POEMS

BY

LIONEL JOHNSON

1895

LONDON * ELKIN MATHEWS BOSTON * COPELAND & DAY

TO THE HONOURED AND GREATLY LOVED SAINT MARY COLLEGE OF WINCHESTER NEAR WINCHESTER A WYKEHAMIST COME OF WYKEHAMISTS I DEDICATE THIS BOOK.

Gulielmum Wickamum, ut optimum parentem agnosco, suscipio, colo, cui si quid in me doctrinae, virtutis, pietatis, et Catholicae religionis, maxime acceptum refero. Quippe qui ab ineunte aetate, in Wintoniensi primum, deinde et Oxontensi eius collegio, ad omnem ingenii, doctrinae, et pietatis cultum capessendum institutus sim.

HARPSFIELD.

CONTENTS.

WINCHESTER TO MORFYDD PLATO IN LONDON IN FALMOUTH HARBOUR A FRIEND A BURDEN OF EASTER VIGIL BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS LALEHAM OUR LADY OF FRANCE IN MEMORY THE PRECEPT OF SILENCE HILL AND VALE GWYNEDD A CORNISH NIGHT MYSTIC AND CAVALIER PARNELL IN ENGLAND TO OCEAN HAZARD: GIPSY UPON A DRAWING THE ROMAN STAGE "TO WEEP IRISH" SUMMER STORM TO A TRAVELLER IN MEMORY OF M. B. HAWTHORNE GLORIES LINES TO A LADY UPON HER THIRD BIRTHDAY CELTIC SPEECH WAYS OF WAR THE COMING OF WAR IRELAND'S DEAD HARMONIES THE LAST MUSIC A DREAM OF YOUTH ROMANS THE TROOPSHIP DEAD SANCTA SILVARUM BAGLEY WOOD CORONA CRUCIS A SONG OF ISRAEL THE DARK ANGEL A FRIEND TO A PASSIONIST ADVENTUS DOMINI MEN OF ASSISI MEN OF AQUINO LUCRETIUS ENTHUSIASTS CADGWITH VISIONS TO LEO XIII. AT THE BURIAL OF CARDINAL MANNING VIGILS THE CHURCH OF A DREAM THE AGE OF A DREAM OXFORD NIGHTS TO A SPANISH FRIEND TO MY PATRONS BRONTË COMFORT MOEL FAMMAU SORTES VIRGILIANAE CONSOLATION ORACLES THE DESTROYER OF A SOUL OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS ASH WEDNESDAY DESIDERIA ARMA VIRUMQUE THE DAY OF COMING DAYS RENEGADE WALES HARVEST

TO CERTAIN FRIENDS THE PETITION THE CLASSICS APRIL A PROSELYTE BEYOND EXPERIENCE ESCAPE TRENTALS THE RED WIND SERTORIUS SAINT COLUMBA BELLS

POEMS

WINCHESTER.

To the fairest! Then to thee Consecrate and bounden be, Winchester! this verse of mine. Ah, that loveliness of thine! To have lived enchaunted years Free from sorrows, free from fears, Where thy Tower's great shadow falls Over those proud buttressed walls; Whence a purpling glory pours From high heaven's inheritors, Throned within the arching stone! To have wandered, hushed, alone, Gently round thy fair, fern-grown Chauntry of the Lilies, lying Where the soft night winds go sighing Round thy Cloisters, in moonlight Branching dark, or touched with white: Round old, chill aisles, where moon-smitten Blanches the Orate, written Under each worn, old-world face Graven on Death's holy place!

