Poems — Volume 3

Part 1

Transcribed from the 1912 Times Book Club “Surrey” edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

POEMS VOL. III

BY GEORGE MEREDITH

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SURREY EDITION

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LONDON THE TIMES BOOK CLUB 376–384 OXFORD STREET, W. 1912

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Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to his Majesty

CONTENTS

PAGE A STAVE OF ROVING TIM, 1

The wind is East, the wind is West, JUMP-TO-GLORY JANE, 5

A revelation came on Jane, THE RIDDLE FOR MEN, 14

This Riddle rede or die, THE SAGE ENAMOURED AND THE HONEST LADY, 15

One fairest of the ripe unwedded left ‘LOVE IS WINGED FOR TWO,’ 30 ‘ASK, IS LOVE DIVINE,’ 30 ‘JOY IS FLEET,’ 31 THE LESSON OF GRIEF, 31

Not ere the bitter herb we taste, WIND ON THE LYRE, 32

That was the chirp of Ariel THE YOUTHFUL QUEST, 33

His Lady queen of woods to meet, THE EMPTY PURSE, 34

Thou, run to the dry on this wayside bank, TO THE COMIC SPIRIT, 56

Sword of Common Sense!— YOUTH IN MEMORY, 68

Days, when the ball of our vision PENETRATION AND TRUST, 75

Sleek as a lizard at round of a stone, NIGHT OF FROST IN MAY, 76

With splendour of a silver day, THE TEACHING OF THE NUDE, 79

A Satyr spied a Goddess in her bath, BREATH OF THE BRIAR, 81

O briar-scents, on yon wet wing EMPEDOCLES, 82

He leaped. With none to hinder, ENGLAND BEFORE THE STORM, 83

The day that is the night of days, TARDY SPRING, 85

Now the North wind ceases, THE LABOURER, 87

Part 2

For a Heracles in his fighting ire there is never the glory that follows FORESIGHT AND PATIENCE, 89

Sprung of the father blood, the mother brain, THE WARNING, 99

We have seen mighty men ballooning high, OUTSIDE THE CROWD, 99

To sit on History in an easy chair, TRAFALGAR DAY, 100

He leads: we hear our Seaman’s call Odes in Contribution to the Song of French History THE REVOLUTION, 105

Not yet had History’s Aetna smoked the skies, NAPOLÉON, 116

Cannon his name, FRANCE, 140

We look for her that sunlike stood ALSACE-LORRAINE, 150

The sister Hours in circles linked, THE CAGEING OF ARES, 170

How big of breast our Mother Gaea laughed THE NIGHT-WALK, 175

Awakes for me and leaps from shroud AT THE CLOSE, 178

To Thee, dear God of Mercy, both appeal, A GARDEN IDYL, 179

With sagest craft Arachne worked A Reading of Life THE VITAL CHOICE, 185

Or shall we run with Artemis WITH THE HUNTRESS, 186

Through the water-eye of night, WITH THE PERSUADER, 189

Who murmurs, hither, hither: who THE TEST OF MANHOOD, 200

Like a flood river whirled at rocky banks, THE HUELESS LOVE, 208

Unto that love must we through fire attain, UNION IN DISSEVERANCE, 209

Sunset worn to its last vermilion he; SONG IN THE SONGLESS, 210

They have no song, the sedges dry, THE BURDEN OF STRENGTH, 210

If that thou hast the gift of strength, then know THE MAIN REGRET, 211

Seen, too clear and historic within us, our sins of omission ALTERNATION, 211

Between the fountain and the rill FOREST HISTORY, 212

Beneath the vans of doom did men pass in. Fragments of the Iliad in English Hexameter Verse THE INVECTIVE OF ACHILLES, 221

‘Heigh me! brazen of front, thou glutton for plunder, how can one,

‘Bibber besotted, with scowl of a cur, having heart of a deer, thou! MARSHALLING OF THE ACHAIANS, 225

Like as a terrible fire feeds fast on a forest enormous, AGAMEMNON IN THE FIGHT, 227

These, then, he left, and away where ranks were now clashing the thickest, PARIS AND DIOMEDES, 228

Part 3

So he, with a clear shout of laughter, HYPNOS ON IDA, 230

They then to fountain-abundant Ida, mother of wild beasts, CLASH IN ARMS OF THE ACHAIANS AND TROJANS, 231

Not the sea-wave so bellows abroad when it bursts upon shingle, THE HORSES OF ACHILLES, 232

