Late Lyrics and Earlier | Page 5

art
(if one may quote Tennyson in this century of free verse). Hence I cannot know how things are going so well as I used to know them, and the aforesaid limitations must quite prevent my knowing henceforward.
I have to thank the editors and owners of The Times, Fortnightly, Mercury, and other periodicals in which a few of the poems have appeared for kindly assenting to their being reclaimed for collected publication. T. H.
February 1922.
WEATHERS
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;?When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly:?And the little brown nightingale bills his best,?And they sit outside at "The Travellers' Rest,"?And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,?And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.
II
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;?When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh, and ply;?And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,?And meadow rivulets overflow,?And drops on gate-bars hang in a row,?And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.
THE MAID OF KEINTON MANDEVILLE?(A TRIBUTE TO SIR H. BISHOP)
I hear that maiden still?Of Keinton Mandeville?Singing, in flights that played?As wind-wafts through us all,?Till they made our mood a thrall?To their aery rise and fall,
"Should he upbraid."
Rose-necked, in sky-gray gown,?From a stage in Stower Town?Did she sing, and singing smile?As she blent that dexterous voice?With the ditty of her choice,?And banished our annoys
Thereawhile.
One with such song had power?To wing the heaviest hour?Of him who housed with her.?Who did I never knew?When her spoused estate ondrew,?And her warble flung its woo
In his ear.
Ah, she's a beldame now,?Time-trenched on cheek and brow,?Whom I once heard as a maid?From Keinton Mandeville?Of matchless scope and skill?Sing, with smile and swell and trill,
"Should he upbraid!"
1915 or 1916.
SUMMER SCHEMES
When friendly summer calls again,
Calls again?Her little fifers to these hills,?We'll go--we two--to that arched fane?Of leafage where they prime their bills?Before they start to flood the plain?With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.
"--We'll go," I sing; but who shall say?What may not chance before that day!
And we shall see the waters spring,
Waters spring?From chinks the scrubby copses crown;?And we shall trace their oncreeping?To where the cascade tumbles down?And sends the bobbing growths aswing,?And ferns not quite but almost drown.
"--We shall," I say; but who may sing?Of what another moon will bring!
EPEISODIA
I
Past the hills that peep?Where the leaze is smiling,?On and on beguiling?Crisply-cropping sheep;?Under boughs of brushwood?Linking tree and tree?In a shade of lushwood,
There caressed we!
II
Hemmed by city walls?That outshut the sunlight,?In a foggy dun light,?Where the footstep falls?With a pit-pat wearisome?In its cadency?On the flagstones drearisome
There pressed we!
III
Where in wild-winged crowds?Blown birds show their whiteness?Up against the lightness?Of the clammy clouds;?By the random river?Pushing to the sea,?Under bents that quiver
There rest we.
FAINTHEART IN A RAILWAY TRAIN
At nine in the morning there passed a church,?At ten there passed me by the sea,?At twelve a town of smoke and smirch,?At two a forest of oak and birch,
And then, on a platform, she:
A radiant stranger, who saw not me.?I queried, "Get out to her do I dare?"?But I kept my seat in my search for a plea,?And the wheels moved on. O could it but be
That I had alighted there!
AT MOONRISE AND ONWARDS
I thought you a fire?On Heron-Plantation Hill,?Dealing out mischief the most dire
To the chattels of men of hire
There in their vill.
But by and by?You turned a yellow-green,?Like a large glow-worm in the sky;
And then I could descry
Your mood and mien.
How well I know?Your furtive feminine shape!?As if reluctantly you show
You nude of cloud, and but by favour throw
Aside its drape . . .
--How many a year?Have you kept pace with me,?Wan Woman of the waste up there,
Behind a hedge, or the bare
Bough of a tree!
No novelty are you,?O Lady of all my time,?Veering unbid into my view
Whether I near Death's mew,
Or Life's top cyme!
THE GARDEN SEAT
Its former green is blue and thin,?And its once firm legs sink in and in;?Soon it will break down unaware,?Soon it will break down unaware.
At night when reddest flowers are black?Those who once sat thereon come back;?Quite a row of them sitting there,?Quite a row of them sitting there.
With them the seat does not break down,?Nor winter freeze them, nor floods drown,?For they are as light as upper air,?They are as light as upper air!
BARTHELEMON AT VAUXHALL
Francois Hippolite Barthelemon, first-fiddler at Vauxhall Gardens, composed what was probably the most popular morning hymn-tune ever written. It was formerly sung, full-voiced, every Sunday in most churches, to Bishop Ken's words, but is now seldom heard.
He said: "Awake my soul, and with the sun," . . .?And paused upon the bridge, his eyes due east,?Where was emerging like a full-robed priest?The irradiate globe that vouched the dark as done.
It lit his face--the weary face of one?Who in the adjacent gardens charged his string,?Nightly, with many a tuneful tender thing,?Till stars were weak, and dancing hours outrun.
And then