer refused.

  And yet. The life before it,

  Dost thou remember aught,

  What terrors shivered o’er it

  Born from the hell of thought?

  And this that cometh after:

  How dost thou live, and dare

  To meet its empty laughter,

  To face its friendless care?

  In fear didst thou desire,

  At peace dost thou regret,

  The wasting of the fire,

  The tangling of the net.

  Love came and gat fair greeting;

  Love went; and left no shame.

  Shall both the twilights meeting

  The summer sunlight blame?

  What! cometh love and goeth

  Like the dark night’s empty wind,

  Because thy folly soweth

  The harvest of the blind?

  Hast thou slain love with sorrow?

  Have thy tears quenched the sun?

  Nay even yet to-morrow

  Shall many a deed be done.

  This twilight sea thou sailest,

  Has it grown dim and black

  For that wherein thou failest,

  And the story of thy lack?

  Peace then! for thine old grieving

  Was born of Earth the kind,

  And the sad tale thou art leaving

  Earth shall not leave behind.

  Peace! for that joy abiding

  Whereon thou layest hold

  Earth keepeth for a tiding

  For the day when this is old.

  Thy soul and life shall perish,

  And thy name as last night’s wind;

  But Earth the deed shall cherish

  That thou to-day shalt find.

  And all thy joy and sorrow

  So great but yesterday,

  So light a thing to-morrow,

  Shall never pass away.

  Lo! lo! the dawn-blink yonder,

  The sunrise draweth nigh,

  And men forget to wonder

  That they were born to die.

  Then praise the deed that wendeth

  Through the daylight and the mirth!

  The tale that never endeth

  Whoso may dwell on earth.

  ALL FOR THE CAUSE.

  Hear a word, a word in season,

  for the day is drawing nigh,

  When the Cause shall call upon us,

  some to live, and some to die!

  He that dies shall not die lonely,

  many an one hath gone before;

  He that lives shall bear no burden

  heavier than the life they bore.

  Nothing ancient is their story,

  e’en but yesterday they bled,

  Youngest they of earth’s beloved,

  last of all the valiant dead.

  E’en the tidings we are telling,

  was the tale they had to tell,

  E’en the hope that our hearts cherish,

  was the hope for which they fell.

  In the grave where tyrants thrust them,

  lies their labour and their pain,

  But undying from their sorrow

  springeth up the hope again.

  Mourn not therefore, nor lament it,

  that the world outlives their life;

  Voice and vision yet they give us,

  making strong our hands for strife.

  Some had name, and fame, and honour,

  learn’d they were, and wise and strong;

  Some were nameless, poor, unlettered,

  weak in all but grief and wrong.

  Named and nameless all live in us;

  one and all they lead us yet

  Every pain to count for nothing,

  every sorrow to forget.

  Hearken how they cry, “O happy,

  happy ye that ye were born

  In the sad slow night’s departing,

  in the rising of the morn.

  “Fair the crown the Cause hath for you,

  well to die or well to live

  Through the battle, through the tangle,

  peace to gain or peace to give.”

  Ah, it may be! Oft meseemeth,

  in the days that yet shall be,

  When no slave of gold abideth

  ‘twixt the breadth of sea to sea,

  Oft, when men and maids are merry,

  ere the sunlight leaves the earth,

  And they bless the day beloved,

  all too short for all their mirth,

  Some shall pause awhile and ponder

  on the bitter days of old,

  Ere the toil of strife and battle

  overthrew the curse of gold;

  Then ‘twixt lips of loved and lover

  solemn thoughts of us shall rise;

  We who once were fools defeated,

  then shall be the brave and wise.

  There amidst the world new-builded

  shall our earthly deeds abide,

  Though our names be all forgotten,

  and the tale of how we died.

  Life or death then, who shall heed it,

  what we gain or what we lose?

  Fair flies life amid the struggle,

  and the Cause for each shall choose.

  Hear a word, a word in season,

  for the day is drawing nigh,

  When the Cause shall call upon us,

  some to live, and some to die!

  PAIN AND TIME STRIVE NOT.

  What part of the dread eternity

  Are those strange minutes that I gain,

  Mazed with the doubt of love and pain,

  When I thy delicate face may see,

  A little while before farewell?

  What share of the world’s yearning-tide

  That flash, when new day bare and white

  Blots out my half-dream’s faint delight,

  And there is nothing by my side,

  And well remembered is farewell?

  What drop in the grey flood of tears

  That time, when the long day toiled through,

  Worn out, shows nought for me to do,

  And nothing worth my labour bears

  The longing of that last farewell?

  What pity from the heavens above,

  What heed from out eternity,

  What word from the swift world for me?

  Speak, heed, and pity, O tender love,

  Who knew’st the days before farewell!

  DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT.

  Lo, when we wade the tangled wood,

  In haste and hurry to be there,

  Nought seem its leaves and blossoms good,

  For all that they be fashioned fair.

  But looking up, at last we see

  The glimmer of the open light,

  From o’er the place where we would be:

  Then grow the very brambles bright.

  So now, amidst our day of strife,

  With many a matter glad we play,

  When once we see the light of life

  Gleam through the tangle of to-day.

  VERSES FOR PICTURES.

  Day.

  I am Day; I bring again

  Life and glory, Love and pain:

  Awake, arise! from death to death

  Through me the World’s tale quickeneth.

  Spring.

