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THE  GREAT   KINSHIP 


This  volume  is  published  by  Messrs.  Allen  &   Untvln  Ltd. 
for  the  Humanitarian  League 


The  Great  Kinship 

AN  ANT  HO  LOOT  OF  HUMANITARIAN 
POETRT 


EDITED    BY 

BERTRAM    LLOYD 


LONDON:    GEORGE    ALLEN    &    UNWIN   LTD. 
RUSKIN   HOUSE,  40  MUSEUM    STREET,  W.C.  I 


First  published  in  1921 


(All  rights  reserved) 


PREFACE 

HUMANE  poetry  about  animals,  that  is  to  say  poetry 
which,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  expresses  in 
some  degree  the  feeling  of  man's  sympathetic  con- 
nection or  bond  with  the  other  creatures  of  the  earth 
— whether  in  the  sense  of  kinship  or  fellowship  or 
even  lordship — has  existed  for  thousands  of  years, 
side  by  side  of  course  with  a  far  greater  volume  of 
its  opposite,  the  poetry  which  treats  animals  as 
merely  man's  antagonists  or  tools  or  playthings : 
poems  of  hunting,  sport,  and  so  forth. 

The  task  of  tracing  this  humane  or  zoophilist  spirit 
in  poetry  from  the  earliest  times  would  be  far  beyond 
my  power,  nor  is  it  necessary  to  attempt  it  here, 
even  in  outline.  But  leaving  aside  altogether  the 
great  Eastern  literatures,  and  confining  ourselves  to 
the  Western  world,  it  may  be  said  at  once  that  on 
the  whole  there  is  very  little  humanitarian l  verse 
of  this  kind  to  be  found  until  the  last  two  or  three 
centuries,  but  that  from  the  eighteenth  century 
onwards  there  has  been  a  steady  and  rapid  increase. 
It  is  pleasant  to  record  that  this  increase  is  specially 
noticeable  in  English  literature,  where  indeed,  so 
far  as  poetry  is  concerned,  the  origins  of  the  latest 

1  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  point  out  that  I  use  this  word 
in  the  modern  sense,  which  has  become  current  mainly  through 
the  agency  of  the  Humanitarian  League.  For  definition  and 
discussion  see  H.  S.  Salt's  essay  Humanitarianism  in  Hastings's 
Enci/.  of  Religion  and  Ethics,  vol.  vi,  1913. 

V 

?763 


phase  of  the  whole  tendency  are  to  be  sought.  No 
other  European  literature  possesses  a  body  of  humani- 
tarian poetry  which  either,  in  volume  or  quality,  is 
comparable  with  our  own. 

What  survives  to  us  of  old  Greek  literature  con- 
tains a  good  deal  of  interesting  speculation  and  obser- 
vation on  the  position  and  capacity  of  animals ; 
but  classic  Greek  poetry  displays  little  if  any  feeling 
of  the  essential  kinship  of  man  and  beast,  though 
the  Anthology  contains  some  humane  pieces,  such  as 
that  on  Alcon's  pensioned  ox,  and  the  epitaph  on  a 
dog  quoted  in  the  Notes  to  this  volume.  Nor  is 
such  a  sense  much  in  evidence  among  the  Latin  poets, 
though  scattered  passages,  such  as  Lucretius' s  wonder- 
ful description  of  the  cow  mourning  for  her  calf  (which 
has  often  served  as  a  model  for  later  writers),  or 
Virgil's  pathetic  picture  of  the  dying  ox,  and  his 
famous  comparison  of  Orpheus's  grief  for  the  lost 
Eurydice  with  that  of  the  nightingale  bewailing  her 
stolen  nestlings,  do  indeed  attest  that  among  the 
greater  poets  compassion  and  sympathy  were  by  no 
means  lacking.  Many  of  the  ideas  and  arguments 
regarding  animals  put  forward  by  the  humane  philo- 
sopher Plutarch  in  the  first  century  A.D.,  and  later 
on  those  of  Porphyry  and  his  disciples,  certainly 
anticipated  to  a  remarkable  extent  various  so-called 
modern  theories  now  very  widely  held.  But  the 
rapid  growth  of  official  Christianity  to  power  and 
dominion,  its  continual  stressing  of  the  future  life 
at  the  expense  of  the  present  one,  its  arrogant  anthro- 
pocentricism,  and  utter  lack  of  interest  in  the  non- 
human  creature,1  undoubtedly  served  to  render  the 

1  "  It  was  this  lack  of  sympathy,  surviving  in  large  measure 
even  to  modern  times,  which  caused  Buddhists  to  speak  of 

vi 


Middle  Ages  almost  destitute  of  zoophilist  poetry. 
Save  for  the  numerous  legends  'of  saints  and 
hermits,  wherein  animals  in  one  way  or  another 
play  an  honourable  part,  very  little  is,  in  fact,  dis- 
coverable ;  and  even  here  it  is  fair  to  point  out  that 
the  Animal  often  only  appears  in  order  to  serve  as 
an  adjunct  to  the  holiness  of  the  Man.1  The  out- 
sljanding  and  almost  isolated  figure  of  St.  Francis 
is  of  course  the  great  exception  ;  but  his  example 
and  teaching  as  regards  man's  brotherhood  with 
animals  seems  to  have  had  small  influence  on  the 
poets  of  his  age,  which  showed  remarkably  little 
interest  in 

the  love-lit  law 
Sweet  Assisi's  seer  foresaw. 

Indeed  it  was  not  until  centuries  after  the  death  of 
Francis  that  the  influence  of  his  teaching  on  this 
point  began  to  show  itself  clearly  in  poetry.  We 
even  find  one  thirteenth-century  Christian  mystic, 
the  poetess  Mechthild  of  Magdeburg,  going  so  far 
as  to  exclude  animals  and  birds  from  her  Earthly 
Paradise,  on  the  ground  that  God  has  reserved  it 
for  mankind  alone,  so  that  he  may  dwell  there  un- 
disturbed.2 A  strange  sort  of  Paradise,  truly  !  It 
would  no  doubt  be  possible  to  cite  a  number  of  poems 
written  during  the  Middle  Ages  and  the  Reformation 
period  which  actually  do  celebrate  animals,  but  it 
will  almost  invariably  be  found  that  in  such  poems 

Christendom  as  '  the  hell  of  animals,'  "  says  H.  S.  Salt  in 
in  his  Humanitarianism. 

1  Many  of  the  Christian  saints  were,  of  course,  extremely 
compassionate  to  animals.  This  is  specially  recorded  of 
Columba,  Bernard,  and  Anselm,  for  example. 

8  Alice    Kemp-Welch,    Of   Six   Mediaeval    Women   (London 
1913). 

vii 


— often  charming  enough  from  the  purely  literary 
point  of  view — the  animal  is  only  regarded  as  a 
pleasant  toy ;  rarely  indeed  is  there  much  sign  of 
deeper  feeling  or  more  penetrating  vision.  Such 
eulogies  are  frequently  merely  humorous,  and  the 
best  of  them  are  generally  scarcely  more  than 
patronizing  in  tone.  Examples  of  this  kind  of  writing, 
which  I  take  at  random,  are  the  delightful  old  Irish 
poem  of  the  Monk  and  his  pet  cat,1  the  various  pretty 
Elizabethan  songs  about  pet  birds  (often  modelled 
on  Catullus's  lines  about  Lesbia's  sparrow),  du  Bellay's 
verses  on  his  pet  animals,  and  Skelton's  lengthy  and 
whimsical  Book  of  Philip  Sparow  : 

And  many  times  and  ofte 

Between  my  brestes  softe 

It  wold  lye  and  rest, 

It  was  propre  and  prest. 

And  whan  I  sayd  Phyp,  Phyp, 

Then  he  wold  leape  and  skip 

And  take  me  by  the  lip. 

Alas,  it  wyl  me  slo 

That  Phillyp  is  gone  me  fro. 

The  kindly  Chaucer,  too,  records  of  his  Prioress  in 
The  Canterbury  Tales  that 

for  to  speken  of  hir  conscience, 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pi  tons, 
She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  sawe  a  mous 
Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  had  she,  that  she  fedde 
With  rested  flesh,  or  milk  and  wastel -breed. 
But  sore  weep  she  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed, 
Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte  : 
And  all  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte. 

But  the  gentle  Prioress — a  Woman  of  Sensibility,  as 
an  eighteenth-century  writer  might  have  called  her 

1  Translated  by  Kuno  Meyer  in  Selections  from  Ancient  Irish 
Poetry  (London,   1913). 

viii 


— was  probably  a  somewhat  uncommon  type  of 
character  in  Chaucer's  England,  as  she  certainly  is 
in  the  poetry  of  his  day.  The  charming  epitaphs  by 
Joachim  du  Bellay  on  Belaud  and  "  nostre  petit 
Pelotan,"  his  pet  cat  and  dog,  are  well  known,  and 
perhaps  still  read.  "  What  animal  of  the  sixteenth 
century  lives  so  clearly  as  these  two  ?  "  writes  Mr. 
H.  Belloc  in  Avril.  "  None,  I  think,  except  some 
few  in  the  pictures  of  the  painters  of  the  low 
countries."  The  sixteenth  century,  it  is  true,  pro- 
duced some  great  humanitarian  prose-writers,  such 
as  More  and  Montaigne.  The  famous  Essays  of  the 
latter,  in  particular,  contain  remarkably  just  and 
noble  ideas  and  sentiments  on  the  subject  of  man's 
relations  with  animals ;  but  here  again,  curiously 
enough,  there  is  little  similar  feeling  observable  in 
contemporary  poetry.  Shakespere  indeed,  who  was 
familiar  with  Florio's  translation  of  the  Essays, 
which  was  one  of  the  most  popular  books  in  England 
during  his  later  years,  refers  occasionally  to  the 
sufferings  of  hunted  animals,1  but  this  is  scant  evidence 
that  his  ideas  on  the  ethics  of  sport  and  hunting 
were  at  all  in  advance  of  his  age,  as  were  those  of 
Montaigne  and  More.  It  is  just  possible,  however, 
that  we  have  a  slight  indication  of  his  personal  feeling 
with  regard  to  experiments  on  animals  in  the  following 
passage  from  Cymbeline  (Act  i,  5),  though  in  view 
of  the  context  it  is  perhaps  unfair  to  base  any  definite 
conclusion  on  it,  as  has  sometimes  been  attempted. 

CORNELIUS. 

My  conscience  bids  me  ask — wherefore  you  have 
Commanded  of  me  these  most  poisonous  compounds, 


1  For  example  "  poor  Wat  "  the  hare,  in  Venus  and  Adonis, 
and  Jacques's  wounded  stag,  "  the  hairy  fool,"  in  As  Yon  Like  It. 

ix 


Which  are  the  movers  of  a  languishing  death, 

But  though  slow,  deadly  ?  - 
QUEEN. 

I  will  try  the  forces 

Of  these  thy  compounds  on  such  creatures  as 

We  count  not  worth  the  hanging,  but  none  human, 

To  try  the  vigour  of  them  and  apply 

Allayments  to  their  act,  and  by  them  gather 

Their  several  virtues  and  effects. 
CORNELIUS. 

Your  highness 

Shall  from  this  practice  but  make  hard  your  heart. 

Spenser  has  two  or  three  noble  passages  extolling 
the  beauty  of  the  animal  creation  (such  as  that  in 
the  Hymne  to  Heavenly  Beautie),  but  except  for  such 
vague  generalizations,  which,  like  "  the  birds'  melo- 
dious lays,"  must  be  considered  merely  part  of  the 
ordinary  stock-in-trade  of  the  poet,  the  great  body 
of  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean  verse  is  silent  on  the 
subject  of  sympathy  with  animals.  The  next  age 
was  almost  equally  barren,  though  in  Marvell,  the 
author  of  The  Nymph  Complaining  for  the  Death  of 
her  Fawn,  it  produced  one  humane  poet  of  high 
achievement  who  was  also  a  true  Nature-lover. 

Thrice  happy  he,  who,  not  mistook, 
Hath  read  in  Nature's  sacred  book  ! 

he  wrote  in  Appleion  House,  and  his  early  poems, 
written  with  infectious  zest  and  loving  observation, 
are  full  of  pleasant  pictures  of  gardens  and  trees 
and  wild  birds.  Two  or  three  of  his  delightful 
vignettes  of  birds,  indeed,  are  among  the  best  in  all 
our  pre-eighteenth-century  verse.  One  other  not 
uninteresting  poem  may  be  mentioned  here :  the 
thoughtful,  if  somewhat  stilted  eulogy,  The  Irish 
Greyhound,  by  Marvell's  once  extravagantly  praised 


contemporary  Mrs.  Katherine  Philips,  "  the  matchless 
Orinda." 

Man's  guard  he  would  be,  not  his  sport 
Believing  he  hath  ventured  for't, 
But  yet  no  blood,  or  shed  or  spent, 
Can  ever  make  him  insolent. 

But  in  general  the  humane  temperament  found 
little  expression  in  the  poetry  of  the  period ;  animals 
were  still  regarded  as  merely  chattels,  and  respect  for 
them  at  best  hardly  extended  beyond  acquiescence  in 
the  biblical  precept,  "  a  righteous  man  regardeth  the 
life  of  his  beast."  It  would  be  difficult,  if  not  impos- 
sible, to  point  to  any  contemporary  protests  against  the 
brutal  popular  sports  of  bear-baiting,  badger-baiting, 
and  the  like.  A  poem  of  the  type  of  Mr.  Galsworthy's 
Pitiful  by  a  writer  of  that  day  is  quite  inconceivable 
and  the  generous  if  somewhat  mild  complaint  uttered 
by  Marvell's  Nymph,  "  even  beasts  must  be  with 
justice  slain,  else  men  were  made  their  deodands," 
is  sufficiently  strong  to  be  remarkable  for  the  time 
when  it  appeared.  It  is  only  necessary  to  compare 
Shakespeare's  descriptions  of  the  hunted  hare  and 
the  wounded  stag,  which  probably  contain  the 
humanest  poetry  about  animals  that  appeared  during 
the  whole  Elizabethan  period,  with  Burns's  fierce 
lines  On  Seeing  a  Wounded  Hare,  or  Wordsworth's 
Hart-leap  Well,  in  order  to  see  what  an  immensely 
different  conception  the  lapse  of  two  centuries  had 
brought  about.  Moreover  the  difference  was  as 
striking  in  quantity  as  in  quality,  for  these  two  poems 
by  the  later  writers  are  thoroughly  characteristic 
of  their  time.  Mild  sympathy  for  the  ill-used  animal 
is  replaced  by  sympathy  with  the  creature,  regarded 
as  a  sentient  fellow-being — a  sympathy  betokening 
a  wider  imagination  and  clearer  understanding. 

xi 


In  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  century  we  find 
indications  of  this  new  spirit  in  the  work  of  Pope 
and  some  of  his  contemporaries,  notably  James 
Thomson,  whose  poem  Autumn  was  particularly 
outspoken  on  the  subject  of  hunting ;  while  great 
writers  such  as  Cowper  and  Goldsmith,  coming  but 
little  later,  were  deeply  imbued  with  similar  ideas. 
The  age  was  the  age  of  "  sensibility  "  in  poetry  as 
well  as  in  prose  ;  and  the  close  of  the  century  saw 
humanitarianism,  in  the  widest  sense  of  the  word, 
firmly  established  in  English  poetry,  in  the  work 
of  Blake,  Burns,  Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge,  as  well 
as  many  lesser  writers. 

With  the  nineteenth  century  comes  Shelley,  of 
whom  it  need  only  be  said  that,  as  regards  his  humani- 
tarian ideas  and  theories,  he  was  perhaps  the  most 
intense  and  at  the  same  time  the  most  logical  of  all 
our  great  writers. 

When  Shelley  died  in  1822  there  were  already 
living  on  the  Continent  at  least  three  humanitarian 
poets  whose  work  has  strongly  influenced  the  thought 
of  their  own  and  succeeding  generations  :  Victor  Hugo 
in  France,  Hebbel  in  Germany,  and  Wergeland  in 
Norway.  But  it  was  not  till  the  century  was  well 
advanced — perhaps  indeed  not  until  the  implications 
of  the  Darwinian  theory  had  begun  to  be  more  clearly 
grasped — that  the  ever-growing  and  consolidating 
perception  of  the  kinship  of  the  whole  animal  world 
(including,  of  course,  Man)  which  has  exerted  and 
still  is  exerting  a  profound  effect  on  the  spirit  of  the 
age,  began  to  emerge  to  any  really  appreciable  extent 
in  European  poetry.  To-day  the  recognition  of  this 
kinship  is  becoming  increasingly  evident  in  a  variety 
of  ways,  such  as  the  steady,  though  slow  alteration 

xii 


in  our  attitude  towards  blood-sports,1  the  spread 
of  truly  scientific  study  of  animals — that  is,  of  living 
animals  instead  of  dead  u  specimens  " — the  remark- 
able popularity  of  books  dealing  with  animal  life 
and  beauty,  from  the  standpoint  of  the  naturalist 
and  imaginist  instead  of  the  "  collector,"  and  many 
others. 

The  growth  of  this  New  Conscience  for  an  Ancient 
Evil  is  clearly  reflected  in  contemporary  poetry  (by 
no  means  only  in  English  literature),  and  it  would 
probably  now  be  easy  to  find  a  score  of  humane  poems 
about  animals  for  every  one  that  existed  a  century 
ago.  "  Full  of  love  and  sympathy  for  this  feeble 
ant  climbing  over  grass  and  leaf,  for  yonder  nightin- 
gale pouring  forth  its  song,  feeling  a  community 
with  the  finches,  with  bird,  with  plant,  with  animal, 
and  reverently  studying  all  these,  and  more — how  is 
it  possible  for  the  heart  while  thus  wrapped  up  to 
conceive  the  desire  of  crime  ?  "  wrote  Richard  Jeff  cries 
in  one  of  his  last  essays.  This  spirit — the  true  spirit 
of  Nature-love — permeates  much  of  our  most  modern 
poetry  ;  and  poetry,  as  Shelley  said,  "  is  the  most 
unfailing  herald,  companion,  and  follower  of  the 
awakening  of  a  great  people  to  work  a  beneficial 
change  in  opinion  or  institution." 

The  poems  which  follow  fall,  roughly  speaking, 
into  three  groups,  though  it  is  obvious  that  no  very 
definite  line  can  be  drawn  between  them. 

(i)  Those  which  actually  inculcate  justice  to  animals 
as  an  ethical  duty,  or  at  any  rate  voice  the  feeling 

1  For  interesting  examples  of  this,  I  would  refer  the  reader 
to  Mr.  John  Masefield's  recently  published  poem  Reynard  the 
Fox,  and  to  an  article  entitled  "  A  new  Classic  of  Foxhunting  " 
in  The  Times  Literary  Supplement  of  July  22,  1920. 

xiii 


of  humaneness  or  compassion  towards  them  as  a 
matter  of  conscience — or  common  sense. 

(ii)  Those  which  express  a  more  general  sentiment 
of  the  universal  kinship  of  living  beings,  or  in  one 
way  or  another  stress  the  bond  of  union  between 
man  and  the  rest  of  the  animal  kingdom. 

(iii)  Those  which  though  not  strictly  to  be  classed 
in  either  of  the  foregoing  categories,  yet  tend  to  evoke 
in  the  reader  emotions  or  ideas  favourable  to  the 
growth  of  humane  feeling  :  in  short,  poems  which 
create  a  humanitarian  atmosphere. 

Some  poems,  naturally,  combine  the  qualities  of 
the  first  two  classes,  while  others  depend  partly  on 
the  point  of  view  from  which  they  are  regarded  for 
the  manner  and  extent  of  their  influence  on  the  reader. 

As  we  should  expect,  many  of  the  most  beautiful 
pieces  in  this  book,  and  indeed  some  of  the  most 
beautiful  in  English  literature,  belong  to  the  third 
of  the  above  groups.  This  would  include  poems  of 
the  type  of  Shelley's  Skylark,  Swinburne's  To  a  Sea- 
mew,  or  Walter  de  la  Mare's  The  Linnet,  which,  to 
one  who  knows  and  loves  wild  linnets,  is  almost  as 
delightful  as  the  bird's  own  sweet  warble  which  it 
so  exquisitely  suggests. 

No  apology  need  be  made  if  the  number  of 
poems  dealing  with  birds — wild  or  caged — seems  dis- 
proportionate to  some  readers.  For  birds,  being 
creatures  intensely  mobile,  bright,  musical,  sensitive, 
and  aesthetic,  have  naturally  always  attracted  the 
attention  of  poets,  and  served  them  as  symbols 
in  countless  works  of  imagination ;  and  even  of 
St.  Francis,  who  loved  all  animals,  it  is  recorded 
that  "  he  loved  above  all  others  a  certain  little  bird 
called  the  lark."  This  attraction  is  more  marked 

xiv 


than  ever  at  the  present  time,  when  the  spread  of 
a  finer  and  deeper  appreciation  and  understanding 
of  wild  birds  rouses  in  us  the  faint  hope  that  the 
iniquitous  custom  of  keeping  them  caged  as  "  pets  " 
will  one  day  disappear  altogether.  It  is  certain  that 
if  it  does,  poetry  will  have  played  a  large  part  in  its 
extinction. 

In  such  a  collection  as  this,  extending  over  several 
centuries  and  devoted  to  a  special  subject,  it  cannot 
of  course  for  a  moment  be  contended  that  anything 
like  an  equal  level  is  maintained  ;  and  since  this  book 
is  intended  mainly  to  show  the  growth  of  humani- 
tarian feeling  in  man's  relations  with  the  other 
animals,  as  mirrored  in  poetry,  I  have  not  hesitated 
to  include  some  poems,  especially  translations,  less 
on  the  ground  of  their  intrinsic  merit  than  on  account 
of  the  historical  or  biographical  interest  attaching 
to  them. 

I  have  made  it  a  rule  to  print  only  complete  poems, 
believing  that  the  admission  of  "  extracts  "  in  such 
a  book  inevitably  entails  a  distinct  sacrifice  of  artistic 
unity,  and  in  some  cases  even  tends  to  obscure  the 
truth.  This  method  has  no  doubt  certain  very  obvious 
disadvantages — rendering  impossible,  for  instance, 
adequate  representation  of  Shelley,  or  quotation  of 
the  magnificent  humanitarian  passages  from  Mr. 
Wilfrid  Blunt's  Satan  Absolved.  But  it  possesses  at 
any  rate  one  most  important  advantage  :  it  avoids 
that  unpleasant  calendar-like  scrappiness  which  is 
the  bane  of  so  many  anthologies.  Those  who  may 
feel  that  they  are  thus,  so  to  speak,  defrauded  of 
their  rights,  will,  however,  find  in  the  notes  at  the 
end  of  the  volume  a  considerable  number  of  extracts, 
both  from  the  other  writings  of  poets  who  are  in- 

xv 


adequately  represented  in  the  collection,  and  from 
the  works  of  some  poets  who  do  not  appear  there 
at  all ;  and  in  these  notes  I  have  also  sought  to  draw 
attention,  sometimes  by  means  of  quotation,  some- 
times by  references  only,  to  various  more  or  less 
parallel  passages  of  humanitarian  poetry,  foreign  as 
well  as  English. 

But  the  anthologist  who  should  hope  to  satisfy  all 
his  readers  would  quickly  find  himself  in  the  position 
of  ^Esop's  miller  :  in  the  end  he  must  e'en  be  satisfied 
to  please  himself ! 


I  wish  to  express  my  heartiest  thanks  to  the  various 
living  writers  who  have  kindly  allowed  me  to  reprint 
here  selections  from  their  published  work.  I  am 
indebted  to  Mr.  Jethro  Bithell  for  the  excellent 
translation  of  Jammes's  My  Dog,  specially  made  for 
this  collection ;  to  Mr.  Alfred  Forman,  the  Hon. 
Secretary  of  the  Villon  Society,  for  a  privately 
printed  translation  by  the  late  John  Payne  ;  and  to 
Miss  Stella  Browne  for  a  hitherto  unprinted  trans- 
lation from  Haraucourt,  as  well  as  for  much  assistance 
in  other  ways.  It  would  be  almost  superfluous  to 
acknowledge  my  obligations  to  my  friend  Mr.  H.  S. 
Salt,  were  it  not  that  this  book  may  conceivably 
come  into  the  hands  of  readers  who  are  unacquainted 
with  his  work.1  To  the  various  friends  and  corres- 
pondents (not  forgetting  the  printers'  reader)  who 
-have  helped  me  in  one  way  or  another,  I  must  offer 
my  thanks  collectively. 

My    grateful    acknowledgements    are    due    to    the 

1  See    especially  Animals'  Rights  (London,  1915)  and  Kith 
and  Kin  :  Poems  oj  Animal  Life  (London,  1901). 

xv  i 


following  publishers  and  others,  who,  in  view  of  the 
special  aims  of  this  book,  have  generously  permitted 
the  inclusion  of  copyright  material,  waiving  any 
customary  fees  which  they  might  have  asked  :  Messrs. 
Allen  &  Unwin  for  Mr.  Ralph  Hodgson's  Lines  (from 
The  Last  Blackbird) ;  Mr.  Edward  Arnold  for  a  poem 
by  Sir  James  Rennell  Rodd ;  Mr.  Mackenzie  Bell 
and  Mrs.  Watts-Dunton  for  the  poem  by  Theodore 
Watts-Dunton  (from  The  Coming  of  Lore,  published 
by  Mr.  John  Lane) ;  Messrs.  W.  Black  wood  &  Sons 
for  a  poem  by  Mr.  Alfred  Noyes  (from  his  Collected 
Poetical  Works) ;  Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus  for  the 
poems  by  Robert  Buchanan  (from  his  Poetical  Works) ; 
Messrs.  W.  Collins,  Sons  &  Co.  for  a  poem  from  Mr. 
F.  Brett  Young's  Poems,  1916-1918  ;  Messrs.  Constable 
&  Co.  for  the  poems  by  Mr.  de  la  Mare  (from  Peacock 
Pie  and  Motley) ;  Mr.  William  Heinemann  for  the 
three  poems  by  Swinburne,  for  the  two  by  Mr.  Arthur 
Symons  (from  The  Fool  of  the  World  and  Knave  of 
Hearts  respectively),  and  for  Mr.  Geoffrey  Dearmer's 
The  Turkish  Trench  Dog  (from  Poems,  1918) ;  Messrs. 
Kegan  Paul  Trench,  Triibner  &  Co.  for  poems  by 
Sir  Edwin  Arnold  (from  Pearls  of  the  Faith),  Sir  Lewis 
Morris,  and  Toru  Dutt ;  Mr.  John  Lane  for  poems 
by  John  Davidson  (from  Holiday)  and  Laurence 
Housman  (from  Green  Arras) ;  Messrs.  Longmans, 
Green  &  Co.  for  a  poem  by  Richard  Jefferies  (from 
Field  and  Hedgerow) ;  Dr.  Greville  Macdonald  and 
Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus  for  the  sonnet  from  George 
Macdonald's  Poetical  Works ;  Messrs.  Maclehose  & 
Sons  for  the  poems  by  Canon  Rawnsley ;  the  Walter 
Scott  Publishing  Co.  for  a  translation  by  Mr.  Jethro 
Bithell  (from  Contemporary  French  Poetry) ;  Messrs. 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  a  poem  by  Mr.  G.  T. 

xvii  A  * 


Marsh  ;  Mr.  T.  Fisher  Unwin  for  poems  by  Mme. 
Duclaux  and  Maud  Holland  (from  Poems  of  Carducci) ; 
Mr.  H.  B.  Marriott  Watson  and  Mr.  John  Lane  for 
the  two  pieces  from  Mrs.  R.  Marriott  Watson's 
Poems  ;  the  Editor  of  The  Queen  for  a  poem  by  Miss 
V.  H.  Friedlaender ;  the  Editor  of  To-day  for  a  poem 
by  Mr.  John  Galsworthy. 

The  two  poems  by  George  Meredith  are  reprinted 
in  this  collection  by  special  permission  of  Messrs. 
Constable  &  Company,  London,  and  Messrs.  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  New  York ;  and  I  have  to  thank 
these  firms  for  their  courtesy  in  granting  me  this 
permission. 

I  am  also  under  obligations  to  Messrs.  Macmillan 
&  Co.  for  allowing  the  inclusion  of  copyright  poems 
by  Arnold,  Tennyson  Turner,  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy, 
Mr.  Ralph  Hodgson,  and  Mr.  James  Stephens,  and 
for  confirming  permission  to  include  poems  by  Mr. 
Wilfrid  Blunt  (from  his  Poetical  Works).  Other 
sources  and  fuller  particulars  will  be  found  in  the 
Notes  and  Bibliography  appended. 

I  offer  my  apologies  to  any  one  whose  rights  I 
have  unwittingly  infringed  or  to  whom  I  have  omitted 
due  acknowledgement. 


xvm 


POEMS 


Andrew  Marv^ll- 

1621—1678. 


THE  NYMPH  COMPLAINING  FOR  THE  DEATH 
OF  HER  FAWN 

fTT\HE  wanton  troopers  riding  by 

Have  shot  my  fawn,  and  it  will  die. 
Ungentle  men  !     They  cannot  thrive 

Who  killed  thee.     Thou  ne'er  didst  alive 

Them  any  harm,  alas  !  nor  could 

Thy  death  yet  do  them  any  good. 

I'm  sure  I  never  wished  them  ill ; 

Nor  do  I  for  all  this  nor  will : 

But  if  my  simple  prayers  may  yet 

Prevail  with  heaven  to  forget 

Thy  murder,  I  will  join  my  tears 

Rather  than  fail.     But,  O  my  fears  ! 

It  cannot  die  so  !     Heaven's  king 

Keeps  register  of  every  thing, 

And  nothing  may  we  use  in  vain  ; 

Ev'n  beasts  must  be  with  justice  slain, 

Else  men  are  made  their  deodands. 

Though  they  should  wash  their  guilty  hands 

In  this  warm  life-blood  which  doth  part 

From  thine,  and  wound  me  to  the  heart, 

Yet  could  they  not  be  clean  ;  their  stain 

Is  dyed  in  such  a  purple  grain. 

There  is  not  such  another  in 

The  world  to  offer  for  their  sin. 

Unconstant  Sylvio,  when  yet 

1  B 


'••'•  V  •  Ttosd  notr- found  him  counterfeit, 
One  morning  (I  remember  well), 
Tied  in  this  silver  chain  and  bell, 
Gave  it  to  me  :  nay,  and  I  know 
What  he  said  then,  I'm  sure  I  do  : 
Said  he,  "  Look  how  your  huntsman  here 
Hath  taught  a  fawn  to  hunt  his  deer." 
But  Sylvio  soon  had  me  beguiled ; 
This  waxed  tame,  while  he  grew  wild, 
And  quite  regardless  of  my  smart, 
Left  me  his  fawn,  but  took  his  heart. 
Thenceforth  I  set  myself  to  play 
My  solitary  time  away 
With  this  ;  and,  very  well  content 
Could  so  mine  idle  life  have  spent. 
For  it  was  full  of  sport,  and  light 
Of  foot  and  heart,  and  did  invite 
Me  to  its  game  :  it  seemed  to  bless 
Itself  in  me  ;   how  could  I  less 
Than  love  it  ?     O,  I  cannot  be 
Unkind  to  a  beast  that  loveth  me. 
Had  it  lived  long  I  do  not  know 
Whether  it  too  might  have  done  so 
As  Sylvio  did  ;   his  gifts  might  be 
Perhaps  as  false,  or  more,  than  he  ; 
But  I  am  sure,  for  aught  that  I 
Could  in  so  short  a  time  espy, 
Thy  love  was  far  more  better  than 
The  love  of  false  and  cruel  men. 
With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first 
I  it  at  my  own  fingers  nursed ; 
And  as  it  grew,  so  every  day 
It  waxed  more  white  and  sweet  than  they. 
It  had  so  sweet  a  breath !     And  oft 
2 


I  blushed  to  see  its  foot  more  soft 
And  white,  shall  I  say  than  my  hand  ? 
Nay,  any  lady's  of  the  land. 
It  is  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 
'Twas  on  those  little  silver  feet ; 
With  what  a  pretty  skipping  grace 
It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race ; 
And  when't  had  left  me  far  away 
'Twould  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay ; 
For  it  was  nimbler  much  than  hinds 
And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 
I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 
But  so  with  roses  overgrown, 
And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 
To  be  a  little  wilderness  ; 
And  all  the  spring-time  of  the  year 
It  only  loved  to  be  there. 
Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 
Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie, 
Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 
Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes ; 
For  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shade 
It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid. 
Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed 
Until  its  lips  ev'n  seemed  to  bleed, 
And  then  to  me  'twould  boldly  trip, 
And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 
But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 
On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill, 
And  its  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 
In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold. 
Had  it  lived  long  it  would  have  been 
Lilies  without,  roses  within. 
O  help,  O  help  !     I  see  it  faint 
8 


And  die  as  calmly  as  a  saint ! 

See  how  it  weeps  !     The  tears  do  come 

Sad,  slowly-dropping  like  a  gum. 

So  weeps  the  wounded  balsam  ;   so 

The  holy  frankincense  doth  flow ; 

The  brotherless  Heliades 

Melt  in  such  amber  tears  as  these. 

I  in  a  golden  vial  will 

Keep  these  two  crystal  tears,  and  fill 

It  till  it  do  o'erflow  with  mine, 

Then  place  it  in  Diana's  shrine. 

Now  my  sweet  fawn  is  vanished  to 

Whither  the  swans  and  turtles  go  ; 

In  fair  Elysium  to  endure, 

With  milk-white  lambs,  and  ermines  pure. 

O  do  not  run  too  fast :   for  I 

Will  but  bespeak  thy  grave  and  die. 

First,  my  unhappy  statue  shall 

Be  cut  in  marble  :   and  withal 

Let  it  be  weeping  too  ;   but  there 

The  engraver  sure  his  art  may  spare  ; 

For  I  so  truly  thee  bemoan, 

That  I  shall  weep  though  I  be  stone, 

Until  my  tears,  still  dropping,  wear 

My  breast,  themselves  engraving  there 

There  at  my  feet  shalt  thou  be  laid, 

Of  purest  alabaster  made  ; 

For  I  would  have  thine  image  be 

White  as  I  can,  though  not  as  thee. 


Christopher  Smart 

1722—1770. 

ON   AN   EAGLE 

CONFINED    IN    A    COLLEGE    COURT 

IMPERIAL  bird,  who  wont  to  soar 
High  o'er  the  rolling  cloud 
Where  Hyperborean  mountains  hoar 
Their  heads  in  ether  shroud — 
Thou  servant  of  almighty  Jove, 
Who,  free  and  swift  as  thought,  could'st  rove 

To  the  bleak  north's  extremest  goal ; 
Thou  who  magnanimous  could'st  bear 
The  sovereign  thunderer's  arms  in  air, 
And  shake  thy  native  pole  ! 

Oh  cruel  fate  !   what  barbarous  hand, 

What  more  than  Gothic  ire, 
At  some  fierce  tyrant's  dread  command, 

To  check  thy  daring  fire, 
Has  placed  thee  in  this  servile  cell, 
Where  discipline  and  dulness  dwell, 

Where  genius  ne'er  was  seen  to  roam  ; 
Where  every  selfish  soul's  at  rest, 
Nor  ever  quits  the  carnal  breast, 

But  lurks  and  sneaks  at  home. 

