THE SCARLET GOWN: BEING VERSES BY A ST. ANDREWS MAN

ST. ANDREWS, N.B.: A. M. HOLDEN LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON & CO. 1891

p. i‘ . . . the little town, The drifting surf, the wintry year, The college of the scarlet gown, St. Andrews by the Northern Sea, That is a haunted town to me.’ Andrew Lang.

p. iiPREFACE

St. Andrews, but for its Town Council and its School Board, is a quiet place; and the University, except during the progress of a Rectorial Election, is peaceable and well-conducted. I hope these verses may so far reflect St. Andrews life as to be found pleasant, if not over exciting.

I am able to reprint the verses on ‘The City of Golf’ by the special courtesy of the Editor of the Saturday Review.

A few explanatory notes are given at the end of the book.

R. F. MURRAY.

p. 1THE VOICE THAT SINGS

The voice that sings across the night Of long forgotten days and things, Is there an ear to hear aright The voice that sings?

It is as when a curfew rings Melodious in the dying light, A sound that flies on pulsing wings.

And faded eyes that once were bright Brim over, as to life it brings The echo of a dead delight, The voice that sings.

p. 2THE BEST PIPE

In vain you fervently extol, In vain you puff, your cutty clay. A twelvemonth smoked and black as coal, ’Tis redolent of rank decay And bones of monks long passed away— A fragrance I do not admire; And so I hold my nose and say, Give me a finely seasoned briar.

Macleod, whose judgment on the whole Is faultless, has been led astray To nurse a high-born meerschaum bowl, For which he sweetly had to pay. Ah, let him nurse it as he may, Before the colour mounts much higher, The grate shall be its fate one day. Give me a finely seasoned briar.

p. 3The heathen Turk of Istamboul, In oriental turban gay, Delights his unbelieving soul With hookahs, bubbling in a way To fill a Christian with dismay And wake the old Crusading fire. May no such pipe be mine, I pray; Give me a finely seasoned briar.

Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they That I should view them with desire? Both now, and when my hair is grey, Give me a finely seasoned briar.

p. 4HYMN OF HIPPOLYTUS TO ARTEMIS

Artemis! thou fairest Of the maids that be In divine Olympus, Hail! Hail to thee! To thee I bring this woven weed Culled for thee from a virgin mead, Where neither shepherd claims his flocks to feed Nor ever yet the mower’s scythe hath come. There in the Spring the wild bee hath his home, Lightly passing to and fro Where the virgin flowers grow; And there the watchful Purity doth go Moistening with dew-drops all the ground below, Drawn from a river untaintedly flowing, p. 5 They who have gained by a kind fate’s bestowing Pure hearts, untaught by philosophy’s care, May gather the flowers in the mead that are blowing, But the tainted in spirit may never be there.

Now, O Divinest, eternally fair, Take thou this garland to gather thy hair, Brought by a hand that is pure as the air. For I alone of all the sons of men Hear thy pure accents, answering thee again. And may I reach the goal of life as I began the race, Blest by the music of thy voice, though darkness ever veil thy face!

p. 6ON A CRUSHED HAT

Brown was my friend, and faithful—but so fat! He came to see me in the twilight dim; I rose politely and invited him To take a seat—how heavily he sat!

He sat upon the sofa, where my hat, My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim; Its build, unlike my friend’s, was rather slim, And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat.

O Hat, that wast the apple of my eye, Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown, And I shall never wear thee any more; Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie, And with the years the dust will settle down On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore!

p. 7A SWINBURNIAN INTERLUDE

Short space shall be hereafter Ere April brings the hour Of weeping and of laughter, Of sunshine and of shower, Of groaning and of gladness, Of singing and of sadness, Of melody and madness, Of all sweet things and sour.

Sweet to the blithe bucolic Who knows nor cribs nor crams, Who sees the frisky frolic Of lanky little lambs; p. 8 But sour beyond expression To one in deep depression Who sees the closing session And imminent exams.

He cannot hear the singing Of birds upon the bents, Nor watch the wildflowers springing, Nor smell the April scents. He gathers grief with grinding, Foul food of sorrow finding In books of dreary binding And drearier contents.

One hope alone sustains him, And no more hopes beside, One trust alone restrains him From shocking suicide; p. 9 He will not play nor palter With hemlock or with halter, He will not fear nor falter, Whatever chance betide.

He knows examinations Like all things else have ends, And then come vast vacations And visits to his friends, And youth with pleasure yoking, And joyfulness and joking, And smilingness and smoking, For grief to make amends.

p. 10SWEETHEART

Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know, More fair to me Than flowers that make the loveliest show To tempt the bee.

When other girls, whose faces are, Beside thy face, As rushlights to the evening star, Deny thy grace,

I silent sit and let them speak, As men of strength Allow the impotent and weak To rail at length.

p. 11If they should tell me Love is blind, And so doth miss The faults which they are quick to find, I’d answer this:

Envy is blind; not Love, whose eyes Are purged and clear Through gazing on the perfect skies Of thine, my dear.

p. 12MUSIC FOR THE DYING

from the french of sully prudhomme

Ye who will help me in my dying pain, Speak not a word: let all your voices cease. Let me but hear some soft harmonious strain, And I shall die at peace.

Music entrances, soothes, and grants relief From all below by which we are opprest; I pray you, speak no word unto my grief, But lull it into rest.

Tired am I of all words, and tired of aught That may some falsehood from the ear conceal, Desiring rather sounds which ask no thought, Which I need only feel:

p. 13A melody in whose delicious streams The soul may sink, and pass without a breath From fevered fancies into quiet dreams, From dreaming into death.

p. 14FAREWELL TO A SINGER

on her marriage

As those who hear a sweet bird sing, And love each song it sings the best, Grieve when they see it taking wing And flying to another nest:

We, who have heard your voice so oft, And loved it more than we can tell, Our hearts grow sad, our voices soft, Our eyes grow dim, to say farewell.

It is not kind to leave us thus; Yet we forgive you and combine, Although you now bring grief to us, To wish you joy, for auld lang syne.