To the noblest! None but thee. Blest our living eyes, that see Half a thousand years fulfilled Of that age, which Wykeham willed Thee to win; yet all unworn, As upon that first March morn, When thine honoured city saw Thy young beauty without flaw, Born within her water-flowing, Ancient hollows, by wind-blowing Hills enfolded ever more. Thee, that lord of splendid lore, Orient from old Hellas' shore, Grocyn, had to mother: thee, Monumental majesty Of most high philosophy Honours, in thy wizard Browne: Tender Otway's dear renown, Mover of a perfect pity, Victim of the iron city, Thine to cherish is: and thee, Laureate of Liberty; Harper of the Highland faith, Elf, and faery, and wan wraith; Chaunting softly, chaunting slowly, Minstrel of all melancholy; Master of all melody, Made to cling round memory; Passion's poet, Evening's voice, Collins glorified. Rejoice, Mother! in thy sons: for all Love thine immemorial Name, august and musical. Not least he, who left thy side, For his sire's, thine earlier pride, Arnold: whom we mourn to-day, Prince of song, and gone away

To his brothers of the bay: Thine the love of all his years; His be now thy praising tears.

To the dearest! Ah, to thee! Hast thou not in all to me Mother, more than mother, been? Well toward thee may Mary Queen Bend her with a mother's mien; Who so rarely dost express An inspiring tenderness, Woven with thy sterner strain, Prelude of the world's true pain. But two years, and still my feet Found thy very stones more sweet, Than the richest fields elsewhere: Two years, and thy sacred air Still poured balm upon me, when Nearer drew the world of men; When the passions, one by one, All sprang upward to the sun: Two years have I lived, still thine; Lost, thy presence! gone, that shrine, Where six years, what years! were mine. Music is the thought of thee; Fragrance, all thy memory. Those thy rugged Chambers old, In their gloom and rudeness, hold Dear remembrances of gold. Some first blossoming of flowers Made delight of all the hours; Greatness, beauty, all things fair Made the spirit of thine air: Old years live with thee; thy sons Walk with high companions. Then, the natural joy of earth, Joy of very health and birth! Hills, upon a summer noon: Water Meads, on eves of June:

Chamber Court, beneath the moon: Days of spring, on Twyford Down, Or when autumn woods grew brown; As they looked, when here came Keats, Chaunting of autumnal sweets; Through this city of old haunts, Murmuring immortal chaunts; As when Pope, art's earlier king, Here, a child, did nought but sing; Sang, a child, by nature's rule, Round the trees of Twyford School: Hours of sun beside Mead's Wall, Ere the may begin to fall; Watching the rooks rise and soar, High from lime and sycamore: Wanderings by old-world ways, Walks and streets of ancient days; Closes, churches, arches, halls, Vanished men's memorials. There was beauty, there was grace, Each place was an holy place: There the kindly fates allowed Me too room; and made me proud, Prouder name I have not wist! With the name of Wykehamist. These thy joys: and more than these: Ah, to watch beneath thy trees, Through long twilights linden-scented, Sunsets, lingering, lamented, In the purple west; prevented, Ere they fell, by evening star! Ah, long nights of Winter! far Leaps and roars the faggot fire; Ruddy smoke rolls higher, higher,

Broken through by flame's desire; Circling faces glow, all eyes Take the light; deep radiance flies, Merrily flushing overhead Names of brothers, long since fled; And fresh clusters, in their stead, Jubilant round fierce forest flame. Friendship too must make her claim: But what songs, what memories end, When they tell of friend on friend? And for them, I thank thy name.

Love alone of gifts, no shame Lessens, and I love thee: yet Sound it but of echoes, let This my maiden music be, Of the love I bear to thee, Witness and interpreter, Mother mine: loved Winchester!

1888.

TO MORFYDD.

A voice on the winds, A voice by the waters, Wanders and cries: Oh! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes!

Western the winds are, And western the waters, Where the light lies: Oh! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes!

Cold, cold, grow the winds, And wild grow the waters, Where the sun dies: Oh! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes!

And down the night winds, And down the night waters, The music flies: Oh! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Cold be the winds, And wild be the waters, So mine be your eyes!

1891

PLATO IN LONDON.

To Campbell Dodgson.