So now the horses of Aiakides, off wide of the war-ground, THE MARES OF THE CAMARGUE, 234

A hundred mares, all white! their manes ‘ATKINS’, 236

Yonder’s the man with his life in his hand, THE VOYAGE OF THE ‘OPHIR’, 237

Men of our race, we send you one THE CRISIS, 239

Spirit of Russia, now has come OCTOBER 21, 1905, 241

The hundred years have passed, and he THE CENTENARY OF GARIBALDI, 243

We who have seen Italia in the throes, THE WILD ROSE, 245

High climbs June’s wild rose, THE CALL, 247

Under what spell are we debased ON COMO, 250

A rainless darkness drew o’er the lake MILTON, 251

What splendour of imperial station man, IRELAND, 253

Fire in her ashes Ireland feels THE YEARS HAD WORN THEIR SEASONS’ BELT, 255

The years had worn their seasons’ belt, FRAGMENTS, 257

Open horizons round,

A wilding little stubble flower

From labours through the night, outworn,

This love of nature, that allures to take IL Y A CENT ANS, 259

That march of the funereal Past behold; YOUTH IN AGE, 261

Once I was part of the music I heard Epitaphs TO A FRIEND LOST, 265

When I remember, friend, whom lost I call, M. M., 265

Who call her Mother and who calls her Wife THE LADY C. M., 266

To them that knew her, there is vital flame ON THE TOMBSTONE OF JAMES CHRISTOPHER WILSON, 266

Thou our beloved and light of Earth hast crossed GORDON OF KHARTOUM, 266

Of men he would have raised to light he fell: J. C. M., 267

A fountain of our sweetest, quick to spring THE EMPEROR FREDERICK OF OUR TIME, 267

Part 4

With Alfred and St. Louis he doth win ISLET THE DACHS, 267

Our Islet out of Helgoland, dismissed ON HEARING THE NEWS FROM VENICE, 268

Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak, HAWARDEN, 269

When comes the lighted day for men to read AT THE FUNERAL, 270

Her sacred body bear: the tenement ANGELA BURDETT-COUTTS, 270

Long with us, now she leaves us; she has rest THE YEAR’S SHEDDINGS, 270

The varied colours are a fitful heap:

A STAVE OF ROVING TIM (ADDRESSED TO CERTAIN FRIENDLY TRAMPS.)

THE wind is East, the wind is West, Blows in and out of haven; The wind that blows is the wind that’s best, And croak, my jolly raven! If here awhile we jigged and laughed, The like we will do yonder; For he’s the man who masters a craft, And light as a lord can wander. So, foot the measure, Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

You live in rows of snug abodes, With gold, maybe, for counting; And mine’s the beck of the rainy roads Against the sun a-mounting. I take the day as it behaves, Nor shiver when ’tis airy; But comes a breeze, all you are on waves, Sick chickens o’ Mother Carey! So, now for next, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

III

Sweet lass, you screw a lovely leer, To make a man consider. If you were up with the auctioneer, I’d be a handsome bidder. But wedlock clips the rover’s wing; She tricks him fly to spider; And when we get to fights in the Ring, It’s trumps when you play outsider. So, wrench and split, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

Along my winding way I know A shady dell that’s winking; The very corner for Self and Co To do a world of thinking. And shall I this? and shall I that? Till Nature answers, ne’ther! Strike match and light your pipe in your hat, Rejoicing in sound shoe-leather! So lead along, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

A cunning hand ’ll hand you bread, With freedom for your capers. I’m not so sure of a cunning head; It steers to pits or vapours. But as for Life, we’ll bear in sight The lesson Nature teaches; Regard it in a sailoring light, And treat it like thirsty leeches. So, fly your jib, cries Roving Tim, And top your boom, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

She’ll take, to please her dame and dad, The shopman nicely shaven. She’ll learn to think o’ the marching lad When perchers show they’re craven. You say the shopman piles a heap, While I perhaps am fasting; And bless your wits, it haunts him in sleep, His tin-kettle chance of lasting! So hail the road, cries Roving Tim, And hail the rain, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

VII

He’s half a wife, yon pecker bill; A book and likewise preacher. With any soul, in a game of skill, He’ll prove your over-reacher. The reason is, his brains are bent On doing things right single. You’d wish for them when pitching your tent At night in a whirly dingle! So, off we go, cries Roving Tim, And on we go, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

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