Tho'  dimmed  thine  eye,  and  dipt  thy  wing, 

So  grov'ling,  once  so  great, 
The  grief-inspired  Muse  shall  sing 

In  tenderest  lays  thy  fate. 
5 


What  time  by  thee  Scholastic  Pride 
Takes  his  precise,  pedantic  stride, 

Nor  on  thy  misery  casts  a  care, 
The  stream  of  love  ne'er  from  his  heart 
Flows  out,  to  act  fair  pity's  part, 

But  stinks  and  stagnates  there. 

Yet  useful  still,  hold  to  the  throng- 
Hold  the  reflecting  glass — 
That  not  untutored  at  thy  wrong 

The  passenger  may  pass  : 
Thou  type  of  wit  and  sense  confined, 
Cramped  by  the  oppressors  of  the  mind, 
Who  study  downward  on  the  ground ; 
Type  of  the  fall  of  Greece  and  Rome — 
WThile  more  than  mathematic  gloom 
Envelops  all  around. 


William   Cowper 

1731—1800. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE 

TT  "TTERE  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue, 

Nor  swifter  greyhound  follow, 
Whose  foot  ne'er  tainted  morning  dew, 
Nor  ear  heard  huntsman's  halloo ; 

Old  Tiney,  surliest  of  his  kind, 

Who,  nursed  with  tender  care, 
And  to  domestic  bounds  confined, 

Was  still  a  wild  Jack-hare, 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he  took 

His  pittance  every  night, 
He  did  it  with  a  jealous  look, 

And,  when  he  could,  would  bite. 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread, 
And  milk,  and  oats,  and  straw  ; 

Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead, 
With  sand  to  scour  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regaled, 

On  pippins'  russet  peel, 
And,  when  his  juicy  salads  failed, 

Sliced  carrot  pleased  him  well. 

7 


A  Turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn, 
Whereon  he  loved  to  bound, 

To  skip  and  gambol  like  a  fawn, 
And  swing  his  rump  around. 

His  frisking  was  at  evening  hours, 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear, 
But  most  before  approaching  showers, 

Or  when  a  storm  drew  near. 

Eight  years  and  five  round-rolling  moons 

He  thus  saw  steal  away, 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons, 

And  every  night  at  play. 

I  kept  him  for  his  humour's  sake, 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts  that  made  it  ache, 

And  force  me  to  a  smile. 

But  now  beneath  his  walnut  shade 

He  finds  his  long  last  home, 
And  waits,  in  snug  concealment  laid, 

Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come. 

He,  still  more  aged,  feels  the  shocks 
From  which  no  care  can  save, 

And,  partner  once  of  Tiney's  box, 
Must  soon  partake  his  grave. 


8 


William   Cowper 


ON   A   GOLDFINCH  STARVED   TO   DEATH   IN 
HIS   CAGE 

TME  was  when  I  was  free  as. air, 
The  thistle's  downy  seed  my  fare, 
My  drink  the  morning  dew ; 
I  perched  at  will  on  every  spray, 
My  form  genteel,  my  plumage  gay, 
My  strains  for  ever  new. 

But  gaudy  plumage,  sprightly  strain, 
And  form  genteel,  were  all  in  vain, 

And  of  a  transient  date  ; 

For,  caught  and  caged,  and  starved  to  death, 
In  dying  sighs  my  little  breath 

Soon  passed  the  wiry  grate. 

Thanks,  gentle  swain,  for  all  my  woes, 
And  thanks  for  this  effectual  close 

And  cure  of  every  ill ! 
More  cruelty  could  none  express  : 
And  I,  if  you  had  shown  me  less, 

Had  been  your  prisoner  still. 


9 


William  Blake 

1757—1827. 


AUGURIES   OF  INNOCENCE 

TO  see  a  World  in  a  grain  of  sand, 
And  a  Heaven  in  a  wild  flower, 
Hold  Infinity  in  the  palm  of  your  hand, 
And  Eternity  in  an  hour. 
A  robin  redbreast  in  a  cage 
Puts  all  Heaven  in  a  rage. 
A  dove-house  fill'd  with  doves  and  pigeons 
Shudders  Hell  thro'  all  its  regions. 
A  dog  starv'd  at  his  master's  gate 
Predicts  the  ruin  of  the  State. 
A  horse  misus'd  upon  the  road 
Calls  to  Heaven  for  human  blood. 
Each  outcry  of  the  hunted  hare 
A  fibre  from  the  brain  does  tear. 
A  skylark  wounded  in  the  wing, 
A  cherubim  does  cease  to  sing. 
The  game-cock  dipt  and  arm'd  for  fight 
Does  the  rising  sun  affright. 
Every  wolf's  and  lion's  howl 
Raises  from  Hell  a  Human  soul. 
The  wild  deer,  wandering  here  and  there, 
Keeps  the  Human  soul  from  care. 
The  lamb  misus'd  breeds  public  strife, 
And  yet  forgives  the  butcher's  knife. 
He  who  shall  hurt  the  little  wren 
Shall  never  be  belov'd  by  men. 
10 


He  who  the  ox  to  wrath  has  mov'd 
Shall  never  be  by  woman  lov'd. 
The  wanton  boy  that  kills  the  fly 
Shall  feel  the  spider's  enmity. 
He  who  torments  the  chafer's  sprite 
Weaves  a  bower  in  endless  night. 
The  caterpillar  on  the  leaf, 
Repeats  to  thee  thy  mother's  grief. 
Kill  not  the  moth  nor  butterfly 
For  the  Last  Judgement  draweth  nigh. 
He  who  shall  train  the  horse  to  war 
Shall  never  pass  the  Polar  Bar. 
The  beggar's  dog  and  widow's  cat, 
Feed  them  and  thou  wilt  grow  fat. 
The  bleat,  the  bark,  bellow  and  roar 
Are  waves  that  beat  on  Heaven's  shore. 


II 


William   Blake 


NIGHT 

^  |  ^VHE  sun  descending  in  the  west, 
The  evening  star  does  shine  ; 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  nest, 
And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 

The  moon,  like  a  flower 
In  heaven's  high  bower, 
With  silent  delight 
Sits  and  smiles  on  the  night. 

Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  groves 

Where  flocks  have  took  delight. 
Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  moves 
The  feet  of  angels  bright  ; 

Unseen,  they  pour  blessing, 
And  joy  without  ceasing, 
On  each  bud  and  blossom, 
And  each  sleeping  bosom. 

They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest 

Where  birds  are  cover'd  warm  ; 
They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 
To  keep  them  all  from  harm. 
If  they  see  any  weeping 
That  should  have  been  sleeping, 
They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 
And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 
12 


When  wolves  and  tigers  howl  for  prey, 

They  pitying  stand  and  weep  ; 
Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away, 
And  keep  them  from  the  sheep. 
But  if  they  rush  dreadful, 
The  angels,  most  heedful, 
Receive  each  mild  spirit, 
New  worlds  to  inherit. 

And  there  the  lion's  ruddy  eyes 
Shall  flow  with  tears  of  gold, 
And  pitying  the  tender  cries, 
And  walking  round  the  fold, 

Saying,  "  Wrath  by  His  meekness, 
And,  by  His  health,  sickness, 
Is  driven  away 
From  our  immortal  day. 

44  And  now  beside  thee,  bleating  lamb, 

I  can  lie  down  and  sleep  ; 
Or  think  on  Him  who  bore  thy  name, 
Graze  after  thee,  and  weep. 

For  wash'd  in  life's  river, 
My  bright  mane  for  ever 
Shall  shine  like  the  gold, 
As  I  guard  o'er  the  fold." 


13 


Friedrich   Schiller 

1759—1805. 


THE   ALPINE   HUNTER 

WILT  thou  leave  the  lambs  untended  ? 
See  how  happily  they  play 
By  the  brook,  and  crop  the  blended 
Grasses  starred  with  blossoms  gay. 
"  Mother,  mother,  let  me  go 
To  the  mountains  with  my  bow  !  " 

From  the  dells  the  cattle  calling, 

Sound  upon  thy  merry  horn. 
Hark,  the  cow-bell's  echo  falling 

Fainter  o'er  the  forest  borne. 
"  Mother,  mother,  let  me  go 
Hunting  with  my  trusty  bow  !  " 

Stay  and  tend  the  simple  flowers 

Blooming  in  our  garden  here. 
On  the  heights  no  fragrant  bowers 

Greet  thee — all  is  wild  and  drear. 
"  Nay,  the  flowers  alone  can  grow ; 
Mother,  mother,  let  me  go  !  " 

And  he  dashes  off  unheeding, 

Blindly  bent  upon  the  chase, 
Ever  madly  onwards  speeding 

Up  the  gloomy  mountain-face ; 
While  before  him  like  the  wind 
Darts  the  trembling  chamois-hind. 
14 


Up  the  barren  precipices, 

Light  of  foot  she  finds  a  way, 
Over  fathomless  abysses 

Leaping — nought  her  flight  can  stay ; 
Hard  upon  her  track  the  foe 
Follows  with  his  deadly  bow. 

Till  at  last  she  pauses,  driven 
To  the  mountain's  topmost  ridge, 

Where  a  monstrous  gorge  is  riven 
That  no  leap  may  hope  to  bridge ; 

There  she  clings,  with  cruel  death 

Close  behind,  the  gulf  beneath. 

Then  she  turns  on  him  with  yearning 

Mutely-pleading  eyes  of  woe  : 
Vainly,  for  all  pity  spurning 

Even  now  he  draws  his  bow — • 
When  from  out  the  gulf,  behold, 
Steps  the  Mountain  Spirit  old. 

And  his  mighty  hand  extending 

O'er  the  hunter's  destined  prize, 
**  Even  unto  me  ascending 
^  Bring'st  thou  pain  and  death  ?  "  he  cries. 
"  Mother  Earth  has  room  for  all  : 
Must  my  flock  before  thee  fall  ?  " 

1804, 


15 


Robert   Burns 

1759—1796. 


ON  SEEING  A  WOUNDED  HARE  LIMP  BY  ME 
WHICH  A  FELLOW  HAD  JUST  SHOT  AT 

r HUMAN  man  !   curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art, 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye  ; 
May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh, 
Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart ! 

Go,  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field, 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains  ; 
No  more  the  thickening  brakes  and  verdant  plains 

To  thee  shall  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted  rest, 
No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying  bed  ! 
The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o'er  thy  head, 

The  cold  earth  with  thy  bloody  bosom  prest. 

Perhaps  a  mother's  anguish  adds  its  woe  ; 
The  playful  pair  crowd  fondly  by  thy  side 
Ah,  helpless  nurslings  !   who  will  now  provide 

That  life  a  mother  only  can  bestow  ? 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith,  I,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 
I'll  miss  thee  sporting  o'er  the  dewy  lawn, 

And  curse  the  ruffian's  aim,  and  mourn  thy  hapless 
fate. 


16 


Robert   Burns 


TO  A  MOUSE 

ON  TURNING  HER  UP  IN  HER  NEST  WITH  THE  PLOUGH 

WE,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie  ! 
D  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  1 
Thou  needna  start  awa  sae  hasty, 
Wi'  bickering  brattle  ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 
Wi'  murd'ring  pattle. 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow-mortal. 

I  doubtna,  whiles,  but  thou  may  thieve ; 
What  then  ?    poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live  ! 
A  daimen-icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request : 
I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  lave, 

And  never  miss't ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
It's  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin' ! 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin', 

Baith  snell  and  keen  ! 

17  C 


Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  and  stibble, 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

And  cranreuch  cauld  ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
And  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain, 

For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest  compar'd  wi'  me  : 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e, 

On  prospects  drear  ! 
And  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear. 


18 


Robert  Burns 


ON   SCARING    SOME    WATERFOWL    IN    LOCH 
TURIT, 

A  WILD    SCENE   AMID   THE    HILLS    OF   OCHERTYRE 

WHY,  ye  tenants  of  the  lake, 
For  me  your  watery  haunt  forsake  ? 
Tell  me,  fellow-creatures,  why 
At  my  presence  thus  you  fly  ? 
Why  disturb  your  social  joys, 
Parent,  filial,  kindred  ties  ?— 
Common  friend  to  you  and  me, 
Nature's  gifts  to  all  are  free  : 
Peaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave, 
Busy  feed,  or  wanton  lave ; 
Or,  beneath  the  sheltering  rock, 
Bide  the  surging  billow's  shock. 

Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race 
Soon,  too  soon,  your  fears  I  trace. 
Man,  your  proud,  usurping  foe, 
Would  be  lord  of  all  below  : 
Plumes  himself  in  Freedom's  pride, 
Tyrant  stern  to  all  beside. 

The  eagle,  from  the  cliffy  brow, 
Marking  you  his  prey  below, 
In  his  breast  no  pity  dwells, 
19 


Strong  necessity  compels  ; 
But  man  to  whom  alone  is  given 
A  ray  direct  from  pitying  Heaven, 
Glories  in  his  heart  humane — 
And  creatures  for  his  pleasure  slain. 

In  these  savage,  liquid  plains, 
Only  known  to  wandering  swains, 
Where  the  mossy  riv'let  strays 
Far  from  human  haunts  and  ways, 
All  on  Nature  you  depend, 
And  life's  poor  season  peaceful  spend, 

Or,  if  man's  superior  might 
Dare  invade  your  native  right, 
On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 
Man  with  all  his  powers  you  scorn ; 
Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings, 
Other  lakes  and  other  springs  ; 
And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave, 
Scorn  at  least  to  be  his  slave. 


20 


Robert  Burns 


THE  AULD  FARMER'S  NEW- YEAR  MORNING 
SALUTATION  TO  HIS  AULD  MARE  MAGGIE, 

ON    GIVING    HER    THE    ACCUSTOMED    RIP    OF    CORN    TO 
HANSEL   IN   THE    NEW   YEAR 

AGUID  New  Year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie ! 
Hae,  there's  a  rip  to  thy  auld  baggie  : 
Though  thou's  howe-backit  now  and  knaggie, 
I've  seen  the  day 

Thou  could  hae  gane  like  ony  staggie 
Out-owre  the  lay. 

Though  now  thou's  dowie,  stiff,  an'  crazy, 
An'  thy  auld  hide's  as  white's  a  daisy, 
I've  seen  thee  dappl't,  sleek,  and  glaizie, 

A  bonny  gray  : 
He  should  been  tight  that  daur't  to  raize  thee, 

Ance  in  a  day. 

Thou  ance  was  i'  the  foremost  rank, 
A  filly  buirdly,  steeve,  an'  swank, 
An'  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank, 

As  e'er  tread  yird, 
AnJ  could  hae  flown  out-owre  a  stank 

Like  ony  bird. 

It's  now  some  nine-an'-twenty  year 
Sin'  thou  was  my  guid  father's  mere ; 

21 


He  gied  me  thee,  o'  tocher  clear, 

An  fifty  mark  ; 
Though  it  was  sma',  'twas  weel-won  gear 

An'  thou  was  stark. 

When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 
Ye  then  was  trottin'  wi'  your  minnie  : 
Though  ye  was  trickle,  slee,  and  funnie, 

Ye  ne'er  was  donsie  ; 
But  hamely,  tawie,  quiet  an'  cannie, 

An'  unco  sonsie. 

That  day  ye  pranced  wi'  muckle  pride, 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonnie  bride  : 
An'  sweet  an'  gracefu'  she  did  ride, 

Wi'  maiden  air  ! 
Kyle  Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide 

For  sic  a  pair. 

Though  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  an'  hobble, 
An'  wintle  like  a  saumont  coble, 
That  day  ye  was  a  j  inker  noble, 

For  heels  an'  win'  ! 
An'  ran  them  till  they  a'  did  wauble 

Far,  far  behin'. 

When  thou  and  I  were  young  and  skeigh, 

An-  stable  meals  at  fairs  were  dreigh, 

How  thou  would  prance,  an'  snore,  an'  skreigh, 

An'  tak'  the  road  ! 
Town's-bodies  ran,  an'  stood  abeigh, 

An'  ca't  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn't  an'  I  was  mellow 
We  took  the  road  aye  like  a  swallow  : 
22 


At  brooses  thou  had  ne'er  a  fellow 

For  pith  and  speed, 
But  every  tail  thou  pay't  them  hollow, 

Where'er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma',  droop-rumpl't,  hunter  cattle 
Might  aiblins  waur't  thee  for  a  brattle  ; 
But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try't  their  mettle, 

An'  gar't  them  whaizle  : 
Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a  wattle 

O'  saugh  or  hazel. 

Thou  was  a  noble  fittie-lan' 

As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn  ! 

Aft  thee  an'  I,  in  aught  hours  gaun, 

In  guid  March  weather, 
Hae  turned  sax  rood  beside  our  han', 

For  days  thegither. 

Thou  never  braindg't,  an'  fetch't,  an'  fliskit, 
But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit, 
An'  spread  abreed  thy  weel-filled  briskit, 

Wi'  pith  and  pow'r, 
Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair't  and  risket, 

An'  slypet  owre. 

When  frosts  lay  lang  an'  snaws  were  deep, 
An'  threatened  labour  back  to  keep, 
I  gied  thy  cog  a  wee  bit  heap 

Aboon  the  timmer  ; 
I  kenned  my  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 

For  that  or  simmer. 

In  cart  or  car  thou  never  restit ; 
The  steyest  brae  thou  wad  hae  fac't  it ; 
23 


Thou  never  lap,  an'  sten't,  an'  breastit, 

Then  stood  to  blaw ; 
But  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastit, 

Thou  snoov't  awa'. 

My  pleugh  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a' ; 
Four  gallant  brutes  as  e'er  did  draw ; 
Forbye  sax  mae  I've  sell't  awa, 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 
They  drew  me  thretteen  pund  an'  twa, 

The  vera  warst. 

Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought, 
An'  wi'  the  weary  warP  fought ! 
An'  monie  an  anxious  day  I  thought 

We  wad  be  beat  ! 
Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we're  brought 

Wi'  something  yet. 

And  think  na,  my  auld,  trusty  servan', 
That  now  perhaps  thou's  less  deservin', 
An'  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin' ; 

For  my  last  fou, 
A  heapit  stimpart,  I'll  reserve  ane 

Laid  by  for  you. 

We've  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither ; 
We'll  toyte  about  wi'  ane  anither ; 
Wi'  tentie  care  I'll  flit  thy  tether 

To  some  hained  rig, 
Whare  ye  may  nobly  rax  your  leather, 

Wi'  sma  fatigue. 


24 


William  Wordsworth 

1770—1850. 


THE   GREEN  LINNET 

BENEATH  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 
With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 
Of  spring's  unclouded  weather, 
In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  orchard  seat, 
And  birds  and  flowers  once  more  to  greet, 
My  last  year's  friends  together  ! 

One  have  I  marked,  the  happiest  guest 
In  all  this  covert  of  the  blest : 
Hail  to  Thee,  far  above  the  rest 

In  joy  of  voice  and  pinion  ! 
Thou,  Linnet,  in  thy  green  array, 
Presiding  Spirit  here  to-day, 
Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May  ; 

And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

While  birds,  and  butterflies,  and  flowers 
Make  all  one  band  of  paramours, 
Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bowers, 

Art  sole  in  thy  employment ; 
A  life,  a  Presence  like  the  air, 
Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care, 
Too  blest  with  any  one  to  pair  ; 

Thyself  thy  own  enjoyment. 
25, 


Amid  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees, 
That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 
Behold  him  perched  in  ecstasies, 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover ; 
There  !  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 
Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings 

That  cover  him  all  over. 

My  dazzled  sight  he  oft  deceives, 
A  Brother  of  the  dancing  leaves  ; 
Then  flits,  and  from  the  cottage  eaves 

Pours  forth  his  song  in  gushes ; 
As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mocked  and  treated  with  disdain 
The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign 

While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 


26 


William   Wordsworth 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY 

I'VE  watched  you  now  full  half-an-hour, 
Self-poised  upon  that  yellow  flower ; 
And  little  Butterfly !  indeed 
I  know  not  if  you  sleep  or  feed. 
How  motionless  ! — not  frozen  seas 
More  motionless  !  and  then 
What  joy  awaits  you,  when  the  breeze 
Hath  found  you  out  among  the  trees, 
And  calls  you  forth  again  ! 

This  plot  of  orchard-ground  is  ours  ; 

My  trees  they  are,  my  Sister's  flowers ; 

Here  rest  your  wings  when  they  are  weary, 

Here  lodge  as  in  a  sanctuary  ! 

Come  often  to  us,  fear  no  wrong ; 

Sit  near  us  on  the  bough  ! 

We'll  talk  of  sunshine  and  of  song, 

And  summer  days,  when  we  were  young ; 

Sweet  childish  days,  that  were  as  long 

As  twenty  days  are  now. 

1802. 


27 


William  Wordsworth 


A  WREN'S   NEST 

MONG  the  dwellings  framed  by  birds 

In  field  or  forest  with  nice  care, 
Is  none  that  with  the  little  Wren's 
In  snugness  may  compare. 


A 


No  door  the  tenement  requires, 

And  seldom  needs  a  laboured  roof; 

Yet  is  it  to  the  fiercest  sun 
Impervious,  and  storm-proof. 

So  warm,  so  beautiful  withal, 
In  perfect  fitness  for  its  aim, 

That  to  the  Kind  by  special  grace 
Their  instinct  surely  came. 

And  when  for  their  abodes  they  seek 

An  opportune  recess, 
The  hermit  has  no  finer  eye 

For  shadowy  quietness. 

These  find,  'mid  ivied  abbey-walls, 
A  canopy  in  some  still  nook  ; 

Others  are  pent-housed  by  a  brae 
That  overhangs  a  brook. 
28 


There  to  the  brooding  bird  her  mate 
Warbles  by  fits  his  low  clear  song ; 

And  by  the  busy  streamlet  both 
Are  sung  to  all  day  long. 

Or  in  sequestered  lanes  they  build, 
Where,  till  the  flitting  bird's  return, 

Her  eggs  within  the  nest  repose, 
Like  relics  in  an  urn. 

But  still,  where  general  choice  is  good, 

There  is  a  better  and  a  best ; 
And,  among  fairest  objects,  some 

Are  fairer  than  the  rest ; 

This,  one  of  those  small  builders  proved 
In  a  green  covert,  where,  from  out 

The  forehead  of  a  pollard  oak, 
The  leafy  antlers  sprout; 

For  She  who  planned  the  mossy  lodge, 

Mistrusting  her  evasive  skill, 
Had  to  a  Primrose  looked  for  aid 

Her  wishes  to  fulfil. 

High  on  the  trunk's  projecting  brow, 
And  fixed  an  infant's  span  above 

The  budding  flowers,  peeped  forth  the  nest 
The  prettiest  of  the  grove  1 

The  treasure  proudly  did  I  show 

To  some  whose  minds  without  disdain 

Can  turn  to  little  things ;  but  once 
Looked  up  for  it  in  vain : 
29 


Tis  gone — a  ruthless  spoiler's  prey, 
Who  heeds  not  beauty,  love,  or  song, 

'Tis  gone  !  (so  seemed  it)  and  we  grieved 
Indignant  at  the  wrong. 

Just  three  days  after,  passing  by 
In  clearer  light  the  moss-built  cell 

I  saw,  espied  its  shaded  mouth  ; 
And  felt  that  all  was  well. 

The  Primrose  for  a  veil  had  spread 
The  largest  of  her  upright  leaves  ; 

And  thus,  for  purposes  benign, 
A  simple  flower  deceives. 

Concealed  from  friends  who  might  disturb 

Thy  quiet  with  no  ill  intent, 
Secure  from  evil  eyes  and  hands 

On  barbarous  plunder  bent, 

Rest,  Mother-bird  !  and  when  thy  young 
Take  flight,  and  thou  art  free  to  roam, 

When  withered  is  the  guardian  Flower, 
And  empty  thy  late  home, 

Think  how  ye  prospered,  thou  and  thine, 

Amid  the  unviolated  grove, 
Housed  near  the  growing  Primrose-tuft 

In  foresight,  or  in  love. 

1833. 


30 


William   Wordsworth 


HART-LEAP  WELL 

r  I  ^HE   Knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley 

Moor 

With  the  slow  motion  of  a  summer's  cloud, 
And  now,  as  he  approached  a  vassal's  door, 
**  Bring  forth  another  horse  !  " — he  cried  aloud. 

"  Another  horse  !  " — that  shout  the  vassal  heard 
And  saddled  his  best  Steed,  a  comely  grey ; 
Sir  Walter  mounted  him  ;   he  was  the  third 
Which  he  had  mounted  on  that  glorious  day. 

Joy  sparkled  in  the  prancing  courser's  eyes ; 
The  horse  and  horseman  are  a  happy  pair ; 
But,  though  Sir  Walter  like  a  falcon  flies, 
There  is  a  doleful  silence  in  the  air. 

A  rout  this  morning  left  Sir  Walter's  Hall, 
That  as  they  galloped  made  the  echoes  roar ; 
But  horse  and  man  are  vanished,  one  and  all ; 
Such  race,  I  think,  was  never  seen  before. 

Sir  Walter,  restless  as  a  veering  wind, 
Calls  to  the  few  tired  dogs  that  yet  remain  : 
Blanch,  Swift,  and  Music,  noblest  of  their  kind, 
Follow,  and  up  the  weary  mountain  strain. 

31 


The  Knight  hallooed,  he  cheered  and  chid  them  on 
With  suppliant  gestures  and  upbraidings  stern  ; 
But  breath  and  eyesight  fail ;    and,  one  by  one, 
The  dogs  are  stretched  among  the  mountain  fern. 

Where  is  the  throng,  the  tumult  of  the  race  ? 
The  bugles  that  so  cheerfully  were  blown  ? 
— This  chase  it  looks  not  like  an  earthly  chase ; 
Sir  Walter  and  the  Hart  are  left  alone. 

The  poor  Hart  toils  along  the  mountain-side ; 
I  will  not  stop  to  tell  how  far  he  fled, 
Nor  will  I  mention  by  what  death  he  died  ; 
But  now  the  Knight  beholds  him  lying  dead. 

Dismounting,  then,  he  leaned  against  a  thorn ; 
He  had  no  follower,  dog,  nor  man,  nor  boy  : 
He  neither  cracked  his  whip,  nor  blew  his  horn, 
But  gazed  upon  the  spoil  with  silent  joy. 

Close  to  the  thorn  on  which  Sir  Walter  leaned, 
Stood  his  dumb  partner  in  this  glorious  feat ; 
Weak  as  a  lamb  the  hour  that  it  is  yeaned ; 
And  white  with  foam  as  if  with  cleaving  sleet. 

Upon  his  side  the  Hart  was  lying  stretched  : 
His  nostril  touched  a  spring  beneath  a  hill, 
And  with  the  last  deep  groan  his  breath  had  fetched 
The  waters  of  the  spring  were  trembling  still. 

And  now,  too  happy  for  repose  or  rest, 
(Never  had  living  man  such  joyful  lot !) 
Sir  Walter  walked  all  round,  north,  south,  and  west, 
And  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  darling  spot. 

32 


And  climbing  up  the  hill — (it  was  at  least 
Four  roods  of  sheer  ascent)  Sir  Walter  found 
Three  several  hoof-marks  which  the  hunted  Beast 
Had  left  imprinted  on  the  grassy  ground. 

Sir  Walter  wiped  his  face,  and  cried,  "  Till  now 
Such  sight  was  never  seen  by  human  eyes  : 
Three  leaps  have  borne  him  from  this  lofty  brow, 
Down  to  the  very  fountain  where  he  lies. 

"  I'll  build  a  pleasure-house  upon  this  spot, 
And  a  small  arbour,  made  for  rural  joy  ; 
'Twill  be  the  traveller's  shed,  the  pilgrim's  cot, 
A  place  of  love  for  damsels  that  are  coy. 

"  A  cunning  artist  will  I  have  to  frame 

A  basin  for  that  fountain  in  the  dell ! 

And  they  who  do  make  mention  of  the  same, 

From  this  day  forth,  shall  call  it  HART-LEAP  WELL. 

"  And,  gallant  Stag  !  to  make  thy  praises  known, 
Another  monument  shall  here  be  raised  ; 
Three  several  pillars,  each  a  rough-hewn  stone, 
And  planted  where  thy  hoofs  the  turf  have  grazed. 

"  And,  in  the  summer-time  when  days  are  long, 
I  will  come  hither  with  my  Paramour ; 
And  with  the  dancers  and  the  minstrel's  song 
We  will  make  merry  in  that  pleasant  bower. 

"  Till  the  foundations  of  the  mountains  fail 
My  mansion  with  its  arbour  shall  endure  ; — 
The  joy  of  them  who  till  the  fields  of  Swale, 
And  them  who  dwell  among  the  woods  of  Ure  !  " 

33  D 


Then  home  he  went,  and  left  the  Hart,  stone-dead, 
With  breathless  nostrils  stretched  above  the  spring. 
— Soon  did  the  Knight  perform  what  he  had  said ; 
And  far  and  wide  the  fame  thereof  did  ring. 

Ere  thrice  the  Moon  into  her  port  had  steered, 
A  cup  of  stone  received  the  living  well ; 
Three  pillars  of  rude  stone  Sir  Walter  reared, 
And  built  a  house  of  pleasure  in  the  dell. 

And  near  the  fountain,  flowers  of  stature  tall 
With  trailing  plants  and  trees  were  intertwined, — 
Which  soon  composed  a  little  sylvan  hall, 
A  leafy  shelter  from  the  sun  and  wind. 

And  thither,  when  the  summer  days  were  long, 
Sir  Walter  led  his  wondering  Paramour  ; 
And  with  the  dancers  and  the  minstrel's  song 
Made  merriment  within  that  pleasant  bower. 

The  Knight,  Sir  Walter,  died  in  course  of  time, 
And  his  bones  lie  in  his  paternal  vale. — 
But  there  is  matter  for  a  second  rhyme, 
And  I  to  this  would  add  another  tale. 


PART  SECOND. 

The  moving  accident  is  not  my  trade ; 
To  freeze  the  blood  I  have  no  ready  arts  : 
'Tis  my  delight,  alone  in  summer  shade, 
To  pipe  a  simple  song  for  thinking  hearts, 

34 


As  I  from  Hawes  to  Richmond  did  repair, 
It  chanced  that  I  saw  standing  in  a  dell 
Three  aspens  at  three  corners  of  a  square ; 
And  one,  not  four  yards  distant,  near  a  well. 

What  this  imported  I  could  ill  divine  : 
And,  pulling  now  the  rein  my  horse  .to  stop, 
I  saw  three  pillars  standing  in  a  line, — 
The  last  stone-pillar  on  a  dark  hill-top. 

The  trees  were  grey,  with  neither  arms  nor  head ; 
Half  wasted  the  square  mound  of  tawny  green  ; 
So  that  you  just  might  say,  as  then  I  said, 
"  Here  in  old  time  the  hand  of  man  hath  been.'* 

I  looked  upon  the  hill  both  far  and  near, 
More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  spring-time  came  not  here, 
And  Nature  here  was  willing  to  decay. 

I  stood  in  various  thoughts  and  fancies  lost, 
When  one,  who  was  in  shepherd's  garb  attired, 
Came  up  the  hollow  : — him  did  I  accost, 
And  what  this  place  might  be  I  then  inquired. 

The  Shepherd  stopped,  and  that  same  story  told 
Which  in  my  former  rhyme  I  have  rehearsed. 
"  A  jolly  place,"  said  he,  "  in  times  of  old  ! 
But  something  ails  it  now ;  the  spot  is  curst. 

'l  You  see  these  lifeless  stumps  of  aspen  wood — 
Some  say  that  they  are  beeches,  others  elms — 
These  were  the  bower ;    and  here  a  mansion  stood, 
The  finest  palace  of  a  hundred  realms  ! 

35 


"  The  arbour  does  its  own  condition  tell ; 
You  see  the  stones,  the  fountain,  and  the  stream  ; 
But  as  to  the  great  Lodge  !    you  might  as  well 
Hunt  half  a  day  for  a  forgotten  dream. 

"  There's  neither  dog  nor  heifer,  horse  nor  sheep, 
Will  wet  his  lips  within  that  cup  of  stone  ; 
And  oftentimes  when  all  are  fast  asleep, 
This  water  doth  send  forth  a  dolorous  groan. 

44  Some  say  that  here   a  murder  has  been  done, 
And  blood  cries  out  for  blood  :    but,  for  my  part, 
I've  guessed,  when  I've  been  sitting  in  the  sun, 
That  it  was  all  for  that  unhappy  Hart. 

14  What  thoughts  must  through  the  creature's  brain 

have  passed  ! 

Even  from  the  topmost  stone,  upon  the  steep, 
Are  but  three  bounds — and  look,  Sir,  at  this  last — 
O  Master  !   it  has  been  a  cruel  leap. 

44  For  thirteen  hours  he  ran  a  desperate  race  ; 
And  in  my  simple  mind  we  cannot  tell 
What  cause  the  Hart  might  have  to  love  this  place, 
And  come  and  make  his  deathbed  near  the  well. 

44  Here  on  the  grass  perhaps  asleep  he  sank, 
Lulled  by  the  fountain  in  the  summer-tide  ; 
This  water  was  perhaps  the  first  he  drank 
When  he  had  wandered  from  his  mother's  side. 

44  In  April  here  beneath  the  flowering  thorn 
He  heard  the  birds  their  morning  carols  sing  ; 
And  he,  perhaps,  for  aught  we  know,  was  born 
Not  half  a  furlong  from  that  self-same  spring. 

36 


"  Now,  here  is  neither  grass  nor  pleasant  shade  ; 

The  sun  on  drearier  hollow  never  shone  ; 

So  will  it  be,  as  I  have  often  said, 

Till  trees,  and  stones,  and  fountain,  all  are  gone." 

"  Grey-headed  Shepherd,  thou  hast  spoken  well ; 
Small  difference  lies  between  thy  creed  and  mine  : 
This  Beast  not  unobserved  by  Nature  fell ; 
His  death  was  mourned  by  sympathy  divine. 

"  The  Being,  that  is  in  the  clouds  and  air, 
That  is  in  the  green  leaves  among  the  groves, 
Maintains  a  deep  and  reverential  care 
For  the  unoffending  creatures  whom  he  loves. 

"  The  pleasure-house  is  dust : — behind,  before, 
This  is  no  common  waste,  no  common  gloom  ; 
But  Nature,  in  due  course  of  time,  once  more 
Shall  here  put  on  her  beauty  and  her  bloom. 

"  She  leaves  these  objects  to  a  slow  decay 

That  what  we  are,  and  have  been,  may  be  known  ; 

But  at  the  coming  of  the  milder  day, 

These  monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown. 

44  One  lesson,  Shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 

Taught  both  by  what  she  shows,  and  what  conceals  ; 

Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 

With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels." 

1800. 


37 


William  Wordsworth 


FIDELITY 

A  BARKING  sound  the  Shepherd  hears, 
A  cry  as  of  a  dog  or  fox ; 
He  halts — and  searches  with  his  eyes 
Among  the  scattered  rocks  : 
And  now  at  distance  can  discern 
A  stirring  in  a  brake  of  fern  ; 
And  instantly  a  dog  is  seen, 
Glancing  through  that  covert  green. 