The pure flame of one taper fall Over the old and comely page: No harsher light disturb at all This converse with a treasured sage. Seemly, and fair, and of the best, If Plato be our guest, Should things befall.

Without, a world of noise and cold: Here, the soft burning of the fire. And Plato walks, where heavens unfold, About the home of his desire. From his own city of high things, He shows to us, and brings, Truth of fine gold.

The hours pass; and the fire burns low; The clear flame dwindles into death: Shut then the book with care; and so, Take leave of Plato, with hushed breath: A little, by the falling gleams, Tarry the gracious dreams: And they too go.

Lean from the window to the air: Hear London's voice upon the night! Thou hast bold converse with things rare: Look now upon another sight! The calm stars, in their living skies: And then, these surging cries, This restless glare!

That starry music, starry fire, High above all our noise and glare: The image of our long desire, The beauty, and the strength, are there. And Plato's thought lives, true and clear, In as august a sphere: Perchance, far higher.

1889.

IN FALMOUTH HARBOUR.

To Frank Mathew.

I.

The large, calm harbour lies below Long, terraced lines of circling light: Without, the deep sea currents flow: And here are stars, and night.

No sight, no sound, no living stir, But such as perfect the still bay: So hushed it is, the voyager Shrinks at the thought of day.

We glide by many a lanterned mast; Our mournful horns blow wild to warn Yon looming pier: the sailors cast Their ropes, and watch for morn.

Strange murmurs from the sleeping town, And sudden creak of lonely oars Crossing the water, travel down The roadstead, the dim shores.

A charm is on the silent bay; Charms of the sea, charms of the land. Memories of open wind convey Peace to this harbour strand.

Far off, Saint David's crags descend On seas of desolate storm: and far From this pure rest, the Land's drear End, And ruining waters, are.

Well was it worth to have each hour Of high and perilous blowing wind: For here, for now, deep peace hath power To conquer the worn mind.

I have passed over the rough sea, And over the white harbour bar: And this is Death's dreamland to me, Led hither by a star.

And what shall dawn be? Hush thee, nay! Soft, soft is night, and calm and still: Save that day cometh, what of day Knowest thou: good, or ill?

Content thee! Not the annulling light Of any pitiless dawn is here; Thou art alone with ancient night: And all the stars are clear.

Only the night air, and the dream; Only the far, sweet-smelling wave; The stilly sounds, the circling gleam, And thine: and thine a grave.

1887.

II.

Hence, by stern thoughts and strong winds borne, Voyaged, with faith that could not fail, Who cried: Lead, kindly Light! forlorn Beneath a stranger sail.

Becalmed upon a classic sea; Wandering through eternal Rome; Fighting with Death in Sicily: He hungered for his home.

These northern waves, these island airs! Dreams of these haunted his full heart: Their love inspired his songs and prayers, Bidding him play his part.

The freedom of the living dead; The service of a living pain: He chose between them, bowed his head, And counted sorrow, gain.

Ah, sweetest soul of all! whose choice Was golden with the light of lights: But us doubt's melancholy voice, Wandering in gloom, unites.

Ah, sweetest soul of all! whose voice Hailed morning, and the sun's increase: We of the restless night rejoice, We also, at thy peace.

1887.

A FRIEND.

To H. B. Irving.

All, that he came to give, He gave, and went again: I have seen one man live, I have seen one man reign, With all the graces in his train.

As one of us, he wrought Things of the common hour: Whence was the charmed soul brought, That gave each act such power; The natural beauty of a flower?

Magnificence and grace, Excellent courtesy: A brightness on the face, Airs of high memory: Whence came all these, to such as he?

Like young Shakespearian kings, He won the adoring throng: And, as Apollo sings, He triumphed with a song: Triumphed, and sang, and passed along.

With a light word, he took The hearts of men in thrall: And, with a golden look, Welcomed them, at his call Giving their love, their strength, their all.

No man less proud than he, Nor cared for homage less: Only, he could not be Far off from happiness: Nature was bound to his success.