  Spring am I, too soft of heart

  Much to speak ere I depart:

  Ask the Summer-tide to prove

  The abundance of my love.

  Summer.

  Summer looked for long am I;

  Much shall change or e’er I die.

  Prithee take it not amiss

  Though I weary thee with bliss.

  Autumn.

  Laden Autumn here I stand

  Worn of heart, and weak of hand:

  Nought but rest seems good to me,

  Speak the word that sets me free.

  Winter.

  I am Winter, that do keep

  Longing safe amidst of sleep:

  Who shall say if I were dead

  What should be remembered?

  Night.

  I am Night: I bring again

  Hope of pleasure, rest from pain:

  Thoughts unsaid ‘twixt Life and Death

  My fruitful silence quickeneth.

  FOR THE BRIAR ROSE.

  The Briarwood.

  The fateful slumber floats and flows

  About the tangle of the rose;

  But lo! the fated hand and heart

  To rend the slumberous curse apart!

  The Council Room.

  The threat of war, the hope of peace,

  The Kingdom’s peril and increase

  Sleep on, and bide the latter day,

  When fate shall take her chain away.

  The Garden Court.

  The maiden pleasance of the land

  Knoweth no stir of voice or hand,

  No cup the sleeping waters fill,

  The restless shuttle lieth still.

  The Rosebower.

  Here lies the hoarded love, the key

  To all the treasure that shall be;

  Come fated hand the gift to take,

  And smite this sleeping world awake.

  ANOTHER FOR THE BRIAR-ROSE.

  O treacherous scent, O thorny sight,

  O tangle of world’s wrong and right,

  What art thou ‘gainst my armour’s gleam

  But dusky cobwebs of a dream?

  Beat down, deep sunk from every gleam

  Of hope, they lie and dully dream;

  Men once, but men no more, that Love

  Their waste defeated hearts should move.

  Here sleeps the world that would not love!

  Let it sleep on, but if He move

  Their hearts in humble wise to wait

  On his new-wakened fair estate.

  O won at last is never late!

  Thy silence was the voice of fate;

  Thy still hands conquered in the strife;

  Thine eyes were light; thy lips were life.

  THE WOODPECKER.

  I once a King and chief

  Now am the tree-bark’s thief,

  Ever ‘twixt trunk and leaf

  Chasing the prey.

  THE LION.

  The Beasts that be

  In wood and waste,

  Now sit and see,

  Nor ride nor haste.

  THE FOREST.

  Pear-tree.

  By woodman’s edge I faint and fail;

  By craftsman’s edge I tell the tale.

  Chestnut-tree.

  High in the wood, high o’er the hall,

  Aloft I rise when low I fall.

  Oak-tree.

  Unmoved I stand what wind may blow.

  Swift, swift before the wind I go.

  POMONA.

  I am the ancient Apple-Queen,

  As once I was so am I now.

  For evermore a hope unseen,

  Betwixt the blossom and the bough.

  Ah, where’s the river’s hidden Gold!

  And where the windy grave of Troy?

  Yet come I as I came of old,

  From out the heart of Summer’s joy.

  FLORA.

  I am the handmaid of the earth,

  I broider fair her glorious gown,

  And deck her on her days of mirth

  With many a garland of renown.

  And while Earth’s little ones are fain

  And play about the Mother’s hem

  I scatter every gift I gain

  From sun and wind to gladden them.

  THE ORCHARD.

  Midst bitten mead and acre shorn,

  The world without is waste and worn,

  But here within our orchard-close,

  The guerdon of its labour shows.

  O valiant Earth, O happy year

  That mocks the threat of winter near,

  And hangs aloft from tree to tree

  The banners of the Spring to be.

  TAPESTRY TREES.

  Oak.

  I am the Roof-tree and the Keel;

  I bridge the seas for woe and weal.

  Fir.

  High o’er the lordly oak I stand,

  And drive him on from land to land.

  Ash.

  I heft my brother’s iron bane;

  I shaft the spear, and build the wain.

  Yew.

  Dark down the windy dale I grow,

  The father of the fateful Bow.

  Poplar.

  The war-shaft and the milking-bowl

  I make, and keep the hay-wain whole.

  Olive.

  The King I bless; the lamps I trim;

  In my warm wave do fishes swim.

  Apple-tree.

  I bowed my head to Adam’s will;

  The cups of toiling men I fill.

  Vine.

  I draw the blood from out the earth;

  I store the sun for winter mirth.

  Orange-tree.

  Amidst the greenness of my night,

  My odorous lamps hang round and bright.

  Fig-tree.

  I who am little among trees

  In honey-making mate the bees.

  Mulberry-tree.

  Love’s lack hath dyed my berries red:

  For Love’s attire my leaves are shed.

  Pear-tree.

  High o’er the mead-flowers’ hidden feet

  I bear aloft my burden sweet.

  Bay.

  Look on my leafy boughs, the Crown

  Of living song and dead renown!

  THE FLOWERING ORCHARD.

  Silk Embroidery.

  Lo silken my garden,

  and silken my sky,

  And silken my apple-boughs

  hanging on high;

  All wrought by the Worm

  in the peasant carle’s cot

  On the Mulberry leafage

  when summer was hot!

  THE END OF MAY.

  How the wind howls this morn

  About the end of May,

  And drives June on apace

  To mock the world forlorn

  And the world’s joy passed away

  And my unlonged-for face!

 

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