The  Dog  is  not  of  mountain  breed ; 

Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy ; 

With  something,  as  the  Shepherd  thinks, 

Unusual  in  its  cry  : 

Nor  is  there  anyone  in  sight 

All  round,  in  hollow  or  on  height ; 

Nor  shout,  nor  whistle  strikes  his  ear ; 

What  is  the  creature  doing  here  ? 

It  was  a  cove,  a  huge  recess, 
That  keeps,  till  June,  December's  snow ; 
A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 
A  silent  tarn  below  ! 
Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn 
Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling, 
Pathway,  or  cultivated  land  ; 
From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 
38 


There  sometimes  doth  a  leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer ; 
The  crags  repeat  the  raven's  croak, 
In  symphony  austere ; 
Thither  the  rainbow  comes — the  cloud — 
And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud ; 
And  sunbeams,  and  the  sounding  blast, 
That  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past ; 
But  that  enormous  barrier  holds  it  fast. 


Not  free  from  boding  thoughts,  a  while 
The  Shepherd  stood  ;  then  makes  his  way 
O'er  rocks  and  stones,  following  the  Dog 
As  quickly  as  he  may  ; 
Nor  far  had  gone  before  he  found 
A  human  skeleton  on  the  ground ; 
The  appalled  Discoverer  with  a  sigh 
Looks  round,  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 

The  Man  had  fallen,  that  place  of  fear ! 

At  length  upon  the  Shepherd's  mind 

It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear : 

He  instantly  recalled  the  name, 

And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came ; 

Remembered  too,  the  very  day 

On  which  the  Traveller  passed  this  way. 

But  hear  a  wonder,  for  whose  sake 
This  lamentable  tale  I  tell ! 
A  lasting  monument  of  words 
This  wonder  merits  well. 
39 


The  Dog,  which  still  was  hovering  nigh, 
Repeating  the  same  timid  cry, 
This  Dog  had  been  through  three  months'  space 
A  dweller  in  that  savage  place. 

Yes,  proof  was  plain  that,  since  the  day 
When  this  ill-fated  Traveller  died, 
The  Dog  had  watched  about  the  spot, 
Or  by  his  Master's  side  : 
How  nourished  here  through  such  long  time 
He  knows,  who  gave  that  love  sublime  ; 
And  gave  that  strength  of  feeling,  great 
Above  all  human  estimate  ! 

1805. 


40 


William  Wordsworth 


TRIBUTE 

TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   A   DOG 

LIE  here,  without  a  record  of  thy  worth, 
Beneath  a  covering  of  the  common  earth  ! 
It  is  not  for  unwillingness  to  praise, 
Or  want  of  love,  that  here  no  Stone  we  raise  ; 
More  thou  deserv'st ;    but  this  man  gives  to  man, 
Brother  to  brother,  this  is  all  we  can. 
Yet  they  to  whom  thy  virtues  made  thee  dear 
Shall  find  thee  through  all  changes  of  the  year  : 
This  Oak  points  out  thy  grave  ;   the  silent  tree 
Will  gladly  stand  a  monument  of  thee. 

We  grieved   for  thee,   and  wished  thy  end  were 

past ; 

And  willingly  have  laid  thee  here  at  last : 
For  thou  hadst  lived  till  everything  that  cheers 
In  thee  had  yielded  to  the  weight  of  years ; 
Extreme  old  age  had  wasted  thee  away, 
And  left  thee  but  a  glimmering  of  the  day ; 
Thy  ears  were  deaf,  and  feeble  were  thy  knees, — 
I  saw  thee  stagger  in  the  summer  breeze, 
Too  weak  to  stand  against  its  sportive  breath, 
And  ready  for  the  gentlest  stroke  of  death. 
It  came,  and  we  were  glad  ;    yet  tears  were  shed  ; 
Both  man  and  woman  wept  when  thou  wert  dead  ; 
Not  only  for  a  thousand  thoughts  that  were, 
Old   household  thoughts,   in   which  thou    hadst  thy 

share ; 

41 


But  for  some  precious  boons  vouchsafed  to  thee, 
Found  scarcely  anywhere  in  like  degree  ! 
For  love,  that  comes  wherever  life  and  sense 
Are  given  by  God,  in  thee  was  most  intense ; 
A  chain  of  heart,  a  feeling  of  the  mind, 
A  tender  sympathy,  which  did  thee  bind 
Not  only  to  us  men,  but  to  thy  kind  : 
Yea,  for  thy  fellow-brutes  in  thee  we  saw 
A  soul  of  love,  love's  intellectual  law  : — 
Hence,  if  we  wept,  it  was  not  done  in  shame ; 
Our  tears  from  passion  and  from  reason  came, 
And,  therefore,  shalt  thou  be  an  honoured  name  ! 

1805. 


42 


William  Wordsworth 


EAGLES 

COMPOSED  AT  DUNOLLIE  CASTLE  IN  THE  BAY  OF  OBAN 

DISHONOURED  Rock  and  Ruin !  that,  by  law 
Tyrannic,  keep  the  Bird  of  Jove  embarred 
Like  a  lone  criminal  whose  life  is  spared. 
Vexed  is  he,  and  screams  loud.     The  last  I  saw 
Was  on  the  wing ;    stooping,  he  struck  with  awe 
Man,  bird,  and  beast ;    then,  with  a  consort  paired, 
From  a  bold  headland,  their  loved  aery's  guard, 
Flew  high  above  Atlantic  waves,  to  draw 
Light  from  the  fountain  of  the  setting  sun. 
Such  was  the  Prisoner  once  ;    and,  when  his  plumes 
The  sea-blast  ruffles  as  the  storm  comes  on, 
Then,  for  a  moment,  he,  in  spirit,  resumes 
His  rank  'mong  freeborn  creatures  that  live  free, 
His  power,  his  beauty,  and  his  majesty. 

1831. 


43 


William  Wordsworth 


THE  WILD  DUCK'S   NEST 

THE  imperial  Consort  of  the  Fairy-king 
Owns  not  a  sylvan  bower  ;  or  gorgeous  cell 
With    emerald    floored,   and    with    purpureal 

shell 

Ceilinged  and  roofed  ;    that  is  so  fair  a  thing 
As  this  low  structure,  for  the  tasks  of  Spring, 
Prepared  by  one  who  loves  the  buoyant  swell 
Of  the  brisk  waves,  yet  here  consents  to  dwell ; 
And  spreads  in  steadfast  peace  her  brooding  wing. 
Words  cannot  paint  the  o'ershadowing  yew-tree  bough, 
And  dimly-gleaming  nest — a  hollow  crown 
Of  golden  leaves  inlaid  with  silver  down, 
Fine  as  the  mother's  softest  plumes  allow  : 
I  gazed — and,  self-accused  while  gazing,  sighed 
For  human-kind,  weak  slaves  of  cumbrous  pride  ! 

1819. 


William  Wordsworth 


SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  OF  THE  BIRD  OF 
PARADISE 

fTP^HE  gentlest  Poet,  with  free  thoughts  endowed, 
And  a  true  master  of  the  glowing  strain, 
Might  scan  the  narrow  province  with  disdain 
That  to  the  Painter's  skill  is  here  allowed. 
This,  this  the  Bird  of  Paradise  !   disclaim 
The  daring  thought,  forget  the  name  ; 
This  the  Sun's  Bird,  whom  Glendoveers  might  own 
As  no  unworthy  partner  in  their  flight 
Through  seas  of  ether  where  the  ruffling  sway 
Of  nether  air's  rude  billows  is  unknown  ; 
Whom  Sylphs,  if  e'er  for  casual  pastime  they 
Through  India's  spicy  regions  wing  their  way 
Might  bow  to  as  their  Lord.     What  character 
O  sovereign  Nature  !  I  appeal  to  thee, 
Of  all  thy  feathered  progeny 
Is  so  unearthly,  and  what  shape  so  fair  ? 
So  richly  decked  in  variegated  down, 
Green,  sable,  shining  yellow,  shadowy  brown, 
Thus  softly  with  each  other  blended, 
Hues  doubtfully  begun  and  ended  ; 
Or  intershooting,  and  to  sight 
Lost  and  recovered,  as  the  rays  of  light 
Glance  on  the   conscious   plumes   touched   here   and 
there  ? 

45 


Full  surely,  when  with  such  proud  gifts  of  life 
Began  the  pencil's  strife, 
O'erwcening  Art  was  caught  as  in  a  snare. 
A  sense  of  seemingly  presumptuous  wrong 
Gave  the  first  impulse  to  the  Poet's  song ; 
But,  of  his  scorn  repenting  soon,  he  drew 
A  juster  judgment  from  a  calmer  view ; 
And  with  a  spirit  freed  from  discontent 
Thankfully  took  an  effort  that  was  meant 
Not  with  God's  bounty,  Nature's  love  to  vie, 
Or  made  with  hope  to  please  that  inward  eye 
Which  ever  strives  in  vain  itself  to  satisfy, 
But  to  recall  the  truth  by  some  faint  trace 
Of  power  ethereal  and  celestial  grace, 
That  in  the  living  creature  finds  on  earth  a  place, 

1845. 


46 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

1772—1834, 


TO   A  YOUNG  ASS 

fas   MOTHER   BEING   TETHERED   NEAR   IT 

POOR  little  Foal  of  an  oppressed  race  ! 
I  love  the  languid  patience  of  thy  face  : 
And  oft  with  gentle  hand  I  give  thee  bread, 
And  clap  thy  ragged  coat  and  pat  thy  head. 
But  what  thy  dulled  spirits  hath  dismay'd, 
That  never  thou  dost  sport  along  the  glade  ? 
And  (most  unlike  the  nature  of  things  young) 
That  earthward  still  thy  moveless  head  is  hung  ? 
Do  thy  prophetic  fears  anticipate, 
Meek  Child  of  Misery  !    thy  future  fate  ? 
The  starving  meal,  and  all  the  thousand  aches 
"  Which  patient  Merit  of  the  Unworthy  takes  "  ? 
Or  is  thy  sad  heart  thrill'd  with  filial  pain 
To  see  thy  wretched  mother's  shorten'd  chain  ? 
And  truly,  very  piteous  is  her  lot 
Chain 'd  to  a  log  within  a  narrow  spot, 
Where  the  close-eaten  grass  is  scarcely  seen, 
While  sweet  around  her  waves  the  tempting  green. 
Poor  Ass  !    thy  master  should  have  learnt  to  show 
Pity — best  taught  by  fellowship  of  Woe  ! 
For  much  I  fear  me  that  he  lives  like  thee, 
Half  famish'd  in  a  land  of  Luxury  ! 
How  askingly  its  footsteps  hither  bend  ! 
It  seems  to  say,  "  And  have  I  then  one  friend  ?  " 

47 


Innocent  foal !  thou  poor  despis'd  forlorn  ! 

I  hail  thee  Brother — spite  of  the  fool's  scorn  ! 

And  fain  would  take  thee  with  me,  in  the  Dell 

Of  Peace  and  mild  Equality  to  dwell, 

Where  Toil  shall  call  the  charmer  Health  his  bride, 

And  Laughter  tickle  Plenty's  ribless  side  ! 

How  thou  would'st  toss  thy  heels  in  gamesome  play, 

And  frisk  about,  as  lamb  or  kitten  gay  ! 

Yea  !    and  more  musically  sweet  to  me 

Thy  dissonant  harsh  bray  of  joy  would  be, 

Than  warbled  melodies  that  soothe  to  rest 

The  aching  of  pale  Fashion's  vacant  breast. 

1794. 


48 


Robert  Southey 

1774—1843. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVOURITE 
OLD   SPANIEL 

AND    have   they   drown 'd   thee   then  at  last ! 
poor  Phillis  ! 
The  burden  of  old  age  was  heavy  on  thee, 
And  yet  thou  should 'st  have  lived  !     What  though 

thine  eye 

Was  dim,  and  watch'd  no  more  with  eager  joy 
The  wonted  call  that  on  thy  dull  sense  sunk 
With  fruitless  repetition,  the  warm  Sun 
Might  still  have  cheer'd  thy  slumbers  ;    thou  did'st 

love 

To  lick  the  hand  that  fed  thee,  and  though  past 
Youth's  active  season,  even  Life  itself 
Was  comfort.     Poor  old  friend,  how  earnestly 
Would  I  have  pleaded  for  thee  !    thou  had'st  been 
Still  the  companion  of  my  boyish  sports  ; 
And  as  I  roam'd  o'er  Avon's  woody  cliffs, 
From  many  a  day-dream  has  thy  short  quick  bark 
Recall'd  my  wandering  soul.     I  have  beguiled 
Often  the  melancholy  hours  at  school, 
Sour'd  by  some  little  tyrant,  with  the  thought 
Of  distant  home,  and  I  remember'd  then 
Thy  faithful  fondness  ;  for  not  mean  the  joy 
Returning  at  the  happy  holydays, 
I  felt  from  thy  dumb  welcome.     Pensively 
Sometimes  have  I  remark'd  thy  slow  decay, 

49  E 


Feeling  myself  changed  too,  and  musing  much 

On  many  a  sad  vicissitude  of  Life. 

Ah  poor  companion  !     When  thou  followed'st  last 

Thy  master's  footsteps  to  the  gate 

Which  closed  for  ever  on  him,  thou  did'st  lose 

Thy  truest  friend  and  none  was  left  to  plead 

For  the  old  age  of  brute  fidelity. 

But  fare  thee  well !     Mine  is  no  narrow  creed ; 

And  He  who  gave  thee  being  did  not  frame 

The  mystery  of  life  to  be  the  sport 

Of  merciless  Man.     There  is  another  world 

For  all  that  live  and  move  ...  a  better  one  ! 

Where  the  proud  bipeds  who  would  fain  confine 

Infinite  Goodness  to  the  little  bounds 

Of  their  own  charity,  may  envy  thee. 

BBISTOL,  1796. 


50 


Robert  Southey 


THE  DANCING  BEAR 

RECOMMENDED    TO    THE    ADVOCATES    FOR    THE    SLAVE- 
TRADE 

RARE   music  !     I  would  rather   hear  cat-court- 
ship 
Under  my  bed-room  window  in  the  night, 
Than  this  scraped  catgut's  screak.    Rare  dancing  too  ! 
Alas,  poor  Bruin  !     How  he  foots  the  pole 
And  waddles  round  it  with  unwieldy  steps, 
Swaying  from  side  to  side  1  ...  The  dancing-master 
Hath  had  as  profitless  a  pupil  in  him 
As  when  he  would  have  tortured  my  poor  toes 
To  minuet  grace,  and  made  them  move  like  clockwork 
In  musical  obedience.     Bruin  !     Bruin  ! 
Thou  art  but  a  clumsy  biped  !  .  .  .  And  the  mob 
With  noisy  merriment  mock  his  heavy  pace, 
And  laugh  to  see  him  led  by  the  nose  !  .  .  .  them- 
selves 

Led  by  the  nose,  embruted,  and  in  the  eye 
Of  Reason  from  their  Nature's  purposes 
As  miserably  perverted. 

Bruin-Bear  ! 

Now  could  I  sonnetize  thy  piteous  plight, 
And  prove  how  much  my  sympathetic  heart 
Even  for  the  miseries  of  a  beast  can  feel, 
In  fourteen  lines  of  sensibility. 
But  we  are  told  all  things  were  made  for  Man ; 
And  I'll  be  sworn  there's  not  a  fellow  here 

51 


Who  would  not  swear  'twere  hanging  blasphemy 

To  doubt  that  truth.     Therefore  as  thou  wert  born, 

Bruin  !    for  Man,  and  Man  makes  nothing  of  thee 

In  any  other  way,  .  .  .  most  logically 

It  follows,  thou  wert  born  to  make  him  sport ; 

That  that  great  snout  of  thine  was  form'd 

To  hold  a  ring  ;    and  that  thy  fat  was  given  thee 

For  an  approved  pomatum  ! 

To  demur 

Were  heresy.     And  politicians  say, 
(Wise  men  who  in  the  scale  of  reason  give 
No  foolish  feelings  weight,)  that  thou  art  here 
Far  happier  than  thy  brother  Bears  who  roam 
O'er  trackless  snow  for  food  ;    that  being  born 
Inferior  to  thy  leader,  unto  him 
Rightly  belongs  dominion  ;    that  the  compact 
Was  made  between  ye,  when  thy  clumsy  feet 
First  fell  into  the  snare,  and  he  gave  up 
His  right  to  kill,  conditioning  thy  life 
Should  thenceforth  be  his  property ;  .  .  .  besides 
'Tis  wholesome  for  thy  morals  to  be  brought 
From  savage  climes  into  a  civilized  state, 
Into  the  decencies  of  Christendom.  .  .  . 
Bear  !    Bear  !    it  passes  in  the  Parliament 
For  excellent  logic  this  !     What  if  we  say 
How  barbarously  Man  abuses  power  ? 
Talk  of  thy  baiting,  it  will  be  replied, 
Thy  welfare  is  thy  owner's  interest, 
But  were  thou  baited  it  would  injure  thee, 
Therefore  thou  art  not  baited.     For  seven  years 
Hear  it,  O  Heaven,  and  give  ear,  O  Earth  ! 
For  seven  long  years,  this  precious  syllogism 
Hath  baffled  justice  and  humanity  ! 
WESTBURY,  1799. 

52 


Leigh   Hunt 

1784—1859. 


TO  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET 

GREEN  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon, 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass  : 
And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 
With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass  : 
Oh,  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong 
One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 
Both  have  your  sunshine  ;    both,  though  small,  are 

strong 

At  your  clear  hearts ;    and  both  seem  given  to  earth 
To  ring  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song — 
Indoors  and  out,  summer  and  winter — mirth. 


53 


Percy   Bysshe   Shelley 

1792—1822. 

TO   A  SKYLARK 

HAIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 
Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  Heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright 'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  Heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight, 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear 

Until  we  hardly  see — we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

54 


All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  Heaven  is  over- 
flowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  Poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not  : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace-tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 

With    music    sweet    as    love,    which    overflows    her 
bower : 


Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aereal  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from 
the  view  ! 

55 


Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  those  heavy-winged 
thieves  : 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass  : 

Teach  us,  Sprite  or  Bird 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 

I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  Hymeneal 

Or  triumphant  chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thy  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be  : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee  : 

Thou  lovest — but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

56 


Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow 

The  world  should  listen  then — as  I  am  listening  now. 

1820. 


57 


Hartley   Coleridge 

1796—1849. 


THE   CRICKET 

WHERE    art    thou,    merry   whistler   of    the 
hearth  ? 
What    time    the    grate    is    stuffed    with 

arid  moss, 

I  miss  thy  shrill  monotony  of  mirth, 
And  do  not  love  the  bars'  ferruginous  gloss, 
When  summer  nights  are  blinking-dark  and  cold, 
And  the  dim  taper  cheerless  to  behold. 

I  thought  thee  sleeping  in  some  cranny  snug, 

Insensible  to  human  weal  or  woe, 

Till  earlier  night  bids  shake  the  lazy  rug, 

And  lifts  the  poker  for  decisive  blow. 

But  thou  hast  left  thy  ashy  winter  mansion 

To  air  thy  crisp-cased  wings  in  wide  expansion. 

If  I  should  see  thee  in  thy  summer  dress 
'Tis  odds  if  I  should  know  thee,  winter  friend  ! 
The  love  I  have  not,  but  revere  no  less, 
That  can  so  closely  to  thy  ways  attend. 
And  glad  am  I  the  cricket  has  a  share 
Of  the  wide  summer,  and  the  ample  air. 


58 


Alfred  de  Vigny 

1797—1863. 
THE  DEATH  OF  THE  WOLF 


P  •  ^HE  clouds  raced  by  across  the  yellow  moon 

Like   smoke-wreaths  whirled  around  a  forest 
A  fire, 

And  to  the  far  horizon's  verge  the  woods 
Stretched  black.     We  marched  through  dewy  grass, 

amid 

High  straggling  heather  and  dense  tangled  gorse, 
Silently,  till  at  last,  'neath  rugged  pines 
Like  those  that  dot  the  bleak  unfertile  Landes, 
We  came  upon  the  foot-prints,  clear  defined, 
Left  by  the  roving  wolves  that  we  had  tracked. 
Holding  our  breath,  we  halted,  listening. 
Neither  the  darkling  woods  that  fronted  us 
Nor  the  dim  heath  gave  forth  the  faintest  sound  : 
Only  a  distant  weathercock  we  heard, 
Fitfully  moaning  to  the  firmament. 
For  high  above  the  earth  the  wind  was  set, 
Scarce  brushing  with  its  wings  the  topmost  points 
Of  solitary  towers  ;  the  oaks  below, 
That  leaned  their  gnarled  boughs  against  the  rocks, 
Like  sleeping  giants  seemed,  upon  their  arms 
Reclining.     Utter  silence  reigned.     At  length 
The  oldest  of  our  hunting-party  crouched 
Upon  the  sand  with  bent  head,  searching.     Soon 
He  rose  and  whispered  softly,  "  Two  old  wolves, 
Two  cubs.     The  slot  is  fresh."     Then— for  the  man 

59 


Was  one  who  never  had  been  known  at  fault 

On  such  a  quest — we  hid  as  best  we  might 

The  tell-tale  gleam  our  rifle-barrels  cast, 

And  loosing  in  their  sheaths  our  hunting  knives, 

Through  the  low-hanging  branches  step  by  step 

Pushed  on.     But  all  at  once  again  those  three 

Stopped  ;    and  I,  seeking  for  the  cause,  perceived 

Two  sudden  burning  eyes  that  flamed  on  me 

Out  of  the  dark,  and  slowly  grew  aware 

Of  lithe  and  shadowy  forms  behind  the  eyes, 

That  in  the  moonlight  danced  amid  the  gorse, 

As  joyous  greyhounds  often  may  be  seen 

Leaping  around  their  master  noisily 

To  welcome  his  return.     Their  form  was  like 

And  like  too  was  their  happy  gambolling  ; 

But  silently  the  Children  of  the  Wolf 

Enjoyed  their  game,  knowing  well  that  close  at  hand 

Within  his  walls  lay  Man,  their  enemy, 

But  half  asleep.     The  father  stood  erect ; 

Beyond  him,  stretched  against  a  sheltering  bole, 

The  female  couched  like  that  famed  marble  wolf 

The  Romans  once  revered,  whose  hairy  flanks 

Nourished  and  warmed  the  mighty  demi-gods 

Remus  and  Romulus. 

The  male  advanced 

Bristling,  and  crouched,  with  every  muscle  taut, 
His  strong  claws  buried  in  the  yielding  sand. 
Surprised,  surrounded,  all  retreat  cut  off, 
He  deemed  that  he  was  lost,  and  suddenly 
Leapt  as  a  flame  leaps  up,  and  by  the  throat 
Seized  in  his  reeking  jaws  our  boldest  dog, 
Nor  loosed  the  iron  grip  of  those  fierce  fangs, 
Despite  our  shots  that  seared  and  tore  his  flesh, 
And  our  keen  knives  that  pincer-like  were  crossed 

60 


Plunged  in  his  entrails,  till  the  strangled  hound, 
Dead  long  before  him,  rolled  beneath  his  feet. 
Then  the  wolf  turned  from  him  and  gazed  at  us. 
Our  knives  were  buried  in  his  heaving  flanks 
Up  to  the  hilt,  and  pinned  him  to  the  sward, 
Drenched  with  his  blood  ;   and  crescent-wise  our  guns 
Menacingly  surrounded  him.     Once  more 
He  gazed  at  us,  and  then  sank  slowly  down 
Licking  the  blood  and  slaver  from  his  mouth, 
And  deigning  not  to  know  whence  death  had   come, 
Closed  his  great  eyes,  and  died  without  a  sound. 


II 

Leaning  my  brow  on  my  unloaded  gun 

I  stood  and  pondered.     Lacking  now  all  heart, 

I  cared  not  to  pursue  the  mother  wolf, 

Who  with  her  cubs  had  lingered  for  a  while 

Awaiting  him.     And  truly  I  believe 

That,  but  for  them,  his  dark  and  beauteous  mate 

Would  ne'er  have  left  him  thus  to  undergo 

That  last  great  ordeal  aidless  and  alone. 

But  'twas  her  part  to  save  them  that  they  might 

Live  on  and  learn  the  duty  of  free  wolves  : 

To  suffer  hunger's  pangs  unflinchingly, 

And  never  enter  into  that  strange  pact 

That  Man  has  made  with  servile  animals, 

Who  for  a  pittance  hunt  at  his  behest 

The  rightful  tenants  of  the  woods  and  hills. 


Ill 

Alas,  I  thought,  in  spite  of  this  proud  name 
Of  Man,  I  am  ashamed,  remembering 

61 


How  weak  we  are,  and  how  unstably  wrought. 
Superb  wild  animals,  you  know  indeed 
How  to  quit  life  and  all  its  train  of  ills  ! 
When  we  consider  how  our  days  have  passed 
On  earth,  and  all  that  we  have  left  undone, 
Silence  alone  is  noble,  and  aught  else 
Is  feebleness  and  folly. 

Ah,  full  well 

I  understand  thee,  tameless  Wanderer, 
Whose  last  glance  pierced  me  to  the  very  heart. 
If  thou  art  able — so  it  seemed  to  say — 
Strive  till  by  patient  thought  thy  soul  attains 
That  lofty  height  of  firm  and  stoic  pride 
Which  I,  the  native  of  the  wilds,  have  held 
As  birthright  from  the  hour  when  I  was  born. 
To  weep,  lament,  or  pray  is  cowardice  : 
In  whatsoever  path  thy  destiny 
Allots  to  thee,  perform  with  steadfast  will 
Thy  long  and  arduous  task ;  and  at  the  end, 
Suffer  and  die,  like  me,  without  a  word. 

1830. 

Translated  from  the  French. 


62 


D.  M.  Moir 

1798—1851. 


THE  FOWLER 

And  is  there  care  in  Heaven  ?  and  is  there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  base, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move  ? 
There  is — else  much  more  wretched  were  the  case 
Of  men  than  beasts.    But  0  I  the  exceeding  grace 
Of  highest  God,  that  loves  His  creatures  so, 
And  all  His  works  with  mercy  doth  embrace, 
That  blessed  angels  He  sends  to  and  fro, 
To  serve  on  wicked  man — to  serve  His  wicked  foe  ! 

SPENSER. 


1HAVE  an  old  remembrance — 'tis  as  old 
As  childhood's  visions,  and  'tis  mingled  with 
Dim  thoughts  and  scenes  grotesque,  by  fantasy 
From  out  oblivion's  twilight  conjured  up, 
Ere  truth  had  shorn  imagination's  beams, 
Or  to  forlorn  reality  tamed  down 
The  buoyant  spirit.     Yes  !  the  shapes  and  hues 
Of  winter  twilight,  often  as  the  year 
Revolves,  and  hoar-frost  grimes  the  window-sill, 
Bring  back  the  lone  waste  scene  that  gave  it  birth, 
And  make  me,  for  a  moment,  what  I  was 
Then,  on  that  Polar  morn — a  little  boy, 
And  Earth  again  the  realm  of  fairyland. 

63 


II 

A  Fowler  was  our  visitant ;  his  talk 
At  eve  beside  the  flickering  hearth,  while  howl'd 
The  outward  winds,  and  hail-drops  on  the  pane 
Tinkled,  or  down  the  chimney  in  the  flame 
Whizz'd  as  they  melted,  was  of  forest  and  field, 
Wherein  lay  bright  wild  birds  and  timorous  beasts, 
That  shunn'd  the  face  of  man ;    and  O  !    the  joy, 
The  passion  which  lit  up  his  brow,  to  con 
The  feats  of  sleight  and  cunning  skill  by  which 
Their  haunts  were  near'd,  or  on  the  heathy  hills, 
Or  'mid  the  undergrove  ;   on  snowy  moor, 
Or  by  the  rushy  lake — what  time  the  dawn 
Reddens  the  east,  or  from  on  high  the  moon 
In  the  smooth  waters  sees  her  pictured  orb, 
The  white  cloud  slumbering  in  the  windless  gky, 
And  midnight  mantling  all  the  silent  hills. 


Ill 

I  do  remember  me  the  very  time — 
(Though  thirty  shadowy  years  have  lapsed  between) — 
'Tis  graven  as  by  the  hand  of  yesterday. 
For  weeks  had  raved  the  winds,  the  angry  seas 
Howl'd  to  the  darkness,  and  down  fallen  the  snows  ; 
The  redbreast  to  the  window  came  for  crumbs ; 
Hunger  had  to  the  coleworts  driven  the  hare  ; 
The  crow  at  noontide  peck'd  the  travell'd  road ; 
And  the  wood-pigeon,  timorously  bold, 
Starv'd  from  the  forest,  near'd  the  homes  of  man. 
It  was  the  dreariest  depth  of  winter-tide, 
And  on  the  ocean  and  its  isles  was  felt 
The  iron  sway  of  the  North  ;  yea,  even  the  fowl — • 

64 


That  through  the  polar  summer  months  could  see 
A  beauty  in  Spitzbergen's  naked  isles, 
Or  on  the  drifting  icebergs  seek  a  home — 
Even  they  had  fled,  on  southern  wing,  in  search 
Of  less  inclement  shores. 

Perturb 'd  by  dreams 

Pass'd  o'er  the  slow  night  watches  ;   many  a  thought 
And  many  a  hope  was  forward  bent  on  morn  ; 
But  weary  was  the  tedious  chime  on  chime, 
And  hour  on  hour  'twas  dark,  and  still  'twas  dark. 
At  length  we  arose — for  now  we  counted  five — 
And  by  the  flickering  hearth  array 'd  ourselves 
In  coats  and  'kerchiefs,  for  the  early  drift 
And  biting  season  fit ;   the  fowling-piece 
Was  shoulder'd,   and  the  blood-stained  game-pouch 

slung 

On  this  side,  and  the  gleaming  flask  on  that ; 
In  sooth  we  were  a  most  accordant  pair ; 
And  thus  accoutred,  to  the  lone  sea-shore 
In  fond  and  fierce  precipitance  we  flew. 


IV 

There  was  no  breath  abroad  ;    each  in  its  cave, 
As  if  enchanted,  slept  the  winds,  and  left 
Earth  in  a  voiceless  trance  :    around  the  porch 
All  stirlessly  the  darksome  ivy  clung ; 
All  silently  the  leafless  trees  held  up 
Their  bare  boughs  to  the  sky  ;  the  atmosphere, 
Untroubled  in  its  cold  serenity, 
Wept  icy  dews  ;  and  now  the  later  stars, 
As  by  some  hidden  necromantic  charm, 
Dilate,  amid  the  death-like  calm  profound, 
On  the  white  slumber-mantled  earth  gazed  down. 

65  F 


Words  may  not  tell,  how  to  the  temperament, 

And  to  the  hue  of  that  enchanted  hour, 

The  spirit  was  subdued — a  wizard  scene  ! 

In  the  far  west,  the  Pentland's  gloomy  ridge 

Belted  the  pale  blue  sky,  whereon  a  cloud, 

Fantastic,  grey,  and  tinged  with  solemn  light, 

Lay,  like  a  dreaming  monster,  and  the  moon, 

Waning,  above  its  silvery  rim  upheld 

Her  horns — as  'twere  the  Spectre  of  the  Past. 

Silently,  silently,  on  we  trode  and  trode, 

As  if  a  spell  had  frozen  up  our  words. — 

White  lay  the  wolds  around  us,  ankle-deep 

In  new-fallen  snows,  which  champ'd  beneath  our  tread  ; 

And,  by  the  marge  of  winding  Esk,  which  show'd 

The  mirror'd  stars  upon  its  map  of  ice, 

Downwards  in  haste  we  journey'd  to  the  shore 

Of  Ocean,  whose  drear,  multitudinous  voice 

Unto  the  listening  spirit  of  Silence  sang. 


O  leaf !  from  out  the  volume  of  far  years 
Dissever'd,  oft,  how  oft  have  the  young  buds 
Of  spring  unfolded,  have  the  summer  skies 
In  their  deep  blue  o'ercanopied  the  earth, 
And  autumn,  in  September's  ripening  breeze, 
Rustled  her  harvests,  since  the  theme  was  one 
Present,  and  darkly  all  that  Future  lay, 
Which  now  is  of  the  perish'd  and  the  past ! 
Since  then  a  generation's  span  hath  fled, 
With  all  its  varied  whirls  of  chance  and  change — 
With  all  its  casualties  of  life  and  death, 
And,  looking  round,  sadly  I  feel  this  world 
Another,  though  the  same  ; — another  in 

66 


The  eyes  that  gleam,  the  hearts  that  throb,  the  hop 

The  fears,  the  friendships  of  the  soul ;    the  same 

In  outward  aspect — in  the  hills  which  cleave, 

As  landmarks  of  historical  renown, 

With  azure  peaks  the  sky ; — in  the  green  plain 

That  spreads  its  annual  wild  flowers  to  the  sun ; 

And  in  the  river,  whose  blue  course  is  mark'd 

By  many  a  well-known  bend  and  shadowy  tree  : 

Yet  o'er  the  oblivious  gulf,  whose  mazy  gloom 

Ensepulchres  so  many  things,  I  see 

As  'twere  of  yesterday — yet  robed  in  tints 

Which  yesterday  has  lost,  or  never  had — 

The  desolate  features  of  that  Polar  morn, — 

Its  twilight  shadows,  and  its  twinkling  stars — 

The  snows  far  spreading — the  expanse  of  sand, 

Ribb'd  by  the  roaring  and  receded  sea, 

And  shedding  over  all  a  wizard  light, 

The  waning  moon  above  the  dim-seen  hills. 

VI 

At  length,  upon  the  solitary  shore 

We  walk'd  of  Ocean,  which,  with  sullen  voice, 

Hollow  and  never-ceasing,  to  the  north 

Sang  its  primeval  song.     A  weary  waste  ! — 

We  pass'd  through  pools  where  mussel,   clam,   and 

wilk 

Clove  to  their  gravelly  beds ;   o'er  slimy  rocks 
Ridgy  and  dark,  with  dank  fresh  fuci  green, 
Where  the  prawn  wriggled  and  the  tiny  crab 
Slid  sideway  from  our  path,  until  we  gain'd 
The  land's  extremest  point,  a  sandy  jut, 
Narrow,  and  by  the  weltering  waves  begirt 
Around  ;    and  there  we  laid  us  down  and  watch'd 

67 


While  from  the  west  the  pale  moon  disappear'd, 
Pronely,  the  sea-fowl  and  the  coming  dawn. 

VII 

Now  day  with  darkness  for  the  mastery  strove  : 

The  stars  had  waned  away — all,  save  the  last 

And  fairest,  Lucifer,  whose  silver  lamp, 

In  solitary  beauty,  twinkling  shone 

'Mid  the  far  west,  where,  through  the  clouds  of  rack 

Floating  around,  peep'd  out  at  intervals 

A  patch  of  sky ; — straightway  the  reign  of  night 

Was  finish'd,  and,  as  if  instinctively, 

The  ocean  flocks,  or  slumbering  on  the  wave 

Or  on  the  isles,  seem'd  the  approach  of  dawn 

To  feel ;   and,  rising  from  afar,  were  heard 

Shrill  shrieks  and  pipings  desolate — a  pause 

Ensued,  and  then  the  same  lone  sounds  return Jd, 

And  suddenly  the  whirring  rush  of  wings, 

Went  circling  round  us  o'er  the  level  sands, 

Then  died  away ;  and,  as  we  look'd  aloft, 

Between  us  and  the  sky  we  saw  a  speck 

Of  b.lack  upon  the  blue — some  huge,  wild  bird, 

Osprey  or  eagle,  high  amid  the  clouds 

Sailing  majestic,  on  its  plumes  to  catch 

The  earliest  crimson  of  the  approaching  day. 