Weary, the cares, the jars, The lets, of every day: But the heavens filled with stars, Chanced he upon the way: And where he stayed, all joy would stay.

Now, when sad night draws down, When the austere stars burn: Roaming the vast live town, My thoughts and memories yearn Toward him, who never will return.

Yet have I seen him live, And owned my friend, a king: All that he came to give, He gave: and I, who sing His praise, bring all I have to bring.

1889.

A BURDEN OF EASTER VIGIL.

Awhile meet Doubt and Faith: For either sigheth and saith, That He is dead To-day: the linen cloths cover His head, That hath, at last, whereon to rest; a rocky bed.

Come! for the pangs are done, That overcast the sun, So bright to-day! And moved the Roman soldier: come away! Hath sorrow more to weep? Hath pity more to say?

Why wilt thou linger yet? Think on dark Olivet; On Calvary stem: Think, from the happy birth at Bethlehem, To this last woe and passion at Jerusalem!

This only can be said: He loved us all; is dead; May rise again. But if He rise not? Over the far main, The sun of glory falls indeed: the stars are plain.

1888.

BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS.

To William Watson.

Sombre and rich, the skies; Great glooms, and starry plains. Gently the night wind sighs; Else a vast silence reigns.

The splendid silence clings Around me: and around The saddest of all kings Crowned, and again discrowned.

Comely and calm, he rides Hard by his own Whitehall: Only the night wind glides: No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.

Gone, too, his Court: and yet, The stars his courtiers are: Stars in their stations set; And every wandering star.

Alone he rides, alone, The fair and fatal king: Dark night is all his own, That strange and solemn thing.

Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies?

Although his whole heart yearn In passionate tragedy: Never was face so stern With sweet austerity.

Vanquished in life, his death By beauty made amends: The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends.

Brief life, and hapless? Nay: Through death, life grew sublime. Speak after sentence? Yea: And to the end of time.

Armoured he rides, his head Bare to the stars of doom: He triumphs now, the dead, Beholding London's gloom.

Our wearier spirit faints, Vexed in the world's employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy.

King, tried in fires of woe! Men hunger for thy grace: And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face.

Yet, when the city sleeps; When all the cries are still: The stars and heavenly deeps Work out a perfect will.

1889

LALEHAM.

To Arthur Galton.

Only one voice could sing aright His brother poet, lost in night: His voice, who lies not far away, The pure and perfect voice of Gray. The sleep of humble men he sang, For whom the tolling church bells rang Over their silent fields and vales, Whence no rude sound their calm assails. He knew their melancholy rest, And peaceful sleep, on earth's kind breast; Their patient lives, their common doom, The beauty of their simple tomb. One thing he left unsung: how some, To share those village slumbers, come: Whose voices filled the world with joy, Who made high thoughts their one employ. Ah, loving hearts! Too great to prize Things whereon most men set their eyes: The applauding crowd; the golden lure Of wealth, insatiate and unsure; A life of noise! a restless death: The sanctities of life's last breath Profaned with ritual pride and state; Last pageant of the little great! But these, to whom all crowns of song, And all immortal praise, belong, Turn from each garish sight and sound, To lay them down in humble ground: Choosing that still, enchaunted sleep To be, where kindly natures keep:

In sound of pleasant water rills, In shadows of the solemn hills. Earth's heart, earth's hidden way, they knew: Now on their grave light falls her dew. The music of her soul was theirs: They sleep beneath her sweetest airs.

Beside the broad, gray Thames one lies, With whom a spring of beauty dies: Among the willows, the pure wind Calls all his wistful song to mind; And, as the calm, strong river flows, With it his mightier music goes; But those winds cool, those waters lave, The country of his chosen grave. Go past the cottage flowers, and see, Where Arnold held it good to be! Half church, half cottage, comely stands An holy house, from Norman hands: By rustic Time well taught to wear Some lowly, meditative air: Long ages of a pastoral race Have softened sternness into grace; And many a touch of simpler use From Norman strength hath set it loose. Here, under old, red-fruited yews, And summer suns, and autumn dews, With his lost children at his side, Sleeps Arnold: Still those waters glide, Those winds blow softly down their breast: But he, who loved them, is at rest.

