The Poems of William Watson | Page 2

wholly be at ease?
On from room to room I stray, Yet my Host can ne'er espy, And I know
not to this day Whether guest or captive I.
So, between the starry dome And the floor of plains and seas, I have
never felt at home, Never wholly been at ease.

"WHEN BIRDS WERE SONGLESS"
When birds were songless on the bough I heard thee sing. The world
was full of winter, thou Wert full of spring.
To-day the world's heart feels anew The vernal thrill, And thine
beneath the rueful yew Is wintry chill.

THE MOCK SELF
Few friends are mine, though many wights there be Who, meeting oft a
phantasm that makes claim To be myself, and hath my face and name,
And whose thin fraud I wink at privily, Account this light impostor
very me. What boots it undeceive them, and proclaim Myself myself,
and whelm this cheat with shame? I care not, so he leave my true self
free, Impose not on me also; but alas! I too, at fault, bewildered,
sometimes take Him for myself, and far from mine own sight, Torpid,
indifferent, doth mine own self pass; And yet anon leaps suddenly
awake, And spurns the gibbering mime into the night.

"THY VOICE FROM INMOST DREAMLAND CALLS"
Thy voice from inmost dreamland calls; The wastes of sleep thou
makest fair; Bright o'er the ridge of darkness falls The cataract of thy
hair.
The morn renews its golden birth: Thou with the vanquished night dost
fade; And leav'st the ponderable earth Less real than thy shade.

IN LALEHAM CHURCHYARD
(AUGUST 18, 1890)
'Twas at this season, year by year, The singer who lies songless here
Was wont to woo a less austere, Less deep repose, Where Rotha to
Winandermere Unresting flows,--
Flows through a land where torrents call To far-off torrents as they fall,
And mountains in their cloudy pall Keep ghostly state, And Nature
makes majestical Man's lowliest fate.
There, 'mid the August glow, still came He of the twice-illustrious
name, The loud impertinence of fame Not loth to flee-- Not loth with
brooks and fells to claim Fraternity.
Linked with his happy youthful lot, Is Loughrigg, then, at last forgot?
Nor silent peak nor dalesman's cot Looks on his grave. Lulled by the
Thames he sleeps, and not By Rotha's wave.
'Tis fittest thus! for though with skill He sang of beck and tarn and
ghyll, The deep, authentic mountain-thrill Ne'er shook his page!
Somewhat of worldling mingled still With bard and sage.
And 'twere less meet for him to lie Guarded by summits lone and high
That traffic with the eternal sky And hear, unawed, The everlasting
fingers ply The loom of God,
Than, in this hamlet of the plain, A less sublime repose to gain, Where
Nature, genial and urbane, To man defers, Yielding to us the right to
reign, Which yet is hers.
And nigh to where his bones abide, The Thames with its unruffled tide
Seems like his genius typified,-- Its strength, its grace, Its lucid gleam,
its sober pride, Its tranquil pace.
But ah! not his the eventual fate Which doth the journeying wave
await-- Doomed to resign its limpid state And quickly grow Turbid as
passion, dark as hate, And wide as woe.
Rather, it may be, over-much He shunned the common stain and
smutch, From soilure of ignoble touch Too grandly free, Too loftily
secure in such Cold purity.
But he preserved from chance control The fortress of his 'stablisht soul;
In all things sought to see the Whole; Brooked no disguise; And set his
heart upon the goal, Not on the prize.
With those Elect he shall survive Who seem not to compete or strive,

Yet with the foremost still arrive, Prevailing still: Spirits with whom
the stars connive To work their will.
And ye, the baffled many, who, Dejected, from afar off view The easily
victorious few Of calm renown,-- Have ye not your sad glory too, And
mournful crown?
Great is the facile conqueror; Yet haply he, who, wounded sore,
Breathless, unhorsed, all covered o'er With blood and sweat, Sinks
foiled, but fighting evermore,-- Is greater yet.

THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH
Youth! ere thou be flown away. Surely one last boon to-day Thou'lt
bestow-- One last light of rapture give, Rich and lordly fugitive! Ere
thou go.
What, thou canst not? What, all spent? All thy spells of ravishment
Pow'rless now? Gone thy magic out of date? Gone, all gone that made
thee great?-- Follow thou!

"NAY, BID ME NOT MY CARES TO LEAVE"
Nay, bid me not my cares to leave, Who cannot from their shadow flee.
I do but win a short reprieve, 'Scaping to pleasure and to thee.
I may, at best, a moment's grace, And