VIII 

'Twere  sad  to  tell  our  murderous  deeds  that  morn. 
Silent  upon  the  chilly  beach  we  lay 
Prone,  while  the  drifting  snow  flakes  o'er  us  fell, 
Like  Nature's  frozen  tears  for  our  misdeeds 
Of  wanton  cruelty.     The  eider  ducks, 

68 


With  their  wild  eyes,  and  necks  of  changeful  blue, 

We  watch'd,  now  diving  down,  now  on  the  surge 

Flapping  their  pinions,  of  our  ambuscade 

Unconscious  till  a  sudden  death  was  found  ; 

While  floating  o'er  us,  in  the  graceful  curves 

Of  silent  beauty,  down  the  sea-mew  fell ; 

The  guillemot  upon  the  shell  bank  lay 

Bleeding,  and  oft,  in  wonderment,  its  mate 

Flew  round,  with  mournful  cry,  to  bid  it  rise, 

Then  shrieking,  fled  afar ;  the  sandpipers, 

A  tiny  flock,  innumerable,  as  round 

And  round  they  flew,  bewail'd  their  broken  ranks ; 

And  the  scared  heron  sought  his  inland  marsh. 

With  blood  bedabbled  plumes  around  us  rose 

A  slaughter'd  hecatomb  ;  and  to  my  heart 

(My  heart  then  open  to  all  sympathies) 

It  spoke  of  tyrannous  cruelties — of  man 

The  desolator ;   and  of  some  far  day, 

When  the  accountable  shall  make  account, 

And  but  the  merciful  shall  mercy  find. 

IX 

Soul-sicken'd,  satiate,  and  dissatisfied, 
An  alter'd  being  homewards  I  return'd, 
My  thoughts  revolting  at  the  thirst  for  blood, 
So  brutalizing,  so  destructive  of 
The  finer  sensibilities,  which  man 
In  boyhood  owns,  and  which  the  world  destroys. 
Nature  had  preach'd  a  sermon  to  my  heart : 
And  from  that  moment,  on  that  snowy  morn — 
(Seeing  that  earth  enough  of  suffering  has 
And  death) — all  cruelty  my  soul  abhorr'd, 
Yea,  loathed  the  purpose  and  the  power  to  kill. 

69 


Leitch  Ritchie 

1800—1865. 


THE   BEETLE-WORSHIPPER 

HOW  com'st  thou  on  that  gentle  hand,  where 
love  should  kisses  bring 
For    beauty's    tribute  ?      Answer    me,    thou 

foul  and  frightful  thing  ! 
Why  dwell  upon  thy  hideous  form  those  reverent 

eyes  that  seem 

Themselves   the    worshipped    stars   that   light    some 
youthful  poet's  dream  ? 

"  When  bends  the  thick  and  golden  grain  that  ripes 

at  my  command, 
From  the  cracked  earth  I  creep,  to  bless  with  food 

the  fainting  land  ; 
And  thus  no  foulness  in  my  form  the  grateful  people 

see, 
But  maids  as  sweet  and  bright  as  this  are  priestesses 

to  me. 

"  Throned  in  the  slime  of  ancient  Nile,   I  bid  the 

earth  to  bear, 
And  blades  and  blossoms  at  my  voice,  and  corn  and 

fruits  appear ; 
And  thus  upon  my  loathly  form  are  showers  of  beauty 

shed, 
And  peace  and  plenty  join  to  fling  a  halo  round  my 

head." 

70 


Dark  teacher,  tell  me  yet  again,  what  hidden  lore 

doth  lie 

Beneath  the  exoteric  type  of  thy  philosophy  ? 
"  The  Useful  is  the  Beautiful ;    the  good,  and  kind, 

and  true, 
To  feature  and  to  form  impart  their  own  celestial 

hue. 

"  Learn  farther,  that  one  common  chain  runs  through 

the  heavenly  plan, 
And  links  in  bonds  of  brotherhood  the  beetle  and 

the  man  ; 
Both  fair  and  foul  alike  from  Him,  the  Lord  of  Love, 

do  spring — 
And  this  believe,  he  loves  not  well  who  loves  not 

everything" 


71 


Nicolaus   Lenau 

1802—1850. 


THE   BIRD'S   NEST 

MY  path  anigh  a  lonely  church  once  led, 
With  halls  and  cloisters  long  untenanted  ; 
And  entering,  I  felt  a  faint  regret — 
A  strange  half-shyness  of  its  builders  fret 
My  soul,  that  in  their  house  I  could  not  share 
The  faith  that  had  inspired  this  work  so  rare. 

Where    were   they   now  ?     Lo !     on    their   graves    I 

stept  ; 

The  new-mown  grass  on  each  green  hillock  lay, 
The  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  hay, 
And  o'er  the  summer  eve  the  twilight  crept. 
The  wind  played  lightly  through  the  linden  trees, 
But  motionless  the  grass  lay  in  the  breeze 
Unstirred  by  any  passing  breath  or  thrill, 
And  'neath  the  grass  the  garnered  dead  lay  still. 

Grey  cloisters  o'er  whose  windows  ivy  throws 
Its  tangled  stems  the  churchyard  green  enclose, 
With  slender  pillars  exquisitely  placed, 
And  soaring  arches  boldly  interlaced  ; 
The  church  stands  fair  and  spacious  to  this  day, 
Where  pious  monks  erstwhile  found  cool  retreat 
From  worldly  passions'  fierce  unrest  and  heat ; 
The  faith  that  built  thus  long  hath  passed  away. 

72 


Around  the  pointed  windows  runs  a  zone 
Of  leaves  and  flowers  deftly  hewn  in  stone  ; 
More  lifelike,  loveliest  of  all,  doth  rest 
Upon  a  drooping  branch  a  carven  nest : 
The  young  their  eager  bills  wide-opening, 
The  anxious  mother  bearing  them  their  food, 
With  outspread  wings  poised  o'er  her  callow  brood, 
That  soon  themselves  will  learn  to  fly  and  sing. 

I  gazed  upon  the  Master's  perfect  art 

Enthralled,  and  mused  what  thoughts  had  filled  his 

heart. 

Was  it  the  Church's  patient  love  and  care 
For  her  weak  children  that  was  imaged  there  ? 
Or  had  he  fashioned  that  sweet  scene  of  love 
With  sly  intent  the  monks'  desire  to  move  ? 
At  length  methought  his  spirit  spake  to  me  : 
"  The  work  enshrines  remorseful  memory." 

A  monk  dwelt  here  in  byegone  days  when  Faith 
Condemned  all  those  that  doubted  it  to  death ; 
But  he  was  of  that  gentler  band  of  old 
Whose  piety  was  cast  in  purer  mould. 
Clear  as  the  air  when  storms  are  overpast, 
Chaste  as  the  glance  that  on  a  corpse  is  cast, 
Benign  and  blessing-laden  unto  all, 
As  April  sunrays  on  the  meadows  fall — • 
Such  was  his  heart  and  such  his  daily  life. 
He  injured  none,  nor  ever  stirred  up  strife  ; 
The  only  tears  he  called  forth  were  his  own, 
That  nightly  o'er  his  pallid  cheeks  ran  down, 
By  fear  and  pity  torn,  and  half  distraught, 
He  listened  when  rejoicing  pilgrims  brought 
Glad  tidings  that  more  heretics  were  slain, 
And  all  the  land  was  full  of  hate  and  pain. 

73 


An  Evil  Spirit  came  to  blast  the  world, 

And  force  the  Cup  of  Sorrow  on  mankind, 

From  whose  fell  potion  poison-fumes  upcurl'd, 

That  raging  ran  as  madly  through  the  mind — 

As  full  of  torture  in  a  single  hour, 

As  though  in  that  short  span,  with  fiendish  power, 

A  century's  sum  of  gall  and  bitterness 

He  crushed  forth  from  his  vast  blood-reeking  press. 

The  Soldiers  of  the  Cross  l  despoiled  and  fired 
Full  many  a  burg ;    and,  burned  by  thousands,  those 
Who  fought  for  Freedom  heard  as  they  expired 
The  jeers  and  mocking  laughter  of  their  foes. 

The  monk  recoils  in  hopeless  wonderment 

From  such  foul  deeds  of  wrath  and  rapine  blent, 

And  gloomy  questionings  his  soul  oppress  : 

"  Thine  uttermost  of  crime  who  can  foretell, 

O  Man  ?     What  limits  to  thy  wickedness 

Are  set,  save  in  the  very  heart  of  Hell  ?  " 

But  still  the  raving  storm  doth  swell  and  spread, 

Till  ev'n  himself  he  views  with  boding  dread. 

The  name  of  Man,  whence  none  that  lives  escapes, 

Him  seems  doth  veil  a  dark  abyss  of  sin  ; 

And  delving  in  his  breast  he  seeks  what  shapes 

Of  hideous  evil  yet  may  lurk  therein. 

1  "The  Soldiers  of  the  Cross  "  were  those  taking  part  in  the 
famous — and  infamous — Crusade  against  the  Albigenses  insti- 
tuted by  Pope  Innocent  III  at  the  opening  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  which  afforded  one  more  example  of  Lucretius's 
"  Tantum  religio  potuit  suadere  malorum."  In  1209  Beziers 
was  stormed  by  the  "  Crusaders  "  and  some  20,000  people 
massacred  there.  In  1244  practically  the  last  remnants  of 
the  unfortunate  Albigenses  were  destroyed  in  the  Pyrenees 
(see  Peyrat's  Histoire  des  Albigeois.  Paris.  1880-2).  [Ed.] 

74 


And  when  on  distant  childhood's  years  he  broods, 

One  cruel  action  stands  out  clear-confessed. 

For  once,  a  boy,  while  roaming  through  the  woods, 

He  watched  a  bird  fly  homeward  to  the  nest 

Wherein  her  hungry  family  did  house, 

Close  hidden  in  a  veil  of  greenery  : 

When  lo  !    a  gust  of  wind  that  swept  the  tree 

Revealed  the  nest  amid  the  swaying  boughs. 

He  seized  a  stone,  and,  hurling  it  on  high, 

The  hapless  nestlings  fell  :    but  from  that  day 

He  never  could  forget  the  piteous  cry 

Wherewith  the  stricken  mother  fled  away. 

"  Whether  we  stone  a  birds'-nest  or  a  town 

The  impulse  differs  only  in  degree  : 

'Tis  but  man's  envious  lust  to  shatter  down 

The  abode  of  happiness,  where'er  it  be." 

Thus  plains  the  Holy  Man,  still  conscience-stung 

By  that  sad  mother  and  her  murdered  young. 

And  yearning  to  repair  that  youthful  wrong, 
At  length  he  wrought  the  wondrous  nest  of  stone  ; 
And  oft  he  gazed  upon  it,  long  and  long — 
Immersed  in  melancholy  thought,  alone. 

Translated  from  the  German. 


75 


Victor   Hugo 

1802—1885. 


THE   CRAYFISH 

1PAID  the  fisherman  on  the  sands, 
And  took  the  horrible  brute  in  my  hands, 
A  dubious  being,  a  thing  of  the  marge, 
Hydra  in  small,  wood-louse  in  large, 
Formless  as  midnight,  nameless  as  God. 
It  opened  a  gullet  ugly  and  odd, 
And  tried  to  bite  me  ;  there  came  out 
From  its  carapace  a  sort  of  snout ; 
God  in  the  fearful  order  of  Nature 
Gave  a  dim  place  to  the  hideous  creature ; 
It  tried  to  bite  me  ;   we  struggled  hard  ; 
It  snapped  my  fingers — on  their  guard  ! 
But  the  seller  was  scarcely  out  of  sight 
Behind  a  cliff,  when  it  got  its  bite. 
So  I  said,  "  Live  on  and  be  blessed,  poor  beast,1 
And  cast  it  into  the  seething  yeast, 
Setting  it  free  to  depart  and  tell 
To  the  murmuring  ocean  where  it  fell, 
The  christening  font  of  the  rising  sun, 
That  good,  for  ill,  had  once  been  done 
By  a  human  crab  to  a  scaly  one  ! 

Translated  by  SlR  GEORGE  YOUNG. 


76 


Victor  Hugo 


WINGED  THINGS 

CEATURES  that  had  wings  were  always  dear 
to  me. 
When  I  was  a  child  I  loved  to  climb  a  tree, 
Loved  to  capture  in  their  nests  the  half-fledged  chicks, 
Made  them  little  cages  out  of  osier  sticks, 
Kept  and  fed  them  there  with  moss  in  which  to  hide. 
Later  on  I  used  to  leave  the  windows  wide, 
But  they  never  flew  away ;  or  if  they  did, 
They  would  all  come  back  to  me,  when  they  were 

bid. 
One  tame  dove  and  I  were  quite  old  friends.  .  .  . 

Since  then, 
I  have  known  the  art  of  taming  souls  of  men. 

Translated  by  SlB  GEORGE  YOUNG. 


77 


Elizabeth   Browning 

1806—1861, 


THE   SEA-MEW 


HOW  joyously  the  young  sea-mew 
Lay  dreaming  on  the  waters  blue 
Whereon  one  little  bark  had  thrown 
A  little  shade,  the  only  one, 
But  shadows  ever  man  pursue. 


II 


Familiar  with  the  waves  and  free 
As  if  their  own  white  foam  were  he, 
His  heart  upon  the  heart  of  ocean 
Lay  learning  all  its  mystic  motion, 
And  throbbing  to  the  throbbing  sea. 


Ill 

And  such  a  brightness  in  his  eye 
As  if  the  ocean  and  the  sky 
Within  him  had  lit  up  and  nurst 
A  soul  God  gave  him  not  at  first, 
To  comprehend  their  majesty. 
78 


IV 


We  were  not  cruel,  yet  did  sunder 

His  white  wing  from  the  blue  waves  under, 

And  bound  it,  while  his  tearless  eyes 

Shone  up  to  ours  in  calm  surprise, 

As  deeming  us  some  ocean  wonder. 


We  bore  our  ocean  bird  unto 
A  grassy  place  where  he  might  view 
The  flowers  that  curtsey  to  the  bees, 
The  waving  of  the  tall  green  trees, 
The  falling  of  the  silver  dew. 


VI 


The  flowers  of  earth  were  pale  to  him 
Who  had  seen  the  rainbow  fishes  swim ; 
And  when  earth's  dew  around  him  lay 
He  thought  of  ocean's  winged  spray, 
And  his  eye  waxed  sad  and  dim. 


VII 

The  green  trees  round  him  only  made 
A  prison  with  their  darksome  shade  ; 
And  drooped  his  wing,  and  mourned  he 
For  his  own  boundless  glittering  sea — 
Albeit  he  knew  not  they  could  fade. 
79 


VIII 

Then  one  her  gladsome  face  did  bring, 
Her  gentle  voice's  murmuring, 
In  ocean's  stead  his  heart  to  move 
And  teach  him  what  was  human  love  : 
He  thought  it  a  strange,  mournful  thing. 


IX 

He  lay  down  in  his  grief  to  die, 
(First  looking  to  the  sea-like  sky 
That  hath  no  waves)  because,  alas  ! 
Our  human  touch  did  on  him  pass, 
And  with  our  touch,  our  agony. 


80 


Charles  Tennyson  Turner 

1808—1879. 


BIRD-NESTING 

AH  !  that  half  bashful  and  half  eager  face  ! 
Among  the  trees  thy  Guardian-Angel  stands, 
With  his  heart  beating,  lest  thy  little  hands 
Should  come  among  the  shadows  and  efface 
The  stainless  beauty  of  a  life  of  love, 
And  childhood  innocence — for  hark,  the  boys 
Are  peering  through  the  hedgerows  and  the  grove, 
And  ply  their  cruel  sport  with  mirth  and  noise  ; 
But  thou  hast  conquer'd  !    and  dispell'd  his  fear ; 
Sweet  is  the  hope  thy  youthful  pity  brings — 
And  oft,  methinks,  if  thou  shalt  shelter  here, 
When  these  blue  eggs  are  linnets'  throats  and  wings, 
A  secret  spell  shall  bring  about  the  tree 
The  little  birds  that  owed  their  lives  to  thee. 


81 


Charles  Tennyson  Turner 


CYNOTAPHIUM 


WHEN   some   dear   human   friend   to  Death 
doth  bow, 
Fair   blooming   flowers    are    strewn    upon 

the  bier, 

And  haply,  in  the  silent  house,  we  hear 
The  last  wild  kiss  ring  on  the  marble  brow, 
And  lips  that  never  miss'd  reply  till  now ; 
And  thou,  poor  dog,  wert  in  thy  measure  dear — 
And  so  I  owe  thee  honour,  and  the  tear 
Of  friendship,  and  would  all  thy  worth  allow. 
In  a  false  world,  thy  heart  was  brave  and  sound ; 
So,  when  my  spade  carved  out  thy  latest  lair, 
A  spot  to  rest  thee  on,  I  sought  and  found — 
It  was  a  tuft  of  primrose,  fresh  and  fair, 
And,  as  it  was  thy  last  hour  above  ground, 
I  laid  thy  sightless  head  full  gently  there. 

II 

"  I  cannot  think  thine  all  is  buried  here," 
I  said,  and  sigh'd — the  wind  awoke  and  blew 
The  morning-beam  along  the  gossamer, 
That  floated  o'er  thy  grave  all  wet  with  dew ; 
A  hint  of  better  things,  however  slight, 
Will  feed  a  living  hope  ;  it  soothed  my  woe 

82 


To  watch  that  little  shaft  of  heavenly  light 
Pass  o'er  thee,  moving  softly  to  and  fro  : 
Within  our  Father's  heart  the  secret  lies 
Of  this  dim  world ;  why  should  we  only  live, 
And  what  was  I  that  I  should  close  mine  eyes 
On  all  those  rich  presumptions  that  reprieve 
The  meanest  life  from  dust  and  ashes  ?     Lo  ! 
How  much  on  such  dark  ground  a  gleaming  thread 
can  do  ! 


83 


Charles  Tennyson   Turner 


THE  STARLING 

"TT\OOR  bird  !  why  with  such  energy  reprove 
r^  My   presence  ?      Why   that   tone   which   pines 

and  grieves  ? 

At  earliest  dawn,  thy  sweet  voice  from  the  eaves 
Hath  gone  between  us  oft,  a  voice  of  love, 
A  bond  of  peace.     Why  should  I  ever  plot 
Thy  ruin,  or  thy  fond  affections  balk  ? 
Dost  thou  not  send  me  down  thy  happy  talk 
Even  to  my  pillow,  though  thou  seest  me  not  ? 
How  should  I  harm  thee  ?     Yet  thy  timid  eye 
Is  on  me,  and  the  harsh  rebuke  succeeds  ; 
Not  like  the  tender  brooding  note  that  pleads 
Thy  cause  so  well,  so  ail-unconsciously ; 
Yet  shall  to-morrow's  dawning  hear  thy  strain 
Renewed,  and  knit  our  indoor  bond  again. 


84 


Charles  Tennyson  Turner 


TO  A   STARVED  HARE   IN  THE   GARDEN  IN 
WINTER 

SOFT-FOOTED  stroller  from  the  herbless  wood, 
Stealing  so  mutely  through  my  garden  ground, 
I  will  not  balk  thine  eager  quest  for  food, 
Nor  take  thy  life,  nor  startle  thee  with  sound. 
I  spared  the  wanton  squirrel,  though  I  saw 
His  autumn  raid  upon  my  nuts  and  cones  ; 
I  spared  his  frisky  brush  and  bushy  jaw ; 
And  shall  I  wound  the  poor  disheartened  ones  ? 
Come  freely  :   in  my  heart  thy  charter  lies  ; 
Feed  boldly  :   what  thou  gain'st  I  cannot  lose. 
When  robin  shuffles  on  the  snow-white  sill 
We  serve  his  winsome  hunger ;    who  would  choose 
To  daunt  his  ruddy  breast  and  wistful  eyes  ? 
But  hare  or  robin,  it  is  hunger  still. 


85 


Friedrich  Hebbel 

1813—1863. 


"THE   BEAST  " 

OTHOU  art  this  harsh  world's  poor  Caliban  ! 
For  thou  hast  shown  to  mankind  each  fair  fruit 
The  earth  brings  forth,  and  thou  hast  made 
of  Man 

Thy  God,  and  bowed  thyself  before  him,  mute. 
To  thee  he  owes  e'en  knowledge  of  the  spring 

Wherein  he  can  renew  his  failing  breath ; 
Yet  since  thy  holy  lamp,  illumining 

His  path,  first  shone,  eternal  ban  of  death 
He  holdeth  o'er  thee — strange  thank-offering ! 
This  Being,  aeons  since  lost  but  for  thee 

(For    thou    didst    guide    him    through    that    early 

night), 
Rewardeth  thee  by  every  cruelty 

His  impulse  may  dictate — miscalled  his  Right. 

1860. 

Translated  from  the  German. 


86 


Friedrich  Hebbel 


THE   SECRET   OF   BEAUTY 

TO    HIS    SQUIRREL 

WHAT   magic  draws   us   to   thee  with  such 
yearning, 
Such  plenitude  of  purest  love  ? 
What  spell  hast  thou  beyond  our  dim  discerning, 
Our  inmost  soul  with  sacred  awe  to  move  ? 

In  our  dark  night  thou  comest,  to  our  seeming, 
A  wanderer  from  realms  more  fair, 
An  incarnation  of  that  scent  the  dreaming 
Lotus-flower  sheds  upon  the  twilight  air. 

But  not  this  spell  alone  it  is  doth  bind  us ; 

One  deeper  yet  enthralls  the  soul, 

'Neath  whose  strong  sway  foreboding  thoughts  remind 

us 
How  all  the  worlds  on  their  set  courses  roll. 

Whether  thine  eyes  be  closed  in  sleep,  or  glowing 
With  happiness  when  thou  dost  play, 
Thy  little  life  reflecteth,  all  unknowing, 
The  universal  life,  in  some  strange  way. 

Thou  art  the  butterfly,  that,  while  it  fareth 
Lightly  o'er  sun-sprent  hill  and  lea, 
Inwrought  upon  its  shining  wings  yet  beareth 
The  baffling  clue  to  all  life's  mystery. 

87 


Perchance  nought  but  wild  instinct,  or  faint  fleeting 
Desire,  thine  every  action  sways — 
And  yet  we  watch  thee  with  full  hearts  high-beating, 
As  though  a  new  star  flashed  upon  our  gaze. 

Thou  pluckest,  by  quick  child-like  impulse  bidden, 
Blossom  or  bud  from  the  moss'd  tree, 
And  wak'st  in  us  forgotten  dreams  of  Eden, 
By  thy  glad  movements'  gracious  harmony. 

Ah,  joy  !     Tis  surely  thy  unconscious  duty, 
Ev'n  when  thy  bright  form  is  at  rest, 
By  radiation  of  thy  faery  beauty 
To  still  the  eternal  longing  in  our  breast. 

1859. 

Translated  from  the  German. 


88 


Walt  Whitman 

1819—1892. 


OUT  OF  THE  CRADLE  ENDLESSLY  ROCKING 

OUT  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking, 
Out  of  the  mocking-bird's  throat,  the  musical 
shuttle, 

Out  of  the  Nine-month  midnight, 
Over  the  sterile  sands  and  the  fields  beyond,  where 

the  child  leaving  his  bed  wander'd  alone,  bare- 
headed, barefoot, 
Down  from  the  shower'd  halo, 
Up  from  the  mystic  play  of  shadows  twining  and 

twisting  as  if  they  were  alive, 
Out  from  the  patches  of  briers  and  blackberries, 
From  the  memories  of  the  bird  that  chanted  to  me, 
From   your   memories   sad   brother,   from   the   fitful 

risings  and  fallings  I  heard, 
From   under   that   yellow   half-moon   late-risen   and 

swollen  as  if  with  tears, 
From   those   beginning   notes  of  yearning   and   love 

there  in  the  mist 
From  the  thousand  responses  of  my  heart  never  to 

cease, 

From  the  myriad  thence -arous'd  words, 
From  the  word  stronger  and  more  delicious  than  any, 
From  such  as  now  they  start  the  scene  revisiting, 
As  a  flock,  twittering,  rising,  or  overhead  passing, 
Borne  hither,  ere  all  eludes  me,  hurriedly, 
A  man,  yet  by  these  tears  a  little  boy  again, 

89 


Throwing  myself  on  the  sand,  confronting  the  waves, 

I,  chanter  of  pains  and  joys,  uniter  of  here  and  here- 
after, 

Taking  all  hints  to  use  them,  but  swiftly  leaping 
beyond  them, 

A  reminiscence  sing. 

Once  Paumanok, 

When  the  lilac-scent  was  in  the  air  and  Fifth-month 

*  grass  was  growing, 
Up  this  seashore  in  some  briers, 
Two  feather'd  guests  from  Alabama,  two  together, 
And   their  nest,   and   four  light-green   eggs   spotted 

with  brown, 

And  every  day  the  he-bird  to  and  fro  near  at  hand, 
And  every  day  the  she-bird  crouch'd  on  her  nest, 

silent,  with  bright  eyes, 
And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too  close, 

never  disturbing  them, 
Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 

Shine  !  shine  !  shine  ! 

Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  sun  ! 

While  we  bask,  we  two  together. 

Two  together  ! 

Winds  blow  south,  or  winds  blow  north, 
Day  come  white,  or  night  come  black, 
Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 
Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time 
While  we  two  keep  together. 

Till  of  a  sudden, 

May-be  kill'd,  unknown  to  her  mate, 

90 


One  forenoon  the  she-bird  crouch'd  not  on  the  nest, 
Nor  return'd  that  afternoon,  nor  the  next, 
Nor  ever  appeared  again. 

And  thenceforward  all  summer  in  the  sound  of  the 

sea, 
And  at  night  under  the  full  of  the  moon   in  calmer 

weather, 

Over  the  hoarse  surging  of  the  sea, 
Or  flitting  from  brier  to  brier  by  day, 
I  saw,  I  heard  at  intervals  the  remaining  one,  the 

he-bird, 
The  solitary  guest  from  Alabama. 

Blow  !  blow  !  blow  ! 

Blow  up  sea-winds  along  Paumanotfs  shore  ; 

I  wait  and  I  wait  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me. 

Yes,  when  the  stars  glisten'd, 

All  night  long  on  the  prong  of  a  moss-scallop'd  stake, 

Down  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 

Sat  the  lone  singer  wonderful  causing  tears. 

He  call'd  on  his  mate, 

He  pour'd  forth  the  meanings  which  I  of  all  men 
know. 

Yes,  my  brother  I  know, 

The  rest  might  not,  but  I  have  treasur'd  every  note, 
For  more  than  once  dimly  down  to  the  beach  gliding, 
Silent,  avoiding  the  moonbeams,  blending  myself 

with  the  shadows, 
Recalling  now  the  obscure  shapes,  the  echoes,  the 

sounds  and  sights  after  their  sorts, 
91 


The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing, 
I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 
Listen 'd  long  and  long. 

Listen 'd  to  keep,  to  sing,  now  translating  the  notes, 
Following  you  my  brother. 

Soothe  !  soothe  I  soothe  ! 

Close  on  its  wave  soothes  the  wave  behind, 

And    again    another  behind  embracing   and   lapping, 

every  one  close, 
But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

Low  hangs  the  moon,  it  rose  late, 

It  is  lagging — O  I  think  it  is  heavy  with  love,  with  love. 

O  madly  the  sea  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love,  with  love. 

O  night !    do  I  not  see  my  love  fluttering  out  among 

the  breakers  ? 
What  is  that  little  black  thing  I  see  there  in  the  white  ? 

Loud!  loud!  loud! 

Loud  I  call  to  you,  my  love  ! 

High  and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the  waves, 
Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here,  is  here, 
You  must  know  who  I  am,  my  love. 

Low  hanging  moon  ! 

What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow  ? 
O  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate  ! 
O  moon  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer. 

92 


Land!  land!  O  land! 

Whichever  way  I  turn,  O  I  think  you   could  give  me 

my  mate  back  again  if  you  only  would, 
For  I  am  almost  sure  I  see  her  dimly  whichever  way 

I  look. 

O  rising  stars  ! 

Perhaps  the  one  I  want  so   much  will  rise,  will  rise 
with  some  of  you. 

O  throat!    O  trembling  throat! 

Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere  ! 

Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth, 

Somewhere  listening  to  catch  you  must  be  the  one  I  want. 

Shake  out  carols  ! 

Solitary  here,  the  night's  carols! 

Carols  of  lonesome  love  !  death's  carols  ! 

Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon  ! 

O  under  that  moon  where  she  droops  almost  down  into 

the  sea! 
O  reckless  despairing  carols. 

But  soft !  sink  low  ! 

Soft  !  let  me  just  murmur, 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment  you  husky-nois'd  sea, 

For  somewhere  I  believe  I  heard  my  mate  responding 

to  me, 

So  faint,  I  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen, 
But  not  altogether  still,  for  then  she  might  not  come 

immediately  to  me.       ./ 

Hither  my  love  ! 
Here  I  am  !  here  ! 

With  this  just-sustain' d  note  I  announce  myself  to  you 
This  gentle  call  is  for  you  my  love,  for  you. 

93 


Do  not  be  decoy'd  elsewhere, 

That  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind,  it  is  not  my  voice. 
That  is  the  fluttering,  the  fluttering  of  the  spray, 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 

0  darkness  !    0  in  vain  I 

0  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful. 

0  brown  halo  in  the  sky  near  the  moon,  drooping  upon 

the  sea! 

0  troubled  reflection  in  the  sea  ! 
0  throat!     0  throbbing  heart! 
And  I  singing  uselessly,  uselessly  all  the  night. 

0  past !    0  happy  life  !     0  songs  of  joy  ! 
In  the  air,  in  the  woods,  over  fields, 
Loved  !  loved  !  loved  I  loved  !  loved  ! 
But  my  mate  no  more,  no  more  with  me  ! 
We  two  together  no  more. 

The  aria  sinking, 

All  else  continuing,  the  stars  shining, 

The  winds  blowing,  the  notes  of  the  bird  continuous 
echoing, 

With  angry  moans  the  fierce  old  mother  incessantly 
moaning, 

On  the  sands  of  Paumanok's  shore  grey  and  rustling, 

The  yellow  half-moon  enlarged,  sagging  down,  droop- 
ing, the  face  of  the  sea  almost  touching, 

The  boy  ecstatic,  with  his  bare  feet  the  waves,  with 
his  hair  the  atmosphere  dallying, 

The  love  in  the  heart  long  pent,  now  loose,  now  at 
last  tumultuously  bursting, 

The  aria's  meaning,  the  ears,  the  soul,  swiftly  de- 
positing, 

94 


The  strange  tears  down  the  cheeks  coursing, 

The  colloquy  there,  the  trio,  each  uttering, 

The  undertone,   the   savage  old   mother  incessantly 

crying, 
To  the  boy's  soul's  questions  sullenly  timing,  some 

drown'd  secret  hissing, 
To  the  out  setting  bard. 
Demon  or  bird  !  (said  the  boy's  soul). 
Is  it  indeed  toward  your  mate  you  sing  ?    or  is  it 

really  to  me  ? 
For  I  that  was  a  child,  my  tongue's  use  sleeping, 

now  I  have  heard  you, 

Now  in  a  moment  I  know  what  I  am  for,  I  awake, 
And  already  a  thousand  singers,  a  thousand  songs, 

clearer,  louder  and  more  sorrowful  than  yours, 
A   thousand   warbling   echoes    have    started   to    life 

within  me,  never  to  die 

O  you  singer  solitary,  singing  by  yourself,  projecting  me, 
O  solitary  me  listening,   never  more  shall  I  cease 

perpetuating  you, 

Never  more  shall  I  escape,  never  more  the  reverbera- 
tions, 
Never  more  the  cries  of  unsatisfied  love  be  absent 

from  me, 
Never  again  leave  me  to  be  the  peaceful  child  I  was 

before  what  there  in  the  night 
By  the  sea  under  the  yellow  and  sagging  moon, 
The  messenger  there  arous'd,  the  fire,  the  sweet  hell 

within, 
The  unknown  want,  the  destiny  of  me  ! 

O  give  me  the  clew  !  (it  lurks  in  the  night  here  some- 
where), 

O  if  I  am  to  have  so  much,  let  me  have  more ! 

95 


A  word  then  (for  I  will  conquer  it), 

The  word  final,  superior  to  all, 

Subtle,  sent  up — what  is  it  ? — I  listen  ; 

Are  you  whispering  it,  and  have  been   all  the  time 

you  sea-waves  ? 
Is  that  it  from  your  liquid  rims  and  wet  sands  ? 

Whereto  answering,  the  sea, 
Delaying  not,  hurrying  not, 
Whisper'd  me  through  the  night,  and  very  plainly 

before  daybreak, 

Lisp'd  to  me  the  low  and  delicious  word  death, 
And  again  death,  death,  death,  death, 
Hissing  melodious,  neither  like  the  bird  nor  like  my 

arous'd  child's  heart, 

But  edging  near  as  privately  for  me  rustling  at  my  feet, 
Creeping  thence  steadily  up  to  my  ears  and  laving 

me  softly  all  over, 
Death,  death,  death,  death,  death. 

Which  I  do  not  forget, 

But  fuse  the  song  of  my  dusky  demon  and  brother, 

That  he  sang  to  me  in  the  moonlight  on  Paumanok's 

grey  beach, 

With  the  thousand  responsive  songs  at  random, 
My  own  songs  awaked  from  that  hour, 
And  with  them  the  key,  the  word  up  from  the  waves, 
The  word  of  the  sweetest  song  and  all  songs, 
That  strong  and  delicious  word  which,   creeping  to 

my  feet, 
(Or  like  some  old  crone  rocking  the  cradle,  swathed 

in  sweet  garments,  bending  aside), 
The  sea  whisper'd  me. 


96 


Matthew  Arnold 

1822—1888. 


GEIST'S  GRAVE 

FOUR  years  ! — and  didst  thou  stay  above 
The  ground,  which  hides  thee  now,  but  four  ? 
And  all  that  life,  and  all  that  love, 
Were  crowded,  Geist !  into  no  more  ? 

Only  four  years  those  winning  ways, 
Which  make  me  for  thy  presence  yearn, 
Call'd  us  to  pet  thee  or  to  praise, 
Dear  little  friend  !  at  every  turn  ? 

That  loving  heart,  that  patient  soul, 
Had  they  indeed  no  longer  span, 
To  run  their  course,  to  reach  their  goal, 
And  read  their  homily  to  man  ? 

That  liquid,  melancholy  eye, 
From  whose  pathetic  soul-fed  springs 
Seem'd  surging  the  Virgilian  cry,1 
The  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things — 

That  steadfast,  mournful  strain,  consoled 

By  spirits  gloriously  gay, 

And  temper  of  heroic  mould — 

What,  was  four  years  their  whole  short  day  ? 