1889

OUR LADY OF FRANCE.

To Ernest Dowson.

Leave we awhile without the turmoil of the town; Leave we the sullen gloom, the faces full of care: Stay we awhile and dream, within this place of prayer, Stay we, and pray, and dream: till in our hearts die down Thoughts of the world, unkind and weary: till Christ crown Laborious day with love. Hark! on the fragrant air, Music of France, voices of France, fall piercing fair: Poor France, where Mary star shines, lest her children drown.

Our Lady of France! dost thou inhabit here? Behold, What sullen gloom invests this city strange to thee! In Seine, and pleasant Loire, thou gloriest from of old; Thou rulest rich Provence; lovest the Breton sea: What dost thou far from home? Nay! here my children fold Their exiled hands in orison, and long for me.

1891.

IN MEMORY.

I.

Under the clear December sun, Perishing and cold, Sleep, Malise! who hast early won Light of sacred gold. Sleep, be at rest: we still will keep Dear love for thee lain down to sleep.

Youth, loving faces, holy toil, These death takes from thee: But of our love, none shall despoil Thy fair soul set free. The labours of thy love are done: Thy labour's crown of love is won.

Sleep, Malise! While the winds blow yet Over thy quiet grave: We, labouring deathward, will forget Thee never: wherefore have Hope, and pure patience: we, too, come Presently to thee, in thine home.

1885.

II.

Ah! fair face gone from sight, With all its light Of eyes, that pierced the deep Of human night! Ah! fair face calm in sleep.

Ah! fair lips hushed in death! Now their glad breath Breathes not upon our air Music, that saith Love only, and things fair.

Ah! lost brother! Ah! sweet Still hands and feet! May those feet haste to reach, Those hands to greet, Us, where love needs no speech.

1886.

III.

Sea-gulls, wheeling, swooping, crying, Crying over Maes Garmon side! Cold is the wind for your white wings' flying: Cold and dim is our gray springtide.

But an hundred miles and more away, In the old, sweet city, Birds of spring are singing to the May, Their old, sweet ditty.

There he lies, whom I loved so well, And lies, whom I love so dearly: At thought of his youth, our buds will swell; Of his face, our sun shine clearly.

Sea-gulls, wheeling, swooping, crying, Crying over Maes Garmon side! Spirits of fire with him are flying, Souls of flame, to the Crucified.

Yet, far away from the ancient places, Ancient pleasures, and ancient days: He too thinks of our exiled faces, Far away from his whiter ways.

Sea-gulls, over Maes Garmon side, Flying and crying! flying and crying! You and all creatures, since Malise died, I have loved the more, both singing and sighing.

1887.

IV.

Glimmering lake, waters of Windermere! Winchester your name must be: Or is all an evening dream? Nay! Winton waters wander here, Delighting me, Down through that ancient bridge, that old-world stream.

I lean against the old, pillared balustrade: Now upon the red, worn mill, Now upon the rapid race, Poring: or where, within the shade Of freshly chill, Low arches, wallflowers hide their homely grace.

Swiftly descend those waters of the weir: Sweeping past old cottages, Curving round, ah, happy tide! Into sight of towers most dear, Of ancient trees Loved all by heart: glad stream, who there may glide!

Farewell, whom I have loved so in gone years! Up the little climbing street, To the memoried Church I pass, Church of Saint John: whence loving tears Made the way sweet, Saddest of ways, unto the holy grass.

Up the slow hill, people and holy Cross Bore thee to the sleeping place, Malise! whom thy lovers weep. Spring lilies crown from the soft moss Thy silent face, All peaceful, Malise! in thy perfect sleep.