Part 3

Like Aias by the ships shouldst thou have stood, And in some glen have stayed the stream of flight, The bulwark of thy people and their shield, When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood, Till back into the Northland and the Night The smitten Eagles scattered from the field.’

MELVILLE AND COGHILL.

(THE PLACE OF THE LITTLE HAND.)

DEAD, with their eyes to the foe, Dead, with the foe at their feet, Under the sky laid low Truly their slumber is sweet, Though the wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow, And the rain on the wilderness beat.

Dead, for they chose to die When that wild race was run; Dead, for they would not fly, Deeming their work undone, Nor cared to look on the face of the sky, Nor loved the light of the sun.

Honour we give them and tears, And the flag they died to save, Rent from the rain of the spears, Wet from the war and the wave, Shall waft men’s thoughts through the dust of the years, Back to their lonely grave!

RHODOCLEIA

TO RHODOCLEIA ON HER MELANCHOLY SINGING.

(Rhodocleia was beloved by Rufinus, one of the late poets of the Greek Anthology.)

STILL, Rhodocleia, brooding on the dead, Still singing of the meads of asphodel, Lands desolate of delight? Say, hast thou dreamed of, or rememberèd, The shores where shadows dwell, Nor know the sun, nor see the stars of night?

There, ’midst thy music, doth thy spirit gaze As a girl pines for home, Looking along the way that she hath come, Sick to return, and counts the weary days! So wouldst thou flee Back to the multitude whose days are done, Wouldst taste the fruit that lured Persephone, The sacrament of death; and die, and be No more in the wind and sun!

Thou hast not dreamed it, but rememberèd I know thou hast been there, Hast seen the stately dwellings of the dead Rise in the twilight air, And crossed the shadowy bridge the spirits tread, And climbed the golden stair!

Nay, by thy cloudy hair And lips that were so fair, Sad lips now mindful of some ancient smart, And melancholy eyes, the haunt of Care, I know thee who thou art! That Rhodocleia, Glory of the Rose, Of Hellas, ere her close, That Rhodocleia who, when all was done The golden time of Greece, and fallen her sun, Swayed her last poet’s heart.

With roses did he woo thee, and with song, With thine own rose, and with the lily sweet, The dark-eyed violet, Garlands of wind-flowers wet, And fragrant love-lamps that the whole night long Burned till the dawn was burning in the skies, Praising thy golden eyes, And feet more silvery than Thetis’ feet!

But thou didst die and flit Among the tribes outworn, The unavailing myriads of the past: Oft he beheld thy face in dreams of morn, And, waking, wept for it, Till his own time came at last, And then he sought thee in the dusky land! Wide are the populous places of the dead Where souls on earth once wed May never meet, nor each take other’s hand, Each far from the other fled!

So all in vain he sought for thee, but thou Didst never taste of the Lethæan stream, Nor that forgetful fruit, The mystic pom’granate; But from the Mighty Warden fledst; and now, The fugitive of Fate, Thou farest in our life as in a dream, Still wandering with thy lute, Like that sweet paynim lady of old song, Who sang and wandered long, For love of her Aucassin, seeking him! So with thy minstrelsy Thou roamest, dreaming of the country dim, Below the veilèd sky!

There doth thy lover dwell, Singing, and seeking still to find thy face In that forgetful place: Thou shalt not meet him here, Not till thy singing clear Through all the murmur of the streams of hell Wins to the Maiden’s ear! May she, perchance, have pity on thee and call Thine eager spirit to sit beside her feet, Passing throughout the long unechoing hall Up to the shadowy throne, Where the lost lovers of the ages meet; Till then thou art alone!

AVE.

‘Our Faith and Troth All time and space controules Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknowne, and greet as Angels greet.’

Col. RICHARD LOVELACE. 1649

CLEVEDON CHURCH.

IN MEMORIAM H. B.

WESTWARD I watch the low green hills of Wales, The low sky silver grey, The turbid Channel with the wandering sails Moans through the winter day. There is no colour but one ashen light On tower and lonely tree, The little church upon the windy height Is grey as sky or sea. But there hath he that woke the sleepless Love Slept through these fifty years, There is the grave that has been wept above With more than mortal tears. And far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain, As Hallam’s dirge through all the years must keep Its monotone of pain.

* * * * *

Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies, My heart flits forth from these Back to the winter rose of northern skies, Back to the northern seas. And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat Below the minster grey, Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet, And knees of them that pray. And I remember me how twain were one Beside that ocean dim, I count the years passed over since the sun That lights me looked on him, And dreaming of the voice that, save in sleep, Shall greet me not again, Far, far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain.

TWILIGHT ON TWEED.

THREE crests against the saffron sky, Beyond the purple plain, The kind remembered melody Of Tweed once more again.

Wan water from the border hills, Dear voice from the old years, Thy distant music lulls and stills, And moves to quiet tears.