1  Sunt  lacrimce  rerum  ! 

97  H 


Yes,  only  four  ! — and  not  the  course 
Of  all  the  centuries  yet  to  come, 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 
Of  Nature,  with  her  countless  sum 

Of  figures,  with  her  fulness  vast 
Of  new  creation  evermore, 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past, 
Or  just  thy  little  self  restore. 

Stern  law  of  every  mortal  lot ! 

Which  man,  proud  man,  finds  hard  to  bear, 

And  builds  himself  I  know  not  what 

Of  second  life  I  know  not  where. 

But  thou  when  struck  thine  hour  to  go, 
On  us,  who  stood  despondent  by, 
A  meek  last  glance  of  love  didst  throw, 
And  humbly  lay  thee  down  to  die. 

Yet  would  we  keep  thee  in  our  heart — 
Would  fix  our  favourite  on  the  scene, 
Nor  let  thee  utterly  depart 
And  be  as  if  thou  ne'er  hadst  been. 

And  so  there  rise  these  lines  of  verse 
On  lips  that  rarely  form  them  now ; 
While  to  each  other  we  rehearse  : 
Such  ways,  such  arts,  such  looks  hadst  thou.f 

We  stroke  thy  broad  brown  paws  again, 
We  bid  thee  to  thy  vacant  chair, 
We  greet  thee  by  the  window-pane, 
We  hear  thy  scuffle  on  the  stair. 
98 


We  see  the  flaps  of  thy  large  ears 
Quick  raised  to  ask  which  way  we  go  ; 
Crossing  the  frozen  lake  appears 
Thy  small  black  figure  on  the  snow ! 

Nor  to  us  only  art  thou  dear 
Who  mourn  thee  in  thine  English  home ; 
Thou  hast  thine  absent  master's  tear, 
Dropt  by  the  far  Australian  foam. 

Thy  memory  lasts  both  here  and  there, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we. 
And  after  that — thou  dost  not  care  ! 
In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee. 

Yet,  fondly  zealous  for  thy  fame, 
Even  to  a  date  beyond  our  own 
We  strive  to  carry  down  thy  name, 
By  mounded  turf,  and  graven  stone. 

We  lay  thee,  close  within  our  reach, 
Here,  where  the  grass  is  smooth  and  warm, 
Between  the  holly  and  the  beech, 
Where  oft  we  watch'd  thy  couchant  form, 

Asleep,  yet  lending  half  an  ear 
To  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  road ; — 
There  build  we  thee,  O  guardian  dear, 
Mark'd  with  a  stone,  thy  last  abode  ! 

Then  some,  who  through  this  garden  pass, 
When  we  too,  like  thyself,  are  clay, 
Shall  see  thy  grave  upon  the  grass, 
And  stop  before  the  stone,  and  say : 
99 


People  who  lived  here  long  ago 
Did  by  this  stone,  it  seems,  intend 
To  name  for  future  times  to  know 
The  dachshound,  Geist,  their  little  friend. 


100 


Matthew  Arnold 


POOR  MATTHIAS 

POOR  Matthias  !— Found  him  lying 
Fall'n  beneath  his  perch  and  dying  ? 
Found  him  stiff,  you  say,  though  warm- 
All  convulsed  his  little  form  ? 
Poor  canary  !   many  a  year 
Well  he  knew  his  mistress  dear, 
Now  in  vain  you  call  his  name, 
Vainly  raise  his  rigid  frame, 
Vainly  warm  him  in  your  breast, 
Vainly  kiss  his  golden  crest, 
Smooth  his  ruffled  plumage  fine, 
Touch  his  trembling  beak  with  wine. 
One  more  gasp — it  is  the  end  ! 
Dead  and  mute  our  tiny  friend  ! 
— Songster  thou  of  many  a  year, 
Now  thy  mistress  brings  thee  here, 
Says,  it  fits  that  I  rehearse, 
Tribute  due  to  thee,  a  verse, 
Meed  for  daily  song  of  yore 
Silent  now  for  evermore. 

Poor  Matthias  !     Wouldst  thou  have 
More  than  pity  ?   claim 'st  a  stave  ? 
— Friends  more  near  us  than  a  bird 
We  dismiss'd  without  a  word. 
101 


Rover,  with  the  good  brown  head, 
Great  Atossa,  they  are  dead  ; 
pead,  and  neither  prose  nor  rhyme 
Te"l?s  the  praises  of  their  prime. 
Thou  didst  know  them  old  and  grey, 
Know  them  in  their  sad  decay. 
Thou  hast  seen  Atossa  sage 
Sit  for  hours  beside  thy  cage  ; 
Thou  wouldst  chirp,  thou  foolish  bird, 
Flutter,  chirp — she  never  stirr'd  ! 
What  were  now  these  toys  to  her  ? 
Down  she  sank  amid  her  fur ; 
Eyed  thee  with  a  soul  resign 'd — 
And  thou  deemedst  cats  were  kind  ! 
— Cruel,  but  composed  and  bland, 
Dumb,  inscrutable  and  grand, 
So  Tiberius  might  have  sat, 
Had  Tiberius  been  a  cat. 


Rover  died — Atossa  too. 
Less  than  they  to  us  are  you  ! 
Nearer  human  were  their  powers, 
Closer  knit  their  life  with  ours. 
Hands  had  stroked  them,  which  are  cold, 
Now  for  years,  in  churchyard  mould ; 
Comrades  of  our  past  were  they, 
Of  that  unreturning  day. 
Changed  and  aging,  they  and  we 
Dwelt,  it  seem'd,  in  sympathy. 
Alway  from  their  presence  broke 
Somewhat  which  remembrance  woke 
Of  the  loved,  the  lost,  the  young — 
Yet  they  died,  and  died  unsung. 
102 


Geist  came  next,  our  little  friend ; 
Geist  had  verse  to  mourn  his  end. 
Yes,  but  that  enforcement  strong 
Which  compell'd  for  Geist  a  song — 
All  that  gay  courageous  cheer, 
All  that  human  pathos  dear ; 
Soul-fed  eyes  with  suffering  worn, 
Pain  heroically  borne, 
Faithful  love  in  depth  divine — 
Poor  Matthias,  were  they  thine  ? 


Max  and  Kaiser  we  to-day 
Greet  upon  the  lawn  at  play ; 
Max  a  dachshound  without  blot- 
Kaiser  should  be,  but  is  not. 
Max,  with  shining  yellow  coat, 
Prinking  ears  and  dewlap  throat — 
Kaiser,  with  his  collie  face, 
Penitent  for  want  of  race. 
— Which  may  be  the  first  to  die, 
Vain  to  augur,  they  or  I ! 
But  as  age  comes  on  I  know, 
Poet's  fire  gets  faint  and  low ; 
If  so  be  that  travel  they 
First  the  inevitable  way, 
Much  I  doubt  if  they  shall  have 
Dirge  from  me  to  crown  their  grave. 
Something  haunts  my  conscience,  brings 
Sad,  compunctious  visitings. 
Other  favourites,  dwelling  here, 
Open  lived  to  us,  and  near ; 
Well  we  knew  when  they  were  glad, 
Plain  we  saw  if  they  were  sad, 
103 


Joy'd  with  them  when  they  were  gay, 
Soothed  them  in  their  last  decay ; 
Sympathy  could  feel  and  show 
Both  in  weal  of  theirs  and  woe. 


Birds,  companions  more  unknown, 
Live  beside  us,  but  alone  ; 
Finding  not,  do  all  they  can, 
Passage  from  their  souls  to  man. 
Kindness  we  bestow,  and  praise, 
Laud  their  plumage,  greet  their  lays ; 
Still  beneath  their  feather'd  breast, 
Stirs  a  history  unexpress'd. 
Wishes  there,  and  feelings  strong, 
Incommunicably  throng ; 
What  they  want,  we  cannot  guess, 
Fail  to  track  their  deep  distress — 
Dull  look  on  when  death  is  nigh, 
Note  no  change,  and  let  them  die. 
Was  it,  as  the  Grecian  sings, 
Birds  were  born  the  first  of  things, 
Before  the  sun,  before  the  wind, 
Before  the  gods,  before  mankind, 
Airy,  ante-mundane  throng — 
Witness  their  unworldly  song  ! 
Proof  they  give,  too,  primal  powers, 
Of  a  prescience  more  than  ours — 
Teach  us,  while  they  come  and  go, 
When  to  sail,  and  when  to  sow. 
Cuckoo  calling  from  the  hill, 
Swallow  skimming  by  the  mill, 
Swallows  trooping  in  the  sedge, 
Starlings  swirling  from  the  hedge, 
104 


Mark  the  seasons,  map  our  year, 
As  they  show  and  disappear. 
But,  with  all  this  travail  sage 
Brought  from  that  anterior  age, 
Goes  an  unreversed  decree 
Whereby  strange  are  they  and  we; 
Making  want  of  theirs,  and  plan, 
Indiscernible  by  man. 

No,  away  with  tales  like  these 
Stol'n  from  Aristophanes  ! 
Does  it,  if  we  miss  your  mind, 
Prove  us  so  remote  in  kind  ? 
Birds  !   we  but  repeat  on  you 
What  amongst  ourselves  we  do. 
Somewhat  more  or  somewhat  less, 
'Tis  the  same  unskilfulness. 
What  you  feel,  escapes  our  ken — 
Know  we  more  our  fellow-men  ? 
Human  suffering  at  our  side, 
Ah,  like  yours  is  undescried  ! 
Human  longings,  human  fears, 
Miss  our  eyes  and  miss  our  ears. 
Little  helping,  wounding  much, 
Dull  of  heart,  and  hard  of  touch, 
Brother  man's  despairing  sign 
Who  may  trust  us  to  divine  ? 
Who  assure  us,  sundering  powers 
Stand  not  'twixt  his  soul  and  ours  ? 

Poor  Matthias  !     See,  thy  end 
What  a  lesson  doth  it  lend  ! 
For  that  lesson  thou  shalt  have, 
Dead  canary  bird,  a  stave  ! 
105 


Telling  how,  one  stormy  day, 
Stress  of  gale  and  showers  of  spray 
Drove  my  daughter  small  and  me 
Inland  from  the  rocks  and  sea. 
Driv'n  inshore,  we  follow  down 
Ancient  streets  of  Hastings  town — 
Slowly  thread  them — when  behold, 
French  canary-merchant  old 
Shepherding  his  flock  of  gold 
In  a  low  dim-lighted  pen 
Scann'd  of  tramps  and  fishermen  ! 
There  a  bird,  high-coloured,  fat, 
Proud  of  port,  though  something  squat — 
Pursy,  play'd-out  Philistine — 
Dazzled  Nelly's  youthful  eyne. 
But,  far  in,  obscure,  there  stirr'd 
On  his  perch  a  sprightlier  bird, 
Courteous-eyed,  erect  and  slim, 
And  I  whisper 'd,  "  Fix  on  him  !  " 
Home  we  brought  him,  young  and  fair, 
Songs  to  trill  in  Surrey  air. 
Here  Matthias  sang  his  fill, 
Saw  the  cedars  of  Pains  Hill ; 
Here  he  pour'd  his  little  soul, 
Heard  the  murmur  of  the  Mole. 
Eight  in  number  now  the  years 
He  hath  pleased  our  eyes  and  ears ; 
Other  favourites  he  hath  known 
Go,  and  now  himself  is  gone. 
Poor  Matthias  !  could'st  thou  speak, 
What  a  tale  of  thy  last  week  ! 
Every  morning  did  we  pay 
Stupid  salutations  gay, 
Suited  well  to  health,  but  how 
106 


Mocking,  how  incongruous  now  ! 
Cake  we  offer'd,  sugar,  seed, 
Never  doubtful  of  thy  need ; 
Praised,  perhaps,  thy  courteous  eye, 
Praised  thy  golden  livery. 
Gravely  thou  the  while,  poor  dear ! 
Sat'st  upon  thy  perch  to  hear, 
Fixing  with  a  mute  regard 
Us,  thy  human  keepers  hard, 
Troubling,  with  our  chatter  vain, 
Ebb  of  life,  and  mortal  pain — 
Us,  unable  to  divine 
Our  companion's  dying  sign, 
Or  o'erpass  the  severing  sea 
Set  betwixt  ourselves  and  thee, 
Till  the  sand  thy  feathers  smirch 
Fallen  dying  off  thy  perch  ! 
— Fare  thee  well,  companion  dear ! 
Fare  for  ever  well,  nor  fear, 
Tiny  though  thou  art,  to  stray 
Down  the  uncompanion'd  way  ! 
We  without  thee,  little  friend, 
Many  years  have  not  to  spend ; 
What  are  left,  will  hardly  be 
Better  than  we  spent  with  thee. 


107 


F 


Alexander  Petflfi 

1822—1849 


THE   CAGED   LION 

NT  within  rusty  bars  the  lion  stands 
Who     once     was     lord    of     boundless    desert 
lands. 


No  longer  through  his  kingdom  can  he  roam, 
A  sordid  cage  is  now  forsooth  his  home. 

How  can  men  gaze  on  him  unmoved,  how  see 
Such  desecration  unprotestingly  ? 

Although  of  liberty  he  is  bereft, 

Surely  some  semblance  thereof  might  be  left  ? 

Though  he  may  ne'ermore  bask  beneath  the  palm, 
Grant  him  at  least  some  easeful  shade  and  calm. 

Behold  him  !     That  proud  mien,  that  clear  regard, 
Captivity  hath  not  yet  wholly  marred. 

His  freedom,  that  was  all  in  all  to  him, 
Is  lost — but  not  his  stateliness  of  limb. 

Firm-wrought  as  those  old  Pyramids  he  seems, 
Whose  sombre  stones  oft  shimmered  o'er  his  dreams. 

His  restless  thoughts  reach  ever  back  again 
To  that  free  life  upon  his  native  plain. 

108 


Once  more  he  breathes  the  fierce  simoom's  hot  blast, 
That  rages  round  him  over  all  the  vast 

Expanse.     O  goodly  Earth  !     Glad  days  of  yore  ! 
But  lo,  a  sudden  footstep  at  the  door  ! 

And  in  a  moment  all  his  dream  hath  fled : 
The  keeper's  lash  descends  upon  his  head. 

Is  he  so  abject  grown,  ye  heavenly  powers  ? 
Before  a  churl  armed  with  a  whip  he  cowers ! 

To  such  humiliation  he  must  now 
Submit :  that  mighty  neck  so  deeply  bow. 

In  utter  wretchedness  he  roars  aloud 
Upon  the  stolid,  gaping,  staring  crowd. 

How  dare  they  mock  him,  that  dull-witted  throng  ? 
For  if  he  burst  those  bars,  so  seeming-strong, 

Like  wind-blown  leaves  before  him  swept,  pell-mell, 
Their  very  souls  would  scarce  be  left  for  hell ! 

Translated  from  the  Hungarian. 


109 


George  Macdonald 

1824—1905. 


ON  A  MIDGE 

WHENCE  do  ye  come,  ye  creatures  ?    Each 
of  you 
Is  perfect  as  an  angel !    wings  and  eyes 
Stupendous  in  their  beauty — gorgeous  dyes 
In  feathery  fields  of  purple  and  of  blue  ! 
Would  God  I  saw  a  moment  as  ye  do  ! 
I  would  become  a  molecule  in  size, 
Rest  with  you,  hum  with  you,  or  slanting  rise 
Along  your  one  dear  sunbeam,  could  I  view 
The  pearly  secret  which  each  tiny  fly — 
Each  tiny  fly  that  hums  and  bobs  and  stirs, 
Hides  in  its  little  breast  eternally 
From  you,  ye  prickly,  grim  philosophers 
With  all  your  theories  that  sound  so  high  : 
Hark  to  the  buzz  a  moment,  my  good  sirs  ! 


110 


George  Meredith 

1828—1909. 


THE  TWO   BLACKBIRDS 

A  BLACKBIRD  in  a  wicker  cage, 
That  hung  and  swung  'mid  fruits  and 
flowers, 

Had  learnt  the  song  charm,  to  assuage 
The  drearness  of  its  wingless  hours. 

And  ever  when  the  song  was  heard, 
From  trees  that  shade  the  grassy  plot 

Warbled  another  glossy  bird, 

Whose  mate  not  long  ago  was  shot. 

Strange  anguish  in  that  creature's  breast, 

Unwept  like  human  grief,  unsaid, 
Has  quickened  in  its  lonely  nest 

A  living  impulse  from  the  dead. 

Not  to  console  its  own  wild  smart, — 
But  with  a  kindling  instinct  strong, 

The  novel  feeling  of  its  heart 

Beats  for  the  captive  bird  of  song. 

And  when  those  mellow  notes  are  still, 

It  hops  from  off  its  choral  perch, 
O'er  path  and  sward,  with  busy  bill, 

All  grateful  gifts  to  peck  and  search. 
Ill 


Store  of  ouzel  dainties  choice 

To  those  white  swinging  bars  it  brings ; 
And  with  a  low  consoling  voice 

It  talks  between  its  fluttering  wings. 

Deeply  in  their  bitter  grief 

Those  sufferers  reciprocate, 
The  one  sings  for  its  woodland  life, 

The  other  for  its  murdered  mate. 

But  deeper  doth  the  secret  prove, 
Uniting  those  sad  creatures  so  ; 

Humanity's  great  link  of  love 
The  common  sympathy  of  woe. 

Well  divined  from  day  to  day 

Is  the  swift  speech  between  them  twain ; 
For  when  the  bird  is  scared  away, 

The  captive  bursts  to  song  again. 

Yet  daily  with  its  flattering  voice, 
Talking  amid  its  fluttering  wings, 

Store  of  ouzel  dainties  choice 

With  busy  bill  the  poor  bird  brings. 

And  shall  I  say,  till  weak  with  age 

Down  from  its  drowsy  branch  it  drops, 

It  will  not  leave  that  captive  cage, 
Nor  cease  those  busy  searching  hops  ? 

Ah,  no  !  the  moral  will  not  strain  ; 

Another  sense  will  make  it  range, 
Another  mate  will  soothe  its  pain, 

Another  season  work  a  change. 
112 


But  thro'  the  live-long  summer,  tried, 
A  pure  devotion  we  may  see  ; 

The  ebb  and  flow  of  Nature's  tide ; 
A  self-forgetful  sympathy. 

1851. 


113 


George  Meredith 


YOUTH  IN  AGE 

ONCE  I  was  part  of  the  music  I  heard 
On  the  boughs  or  sweet  between  earth  and 
sky, 

For  joy  of  the  beating  of  wings  on  high 
My  heart  shot  into  the  breast  of  the  bird. 

I  hear  it  now  and  I  see  it  fly, 

And  a  life  in  wrinkles  again  is  stirred, 

My  heart  shoots  into  the  breast  of  the  bird, 

As  it  will  for  sheer  love  till  the  last  long  sigh. 

1908. 


114 


Sir   Edwin   Arnold 

1832—1904. 


THE   ADULTERESS 

PITY  !  for  He  is  Pitiful ;— a  king 
Is  likest  Allah  not  in  triumphing 
'Mid  enemies  o'erthrown,  nor  seated  high 
On  stately  gold,  nor  if  the  echoing  sky 
.Rings  with  his  name,  but  when  sweet  mercy  sways 
His  words  and  deeds.     The  very  best  man  prays 
For  Allah's  help,  since  feeble  are  the  best ; 
And  never  shall  man  reach  the  angelic  rest 
Save  by  the  vast  compassion  of  Heaven's  King. 
Our  Prophet  once,  Ayesha  answering, 
Spake  this  :   "I  shall  not  enter  that  pure  place, 
Even  I,  except  through  Allah's  covering  grace." 
If  he  besought  the  Sovereign  Clemency, 
How  must  we  supplicate  it  ?     Truly  thus 
Great  need  there  is  of  Allah's  grace  for  us, 
And  that  we  live  compassionate  ! 

Hast  seen 

The  record  written  of  Salah-ud-Deen, 
The  Sultan  ?     How  he  met  upon  a  day, 
In  his  own  city  on  the  public  way, 
A  woman  whom  they  led  to  die.     The  veil 
Was  stripped  from  off  her  weeping  face,  and  pale 
Her  shamed  cheeks  were,  and  wild  her  dark  fixed 

eye, 

And  her  lips  drawn  with  terror  at  the  cry 
Of  the  harsh  people  and  the  rugged  stones 

115 


Borne  in  their  hands  to  break  her  flesh  and  bones, 

For  the  law  stood  that  sinners  such  as  she 

Perish  by  stoning,  and  this  doom  must  be  ; 

So  went  the  wan  adulteress  to  her  death. 

High  noon  it  was,  and  the  hot  Khamseen's  breath 

Blew  from  the  desert  sands  and  parched  the  town. 

The  crows  gasped,  and  the  kine  went  up   and  down 

With  lolling  tongues  ;    the  camels  moaned  ;    a  crowd 

Pressed  with  their  pitchers,  wrangling  high  and  loud 

About  the  tank  ;    and  one  dog  by  a  well, 

Nigh  dead  with  thirst,  lay  where  he  yelped  and  fell, 

Glaring  upon  the  water  out  of  reach, 

And  praying  succour  in  a  silent  speech, 

So  piteous  were  his  eyes.    Which,  when  she  saw 

This  woman  from  her  foot  her  shoe  did  draw, 

Albeit  death-sorrowful ;  and  looping  up 

The  long  silk  of  her  girdle,  made  a  cup 

Of  the  heel's  hollow,  and  thus  let  it  sink 

Until  it  touched  the  cool  black  water's  brink  ; 

So  filled  th'  embroidered  shoe,  and  gave  a  draught 

To  the  spent  beast,  which  whined  and  fawned  and 

quaffed 

Her  kind  gift  to  the  dregs  ;    next  licked  her  hand 
With  such  glad  looks  that  all  might  understand 
He  held  his  life  from  her  ;    then,  at  her  feet 
He  followed  close  all  down  the  cruel  street, 
Her  one  friend  in  that  city. 

But  the  King, 

Riding  within  his  litter,  marked  this  thing, 

And  how  the  woman  on  her  way  to  die, 

Had  such  compassion  for  the  misery 

Of  that  parched  hound  :     '  Take  off  her  chain,  anc 

place 

The  veil  once  more  above  the  sinner's  face, 

116 


And  lead  her  to  her  house  in  peace  !  "  he  said, 
"  The  law  is  that  the  people  stone  thee  dead, 
For  that  which  thou  has  wrought ;  but  there  is  come 
Fawning  around  thy  feet,  a  witness  dumb, 
Not  heard  upon  thy  trial ;    this  brute  beast 
Testifies  for  thee,  sister  !    whose  weak  breast 
Death  could  not  make  ungentle.     I  hold  rule 
In  Allah's  stead,  who  is  the  Merciful, 
And  hope  for  Mercy  ;    therefore  go  thou  free — 
I  dare  not  show  less  pity  unto  thee." 


117 


Theodore  Watts-Dunton 

1832—1914. 


MOTHER  CAREY'S   CHICKEN 


I  CANNOT  brook  thy  gaze,  beloved  bird  ; 
That  sorrow  is  more  than  human  in  thine  eye ; 
Too  deeply,  brother,  is  my  spirit  stirred 
To  see  thee  here,  beneath  the  landsmen's  sky, 
Cooped  in  a  cage  with  food  thou  canst  not  eat, 
Thy  "  snow-flake  "  soiled,  and  soiled  those  conquering 

feet 
That   walked   the   billows,    while   thy    "  sweet-sweet- 

sweet " 
Proclaimed  the  tempest  nigh. 

Bird  whom  I  welcomed  while  the  sailors  cursed, 
Friend  whom  I  blessed  wherever  keels  may  roam, 
Prince  of  my  childish  dreams,  whom  mermaids  nursed 
In  purple  billows — silver  of  ocean  foam, 
Abashed  I  stand  before  the  mighty  grief 
That  quells  all  other :    Sorrow's  King  and  Chief, 
Who  rides  the  wind  and  holds  the  sea  in  fief, 
Then  finds  a  cage  for  home. 

II 

From  out  thy  jail  thou  seest  yon  heath  and  woods, 
But  canst  thou  hear  the  birds  and  smell  the  flowers  ? 
Ah,  no  !    those  rain-drops  tumbling  on  the  buds 
Bring  only  visions  of  the  salt  sea-showers. 

118 


"  The  sea  !  "  the  linnets  pipe  from  hedge  and  heath  ; 
"The  sea  !  "  the  honeysuckles  whisper  and  breathe, 
And  tumbling  waves,  where  those  wild-roses  wreathe, 
Murmur  from  inland  bowers. 


These  winds  so  soft  to  others — how  they  burn  ! 
The  mavis  sings  with  gurgle  and  ripple  and  plash, 
To  thee  yon  swallow  seems  a  wheeling  tern  ; 
And  when  the  rain  recalls  the  briny  lash, 
Old  Ocean's  kiss  we  love — oh,  when  thy  sight 
Is  mocked  with  Ocean's  horses — manes  of  white, 
The  long  and  shadowy  flanks,  the  shoulders  bright — 
Bright  as  the  lightning's  flash — 

III 

When  all  these  scents  of  heather  and  brier  and  whin, 
All  kindly  breathe  of  land — shrub,  flower,  and  vine, 
Recall  the  sea-scents,  till  thy  feathered  skin 
Tingles  in  answer  to  the  dream  of  brine — 
When  thou,  remembering  there  thy  royal  birth, 
Dost  see  between  the  bars  a  world  of  dearth, 
Is  there  a  grief — a  grief  on  all  the  earth — 
So  heavy  and  dark  as  thine. 

But  I  can  bring  thee  freedom — I  (thank  God  !), 
Who  loved  thee  more  than  albatross  or  gull — 
Loved  thee,  and  loved  the  waves  thy  footsteps  trod — 
Dream'd  of  thee  when,  becalmed,  we  lay  a-hull — 
}Tis  I,  thy  friend,  who  once,  a  child  of  six, 
To  find  where  Mother  Carey  fed  her  chicks, 
Climbed  up  the  boat  and  then  with  bramble  sticks 
Tried  all  in  vain  to  scull. 
119 


IV 

Thy  friend  who  shared  thy  Paradise  of  Storm — 
The  little  dreamer  of  the  cliffs  and  coves, 
Who  knew  thy  mother,  saw  her  shadowy  form 
Behind  the  cloudy  bastions  where  she  moves, 
And  heard  her  call :   "  Come  !  for  the  welkin  thickens, 
And  tempests  mutter  and  the  lightning  quickens  !  " 
Then,  starting  from  his  dream,  would  find  the  chickens 
Were  daws  or  blue  rock-doves — 

Thy  friend  who  owned  another  Paradise, 
Of  calmer  air,  a  floating  isle  of  fruit, 
Where  sang  the  Nereids  on  a  breeze  of  spice, 
While  Triton,  from  afar,  would  sound  salute  : 
There  wast  thou  winging,  though  the  skies  were  calm  ; 
For  marvellous  strains  as  of  the  morning's  shalm 
Were  struck  by  ripples  round  that  isle  of  palm 
Whose  shores  were  Ocean's  lute. 


And  now  to  see  thee  here  my  king,  my  king, 
Far-glittering  memories  mirrored  in  those  eyes, 
As  if  there  shone  within  each  iris-ring 
An  orbed  world — ocean  and  hills  and  skies — 
Those  black  wings  ruffled  whose  triumphant  sweep 
Conquered  in  sport ! — yea,  up  the  glimmering  steep 
Of  highest  billow,  down  the  deepest  deep, 
Sported  with  victories  ! — 

To  see  thee  here  ! — a  coil  of  wilted  weeds 
Beneath  those  feet  that  danced  on  diamond  spray, 
Rider  of  sporti  re  Ocean's  reinless  steeds — 
Winner  in  Mother  Carey's  Sabbath-fray 

120 


When,  stung  by  magic  of  the  Witch's  chant, 

They  rise,  each  foamy-crested  combatant — 

They  rise  and  fall  and  leap  and  foam    and  gallop 

and  pant 

Till  albatross,  sea-swallow,  and  cormorant 
Must  flee  like  doves  away  ! 

VI 

And  shalt  thou  ride  no  more  where  thou  hast  ridden, 
And  feast  no  more  in  hyaline  halls  and  caves, 
Master  of  Mother  Carey's  secrets  hidden, 
Master  and  monarch  of  the  wind  and  waves, 
Who  never,  save  in  stress  of  angriest  blast, 
Asked  ship  for  shelter — never  till  at  last 
The  foam-flakes  hurled  against  the  sloping  mast 
Slashed  thee  like  whirling  glaives  ? 

Right  home  to  fields  no  seamew  ever  kenned, 
Where  scarce  the  great  sea-wanderer  fares  with  thee, 
I  come  to  take  thee — nay,  'tis  I,  thy  friend  ! 
Ah,  tremble  not — I  come  to  set  thee  free  ; 
I  come  to  tear  this  cage  from  off  this  wall, 
And  take  thee  hence  to  that  fierce  festival 
Where  billows  march  and  winds  are  musical, 
Hymning  the  Victor- Sea  ! 


VII 

Yea,  lift  thine  eyes  to  mine.     Dost  know  me  now  ? 
Thou'rt  free  !    thou'rt  free  !     Ah,  surely  a  bird  can 

smile  ! 

Dost  know  me,  Petrel.     Dost  remember  how 
I  fed  thee  in  the  wake  for  many  a  mile, 

121 


Whilst  thou  wouldst    pat    the   waves,    then,   rising, 

take 

The  morsel  up  and  wheel  about  the  wake. 
Thou'rt  free,   thou'rt  free,  but  for  thine  own  dear 

sake 

I  keep  thee  caged  awhile. 

Away  to  sea  !  no  matter  where  the  coast : 
The  road  that  turns  for  home  turns  never  wrong ; 
Where  waves  run  high  my  bird  will  not  be  lost : 
His  home  I  know  :    'tis  where  the  winds  are  strong — 
Where,  on  a  throne  of  billows,  rolling  hoary 
And  green  and  blue  and  splashed  with  sunny  glory, 
Far,  far  from  shore — from  farthest  promontory — 
Prophetic  Nature  bares  the  secret  of  the  story 
That  holds  the  spheres  in  song. 


122 


Sir  Lewis   Morris 

1833—1907. 


TO  THE  TORMENTORS 

DEAR  little  friend,  who,  day  by  day, 
Before  the  door  of  home 
Art  ready  waiting  till  thy  master  come, 
With  monitory  paw  and  noise, 
Swelling  to  half  delirious  joys, 
Whether  my  path  I  take 
By  leafy  coverts  known  to  thee  before, 
Where  the  gay  coney  loves  to  play, 
Or  the  loud  pheasant  whirls  from  out  the  brake 
Unharmed  by  us,  save  for  some  frolic  chase, 
Or  innocent  panting  race  ; 
Or  who,  if  by  the  sunny  river's  side 
Haply  my  steps  I  turn, 
With  loud  petition  constantly  dost  yearn 
To  fetch  the  whirling  stake  from  the  warm  tide ; 
Who,  if  I  chide  thee,  grovellest  in  the  dust, 
And  dost  forgive  me  though  I  am  unjust, 
Blessing    the    hand    that    smote :     who    with    fond 

love 

Gazest,  and  fear  for  me,  such  as  doth  move 
Those  finer  souls  which  know,  yet  may  not  see, 
And  are  wrapped  round  and  lost  in  ecstasy ; — 
And  thou,  dear  little  friend  and  soft, 
Breathing  a  gentle  air  of  hearth  and  home  ; 
Whose  low  purr  to  the  lonely  ear  doth  oft 
With  deep  refreshment  come ; 

123 


Though  thy  quick  nature  is  not  frank  and  gay 

As  that  one's,  yet  with  graceful  play 

Thou  dost  beguile  the  evenings,  and  dost  sit 

With  mien  demurely  fit ; 

With  half  closed  eyes,  as  in  a  dream 

Responsive  to  the  singing  steam, 

Most  delicately  clean  and  white, 

Thou  baskest  in  the  flickering  light ; 

Quick-tempered  art  thou,  and  yet,  if  a  child 

Molest  thee,  pitiful  and  mild  ; 

And  always  thy  delight  is,  simply  neat, 

To  seat  thee  faithful  at  thy  master's  feet ; — 


And  thou,  good  friend  and  strong, 
Who  art  the  docile  labourer  of  the  world  ; 
Who  groanest  when  the  battle  mists  are  curled 
On  the  red  plain  ;   who  toilest  all  day  long 
To  make  our  gain  or  sport ;    who  art  the  care 
That  cleanses  idle  lives,  which,  but  for  thee 
And  thy  pure,  noble  nature,  perhaps  might  sink 
To  lower  levels,  born  of  lust  and  drink, 
And  half-forgotten  sloughs  of  infamy, 
Which  desperate  souls  could  dare  ; — 
And  ye,  fair  timid  things,  who  lightly  play 
By  summer  woodlands  at  the  close  of  day  ; — 
What  are  ye  all,  dear  creatures,  tame  or  wild  ? 
What  other  nature  yours  than  of  a  child, 
Whose  dumbness  finds  a  voice  mighty  to  call, 
In  wordless  pity,  to  the  souls  of  all 
Whose  lives  I  turn  to  profit,  and  whose  mute 
And  constant  friendship  links  the  man  and  brute  ? 
Shall  I  consent  to  raise 

A  torturing  hand  against  your  few  and  evil  days  ? 

124 


Shall  I  indeed  delight 

To  take  you,  helpless  kinsmen,  fast  and  bound, 

And  while  ye  lick  my  hand 

Lay  bare  your  veins  and  nerves  in  one  red  wound, 

Divide  the  sentient  brain  ; 

And  while  the  raw  flesh  quivers  with  the  pain, 

A  calm  observer  stand, 

And  drop  in  some  keen  acid,  and  watch  it  bite 

The  writhing  life  :    wrench  the  still  beating  heart, 

And  with  calm  voice  meanwhile  discourse,  and  bland, 

To  boys  who  jeer  or  sicken  as  they  gaze, 

Of  the  great  Goddess  Science  and  her  gracious  ways  ? 

Great  Heaven  !    this  shall  not  be,  this  present  hell, 
And  none  denounce  it ;    well  I  know,  too  well, 
That  Nature  works  by  ruin  and  by  wrong, 
Taking  no  care  for  any  but  the  strong, 
Taking  no  care.     But  we  are  more  than  she ; 
We  touch  to  higher  levels,  a  higher  love 
Doth  through  our  being  move  : 
Though  we  know  all  our  benefits  bought  by  blood, 
And  that  by  suffering  only  reach  we  good  ; 
Yet  not  with  mocking  laughter,  nor  in  play, 
Shall  we  give  death  or  carve  a  life  away. 
And  if  it  be  indeed 

For  some  vast  gain  of  knowledge,  we  might  give 
These  humble  lives  that  live, 
And  for  the  race  should  bid  the  victim  bleed, 
Only  for  some  great  gain, 
Some  counterpoise  of  pain  ; 
And  that  with  solemn  soul  and  grave, 
Like  his  who  from  the  fire  'scapes,  or  the  flood, 
Who  would  save  all,  ay,  with  his  heart's  blood, 
But  of  his  children  chooses  which  to  save  ! 

125 


Surely  a  man  should  scorn 

To  owe  his  weal  to  others'  death  and  pain  ? 

Sure  'twere  no  real  gain 

To  batten  on  lives  so  weak  and  so  forlorn  ? 

Nor  were  it  right  indeed 

To  do  for  others  what  for  self  were  wrong. 

'Tis  but  the  same  dead  creed, 

Preaching  the  naked  triumph  of  the  strong ; 

And  for  this  Goddess  Science,  hard  and  stern, 

We  shall  not  let  her  priests  torment  and  burn  ; 

We  fought  the  priests  before,  and  not  in  vain ; 

And  as  we  fought  before,  so  will  we  fight  again. 


126 


Leon  Cladel 

1835-1909 


MY    ASS 

F  |  ^HE  cross  was  on  his  hide  for  all  to  see : 

A  mangy  skeleton,  scarred,  scabbed  and  bowed, 
Waiting  the  knacker's  mercy.     From  the  crowd 

Five  shillings  ransomed  him.     He  lives  with  me. 

My  lawns  are  by  his  busy  tongue  caressed ; 
His  eyes  reflect  the  shadowy  trees  that  grow 
Between  the  broad  roofs  and  the  sunset  glow ; 
His  patient  sober  body  takes  its  rest. 

When  I  draw  near  he  welcomes  me  with  glee, 
With  solemn  antics,  with  tempestuous  brays, 
And  pulsing  nostrils  sweet  with  lavender. 

My  little  ass,  be  happy  !  and  be  free  ! 

Eat,  drink,  and  doze,  enjoying  all  your  days 

Honour  and  liberty  and  provender. 

Translated  by  STELLA  BROWNE. 


127 


Giosue   Carducci 

1836—1907. 


TO  THE  OX 

I  LOVE  thee,  pious  Ox  ;   a  gentle  feeling 
Of  vigour  and  of  peace  thou  giv'st  my  heart. 
How  solemn,  like  a  monument,  thou  art ! 
Over  wide  fertile  fields  thy  calm  gaze  stealing, 
Unto  the  yoke  with  grave  contentment  kneeling, 
To  man's  quick  work  thou  dost  thy  strength  impart. 
He  shouts  and  goads,  and  answering  thy  smart, 
Thou  turn'st  on  him  thy  patient  eyes  appealing. 
From  thy  broad  nostrils,  black  and  wet,  arise 
Thy  breath's  soft  fumes  ;    and  on  the  still  air  swells, 
Like  happy  hymn,  thy  lowing's  mellow  strain. 
In  the  grave  sweetness  of  thy  tranquil  eyes 
Of  emerald,  broad  and  still  reflected  dwells 
All  the  divine  green  silence  of  the  plain. 

Translated  by  FRANK  SEWALL. 


128 


Giosufe  Garducci 


TO  A  DONKEY 

O  ANCIENT  patience,  wherefore  dost  thou  gaze 
Across  the  hedge  upon  the  eastern  skies, 
Through  elder  branches,  o'er  the  flowery  maze 
Of  fragrant  whitethorn  with  moist  kindling  eyes  ? 
Why  dost  thou  bray  to  heaven  with  dolorous  cries  ? 
Is  it  not  Love,  O  rogue,  that  woos  thy  days  ? 
What  memory  scourges  thee  ?     What  hope  that  flies 
Spurs  on  thy  tired  life  down  aching  ways  ? 
Art  dreaming  of  Arabian  deserts  free 
Where,  matched  in  rivalry  of  fortitude 
Thou  with  the  steeds  of  Job  did'st  turn  and  flee  ? 
Or  would'st  thou  fly  to  Hellas'  solitude 
Calling  on  Homer,  who  doth  liken  thee 
To  Telamonian  Ajax  unsubdued  ? 

Translated  by  MAUD  HOLLAND. 


129 


Algernon   Charles   Swinburne 

1837—1909. 


TO   A  SEAMEW 

WHEN  I  had  wings,  my  brother, 
Such  wings  were  mine  as  thine 
Such  life  my  heart  remembers 
In  all  as  wild  Septembers 
As  this  when  life  seems  other, 

Though  sweet,  than  once  was  mine ; 
When  I  had  wings,  my  brother, 
Such  wings  were  mine  as  thine. 

Such  life  as  thrills  and  quickens 

The  silence  of  thy  flight, 
Or  fills  thy  note's  elation 
With  lordlier  exultation 
Than  man's,  whose  faint  heart  sickens 

With  hopes  and  fears  that  blight 
Such  life  as  thrills  and  quickens 

The  silence  of  thy  flight. 

Thy  cry  from  windward  clanging 

Makes  all  the  cliffs  rejoice  ; 
Though  storm  clothe  seas  with  sorrow, 
Thy  call  salutes  the  morrow ; 
While  shades  of  pain  seem  hanging 

Round  earth's  most  rapturous  voice, 
Thy  cry  from  windward  clanging 

Makes  all  the  cliffs  rejoice, 
130 


We,  sons  and  sires  of  seamen, 

Whose  home  is  all  the  sea, 
What  place  man  may,  we  claim  it ; 
But  thine — whose  thought  may  name  it 
Free  birds  live  higher  than  freemen, 

And  gladlier  ye  than  we — 
We,  sons  and  sires  of  seamen, 

Whose  home  is  all  the  sea. 

For  you  the  storm  sounds  only 

More  notes  of  more  delight 
Than  earth's  in  sunniest  weather : 
When  heaven  and  sea  together 
Join  strengths  against  the  lonely 

Lost  bark  borne  down  by  night, 
For  you  the  storm  sounds  only 

More  notes  of  more  delight. 

With  wider  wing,  and  louder 

Long  clarion-call  of  joy, 
Thy  tribe  salutes  the  terror 
Of  darkness,  wild  as  error, 
But  sure  as  truth,  and  prouder 

Than  waves  with  man  for  toy ; 
With  wider  wing,  and  louder 

Long  clarion-call  of  joy. 

The  wave's  wing  spreads  and  flutters, 
The  wave's  heart  swells  and  breaks ; 

One  moment's  passion  thrills  it, 

One  pulse  of  power  fulfils  it 

And  ends  the  pride  it  utters 

When,  loud  with  life  that  quakes, 

The  wave's  wing  spreads  and  flutters, 
The  wave's  heart  swells  and  breaks. 
131 


But  thine  and  thou,  my  brother, 
Keep  heart  and  wing  more  high 

Than  aught  may  scare  or  sunder  ; 

The  waves  whose  throats  are  thunder 

Fall  hurtling  each  on  other, 
And  triumph  as  they  die  ; 

But  thine  and  thou,  my  brother, 
Keep  heart  and  wing  more  high. 

More  high  than  wrath  or  anguish, 
More  strong  than  pride  or  fear, 

The  sense  or  soul  half  hidden 

In  thee,  for  us  forbidden, 

Bids  thee  nor  change  nor  languish, 
But  live  thy  life  as  here, 

More  high  than  wrath  or  anguish, 
More  strong  than  pride  or  fear. 

We  are  fallen,  even  we,  whose  passion 

On  earth  is  nearest  thine  ; 
Who  sing,  and  cease  from  flying ; 
Who  live,  and  dream  of  dying : 
Grey  time,  in  time's  grey  fashion, 

Bids  wingless  creatures  pine  : 
We  are  fallen,  even  we,  whose  passion 

On  earth  is  nearest  thine. 

The  lark  knows  no  such  rapture, 

Such  joy  no  nightingale, 
As  sways  the  songless  measure 
Wherein  thy  wings  take  pleasure  : 
Thy  love  may  no  man  capture, 

Thy  pride  may  no  man  quail ; 
The  lark  knows  no  such  rapture, 

Such  joy  no  nightingale. 
132 


And  we,  whom  dreams  embolden, 

We  can  but  creep  and  sing 
And  watch  through  heaven's  waste  hollow 
The  flight  no  sight  may  follow 
To  the  utter  bourne  beholden 

Of  none  that  lack  thy  wing  : 
And  we,  whom  dreams  embolden, 

We  can  but  creep  and  sing. 

Our  dreams  have  wings  that  falter, 
Our  hearts  bear  hopes  that  die ; 

For  thee  no  dream  could  better 

A  life  no  fears  may  fetter, 

A  pride  no  care  can  alter, 

That  wots  not  whence  or  why 

Our  dreams  have  wings  that  falter, 
Our  hearts  bear  hopes  that  die. 

With  joy  more  fierce  and  sweeter 

Than  joys  we  deem  divine 
Their  lives,  by  time  untarnished, 
Are  girt  about  and  garnished, 
Who  match  the  wave's  full  metre 

And  drink  the  wind's  wild  wine 
With  joy  more  fierce  and  sweeter 

Than  joys  we  deem  divine. 

Ah,  well  were  I  for  ever, 

Wouldst  thou  change  lives  with  me, 
And  take  my  song's  wild  honey, 
And  give  me  back  thy  sunny 
Wide  eyes  that  weary  never, 

And  wings  that  search  the  sea  ; 
Ah,  well  were  I  for  ever, 

Wouldst  thou  change  lives  with  me. 
BEACHY  HEAD,  September,  1886. 
133 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


TO   A   CAT 


STATELY,  kindly,  lordly  friend, 
Condescend 
Here  to  sit  by  me,  and  turn 
Glorious  eyes  that  smile  and  burn, 
Golden  eyes,  love's  lustrous  meed, 
On  the  golden  page  I  read. 

All  your  wondrous  wealth  of  hair, 

Dark  and  fair, 

Silken — shaggy,  soft  and  bright 
As  the  clouds  and  beams  of  night, 
Pays  my  reverent  hand's  caress 
Back  with  friendlier  gentleness. 

Dogs  may  fawn  on  all  and  some 

As  they  come  ; 

You,  a  friend  of  loftier  mind, 

Answer  friends  alone  in  kind. 

Just  your  foot  upon  my  hand 

Softly  bids  it  understand. 

Morning  round  this  silent  sweet 

Garden-seat 

Sheds  its  wealth  of  gathering  light, 
Thrills  the  gradual  clouds  with  might, 
Changes  woodland,  orchard,  heath, 
Lawn,  and  garden  there  beneath. 
134 


Fair  and  dim  they  gleamed  below : 

Now  they  glow 

Deep  as  even  your  sun-bright  eyes, 
Fair  as  even  the  wakening  skies, 
Can  it  not,  or  can  it  be 
Now  that  you  give  thanks  to  see  ? 

May  not  you  rejoice,  as  I, 

Seeing  the^sky 

Change  to  heaven  revealed,  and  bid 
Earth  reveal  the  heaven  it  hid 
All  night  long  from  stars  and  moon, 
Now  the  sun  sets  all  in  tune  ? 

What  within  you  wakes  with  day, 

Who  can  say  ? 
All  too  little  may  we  tell, 
Friends  who  like  each  other  well, 
What  might  haply,  if  we  might, 
Bid  us  read  our  lives  aright. 

II 

Wild  on  woodland  ways,  your  sires 

Flashed  like  fires ; 
Fair  as  flame  and  fierce  and  fleet 
As  with  wings,  on  wingless  feet 
Shone  and  sprang  your  mother,  free 
Bright  and  brave  as  wind  or  sea. 

Free  and  proud  and  glad  as  they, 

Here  to-day 

Rests  or  roams  their  radiant  child, 
Vanquished  not,  but  reconciled, 
Free  from  curb  of  aught  above, 
Save  the  lovely  curb  of  love. 
135 


Love  through  dreams  of  souls  divine 

Fain  would  shine 

Round  a  dawn  whose  light  and  song 
Then  should  right  our  mutual  wrong — 
Speak,  and  seal  the  love-lit  law 
Sweet  Assisi's  seer  foresaw. 

Dreams  were  theirs  ;  yet  haply  may 

Dawn  a  day 

When  such  friends  and  fellows  born, 
Seeing  our  earth  as  fair  at  morn, 
May  for  wiser  love's  sake,  see 

More  of  heaven's  deep  heart  than  we. 


136 


Algernon   Charles  Swinburne 


AT  A  DOG'S  GRAVE 


GOOD-night,    we    say,    when    comes    the    time 
to  win 
The  daily  death  divine  that  shuts  up  sight, 
Sleep,  that  assures  for  all  who  dwell  therein 
Good-night. 

The  shadow  shed  round  those  we  love  shines  bright 
As  love's  own  face,  when  death,  sleep's  gentler  twin, 
From  them  divides  us  even  as  night  from  light. 

Shall  friends  born  lower  in  life,  though  pure  of  sin, 
Though  clothed  with  love  and  faith  to  usward  plight, 
Perish  and  pass  unbidden  of  us,  their  kin, 
Good-night  ? 

II 

To  die  a  dog's  death  once  was  held  for  shame. 
Not  all  men  so  beloved  and  mourned  shall  lie 
As  many  of  these,  whose  time  untimely  came 
To  die. 

His  years  were  full :    his  years  were  joyous  :    why 
Must  love  be  sorrow,  when  his  gracious  name 
Recalls  his  lovely  life  of  limb  and  eye  ? 

137 


If  aught  of  blameless  life  on  earth  may  claim 

Life  higher  than  death,  though  death's  dark  wave 

rise  high, 

Such  life  as  this  among  us  never  came 
To  die. 


Ill 

White  violets,  there  by  hands  more  sweet  than  they 

Planted,  shall  sweeten  April's  flowerful  air 
About  a  grave  that  shows  to  night  and  day 
White  violets  there. 

A   child's   light   hands,   whose   touch   makes   flowers 

more  fair, 

Keep  fair  as  these  for  many  a  March  and  May 
The  light  of  days  that  are  because  they  were. 

It  shall  not  like  a  blossom  pass  away ; 
It  broods  and  brightens  with  the  days  that  bear 
Fresh  fruits  of  love,  but  leave,  as  love  might  pray, 
White  violets  there. 


138 


Wilfrid  Scawen   Blunt 

b.  1840. 


THE  TOAD 

OWHO  shall  tell  us  of  the  truth  of  things  ? 
The  day  was  ending  blood-red  in  the  west 
After  a  storm.     The  sun  had  smelted  down 
As  in  a  furnace  all  the  clouds  to  gold. 
Upon  a  cart  track  by  a  pool  of  rain, 
Dumbly  with  calm  eyes  fixed  upon  the  heavens, 
A  toad  sat  thinking.     It  was  wretchedness 
That  gazed  on  majesty.     Ah,  who  shall  tell 
The  very  truth  of  things,  the  hidden  law 
Of  pain  and  ugliness  ?     Byzantium  bred 
Growths  of  Augustuli,  Great  Rome  her  crimes, 
As  Earth  breeds  flowers,  the  firmament  its  suns, 
And  the  toad  too  his  crop  of  ulcerous  sores. 

The  leaves  turned  purple  on  the  vermeil  trees  ; 
The  rain  lay  like  a  mirror  in  the  ruts  ; 
The  dying  sun  shook  his  last  banners  out ; 
Birds  sang  in  whispers,  and  the  world  grew  dumb 
With  the  hush  of  evening  and  forgetfuhiess. 
Then  too  the  toad  forgot  himself  and  all 
His  daylight  shame,  as  he  looked  out  bright-eyed 
Into  the  sweet  face  of  the  coming  night. 
For  who  shall  tell  ?     He  too  the  accursed  one 
Dreamt  of  a  blessing.     There  is  not  a  creature 
On  whom  the  infinite  heaven  hath  not  smiled 
Wildly  and  tenderly  ;  no  thing  impure 

139 


Monstrous  deformed  and  hideous  but  he  holds 
The  immensity  of  the  starlight  in  his  eyes. 

A  priest  came  by  and  saw  the  unholy  thing, 
And  with  his  foot,  even  as  his  prayers  he  read, 
Trod  it  aside  and  shuddered  and  went  on. 
A  woman  with  a  wild  flower  in  her  bosom 
Came  next  and  at  the  eye's  light  mirrored  there 
Aimed  her  umbrella  point.     Now  he  was  old 
And  she  was  beautiful.     Then  home  from  school 
Ran  four  boys  with  young  faces  like  the  dawn. 
"  I  was  a  child,  was  weak,  was  pitiless  "  : 
Thus  must  each  man  relate  who  would  begin 
The  true  tale  of  his  life.     A  child  hath  all, 
Joy,  laughter,  mirth.     He  is  drunk  with  life's  delight. 
Hope's  day-star  breaketh  in  his  innocent  eyes. 
He  hath  a  mother.     He  is  just  a  boy, 
A  little  man  who  breathes  the  untrammelled  air 
Clean- winded  and  clean-limbed,  and  he  is  free 
And  the  world  loves  him.     Why  should  he  not  then 
For  lack  of  sorrow  strike  the  sorrowful  ? 

The  toad  dragged  down  the  deep  track  of  the  road. 
It  was  the  hour  when  from  the  hollows  round 
Blue  mists  steal  creeping  low  upon  the  fields. 
His    wild    heart    sought    the    night.     Just    then    the 

children 

Came  on  the  fugitive  and  all  together 
Cried,  "  Let  us  kill  him.     We  will  punish  him 
For  being  so  ugly."     And  at  the  word  they  laughed. 
(For  children  laugh  when  they  do  murder.)     Then 
They  thrust  at  him  with  sticks  and  where  the  eye 
Bulged  from  its  socket  made  a  ghastlier  wound 
Opening  his  sores.     The  passers  by  looked  on, 

140 


And  they  too  laughed.     And  then  the  night  fell  down 
Black  on  the  blackness  of  his  martyrdom 
Who  was  so  dumb.     And  when  the  blood  flowed  out 
It  was  horrible  blood.     And  he  was  horrible. 
That  was  his  crime. 

And  still  along  the  lane 
The  creature  sprawled.     One  foot   had   been   shorn 

away 

By  a  child's  spade,  and  at  each  new  blow  aimed 
Its  jaws  foamed  blood,  poor  damned  suffering  thing, 
Which  even  when  the  sun  had  soothed  its  hide 
Had  skulked  in  holes.     And  the  children  mocked  the 

more  : 
44  Wretch.     Would  you  spit  at  us  ?  " 

O  strange  child's  heart ! 

What  rage  is  thine  to  pluck  thus  at  the  robe 
Of  misery  and  taunt  it  with  its  pain  ? 

And  so  from  clod  to  clod,  from  briar  to  briar, 
But  breathing  still,  in  his  dull  fear  he  fled 
Seeking  a  shelter  from  their  tyrannous  eyes. 
So  mean  a  thing  it  seemed  Death  shrank  from  him 
Refusing  aid  of  his  all-pitying  scythe. 
And  the  children  followed  on  with  rushes  noosed 
To  take  him,  but  he  slipped  between  their  hands 
And  fell,  so  chanced  it,  where  the  rut  gaped  deepest, 
Into  a  mire  of  mud  ;   cool  hiding  place 
It  was  and  refuge  for  his  mangled  limbs, 
And  there  he  quaking  lay.     The  anointing  slime 
Soothed  his  hurt  body  like  a  sacrament, 
An  extreme  unction  for  his  utter  need. 
Nor  yet  was  safety  won.     The  children's  eyes, 

141 


Abominable  eyes,  were  on  him  still 

With  their  hard  mirth.     "  Is  there  no  stone  ?  "  they 

cried, 

"  To  end  him  with  ?     Here,  Jeremiah,  Jim, 
Lend  us  a  hand."     And  willing  hands  were  lent. 

Once  more,  O  child  of  Man  !  I  ask  it.  Say 
What  is  the  goal  of  thy  desire  ?  WThat  aim 
Is  thine  ?  What  target  wouldst  thou  hit  ?  What 

win  ? 
Say.     Is  it  death  or  life  ? 

The  stone  was  brought, 
A  ponderous  mass,  broad  as  a  paving  flag, 
But  light  in  his  young  hands  that  bore  it  in, 
Pride  giving  strength  to  lift,  and  the  lust  to  kill. 
"  You  shall  see  what  this  will  do,"  the  young  giant 

cried. 
And  all  stood  near  expectant  of  the  end. 

And  then  a  new  thing  happened,  a  new  chance. 
A  coster's  dray,  drawn  by  an  ancient  ass, 
Passed  down  the  lane.     With  creaking  wheels  it  came 
And  slow  harsh  jolts  in  the  ruts.     The  ass  was  lean 
And  stiff  with  age,  spavined,  with  foundered  feet, 
And  dead  to  blows  which  rained  on  his  dull  hide. 
Each  step  he  stumbled.     He  was  near  his  home, 
After  a  long  day's  labour  in  the  field, 
And  began  to  scent  his  stable  while  the  cart 
Lagged  in  the  ruts,  or  with  shafts  forward  thrown 
Pressed  his  galled  sides  and  thrust  its  load  on  him, 
At  the  downward  slope,  where  the  lane  left  the  hill, 
More  than  his  strength.     A  mist  was  in  his  eyes 
And  that  dull  stupor  which  foreshadows  death. 

142 


Thus  the  cart  moved,  its  driver  cursing  loud, 
Its  driven  dumb,  while  the  whip  cracked  in  time. 
The  ass  was  in  his  dreams  beyond  our  thought, 
Plunged  in  those  depths  of  soul  where  no  man  strays. 

And  the  children  heard  the  cart  upon  the  road. 
It  gave  them  a  new  thought.    And  "  Stop,"  they  cried, 
"  Let  the  stone  be.     We  shall  have  better  sport 
Here  with  the  wheels.     This  ass  will  do  the  thing." 
And  they  stood  aside  and  watched  what  next  should 

come. 

And  the  cart  drew  near,  its  wheels  sunk  in  the  rut 
Where  the  toad  lay,  the  ass  with  his  dull  eyes 
Fixed  on  the  path  before  him,  his  head  down 
Nosing  the  ground  in  apathy  of  thought. 
And  the  ass  stopped.     He,  the  sad  slave  of  pain, 
Had  seen  the  vision  of  a  sadder  slave 
Needing  his  pity,  and  being  as  it  were  the  judge 
To  save  or  slay  he  had  been  moved  to  grace ; 
He  had  seen  and  understood.     And,  gathering  up 
In  a  single  act  supreme  of  his  poor  weakness 
All  that  remained  to  him  of  combative  pride, 
He  made  the  grand  refusal,  mastering 
By  his  last  strength  the  load  which  pressed  on   him 
With  terrible  connivance  of  the  hill, 
And  wrenched  the  cart  wheel  from  its  track  of  doom 
Spite  of  his  tyrant's  voice  of  blasphemy 
And  its  mad  curses  and  his  own  huge  pain, 
And  so,  the  victory  won,  passed  on  his  road. 

Then  also  was  it  that  that  child  with  the  stone, 
He  who  now  tells  this  story,  from  his  hands 
Let  the  flag  drop.     A  voice  had  cried  to  him 
Too  loud  for  denial :  "  Fool.     Be  merciful." 

143 


O  wisdom  of  the  witless  !     Law  of  pity 
Loud  on  the  lips  of  pain.     Nature's  pure  light 
Lightening  the  darkness  of  Man's  gulfs  of  crime  ! 
Lessons  of  courage  taught  by  coward  hearts, 
Of  joy  by  the  joyless  !     Eyes  that  cannot  weep 
Pleading  with  grief  and  pointing  consolation  ! 
The  eloquent  call  of  one  poor  damned  soul 
Preaching  to  souls  elect,  the  beast  to  man  ! 
Know  this  :    hours  are  there,  twilight  hours  of  grace, 
When,  be  he  what  he  may,  beast,  bird  or  slave, 
Each  living  thing  gets  glimpses  of  God's  heaven 
And  knows  himself  own  brother  to  the  stars, 
Being  one  with  these  in  ancestry  of  love, 
Kindred  in  kindness.     Learn  that  this  poor  ass, 
Facing  his  pain  rather  than  add  to  pain, 
Was  master  of  his  soul  in  verier  deed 
Than  Socrates  was  saint,  than  Plato  sage. 

Who  is  the  teacher  here  ?     O  man  of  mind  ! 
Wouldst  thou  touch  truth  ?     The  true  truth  in  thee 

lies, 

Thy  lack  of  light.     Nay,  kneel,  weep,  pray,  believe, 
Grovel  on  the  Earth.     She  shall  thy  teacher  be. 
A  corner  of  their  Heaven  thou  too  shalt  win 
When  thou  art  dust  with  these.     Then  shalt  thou  too 
Get  glimpses  of  their  world's  ingenuous  dawn 
And  purchase  back  thy  soul's  lost  purity, 
The  love  that  casts  out  fear  and  conquers  pain, 
The  link  which  binds  its  weak  ones  with   its  strong 
And  equals  all  in  one  divine  accord, 
The  unknowing  ass  with  the  all-knowing  God. 


144 


Wilfrid  Scawen   Blunt 


THE   STRICKEN  HART 

fHT"\HE  stricken  hart  had  fled  the  brake,! 
His  courage  spent  for  life's  dear  sake, 
He  came  to  die  beside  the  lake. 

The  golden  trout  leaped  up  to  view, 

The  moorfowl  clapped  his  wings  and  crew, 

The  swallow  brushed  him  as  she  flew. 

He  looked  upon  the  glorious  sun, 

His  blood  dropped  slowly  on  the  stone, 

He  loved  the  life  so  nearly  won, 

And  then  he  died.     The  ravens  found 
A  carcase  couched  upon  the  ground, 
They  said  their  god  had  dealt  the  wound. 

The  Eternal  Father  calmly  shook 
One  page  untitled  from  life's  book. 
Few  words.     None  ever  cared  to  look. 

Yet  woe  for  life  thus  idly  riven. 

He  blindly  loved  what  God  had  given, 

And  love,  some  say,  has  conquered  Heaven. 


145 


Wilfrid   Scawen   Blunt 


A 


ASSASSINS 

SSASSINS  find  accomplices.     Man's  merit 
Has  found  him  three,  the  hawk,  the  hound, 
the  ferret. 


146 


Thomas   Hardy 

b.   1840. 


WAGTAIL  AND  BABY 

A  BABY  watched  a  ford,  whereto 
A  wagtail  came  for  drinking ; 
A  blaring  bull  went  wading  through, 
The  wagtail  showed  no  shrinking. 

A  stallion  splashed  his  way  across, 

The  birdie  nearly  sinking ; 
He  gave  his  plumes  a  twitch  and  toss, 

And  held  his  own  unblinking. 

Next  saw  the  baby  round  the  spot 

A  mongrel  slowly  slinking ; 
The  wagtail  gazed,  but  faltered  not 

In  dip  and  sip  and  prinking. 

A  perfect  gentleman  then  neared ; 

The  wagtail,  in  a  winking 
With  terror  rose  and  disappeared ; 

The  baby  fell  a-thinking. 


147 


Thomas   Hardy 


THE   PUZZLED   GAME-BIRDS 

P  |  ^HEY  are  not  those  who  used  to  feed  us 
When  we  were  young^ — they  cannot  be — 
These  shapes  that  now  bereave  and  bleed 

us? 

They  are  not  those  who  used  to  feed  us, — 
For  would  they  not  fair  terms  concede  us  ? 
— If  hearts  can  house  such  treachery 
They  are  not  those  who  used  to  feed  us 
When  we  were  young — they  cannot  be  ! 


148 


Thomas   Hardy 


THE  BLINDED   BIRD 

SO  zestfully  canst  thou  sing  ? 
And  all  this  indignity, 
With  God's  consent,  on  thee  ! 
Blinded  ere  yet  a-wing 
By  the  red-hot  needle  thou, 
I  stand  and  wonder  how 
So  zestfully  thou  canst  sing ! 

Resenting  not  such  wrong, 
Thy  grievous  pain  forgot, 
Eternal  dark  thy  lot, 
Groping  thy  whole  life  long, 
After  that  stab  of  fire  ; 
En  jailed  in  pitiless  wire  ; 
Resenting  not  such  wrong ! 

Who  hath  charity  ?     This  bird. 
Who  suffereth  long  and  is  kind, 
Is  not  provoked,  though  blind 
And  alive  ensepulchred  ? 
Who  hopeth,  endureth  all  things  ? 
Who  thinketh  no  evil,  but  sings  ? 
Who  is  divine  ?     This  bird. 


149 


Robert   Buchanan 

1841—1902. 


GOD  EVOLVING 

TURN  from  the  mirage  of  a  God  on  high 
Holding  the  sceptre  of  a  creed  outworn, 
And  hearken  to  the  faint  half-human  cry 
Of  Nature  quickening  with  the  God  unborn  ! 

The  God  unborn,  the  God  that  is  to  be, 
The  God  that  has  not  been  since  Time  began, — 
Hark, — that  low  sound  of  Nature's  agony 
Echoed  thro'  life  and  the  hard  heart  of  Man  ! 

Fed  with  the  blood  and  tears  of  living  things, 
Nourish'd  and  strengthen'd  by  Creation's  woes, 
The  God  unborn,  that  shall  be  King  of  Kings, 
Sown  in  the  darkness,  thro'  the  darkness  grows. 

Alas,  the  long  slow  travail  and  the  pain 
Of  her  who  bears  him  in  her  mighty  womb  ! 
How  long  ere  he  shall  live  and  breathe  and  reign, 
While  yonder  Phantom  fades  to  give  him  room  ? 

Where'er  great  pity  is  and  piteousness, 
Where'er  great  Love  and  Love's  strange  sorrow  stay, 
Where'er  men  cease  to  curse,  but  bend  to  bless, 
Frail  brethren  fashion'd  like  themselves  of  clay, 

150 


Where'er  the  lamb  and  lion  side  by  side 
Lie  down  in  peace,  where'er  on  land  or  sea 
Infinite  Love  and  Mercy  heavenly-eyed 
Emerge,  there  stirs  the  God  that  is  to  be  ! 

His  light  is  round  the  slaughter'd  bird  and  beast, 
As  round  the  forehead  of  Man  crucified, — 
All  things  that  live,  the  greatest  and  the  least, 
Await  the  coming  of  this  Lord  and  Guide ; 

And  every  gentle  deed  by  mortals  done, 
Yea  every  holy  thought  and  loving  breath, 
Lighten  poor  Nature's  travail  with  this  Son 
Who  shall  be  Lord  and  God  of  Life  and  Death  ! 

No  God  behind  us  in  the  empty  Vast, 
No  God  enthroned  on  yonder  heights  above, 
But  God  emerging,  and  evolved  at  last 
Out  of  the  inmost  heart  of  human  Love  ! 

Wound  Love,  thou  woundest,  too,  this  God  unborn  ! 
Of  Love  and  Love's  compassion  is  he  bred ! 
His  strength  the  grace  that  holds  no  thing  in  scorn, 
His  very  blood  the  tears  by  Pity  shed  ! 

And  every  cruel  thought  or  deed  on  earth 
Yea,  even  blood-sacrifice  on  bended  knee, 
Lengthens  the  travail  and  delays  the  birth 
Of  this  our  God,  the  God  that  is  to  be  ! 


151 


Robert  Buchanan 


MAN  OF  THE  RED  RIGHT  HAND 

MAN  with  the  Red  Right  Hand  knelt  in  the 
night  and  prayed. 
"  Pity  and  spare,  O  God,  the  mortal  whom 

thou  hast  made  ! 

Strengthen  the  house  he  builds,  adorn  his  glad  roof- 
tree, 
Blessing  the  bloody  spoil  he  gathers  on  earth  and 

sea  ! 
The  bird  and  the  beast  are  blind,  and  they  do  not 

understand, 

But  lo  !    thy  servant  kneels  !  "  said  Man  with  the 
Red  Right  Hand  ! 

God  went  by  in  the  storm  and  answered  never  a 

word. 
But  the  birds  of  the  air  shrieked  loud,  and  the  beasts 

of  the  mountain  heard, 
And  the  dark  sad  flocks  of  the  Sea,  and  the  Sea-lambs 

gentle-eyed 
Wail'd  from  their  oozy  folds,  and  the  mild  Sea-kine 

replied, 
And  the  pity  of  God  fell  down,  like  darkness  on  sea 

and  land, 

But  froze  to  ice  in  the  heart  of  Man  with  the  Red 
^  ^  Right  Hand. 

152 


Then  up  he  rose  from  his  knee,  and  brandish'd  the 

crimson  knife, 
Saying,   "  I  thank  thee,  God,  for  making  me  Lord 

of  Life  ! 
The  beasts  and  the  birds  are  mine,  and  the  flesh 

and  blood  of  the  same, 
Baptized  in  the  blood  of  these,  I  gladden  and  praise 

thy  name  ! 
Laden  with  spoils  of  life  thy  servant  shall  smiling 

stand  !  " 
And  out  on  the  deep  he  hied,  this  Man  with  the  Red 

Right  Hand. 

Afar  on  the  lonely  isles  the  cry  of  the  slaughtered 

herds 
Rose  on  the  morning  air,  to  the  scream  of  the  flying 

birds, 
And  the  birds  fell  down  and  bled  with  pitiful  human 

cries, 
And  the  butcher'd  Lambs  of  the  Sea  look  up  with 

pleading  eye^S, 
And  the  blood  of  bird  and  beast  was  red  on  the  sea 

and  land, 
And  drunk  with  the  joy  of  Death  was  Man  with  the 

Red  Right  Hand. 

And  the  fur  of  the  slain  sea-lamb  was  a  cloak  for 

his  bride  to  wear, 
And  the  broken  wing  of  the  bird  was  set  in  his  leman's 

hair, 
And  the  flesh  of  the  ox  and  lamb  were  food  for  his 

brood  to  eat, 
And  the  skin  of  the  mild  sea  kine  was  shoon  on  his 

daughters'  feet ! 

153 


And  the  cry  of  the  slaughtered  things  was  loud  over 

sea  and  land 
As   he   knelt  once   more  and   prayed,   upraising  his 

Red  Right  Hand. 

"  Pity  me  Master  and  Lord  !    spare  me  and  pass  me 

by, 

Grant  me  Eternal  Life,  though  the  beast  and  the 

bird  must  die  ! 
Behold  I  worship  thy  Law,  and  gladden  in  all  thy 

ways, 
The  bird  and  the  beast  are  dumb,  but  behold  I  sing 

thy  praise, 
The  bird  and  the  beast  are  blind,  and  they  do  not 

understand, 
But  lo,  I  see  and  know  !  "  said  Man  with  the  Red 

Right  Hand. 

God  went  by  in  the    Storm   and  answered   never  a 

word. 
But  deep  in  the  soul  of  Man  the  cry  of  a  God  was 

heard. 
"  Askest   thou   pity,   thou,    who   ne'er   drew   pitying 

breath  ? 
Askest  thou  fulness  of  life,  whose  life  is  built  upon 

Death  ? 
Even  as  thou  metest  to  these,  thy  kin  of  the  sea 

and  land, 
Shall  it  be  meted  to  thee,  O  Man  of  the  Red  Right 

Hand! 

When  thou  namest  bird  and  beast,  and  blessest  them 

passing  by, 
When  thy  pleasure  is  built  no  more  on  the  pain  of 

things  that  die, 

154 


When  thy  bride  no  longer  wears  the  spoil  of  thy 

butcher's  knife, 
Perchance  thy  prayer  may  reach  the  ears  of  the  Lord 

of  Life  ; 
Meantime  be  slain  with  the  things  thou  slayest  on 

sea  and  land, — 
Yea,  pass  in  thy  place  like  those,  O  Man  with  the 

Red  Right  Hand." 


155 


Richard  Jefferies 

1848—1887. 


MY   CHAFFINCH 

HS  hours  he  spends  upon  a  fragrant  fir ; 
His  merry  "  chink,"  his  happy  "  Kiss  me, 
dear," 
Each  moment  sounded,  keeps  the  copse  astir. 

Loudly  he  challenges  each  rival  near, 
Anon  aslant  down  to  the  ground  he  springs, 
Like  to  a  sunbeam  made  of  coloured  wings. 

The  firm  and  solid  azure  of  the  ceil 

That  struck  by  hand  would  give  a  hollow  sound, 
A  dome  turned  perfect  by  the  sun's  great  wheel, 

Whose  edges  rest  upon  the  hills  around, 
Rings  many  a  mile  with  blue  enamelled  wall ; 
His  fir  tree  is  the  centre  of  it  all. 

A  lichened  cup  he  set  against  the  side 

High  up  this  mast,  earth-stepped,  that  could  not  fail, 
But  swung  a  little  as  a  ship  might  ride, 

Keeping  an  easy  balance  in  the  gale  ; 
Slow-heaving  like  a  gladiator's  breast, 
Whose  strength  in  combat  feels  an  idle  rest. 

Whether  the  cuckoo  or  the  chaffinch  most 
Do  triumph  in  the  issuing  of  their  song  ? 

I  say  not  this,  but  many  a  swelling  boast 
They  throw  each  at  the  other  all  day  long. 

Soon  as  the  nest  had  cradled  eggs  a-twin 

The  jolly  squirrel  climbed  to  look  therein. 

156 


Adown  the  lane  athwart  this  pleasant  wood 

The  broad-winged  butterflies  their  solace  sought ; 

A  green-necked  pheasant  in  the  sunlight  stood, 
Nor  could  the  rushes  hide  him  as  he  thought. 

A  humble-bee  through  fern  and  thistle  made 

A  search  for  lowly  flowers  in  the  shade. 

A  thing  of  many  wanderings,  and  loss, 

Like  to  Ulysses  on  his  poplar  raft, 
His  treasure  hid  beneath  the  tunnelled  moss 

Lest  that  a  thief  his  labour  steal  with  craft, 
Up  the  round  hill,  sheep-dotted,  was  his  way, 
Zigzagging  where  some  new  adventure  lay. 

44  My  life  and  soul,"  as  if  he  were  a  Greek, 
His  heart  was  Grecian  in  his  greenwood  fane ; 

<c  My  life  and  soul,"  through  all  the  sunny  week 
The  chaffinch  sang  with  beating  heart  amain. 

44  The  humble-bee  the  wide  wood- world  may  roam ; 

One  feather's  breadth  I  shall  not  stir  from  home." 

No  note  he  took  of  what  the  swallows  said 

About  the  firing  of  some  evil  gun, 
Nor  if  the  butterflies  were  blue  or  red, 

For  all  his  feelings  were  intent  in  one. 
The  loving  soul,  a-thrill  in  all  his  nerves, 
A  life  immortal  as  a  man's  deserves. 


157 


Henry  S.   Salt 

b.   1851, 


VOICES   OF  THE  VOICELESS 

^  •  ^\HE  fields  were  full  of  summer  sound ; 

The  lambs  were  gaily  bleating ; 
Small  birds  were  gossiping  around, 
Their  joyful  news  repeating  ; 
In  tones  vociferously  clear, 
Rooks  chatted  overhead. 
"  Sweet  creatures  !    How  I  love  to  hear 
Dumb  animals"  she  said. 

And  as  they  parleyed,  each  with  each, 

Their  thoughts  and  fancies  showing, 
It  seemed  as  if  some  flood  of  speech 

This  earth  were  overflowing ; 
Methought  with  every  breath  that  moved 

A  gift  of  tongues  was  shed. 
"  How  beautiful !    I've  always  loved 

Dumb  animals"  she  said. 


158 


Henry  S.  Salt 


IN  MEMORIAM 

TWO  years — two  years  !    And  is  it  then  so  long 
Since  thou  wert  reft  away  ? 
Yet  still  thy  memory  lingers  fresh  and  strong ; 
It  seems  but  j^esterday 

That  thou  wast  here,  ere  that  dark  time  befell, 
A  happy  friend  'mid  friends  that  loved  thee  well. 

Two  years — two  years  !     And  still  I  weep  whene'er 

Thine  image  I  recall ; 
Swift  hurrying  feet,  sharp  bark,  long  silken  hair, 

And,  dearest  far  of  all, 

Thy  .gentle,  loving  eyes,  that  looked  no  less 
Than  human  sympathy  and  tenderness. 

Two  years — two  years  !    And  still,  as  time  flies  fast, 

Must  year  to  year  succeed. 
They  cannot  change  the  fixed,  abiding  Past  ; 

They  cannot  shake  my  creed, 

That,  chance  what  may  in  earth  or  heaven  above, 
There  never  dies  the  least  small  spark  of  Love. 


159 


H.   D.   Rawnsley 

1851-1920. 


THE  SQUIRREL 

LIGHT-HEARTED     dweller    in    the    voiceless 
wood, 
Pricking  thy  tasselled  ears  in  hope  to  tell 
Where-under,  in  thy  haste,  the  acorn  fell  ; 
Now  for  excess  of  summer  in  thy  blood, 
Running  through  all  thy  tricksy  change  of  mood, 
Or  vaulting  upward  to  thy  citadel 
To  seek  the  mossy  nest,  thy  miser-cell, 
And  chuckle  o'er  the  winter's  hoard  of  food. 
Miser  ?     I  do  thee  wrong  to  call  thee  so, 
For,  from  the  swinging  larch-plumes  overhead, 
In  showers  of  whispering  music  thou  dost  shed 
Gold,  thick  as  dust,  where'er  thy  light  feet  go  : 
Keep,  busy  Almoner,  thy  gifts  of  gold  ! 
Be  still !  mine  eyes  ask  only  to  behold. 


160 


H.   D.  Rawnsley 


PIGEON  SHOOTING  AT  AMBLESIDE 

A   PROTEST 

ABOVE  the  shooters,  at  their  coward  play, 
Beyond  the  leaden  drifts  of  murderous  hail, 
On  higher  wing  the  homeward  Rookery  sail, 
And  clamour  hoarse,  loud  protest  and  dismay ; 
Indignant  valleys  echo  far  away, 
"  Pity  is  dead  and  prayer  of  no  avail !  " 
The  soft-winged  prisoner  dies  before  the  pale, 
Or  dropped  beyond,  shall  bleed  another  day. 
Was  it  to  sanction  death  and  banish  love 
The  Olive-bearer  to  the  Ark  returned  ? 
Did  God  descend  in  likeness  of  a  Dove 
That  men,  in  sport,  might  take  the  life  they  spurned  ? 
So  vainly,  all  the  years  in  cote  and  grove 
Have  these,  unpitied,  mourned,  and  mourned,  and 
mourned. 


161 


H.  D.  Rawnsley 


THE  STAG  IMPALED 

WITH   head  drawn   back  and  heaving  flank 
distressed 
It  hears  the   hounds — the   hunter's  bugle 

ring, 

What  hand  shall  save  the  tame  unantlered  thing, 
What  covert  give  the  harmless  creature  rest  ? 
Down  the  long  vale,  and  o'er  the  woodland  crest, 
Across  the  flood,  with  piteous  fear  for  wing, 
It  speeds,  then  leaps,  and  with  a  desperate  spring 
Hangs  mute,  impaled,  the  fence-spear  in  its  breast. 

When  shall  the  heart  of  gentler  England  prove 
Its  pure  compassion  for  all  needless  pain  ; 
When  shall  we  learn  the  bond  of  brotherhood 
'Twixt  man  and  these  wild  creatures  of  the  wood, 
And  nobler  days  of  sport  bring  nobler  gain, 
For  manhood  sworn  to  pity  and  to  love  ? 


162 


W.   H.   Hudson 


THE  LONDON  SPARROW 

A  HUNDRED    years   it   seemeth   since   I   lost 
thee, 
O  beautiful  world  of  birds,  O  blessed  birds, 
That  come  and  go  ! — the  thrush,  the  golden-bill 
That  sweetly  fluteth  after  April  rain, 
In  forest  depths  the  cuckoo's  mystic  voice, 
And  in  the  breezy  fields  the  yellow-hammer, 
And  over  all  the  mounting  lark,  that  makes 
The  blue  heaven  palpitate  with  ecstasy  ! 
Nor  in  this  island  only  :   far  beyond 
The  seas  encircling  it  swift  memory  flies 
To  other  brighter  lands,  and  leaves  behind 
The  swallow  and  the  dove  :    in  hot  sweet  woods 
The  gaudy  parrot  screams  ;    reedy  and  vast 
Stretch  ibis  and  flamingo -haunted  marshes. 

I  from  such  worlds  removed  to  this  sad  world 
Of  London  we  inhabit  now  together, 
O  Sparrow,  often  in  my  loneliness, 
No  other  friend  remaining,  turn  to  thee, 
Like  some  imprisoned  wretch,  who  in  his  cell 
A  cricket  hears,  and  listening  to  its  chirp, 
Forgets  the  vanished  sunshine  and  the  laughter. 
Not  oft,  O  winged  Arab  of  the  streets, 
Thou  dusty  little  scavenger — a  bird 
Ambitious  bard  should  blush  to  name — not  oft 

163 


Canst  claim  such  victory  :    for  I  have  known 
The  kings  and  glorious  nobles  of  the  race 
Whose  homely  mean  ambassador  thou  art ; — 
Imperial-crested  birds  in  purple  clothed 
And  splendid  scarlet,  swans  in  bridal  white, 
And  many  a  rainbow-tinted  tanager. 

Ah  !    how  couldst  thou  thy  birthright,  liberty 

In  breezy  woodlands,  where  were  springs  for  thirst 

And  many-flavoured  fruits  to  feed  upon, 

Resign  for  such  a  place  ? — to  live  long  years 

From  nature  sweet  in  exile  voluntary, 

Nourished  on  mouldy  crumbs,  ignoble  bird  ! 

Imprisoned  in  a  lurid  atmosphere 

That  maketh  all  things  black  and  desolate, 

Until,  as  in  a  coin  illegible 

To  keenest  Antiquary,  lost  are  all 

The  signs  that  mark  thy  kind — the  pretty  gloss 

That  Nature  gave  thee  clouded  and  confounded, 

Till  to  the  ornithologist  thou  art 

A  bird  ambiguous  :  to  others,  too, 

A  thing  offensive.     Sometimes  even  I, 

Aroused  to  fury  by  thy  barrel-organ 

That   puts  my  thoughts  to  flight,  would  gladly  hale 

thee 

Before  the  magistrate.     For  thou  hast  not 
The  coyness  of  thy  kind — for  awful  man 
No  veneration  ;  noisy,  impudent, 
Begrimed  with  soot,  the  chimney-sweep  of  birds 
To  minds  aesthetic. 

Roughly  have  I  used 
The  liberty  of  a  friend,  and  yet  I  know 
I  love  thee,  Sparrow,  and  thy  voice  to  me — 

164 


A  dweller  once  in  summer-lands — brings  back 
Responsive  joy,  as  unto  him  that  walks, 
Pensive  at  eventide,  the  robin's  song 
'Midst  wintry  loneliness.     Oh,  my  lost  Muse, 
If  aught  of  thy  sweet  spirit  is  remaining 
After  my  long  neglect,  in  gratitude 
To  this  my  frequent,  welcome  visitor, 
Whose  little  pipe  from  out  discordant  noises 
Springs  like  a  flower  amidst  a  waste  of  rocks 
To  cheer  my  exile,  I  will  strike  again 
The  quaint  and  rust-corroded  instrument 
I  played  of  yore,  and  to  the  Sparrow  sing 
My  latest  song,  albeit  now  the  chords 
Give  'neath  my  touch  an  unfamiliar  sound 
To  sadden  me — the  note  of  time  and  change. 

At  dawn  thy  voice  is  loud — a  merry  voice 
When  other  sounds  are  few  and  faint.     Before 
The  muffled  thunders  of  the  Underground 
Begin  to  shake  the  houses,  and  the  noise 
Of  eastward  traffic  fills  the  thoroughfares, 
Thy  voice  then  welcomes  day.     Oh  what  a  day ! — 
How  foul  and  haggard-faced  !     See,  where  she  comes 
In  garments  of  the  chill  discoloured  mists 
Stealing  unto  the  west  with  noiseless  foot 
Through  dim  forsaken  streets.     Is  she  not  like, 
As  sister  is  to  sister,  unto  her 
Whose  stained  cheeks  the  nightly  rains  have  wet 
And  made  them  grey  and  seamed  and  desolate, 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  bitter  bridge  ? 
And  thou,  O  Sparrow,  from  the  windy  ledge 
Where  thou  dost  nestle — creaking  chimney-pots 
For  softly-sighing  branches  ;   sooty  slates 
For  leafy  canopy  ;   rank  steam  of  slums 

165 


For  flowery  fragrance,  and  for  star-lit  woods 

This  waste  that  frights,  a  desert  desolate 

Of  fabrics  gaunt  and  grim  and  smoke-begrimed, 

By  goblin  misery  haunted,  scowling  towers 

Of  cloud  and  stone,  gigantic  tenements 

And  castles  of  despair,  by  spectral  glooms 

Of  fitful  lamps  illumined, — from  such  place 

Canst  thou,  O  Sparrow,  welcome  day  so  foul  ? 

Ay,  not  more  blithe  of  heart  in  forests  dim 

The  golden-throated  thrush  awakes,  what  time 

The  leaves  a-tremble  whisper  to  the  breath, 

The  flowery  breath,  of  morning  azure- eyed  ! 

Never  a  morning  comes  but  I  do  bless  thee, 

Thou  brave  and  faithful  Sparrow,  living  link 

That  binds  us  to  the  immemorial  past, 

O  blithe  heart  in  a  house  so  melancholy, 

And  keeper  for  a  thousand  gloomy  years 

Of  many  a  gay  tradition,  heritor 

Of  Nature's  ancient  cheerfulness,  for  thee 

'Tis  ever  Merry  England  !     Never  yet, 

In  thy  companionship  of  centuries 

With  man  in  lurid  London,  didst  regret 

Thy  valiant  choice, — yea,  even  from  the  time 

When  all  its  low-roofed  rooms  were  sweet  with  scent 

From  summer  fields,  where  shouting  children  pluck 

The  floating  lily  from  the  reedy  Fleet, 

Scaring  away  the  timid  water-hen. 

Awake  at  morn  when  still  the  wizard  Sleep 
Refracts  from  twilight  mists  the  broken  rays 
Of  consciousness,  I  hear  thy  lulling  voice, 
Like  water  softly  warbling,  or  like  wind 
That  wanders  in  the  ancient  moonlit  trees. 
And  lo,  with  breezy  feet  I  roam  abroad  ; 

166 


Before  me  startled  from  the  shadowy  fern 

Upsprings  the  antlered  deer  and  flees  away, 

And  moors  before  me  open  measureless 

Whereon  I  seek  for  Morning  washed  in  dews 

Immaculate.     To  other  realms  I  fly 

To  wait  its  coming,  walking  where  the  palms 

TJnmoving  stand  like  pillars  that  uphold 

Some  hoary  vast  cathedral.     Lift  my  heart 

To  thee,  O  holy  daughter  of  the  sun — 

Sweet  harbinger — the  Dawn  !     The  stars  grow  pale, 

And  I  am  fainting  by  the  way,  oppressed 

With  incense  from  a  thousand  forest  flowers 

All  prescient  of  thy  coming  !     Lo,  how  vast, 

From  mist  and  cloud  the  awful  mountains  rise 

Where  ever  up  with  incorporeal  feet 

I  climb  to  meet  the  dead  Peruvian's  god  ! 

O,  swift  approaching  glory,  blind  me  not 

With  shafts  ineffable  !     But  re-awake 

In  me  the  sacred  passion  of  the  past, 

Long  quenched  in  blood  by  spirits  uninformed 

That  slew  thy  worshippers  !     My  senses  swim, — 

Sustain,  or  bear  me  back  to  earth  !     My  feet 

Scarce  feel  the  rolling  cloud,  or  touch  they  still 

The  awful  summit  of  the  world  ?     Far,  far 

Beneath,  the  dark  blue  ocean  moves,  the  waves 

Lift  up  their  lightning  crests ;    the  lonely  earth 

Is  jubilant ;  the  rivers  laugh ;  the  hills 

In  forests  clothed,  or  soaring  crowned  with  snow 

In  barren  everlasting  majesty, 

Are  all  in  gold  and  purple  swathed  for  joy 

That  thou  art  coming  ! 

Vanished  is  my  dream ; 

Even  while  I  bowed  and  veiled  my  eyes  before 

167 


The  insufferable  splendour  of  the  sun 

It  vanished  quite,  and  left  me  with  this  pale, 

This    phantom    morning !     With    my    dream    thou 

fled'st, 

O  blithe  remembrancer,  and  in  thy  flight 
Callest  thy  prattling  fellows,  prompters  too 
Of  dreams  perchance,  from  many  a  cloudy  roof 
To  flit,  a  noisy  rain  of  sparrows,  down 
To  snatch  a  hasty  breakfast  from  the  roads, 
Undaunted  by  the  thund'rous  noise  and  motion  : 
But  like  the  petrel — fearless,  fitful  seeker, 
The  fluctuating  bird  with  ocean's  wastes 
And  rage  familiar,  tossed  with  tossing  billows — 
So,  gleaner  unregarded,  flittest  thou — 
Now,  as  of  old,  and  in  the  years  to  come, 
Nature's  one  witness,  till  the  murmuring  sound 
Of  human  feet  unnumbered,  like  the  rain 
Of  summer  pattering  on  the  forest  leaves, 
Fainter  and  fainter  falling  'midst  the  ruin, 
In  everlasting  silence  dies  away. 


168 


Edwin   Markham 

b.  1852. 


THE  LIZARD 

I  SIT  among  the  hoary  trees 
With  Aristotle  on  my  knees, 
And  turn  with  serious  hand  the  pages 
Lost  in  the  cobweb-hush  of  ages  ; 
When  suddenly  with  no  more  sound 
Than  any  sunbeam  on  the  ground, 
The  little  hermit  of  the  place 
Is  peering  up  into  my  face — 
The  slim  grey  hermit  of  the  rocks, 
With  bright,  inquisitive,  quick  eyes, 
His  life  a  round  of  harks  and  shocks, 
A  little  ripple  of  surprise. 

Now  lifted  up,  intense  and  still, 
Sprung  from  the  silence  of  the  hill 
He  hangs  upon  the  ledge  a-glisten, 
And  his  whole  body  seems  to  listen  ! 
My  pages  give  a  little  start 
And  he  is  gone  !  to  be  a  part 
Of  the  old  cedar's  crumpled  bark 
A  mottled  scar,  a  weather-mark  ! 

How  halt  am  I,  how  mean  of  birth, 
Beside  this  darting  pulse  of  earth  ! 
I  only  have  the  wit  to  look 
Into  a  big  presumptuous  book, 
169 


To  find  some  sage's  rigid  plan 
To  tell  me  how  to  be  a  man. 
Tradition  lays  its  dead  hand  cold 
Upon  our  youth — and  we  are  old. 
But  this  wise  hermit,  this  grey  friar, 
He  has  no  law  but  heart's  desire. 
He  somehow  touches  higher  truth, 
The  circle  of  eternal  youth. 


170 


Edwin   Markham 


A  FRIEND   OF  THE   FIELDS 

BIRTHDAY   GREETING   TO   JOHN   BURROUGHS 

OLD  neighbour  of  the  fields  "  Good  day  ! 
44  Good  morrow  !  "  too,  upon  the  way. 
Boon  fellow  of  the  forest  folk, 
Close  confidant  of  the  reticent  oak, 
Oh,  be  it  long  till  your  44  Good-bye  !  " 
To  friendships  of  the  earth  and  sky. 

Go  on  with  Life  another  mile, 
Lighting  the  way  with  kindly  smile. 
Here  is  the  Blue  Jay  with  his  brag, 
And  here  your  friend,  the  faithful  Crag ; 
Here  dwells  your  sister,  the  Bright  Stream 
To  sing  her  dream  into  your  dream — • 
All  the  meek  things  that  love  the  ground, 
And  live  their  days  without  a  sound ; 
All  the  shy  tenantry  that  fill 
The  holes  and  shelters  of  the  hill  ; 
And  all  the  bright  quick  things  that  fly 
Under  the  cavern  of  this  sky. 

You  find  the  friendships  of  the  glen 
More  constant  than  the  oaths  of  men. 
Yet  bear  another  while  with  towns, 
The  push  of  crowds,  the  praise  of  clowns. 
171 


Stay  yet  a  little  longer — stay 
To  tell  us  what  the  blackbirds  say  ; 
To  hear  the  cricket  wind  his  horn, 
And  call  back  summer  to  the  corn  ; 
To  watch  the  dauntless  butterfly 
Sail  the  green  field,  her  nether  sky ; 
To  hear,  when  mountain  darkness  falls, 
The  owl's  word  in  his  windy  halls. 

Stay  yet  a  little  longer  here 

To  bind  the  yellow  of  the  year, 

To  hoard  the  beauty  of  the  rose, 

To  spread  the  gossip  of  the  crows, 

To  watch  the  wild  geese  shake  the  sedge, 

Or  split  the  sky  with  moving  wedge, 

To  eavesdrop  at  the  muskrat's  door 

For  bulletins  of  weather  lore, 

To  tell  us  by  what  craft  the  bees 

Heap  honey  in  communal  trees, 

And  by  what  sure  theodolite 

They  gage  the  angles  of  their  flight. 

Still  preach  to  us  uncheerful  men 

The  sunny  gossip  of  the  wren  ; 

And  tell  us  for  another  while 

Of  Earth's  serene,  sustaining  smile. 

Bear  with  us  till  you  must  be  gone 

To  walk  with  White  and  Audubon. 


172 


Toru   Dutt 

1856—1877. 


THE  ROYAL  ASCETIC  AND  THE  HIND 

WITH  a  mind  fixed  intently  on  his  gods, 
Long  reigned  in  Saligram  of  ancient  fame, 
The   mighty  monarch   of  the  wide,  wide 

world. 

Chief  of  the  virtuous,  never  in  his  life 
Harmed  he,  or  strove  to  harm,  his  fellow-man, 
Or  any  creature  sentient.     But  he  left 
His  kingdom  in  the  forest-shades  to  dwell, 
And  changed  his  sceptre  for  a  hermit's  staff, 
And  with  ascetic  rites,  privations  rude, 
And  constant  prayers,  endeavoured  to  attain 
Perfect  dominion  o'er  his  soul.     At  morn, 
Fuel,  and  flowers,  and  fruit,  and  holy  grass, 
He  gathered  for  oblations  ;   and  he  passed 
In  stern  devotions  all  his  other  hours  ; 
Of  the  world  heedless,  and  its  myriad  cares, 
And  heedless  too  of  wealth,  and  love,  and  fame. 

Once  on  a  time,  while  living  thus,  he  went 
To  bathe  where  through  the  wood  the  river  flows : 
And  his  ablutions  done,  he  sat  him  down 
Upon  the  shelving  bank  to  muse  and  pray. 
Thither  impelled  by  thirst  a  graceful  hind, 
Big  with  its  young,  came  fearlessly  to  drink. 
Sudden,  while  yet  she  drank,  the  lion's  roar 
Feared  by  all  creatures,  like  a  thunder-clap 

173 


Burst  in  that  solitude  from  a  thicket  nigh. 
Startled,  the  hind  leapt  up,  and  from  her  womb 
Her  offspring  tumbled  in  the  rushing  stream. 
Whelmed  by  the  hissing  waves  and  carried  far 
By  the  strong  current  swoln  by  recent  rain, 
The  tiny  thing  still  struggled  for  its  life, 
While  its  poor  mother,  in  her  fright  and  pain, 
Fell  down  upon  the  bank,  and  breathed  her  last, 
Up  rose  the  hermit-monarch  at  the  sight, 
Full  of  keen  anguish ;  with  his  pilgrim-staff 
He  drew  the  new-born  creature  from  the  wave  ; 
'Twas  panting  fast  but  life  was  in  it  still. 
Now,  as  he  saw  its  luckless  mother  dead, 
He  would  not  leave  it  in  the  woods  alone, 
But  with  the  tenderest  pity  brought  it  home. 

There  in  his  leafy  hut  he  gave  it  food, 
And  daily  nourished  it  with  patient  care, 
Until  it  grew  in  stature  and  in  strength, 
And  to  the  forest  skirts  could  venture  forth 
In  search  of  sustenance.     At  early  morn 
Thenceforth  it  used  to  leave  the  hermitage, 
And  with  the  shades  of  evening  come  again, 
And  in  the  little  courtyard  of  the  hut 
Lie  down  in  peace,  unless  the  tigers  fierce, 
Prowling  about,  compelled  it  to  return 
Earlier  at  noon.     But  whether  near  or  far, 
Wandering  abroad,  or,  resting  in  its  home, 
The  monarch-hermit's  heart  was  with  it  still, 
Bound  by  affection's  ties ;  nor  could  he  think 
Of  anything  besides  this  little  hind, 
His  nursling.     Though  a  kingdom  he  had  left, 
And  children,  and  a  host  of  loving  friends, 
Almost  without  a  tear,  the  fount  of  love 

174 


Sprang  out  anew  within  his  blighted  heart, 
To  greet  this  dumb,  weak,  helpless  foster-child. 
And  so,  whene'er  it  lingered  in  the  wilds 
Or  at  the  'customed  hour  could  not  return, 
His  thoughts  went  with  it ;    and  "  Alas  !  "  he  cried, 
"  Who  knows  perhaps  some  lion  or  some  wolf, 
Or  ravenous  tiger  with  relentless  jaws 
Already  hath  devoured  it, — timid  thing ! 
Lo,  how  the  earth  is  dinted  with  its  hoofs, 
And  variegated.     Surely  for  my  joy 
It  was  created.     When  will  it  come  back, 
And  rub  its  budding  antlers  on  my  arms 
In  token  of  its  love  and  deep  deligfit 
To  see  my  face  ?     The  shaven  stalks  of  grass, 
Kusha  and  kasha,  by  its  new  teeth  clipped, 
Remind  me  of  it,  as  they  stand  in  lines 
Like  pious  boys  who  chant  the  Samga  Veds 
Shorn  by  their  vows  of  all  their  wealth  of  hair." 
Thus  passed  the  monarch-hermit's  time ;    in  joy, 
With  smiles  upon  his  lips,  whenever  near 
His  little  favourite  ;  in  bitter  grief 
And  fear,  and  trouble,  when  it  wandered  far. 
And  he  who  had  abandoned  ease  and  wealth, 
And  friends  and  dearest  ties,  and  kingly  power, 
Found  his  devotions  broken  by  the  love 
He  had  bestowed  upon  a  little  hind 
Thrown  in  his  way  by  chance.     Years  glided  on  ... 
And  Death,  who  spareth  none,  approached  at  last 
The  hermit-king  to  summon  him  away ; 
The  hind  was  at  his  side,  with  tearful  eyes 
Watching  his  last  sad  moments,  like  a  child 
Beside  a  father.     He  too  watched  and  watched 
His  favourite  through  a  blinding  film  of  tears, 
And  could  not  think  of  the  Beyond  at  hand, 

175 


So  keen  he  felt  the  parting,  such  deep  grief 
Overwhelmed  him  for  the  creature  he  had  reared. 
To  it  devoted  was  his  last,  last  thought, 
Reckless  of  present  and  of  future  both  ! 

From  the  Vishnu  Purana  (Book  II,  chap.  13). 


176 


John   Davidson 

1857—1909. 


A  RUNNABLE   STAG 

WHEN   the  pods   went  pop   on   the  broom, 
green  broom, 
And  apples  began  to  be  golden-skinned, 
We  harboured  a  stag  in  the  Priory  coomb, 
And  we  feathered  his  trail  up-wind,  up-wind, 
We  feathered  his  trail  up-wind — 
A  stag  of  warrant,  a  stag,  a  stag, 
A  runnable  stag,  a  kingly  crop, 
Brow,  bay  and  tray  and  three  on  top, 
A  stag,  a  runnable  stag. 

Then  the  huntsman's  horn  rang  yap,  yap,  yap, 

And  "  Forwards  "  we  heard  the  harbourer  shout  ; 
But  'twas  only  a  brocket  that  broke  a  gap 
In  the  beechen  underwood,  driven  out, 
From  the  underwood  antlered  out 

By  warrant  and  might  of  the  stag,  the  stag, 
The  runnable  stag,  whose  lordly  mind 
Was  bent  on  sleep,  though  beamed  and  tined 
He  stood,  a  runnable  stag. 

So  we  tufted  the  covert  till  afternoon 

With  Tinkerman's  Pup  and  Bell-of-the-North  ; 

And  hunters  were  sulky  and  hounds  out  of  tune 
Before  we  tufted  the  right  stag  forth, 
Before  we  tufted  him  forth, 

177  N 


The  stag  of  warrant,  the  .wily  stag, 
The  runnable  stag  with  his  kingly  crop, 
Brow,  bay  and  tray  and  three  on  top, 
The  royal  and  runnable  stag. 

It  was  Bell-of-the-North  and  Tinkerman's  Pup 

That  stuck  to  the  scent  till  the  copse  was  drawn. 
"  Tally  ho  !  tally  ho  !  "  and  the  hunt  was  up, 
The  tufters  whipped  and  the  pack  laid  on, 
The  resolute  pack  laid  on, 

And  the  stag  of  warrant  away  at  last, 
The  runnable  stag,  the  same,  the  same, 
His  hoofs  on  fire,  his  horns  like  flame, 
A  stag,  a  runnable  stag. 

"  Let  your  gelding  be  :    if  you  check  or  chide 

He  stumbles  at  once  and  you're  out  of  the  hunt ; 
For  three  hundred  gentlemen,  able  to  ride, 
On  hunters  accustomed  to  bear  the  brunt ; 
Accustomed  to  bear  the  brunt, 

Are  after  the  runnable  stag,  the  stag, 
The  runnable  stag  with  his  kingly  crop, 
Brow,  bay  and  tray  and  three  on  top, 
The  right,  the  runnable  stag." 

By  perilous  paths  in  coomb  and  dell, 

The  heather,  the  rocks,  and  the  river-bed, 
The  pace  grew  hot,  for  the  scent  lay  well, 
And  a  runnable  stag  goes  right  ahead, 
The  quarry  went  right  ahead — 
Ahead,  ahead,  and  fast  and  far, 
His  antlered  crest,  his  cloven  hoof, 
Brow,  bay  and  tray  and  three  aloof, 
The  stag,  the  runnable  stag. 
178 


For  a  matter  of  twenty  miles  and  more, 

By  the  densest  hedge  and  the  highest  wall, 
Through  herds  of  bullocks  he  baffled  the  lore 
Of  harbourer,  huntsman,  hounds  and  all, 
Of  harbourer,  hounds  and  all — 

The  stag  of  warrant,  the  wily  stag, 
For  twenty  miles,  and  five  and  five, 
He  ran,  and  he  never  was  caught  alive, 
This  stag,  this  runnable  stag. 

When  he  turned  at  bay  in  the  leafy  gloom, 

In  the  emerald  gloom  where  the  brook  ran  deep, 
He  heard  in  the  distance  the  rollers  boom, 
And  he  saw  in  a  vision  of  peaceful  sleep, 
In  a  wonderful  vision  of  sleep, 
A  stag  of  warrant,  a  stag,  a  stag, 
A  runnable  stag  in  a  jewelled  bed, 
Under  the  sheltering  ocean  dead, 
A  stag,  a  runnable  stag. 

So  a  fateful  hope  lit  up  his  eye, 

And  he  opened  his  nostrils  wide  again, 
And  he  tossed  his  branching  antlers  high, 

As  he  headed  the  hunt  down  the  Charlock  glen, 
As  he  raced  down  the  echoing  glen, 
For  five  miles  more,  the  stag,  the  stag, 
For  twenty  miles,  and  five  and  five, 
Not  to  be  caught  now,  dead  or  alive, 
The  stag,  the  runnable  stag. 

Three  hundred  gentlemen,  able  to  ride, 
Three  hundred  horses  as  gallant  and  free, 

Beheld  him  escape  on  the  evening  tide, 
Far  out  till  he  sank  in  the  Severn  Sea, 
179 


Till  he  sank  in  the  depths  of  the  sea — 
The  stag,  the  buoyant  stag,  the  stag 
That  slept  at  last  in  a  jewelled  bed 
Under  the  sheltering  ocean  spread, 
The  stag,  the  runnable  stag. 


180 


Edmond  Haraucourt 

b.  1857. 


THE   CABHORSE 

SLIPPING  upon    the    ice,    allwhither    night    and 
day. 
Sweating  beneath  the  sun  and  dripping  in  the 

rain, 
Panting,   his   wind-chapped  nose   outstretched,   with 

might  and  main 
Eternally  fatigued,  he  trots  his  life  away. 

On  his  lean  neck,  that  bowed  by  toil  is  without  stay, 
The  lank  stiff  meshes  beat  of  his  dishevelled  mane ; 
His  skin's  worn  thin  and  sore  beneath  the  harness' 

strain  ; 
His  clinking  bit  for  him  the  passing  bell  doth  play. 

Opening  his  great  round  eyes,  as  mild  as  his  intent, 
He  shambles,  pondering  still,  within  his  head  down- 
bent, 
Forgiveness  of  ill-use,  oblivion  of  constraint. 

And  by  this  hero  pass  the  people  of  the  time, 
Undeigning  to  remark  the  animal  sublime, 
Of  whom,  were  he  a  man,  we  should  have  made  a 
saint. 

Translated  by  JOHN  PAYNE. 


181 


Mary  Robinson  (Mary  Duclaux) 

b.  1857. 


THE  DEER  AND  THE  PROPHET 

A  HUNTSMAN,  enemy  of  those 
Who  praise  the  Prophet  Mahomet, 
Far  in  the  forest  laid  his  net, 
And  laid  it  deep  in  tangled  briar  rose 
And  tufts  of  daffodil  and  thyme  and  violet. 

One  early  morning,  pink  and  grey 

As  early  mornings  are  in  May, 

A  fallow  deer  went  forth  to  take  the  air ; 

And  wandering  down  the  fairest  glades  that  way 

She  fell  into  the  snare. 

Alas,  poor  soul,  'twas  all  in  vain 
She  sought  to  venture  back  again, 
Or  bounded  far  with  hurrying  feet, 
Or  plucked  with  horn  and  hoof  the  net ; 
Too  well  the  mazy  toils  were  set 
Around  her  russet  ankles  neat. 

All  hope  being  gone,  she  bowed  her  innocent  head 
And  wept.     "  O  Heaven,  that  is  most  unjust,"  she 

said, 

"  In  thy  mysterious  ends  I  acquiesce ; 
Yet  of  thy  mercy  deign  to  bless 
The  little  ones  I  left  at  home  : 
Twin  fawns,  still  dreaming  on  their  bracken- bed 

182 


When  I  went  far  to  roam, 

And  wandered  careless  where  the  net  was  spread. 

And  yet,  O  Heaven,  how  shall  they  live, 

Poor  yeanlings,  if  their  mother  die  ? 

Their  only  nourishment  am  I ; 

They  have  no  other  food  beside  the  milk  I  give, 

And  save  my  breast  no  warmth  at  night, 

While  the  frost  lies  crisp  and  white, 

As  lie  it  will  until  the  roses  blow." 

And  here  she  fetched  so  deep  a  sigh 

That  her  petition  could  no  further  go. 

Now  as  she  hushed,  the  huntsman  strode  in  sight, 
Who  every  morning  went  that  way 
To  see  if  Heaven  had  led  the  hoped-for  prey 
Into  his  nets  by  night. 
And  when  he  saw  the  fallow  deer, 
He  stood  and  laughed  aloud  and  clear, 
And  laid  his  hand  upon  her  neck 
Of  russet  with  a  snowy  fleck, 
And  forth  his  hunting-knife  he  drew  : 
"  Aha  !  "  he  cried,  "  my  pretty  dame, 
Into  my  nets  full  easily  you  came ; 
But  forth  again,  my  maiden,  spring  not  you." 
And  as  he  laughed,  he  would  have  slit 
The  throat  that  saw  no  help  from  it. 
But  lo  !  a  trembling  took  the  air, 
A  rustling  of  the  leaves  about  the  snare  ; 
And  Some-one  dusk  and  slim, 

There,  sudden,  stayed  his  hand,  and  smiled  at  him. 
Now,  never  was  there  huntsman  yet 
Who,  when  the  tangled  snare  was  set 
And  in  the  snare  the  comely  game, 
Endured  the  loosening  of  the  net. 

183 


Our  huntsman  turned  an  angry  face  aflame, 

And  none  the  lesser  was  he  wroth 

To  see  no  other,  by  my  troth, 

Than  Mahomet  himself,  the  immortal  Mahomet, 

Who  stood  beside  the  net. 

"  Ha  !   old  Impostor  !  "  he  began — 

But  "  Peace  !  "  the  Prophet  said,  "  my  man ; 

For  while  we  argue,  you  and  I, 

The  hungry  fawns  are  like  to  die. 

Nay,  let  the  mother  go.     Within  an  hour,  I  say, 

She  shall  return  for  thee  to  spare  or  slay  ; 

Or  if  she  be  not  here, 

Then  I  will  stand  your  slave  in  surety  for  the  deer." 

The  huntsman  turned  and  stared  a  while. 

"  For  sure  the  fool  is  void  of  guile  ! 

Well,  he  shall  be  my  slave  i'  sooth, 

And  work  as  in  his  idle  youth 

He    never    worked,    the    rogue  !  "     Our    Huntsman 

laughed  for  glee, 

And  bent  and  loosed  the  tangles  joyfully  : 
And  forth  the  creature  bounded,  wild  and  free. 
But  when  she  reached  the  bracken-bed, 
Where  still  the  young  ones  lay  abed 
Below  the  hawthorn  branches  thick — 
4  Awake  !  "    she   cried,    "  my   fawns,    and    milk   me 

quick  ; 

For  I  have  left  within  the  net 
The  very  Prophet  Mahomet  !  " 

"  Ah,"  cried  the  little  fawns,  and  heard 
(But  understood  not  half  a  word). 
41  Quick,  quick,  our  little  mother,  quick  away, 
And  come  back  all  the  quicklier  !  "  cried  the  fawns, 

184 


And  called  a  last  good-bye  ; 

And  sat  a  little  sad,  they  knew  not  why, 

And  watched  their  mother  bounding  white  and  grey, 

Dim  in  the  distance  o'er  the  dewy  lawns 

And  wide,  unfriendly  forests  all  in  flower. 

And  so  the  deer  returned  within  an  hour. 

"  Now,"  said  the  Prophet,  smiling,  "  kill, 

Or  take  the  ransom,  as  you  will." 

But  on  his  knees  the  huntsman  fell, 

And  cried  aloud  :   "A  miracle  ! 

Nay,  by  my  nets  and  hunting-knife, 

I  will  not  take  the  creature's  life, 

And  for  a  slave  until  I  die, 

Thou  hast  no  trustier  slave  than  I !  " 

No  creature  is  so  hard  beset, 

But  lo  !  the  undreamed-of  Angel  yet 

May  interpose  his  power,  and  change  the  end. 

And  no  one  is  so  poor  a  friend, 

Or  so  diminished  to  the  dust, 

But  may  be  worthy  of  a  heavenly  trust. 


185 


Sir  James  Rennell  Rodd 

b.  1858. 


THE   SKYLARKS 

OH  the  sky,  the  sky,  the  open  sky 
For  the  home  of  a  song-bird's  heart ! 
And  why,  why,  and  for  ever  why 
Do  they  stifle  here  in  the  mart  ? 
Cages  of  agony,  rows  on  rows 
Torture  that  only  a  wild  thing  knows  : 
Is  it  nothing  to  you  to  see 

That  head  thrust  out  through  the  hopeless  wire, 
And  the  tiny  life,  and  the  mad  desire 
To  be  free,  to  be  free,  to  be  free  ? 
Oh  the  sky,  the  sky,  the  wide  blue  sky, 
For  the  beat  of  a  song-bird's  wings  ! 
And  why,  why,  and  for  ever  why, 
Is  the  only  song  it  sings. 


Great  sad  eyes  with  a  frightened  stare, 
Look  through  the  'wildering  darkness  there, 
The  surge,  the  crowd,  and  the  cry, 
Fluttering  wild  wings  beat  and  bleed, 
And  it  will  not  peck  at  the  golden  seed, 
And  the  water  is  almost  dry  : 
Straight  and  close  are  the  cramping  bars 
From  the  dawn  of  mist  to  the  chill  of  stars, 
And  yet  it  must  sing  or  die  ! 

186 


Will  its  marred  harsh  voice  in  the  city  street 
Make  any  heart  of  you  glad  ? 
It  will  only  beat  with  its  wings,  and  beat, 
It  will  only  sing  you  mad. 


Better  to  be  like  this  one  dead, 
Ruffled  plumage  of  breast  and  head, 
Poor  little  feathers  for  ever  furled, 
Only  a  song  gone  out  of  the  world  ! 


Where  the  grasses  wave  like  an  emerald  sea, 

And  the  poppies  nod  in  the  corn, 

Where  the  fields  are  wide  and  the  wind  blows  free, 

This  joy  of  the  spring  was  born, 

Whose  passionate  music  loud  and  loud 

In  the  hush  of  the  rose  of  morn, 

Was  a  voice  that  fell  from  the  sailing  cloud 

Midway  to  the  blue  above — 

A  thing  whose  meaning  was  joy  and  love, 

Whose  life  was  one  exquisite  outpouring 

Of  a  sweet  surpassing  note, 

And  all  you  have  done  is  to  break  its  wing, 

And  to  blast  God's  breath  in  its  throat  1 


If  it  does  not  go  to  your  heart  to  see 
The  helpless  pity  of  those  bruised  wings, 
The  tireless  effort  with  which  it  clings 
To  the  strain  and  the  will  to  be  free, 
I  know  not  how  I  shall  set  in  words 
The  meaning  of  God  in  this, 
For  the  loveliest  thing  in  this  world  of  his 
Are  the  ways  and  the  songs  of  birds. 

187 


But  the  sky,  the  sky,  the  wide  free  sky 
For  the  home  of  the  song-bird's  heart ! 
And  why,  why,  and  for  ever  why 
Do  they  stifle  here  in  the  mart  ? 


188 


Katharine   Tynan    Hinkson 


OF  ST.   FRANCIS  AND  THE  ASS 

OUR  Father,  ere  he  went 
Out  with  his  brother,  Death, 
Smiling  and  well-content 
As  a  bridegroom  goeth, 
Sweetly  forgiveness  prayed 

From  man  or  beast  whom  he 
Had  ever  injured, 

Or  burdened  needlessly. 

"  Verily,"  then  said  he, 

"  I  crave  before  I  pass, 
Forgiveness  full  and  free 

Of  my  little  brother,  the  ass. 
Many  a  time  and  oft, 

When  winds  and  ways  were  hot, 
He  hath  borne  me  cool  and  soft, 

And  service  grudged  me  not. 

"  And  once  did  it  betide 

There  was,  unseen  of  me, 
A  gall  upon  his  side 

That  suffered  grievously. 
And  once  his  manger  was 

Empty  and  bare,  and  brown. 
(Praise  God  for  sweet,  dry  grass 

That  Bethlehem  folk  shook  down  !) 
189 


"  Consider,  brethren,"  said  he, 

"  Our  little  brother  ;  how  mild, 
How  patient,  he  will  be, 

Though  men  are  fierce  and  wild. 
His  coat  is  grey  and  fine, 

His  eyes  are  kind  with  love  ; 
This  little  brother  of  mine 

Is  gentle  as  the  dove. 

"  Consider  how  such  an  one 

Beheld  our  Saviour  born, 
And  carried  him,  full-grown, 

Through  Eastern  streets  one  morn. 
For  this  the  Cross  is  laid 

Upon  him  for  a  sign, 
Greatly  is  honoured 

This  little  brother  of  mine." 

And  even  while  he  spake, 

Down  in  his  stable  stall 
His  little  ass  'gan  shake 

And  turned  its  face  to  the  wall. 
Down  fell  the  heavy  tear ; 

Its  gaze  so  mournful  was, 
Fra  Leo,  standing  near, 

Pitied  the  little  ass. 

That  night  our  father  died, 

All  night  the  kine  did  low : 
The  ass  went  heavy- eyed, 

With  patient  tears  and  slow. 
The  very  birds  on  wings 

Made  mournful  cries  in  the  air. 
Amen  !     All  living  things 

Our  father's  brethren  were. 
190 


Francis  Adams 

1862—1893. 


THE  HEDGE-SPARROWS 

TN  early  spring  I  watched  two  sparrows  build, 
And  then  their  nest  within  the  thickset  hedge 
Construct,  two  small  dear  mates  within  whose  life 
And  love,  foreshadowed  and  foreshadowing,  I 
Had  some  sweet  underpart.     And  so  at  last 
The  little  round  blue  eggs  were  laid,  and  her  post 
The  mother  brooding  kept,  while  far  and  wide 
He  sought  the  food  for  both,  or,  weariness 
Compelling  her,  he  changed-  and  kept  his  post 
Within  the  nest,  and  she  flew  forth  in  turn. 

One  day,  a  schoolboy,  or  some  other,  came 
And  caught  her,  took  the  eggs,  and  tore  the  nest, 
And  went  his  way.     Then,  as  I  stood  looking 
Through  gathering  tears  and  sobs,  all  swiftly  winged, 
Food-bearing,  came  the  lover  back,  and  flew 
Into  the  thickset  hedge.     How  shall  we  say 
How  the  sweet  mate  lost  for  ever,  the  ruined  home, 
And  the  hope  of  young,  with  all  life's  life  and  light 
Quenched  at  a  moment  for  ever,  were  to  him  ? 
For  grief  like  this  grows  dumb,  deeper  than  words, 
And  man  and  animal  are  only  one ! 


191 


Rosamund  Marriott  Watson 

1863-1911. 


ARMISTICE 

FROM  the  broad  summit  of  the  furrowed  wold 
The  oxen,  resting,  gaze  with  quiet  eyes — 
Through  the  swart  shining  hide's  obscurities 
Glows,    sharply    hewn,    the    gaunt    frame's    massive 

mould, 

Wide  spread  the  horns  in  branching  outlines  bold, 
Solemn  they  stand  beneath  the  brooding  skies, 
Impassive,  grave,  as  guardian  deities 
Carved  on  some  stone  sarcophagus  of  old. 

Proud  'neath  the  yoke  bends  every  stately  head ; 
What  tho'  the  burden  drag,  the  goad-sting  gall, 
Rest  is  earth's  recompense  for  each  and  all, 

Ours,  as  for  these  mute  thralls  of  trailing  tread, 
Emblems  of  labour  immemorial, 

The  dignity  of  toil  incarnated. 


192 


Rosamund   Marriott  Watson 


TO  MY  CAT 

HALF  loving-kindliness  and  half  disdain, 
Thou  comest  to  my  call  serenely  suave, 
With  humming  speech  and  gracious  gestures 
grave, 

In  salutation  courtly  and  urbane ; 
Yet  must  I  humble  me  thy  grace  to  gain, 
For  wiles  may  win  thee  though  no  arts  enslave, 
And  nowhere  gladly  thou  abidest,  save 
Where  naught  disturbs  the  concord  of  thy  reign. 
Sphinx  of  my  quiet  hearth,  who  deign'st  to  dwell 
Friend  of  my  toil,  companion  of  mine  ease, 
Thine  is  the  lore  of  Ra  and  Rameses ; 
That  men  forget  dost  thou  remember  well, 
Beholden  still  in  blinking  reveries 
With  sombre,  sea-green  gaze  inscrutable. 


193 


Arthur  Symons 

b.   1865. 


AMENDS   TO   NATURE 

I  HAVE  loved  colours,  and  not  flowers  ; 
Their  motion,  not  the  swallow's  wings  ; 
And  wasted  more  than  half  my  hours 
Without  the  comradeship  of  things. 

How  is  it,  now,  that  I  can  see, 
With  love  and  wonder  and  delight, 
The  children  of  the  hedge  and  tree, 
The  little  lords  of  day  and  night  ? 

How  is  it  that  I  see  the  roads, 
No  longer  with  usurping  eyes, 
A  twilight  meeting-place  for  toads, 
A  mid-day  mart  for  butterflies  ? 

I  feel,  in  every  midge  that  hums, 
Life,  fugitive  and  infinite, 
And  suddenly  the  world  becomes 
A  part  of  me  and  I  of  it. 


194 


Arthur  Symons 


THE   BROTHER   OF  A  WEED 


I  HAVE  shut  up  my  soul  with  vehemence 
Against  the  world,  and  opened  every  sense 
That  I  may  take,  but  not  for  love  or  price, 
The  world's  best  gold  and  frankincense  and  spice. 
I  have  delighted  in  all  visible  things 
And  built  the  world  of  my  imaginings 
Out  of  the  splendour  of  the  day  and  night, 
And  I  have  never  wondered  that  my  sight 
Should  serve  me  for  my  pleasure,  or  that  aught 
Beyond  the  lonely  mirror  of  my  thought 
Lived,  and  desired  me.     I  have  walked  as  one 
Who  dreams  himself  the  master  of  the  sun, 
And  that  the  seasons  are  as  seraphim 
And  in  the  months  and  stars  bow  down  to  him. 

II 

And  I  have  been  of  all  men  loneliest, 
And  my  chill  soul  has  withered  in  my  breast 
With  pride  and  no  content  and  loneliness. 
And  I  have  said  :    To  make  our  sorrow  less 
Is  there  not  pity  in  the  heart  of  flowers, 
Or  joy  in  wings  of  birds  that  might  be  ours  ? 
Is  there  a  beast  that  lives  and  will  not  move 
Toward  our  poor  love  with  a  more  lovely  love  ? 

195 


And  might  not  our  proud  hopeless  sorrow  pass 
If  we  became  as  humble  as  the  grass  ? 
I  will  get  down  from  my  sick  throne  where  I 
Dreamed  that  the  seasons  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
The  leash  of  months  and  stars,  were  mine  to  lead, 
And  pray  to  be  the  brother  of  a  weed. 

Ill 

I  am  beginning  to  find  out  that  there 

Are  beings  to  be  pitied  everywhere. 

Thus  when  I  hear,  at  night,  an  orphaned  sheep 

Crying  as  a  child  cries,  how  can  I  sleep  ? 

Yet  the  night-birds  are  happy,  or  I  seem 

To  hear  them  in  the  hollow  of  a  dream, 

Whispering  to  each  other  in  the  trees, 

And  through  the  window  comes  a  leaping  breeze 

That  has  the  sea-salt  in  it.     When  I  hear 

Crying  of  oxen  that,  in  deadly  fear, 

Rough  men,  with  cruel  dogs  about  them,  drive 

Into  the  torture-house  of  death  alive, 

How  can  I  sit  under  a  tree  and  read 

A  happy  idle  book,  and  take  no  heed  ? 

IV 

Why  is  not  sorrow  kinder  to  all  these 
That  have  short  lives  and  yet  so  little  ease  ? 
Life  is  but  anxious  fear  to  lambs  and  hens, 
And  even  the  birds  are  enemies  of  men's 
Because  they  rob  a  cherry-tree  ;  the  mole 
Cannot  be  left  in  quiet  in  his  hole 
Though  he  is  softer  than  a  velvet  gown  ; 
The  caterpillar  is  soon  trodden  down 

196 


Under  a  boot's  ignorant  heel,  though  he 

Is  woven  finer  than  old  tapestry. 

The  worm  is  close  and  busy  and  discreet, 

The  foe  of  no  man  living  :  no  man's  feet 

Spare  him,  if  he  but  crawl  into  the  sun. 

Who  can  be  happy,  while  these  things  are  done  ? 


Why  are  the  roses  filled  with  such  a  heat, 
And  are  so  gaudy  and  riotously  sweet, 
When  any  wind  may  snap  them  from  the  stem 
Or  any  little  green  worm  canker  them  ? 
Why  is  the  dawn-delivered  butterfly 
So  arrogant,  knowing  he  has  to  die 
Before  another  dawn  has  waked  his  brother  ? 
Why  do  the  dragon-flies  outshoot  each  other 
With  such  an  ardour,  knowing  that  the  noon 
Will  put  away  his  shining  arrows  soon  ? 
Why  is  the  seed  that,  having  got  to  corn 
Must  come  to  bread,  so  eager  to  be  born  ? 
Why  is  it  that  the  joy  of  living  gives 
Forgetfulness  to  everything  that  lives  ? 


197 


Laurence  Housman 

b.   1865. 


PRISONER   OF  CARISBROOKE 

rthe  well-house  by  Carisbrooke, 
Beside  the  wheel  and  the  winding-gear, 
Three  hundred  feet  in  the  rock  you  look, 
Down  the  way  the  delvers  took 
Into  the  earth  for  the  well-water. 

Turning  the  wheel  by  its  great  beams, 

A  meek  ass  travails  from  year  to  year ; 
And  the  rope  aches  and  the  windlass  screams, 
And  over  the  bucket  a  cold  sweat  streams, 
At  the  drawing  in  of  the  well-water. 

Wheel  and  beast  were  made  and  born 
To  wear  and  work  at  the  winding-gear, 

Under  all  lights  of  eve  and  morn  ; 

And  the  beast  and  the  wheel's  strong    beams  were 

worn 
By  the  weighing  in  of  the  well-wate^r. 

God  in  His  mercy  maketh  dumb 

Earth's  lower  sorrows  to  man's  ear  ; 
Yet  spake  the  ass,  as  he  turned  the  drum, 
"  Now  youth  is  ago,  and  age  a-come  ; 

44  And  Freedom  were  better  than  well-water  !  " 
198 


Also  his  brain,  that  inwardly 

Made  meanings  of  a  distant  stir, 
Had  come,  of  putting  two  by  three, 
To  dream  that  other  things  might  be 
Beside  the  wheel,  and  the  well-water, 

And  ramparts,  where  the  sad  skies  kissed 

The  tops  of  the  high  juniper. 
For  which  things  one  day  he  was  missed, 
(How  sped,  or  whither,  no  man  wist) 

From  the  dredging  up  of  well-water. 

One  day,  two  days,  and  lo,  appears 
Some  colour  of  his  missing  fur  : — 
Over  the  Keep's  top  two  sad  ears, 
Wagging,  because  no  more  he  hears 
The  drippings  of  the  well- water  ; 

But  sees,  before,  an  outstretched  down 
Lie  silent ;  and,  below,  gives  ear 

To  tinklings  from  a  busy  town ; 

And  loses  how  the  shadows  frown 
About  the  wheel  and  the  well-water. 

Wherefrom  most  rudely  called  to  earth, 

Forced  back  to  trudge  the  ways  that  were, 
Divided  from  his  meek  mute  mirth, 
Compelled  into  the  wheel's  stern  girth, 
Again  he  trod  for  well-water. 

But  never  as  in  the  old  days,  when 
No  vision  touched  or  eye  or  ear  ; 
For  day  by  day,  hi  his  dark  pen, 
He  gazed,  from  the  reproach  of  men, 
On  Freedom  better  than 'well- water. 
199 


Yea  Freedom  !  underneath  the  yoke, 

He  felt  the  ancient  hand  of  Her 
Who  trained  his  fathers  :   so,  when  spoke 
Her  voice  against  his  heart,  it  broke 
From  treadings  at  the  well-water. 

And  clashing  up  the  stony  steep 

To  that  high  Pisgah-top,  from  where 
First  he  beheld  the  broad  downs  sleep, 
He  bade  his  glad  worn  body  leap 
From  bondage  of  the  well-water. 

It  was  but  one  long  leap  to  go, — 
And,  dead  to  all  the  griefs  that  were, 

His  quiet  body  down  below, 

Where  hazels  and  dropped  acorns  grow, 
Found  Freedom  better  than  well-water. 


200 


John  Galsworthy 

b.  1867. 


PITIFUL 

WHEN  God  made  man  to  live  his  hour, 
And  hitch  his  wagon  to  a  star, 
He  made  a  thing  without  the  power 
To  see  His  creatures  as  they  are. 
He  made  a  masterpiece  of  will, 
Superb  above  its  mortal  lot, 
Invincible  by  any  ill — 
Imagination  He  forgot ! 

This  man  of  God,  too  proud  to  lie, 

A  saint  who  thinks  it  shame  to  sin, 
Yet  makes  of  rainbow-butterfly 

A  toy  through  which  to  stick  a  pin. 
He  bends  on  Heaven  every  wish, 

Believes  the  tale  of  Kingdom  Come, 
And  prisons  up  the  golden  fish 

In  bowl  no  bigger  than  a  drum. 

He  who  a  hero's  pathway  trod, 

And  at  injustice  burned  with  rage, 
Goes  pinioning  the  wings  of  God 

Within  a  tiny  brazen  cage. 
And  though  he  withers  from  remorse 

When  he  refuses  duty's  call, 
He  cuts  the  tail  off  every  horse, 

And  carves  each  helpless  animal. 
201 


No  spur  to  humour  doth  he  want, 

In  wit  the  Earth  he  overlords, 
Yet  drives  the  hapless  elephant 

To  clown  and  tumble  on  "  the  boards." 
This  man,  of  every  learning  chief, 

So  wise  that  he  can  read  the  skies, 
Can  fail  to  read  the  wordless  grief 

That  haunts  a  prisoned  monkey's  eyes. 

He  preaches  "  Mercy  to  the  weak," 

And  strives  to  lengthen  human  breath, 
But  starves  the  little  gaping  beak, 

And  hunts  the  timid  hare  to  death. 
He,  with  a  spirit  wild  as  wind, 

The  world  at  liberty  would  see ; 
Yet  cannot  any  reason  find 

To  set  the  tameless  tiger  free. 

Such  healing  victories  he  wins, 

He  drugs  away  the  mother's  pangs, 
But  sets  his  god-forsaken  gins 

To  mangle  rabbits  with  their  fangs. 
Devote,  he  travels  all  the  roads 

To  track  and  vanquish  all  the  pains, 
And  yet — the  wagon  overloads, 

The  watch-dog  to  his  barrel  chains. 

He  soars  the  heavens  in  his  flight, 

To  measure  Nature's  majesty  ; 
And  takes  his  children  to  delight 

In  captive  eagles'  tragedy. 
A  man  in  knowledge  absolute, 

Who  right,  and  love,  and  honour  woos, 
Yet  keeps  the  pitiful  poor  brute 

To  mope  and  languish  in  his  Zoos. 
202 


You  creatures  wild,  of  field  and  air, 
Keep  far  from  men  where'er  they  go  ! 

God  set  no  speculation  there — 

Alack — We  know  not  what  we  do  ! 


203 


Norman   Gale 

b.   1868. 

A  THRUSH  IN   SEVEN  DIALS 

(A  fact  of  nature  is  here  disregarded) 

HERE  in  this  den  of  smoke  and  filth 
They  caged  a  thrush's  broken  heart ; 
Yet  when  the  sun,  as  if  by  stealth, 
Shone,  or  a  milkman's  rattling  cart 
Shook  all  her  narrow  wickerwork, 
The  bird  would  chirp,  and  very  soon 
To  passing  Jew,  or  Dane,  or  Turk 
Sing  some  remembered  forest-tune. 

But,  ah,  the  rounded  notes  that  rang 
In  emulation  of  her  mate 
Who  in  the  shadowed  evening  sang 
Beside  the  five-barred  spinney-gate 
Were  thin  and  false  !   but  still  the  song 
Gained  pathos  from  its  lessened  spell, 
For  this  proclaimed  aloud  the  wrong 
Of  shutting  thrushes  up  in  hell ! 

But  sometimes,  stirred  to  quite  forget 
The  crime  of  her  captivity, 
The  songster  o'er  the  city's  fret 
Flung  strains  of  bird-divinity, 
And  tried  to  stretch  her  tattered  wings, 
And  poise  above  the  constant  perch, 
And  answered  the  imaginings 
Of  sparrows  on  the  murky  church. 
204, 


She  marvelled  much  that  they  so  small, 
So  scant  of  music,  plainly  drest, 
Should  swoop  at  will  from  wall  to  wall, 
While  she,  whose  melody  and  breast 
Had  fluttered  whitethroats  in  the  wood, 
Should  hang  upon  a  rusty  nail 
And  chirp  to  great-eyed  boys  who  stood 
To  hear  her  sing  in  rain  or  hail ! 

'Twas  when  these  urchins  flocked  around 
That,  most  forgetful  of  her  cage, 
Her  wild-wood  carollings  she  found 
Warm  in  her  heart,  untouched  by  age  : 
So,  sitting  on  her  perch,  she  sang 
Marsh-marigolds  and  river-sand 
Till  all  the  grimy  district  rang 
With  tales  of  moss  and  meadowland. 

And  then  for  days  she  would  not  shake 
A  single  utterance  from  her  store, 
Despite  the  outcast  imps  who  spake 
Like  Oliver,  and  asked  for  more  ! 
In  fluffy  listlessness  she  sat 
And  dreamed  of  all  the  grassy  west — 
How  she  had  feared  the  parson's  cat, 
And  how  she  built  the  earliest  nest ! 

Sometimes  a  French  piano  hurled 
Metallic  scales  adown  the  street, 
That  seemed  to  buffet  all  the  world, 
So  hard  and  clear,  so  shrill  and  fleet ! 
No  maddened  music  of  this  kind 
Could  tempt  the  thrush  to  rivalry ; 
She  pecked  an  inch  of  apple-rind 
And  waited  till  the  din  went  by  ! 
205 


There  from  a  tiny  patch  of  sun 
She  made  an  April  for  her  heart ! 
Imagined  twigs,  and  sat  thereon, 
Though  shaken  by  the  milkman's  cart. 
The  slinking  fog  that  filled  her  cage 
Usurped  her  heritage  of  dew, 
Of  grass,  of  berries — all  the  wage 
Of  hedgerows  where  she  hid  or  flew. 

And  if  perchance  disdain  or  pride 
Made  e'en  her  scanty  chantings  fail, 
Sing,  bird !  an  ugly  villain  cried, 
And  swung  her  fiercely  on  her  nail ! 
This  was  the  man  whose  crafty  net 
Cast  o'er  the  lilac  meshed  her  wings — 
'Twas  not  for  such  her  music  set 
The  song  of  her  imaginings  ! 

Ah,  leave  them  in  the  wilderness, 
Or  in  the  bush,  or  in  the  brake  ; 
Let  them  in  liberty  possess 
The  haunts  God  fashioned  for  their  sake  ! 
And  all  the  glories  of  their  throats 
Shall  sound  more  glorious  when  they  rise 
In  flights  and  waves  of  noble  notes 
To  stir  your  hearts  and  dim  your  eyes. 


206 


Francis  Jammes 

b.  1868. 


PRAYER   TO    GO    TO    PARADISE   WITH    THE 

ASSES 

OGOD,  when  You  send  for  me,  let  it  be 
Upon  some  festal  day  of  dusty  roads. 
I  wish  as  I  did  ever  here-below 
By  any  road  that  pleases  me,  to  go 
To  Paradise,  where  stars  shine  all  day  long. 
Taking  my  stick  out  on  the  great  highway, 
To  my  dear  friends  the  asses  I  shall  say  : 
I  am  Francis  Jammes  going  to  Paradise, 
For  there  is  no  hell  where  the  Lord  God  dwells. 
Come  with  me,  my  sweet  friends  of  azure  skies 
You  poor,  dear  beasts  who  whisk  off  with  your  ears 
Mosquitoes,  peevish  blows,  and  buzzing  bees.  ... 

Let  me  appear  before  You  with  these  beasts, 
Whom  I  so  love  because  they  bow  their  head 
Sweetly,  and  halting  join  their  little  feet 
So  gently  that  it  makes  you  pity  them. 
Let  me  come  followed  by  their  million  ears, 
By  those  that  carried  paniers  on  their  flanks, 
And  those  that  dragged  the  cars  of  acrobats, 
Those  that  had  battered  cans  upon  their  backs, 
She-asses  limping,  full  as  leather-bottles, 
And  those  too  that  they  breech  because  of  blue 
And  oozing  wounds  round  which  the  stubborn  flies 
Gather  in  swarms.     God,  let  me  come  to  You 
With  all  these  asses  into  Paradise. 

207 


Let  angels  lead  us  where  your  rivers  soothe 

Their  tufted  banks,  and  cherries  tremble,  smooth 

As  is  the  laughing  flesh  of  tender  maids. 

And  let  me,  where  Your  perfect  peace  pervades, 

Be  like  Your  asses,  bending  down  above 

The  heavenly  waters  through  eternity, 

To  mirror  their  sweet,  humble  poverty 

In  the  clear  waters  of  eternal  love. 

Translated  by  JETHRO  BITHELL. 


208 


Francis  Jammes 


MY  DOG 

NOW    you    are    dead,    my    faithful    dog,    my 
humble  friend, 
Dead  of  the  death  that  like  a  wasp  you  fled, 
When  under  the  table  you  would  hide.     Your  head 
Was  turned  to  me  in  the  brief  and  bitter  end. 

O  mate  of  man  !     Blest  being  !     You  that  shared 
Your  master's  hunger  and  his  meals  as  well  !  .  .  . 
You  that  in  days  of  old  in  pilgrimage  fared 
With  young  Tobias  and  the  angel  Rafael.  .  .  . 

Servant  that  loved  me  with  a  love  intense, 
As  saints  love  God,  my  great  exemplar  be  !  ... 
The  mystery  of  your  deep  intelligence 
Dwells  in  a  guiltless,  glad  eternity. 

Dear  Lord !    If  You  should  grant  me  by  Your  grace 
To  see  You  face  to  face  in  Heaven,  O  then 
Grant  that  a  poor  dog  look  into  the  face 
Of  him  who  was  his  god  here  among  men  !  .  .  . 

Translated  by  JETHRO  BlTHELL. 


209 


Walter  de  la  Mare 

b.   1873. 


NICHOLAS   NYE 

THISTLE  and  darnel  and  dock  grew  there, 
And  a  bush,  in  the  corner,  of  may, 
On  the  orchard  wall  I  used  to  sprawl 
In  the  blazing  heat  of  the  day ; 
Half  asleep  and  half  awake, 

While  the  birds  went  twittering  by, 
And  nobody  there  my  love  to  share 
But  Nicholas  Nye. 

Nicholas  Nye  was  lean  and  grey, 

Lame  of  a  leg  and  old, 
More  than  a  score  of  donkey's  years 

He  had  seen  since  he  was  foaled  ; 
He  munched  the  thistles,  purple  and  spiked, 

Would  sometimes  stoop  and  sigh, 
And  turn  his  head,  as  if  he  said, 
"  Poor  Nicholas  Nye  !  " 

Alone  with  his  shadow  he'd  drowse  in  the  meadow, 

Lazily  swinging  his  tail, 
At  break  of  day  he  used  to  bray, — 

Not  much  too  hearty  and  hale  ; 
But  a  wonderful  gumption  was  under  his  skin, 

And  a  clear  calm  light  in  his  eye, 
And  once  in  a  while  :  he'd  smile  : — 
Would  Nicholas  Nye. 
210 


Seem  to  be  smiling  at  me  he  would, 
From  his  bush  in  the  corner,  of  may, — 

Bony  and  ownerless,  widowed  and  worn, 
Knobble-kneed,  lonely  and  grey  ; 

And  over  the  grass  would  seem  to  pass 
'Neath  the  deep  dark  blue  of  the  sky, 

Something  much  better  than  words  between  me 
And  Nicholas  Nye. 

But  dusk  would  come  in  the  apple  boughs, 
The  green  of  the  glow-worm  shine, 

The  birds  in  nest  would  crouch  to  rest, 
And  home  I'd  trudge  to  mine ; 

And  there  in  the  moonlight,  dark  with  dew, 
Asking  not  wherefore  nor  why, 

Would  brood  like  a  ghost,  and  as  still  as  a  post, 
Old  Nicholas  Nye. 


211 


Walter  de  la  Mare 


ALL  BUT  BLIND 

ALL  but  blind 
In  his  chambered  hole 
Gropes  for  worms 
The  four-clawed  Mole. 

All  but  blind 

In  the  evening  sky 
The  hooded  Bat 

Twirls  softly  by. 

All  but  blind 

In  the  burning  day 
The  Barn-Owl  blunders 

On  her  way. 

And  blind  as  are 

These  three  to  me, 
So,  blind  to  Some-one 

I  must  be. 


212 


Walter  de  la  Mare 


THE  LINNET 

UPON  this  leafy  bush 
With  thorns  and  roses  in  it, 
Flutters  a  thing  of  light, 
A  twittering  linnet. 
And  all  the  throbbing  world 
Of  dew  and  sun  and  air 
By  this  small  parcel  of  life 
Is  made  more  fair  ; 
As  if  each  bramble  spray 
And  mounded  gold-wreathed  furze^ 
Harebell  and  little  thyme, 
Were  only  hers  ; 
As  if  this  beauty  and  grace 
Did  to  one  bird  belong, 
And,  at  a  flutter  of  wing, 
Might  vanish  in  song. 


213 


Alfred   Noyes 

b.   1880. 


THE   SKYLARK   CAGED 


BEAT,  little  breast,  against  the  wires, 
Strive  little  wings  and  misted  eyes, 
Which  one  wild  gleam  of  memory  fires 
Beseeching  still  the  unfettered  skies, 
Whither  at  dewy  dawn  you  sprang 
Quivering  with  joy  from  this  dark  earth  and  sang. 


II 

And  still  you  sing — your  narrow  cage 

Shall  set  at  least  your  music  free  ! 
Its  rapturous  wings  in  glorious  rage 

Mount  and  are  lost  in  liberty, 
While  those  who  caged  you  creep  on  earth 
Blind  prisoners  from  the  hour  that  gave  them  birth, 


III 

Sing  !     The  great  City  surges  round. 

Blinded  with  light,  thou  canst  not  know. 
Dream  !   'Tis  the  fir-wood's  windy  sound 

Rolling  a  psalm  of  praise  below. 
Sing,  o'er  the  bitter  dust  and  shame, 
And  touch  us  with  thine  own  transcendent  flame. 

214 


IV 

Sing,  o'er  the  City  dust  and  shine ; 

Sing,  o'er  the  squalor  and  the  gold, 
The  greed  that  darkens  earth  with  crime, 

The  spirits  that  are  bought  and  sold. 
O,  shower  the  healing  notes  like  rain, 
And  lift  us  to  the  height  of  grief  again. 


Sing  !  the  same  music  swells  your  breast 
And  the  wild  notes  are  still  as  sweet 

As  when  above  the  fragrant  nest 

And  the  wide  billowing  fields  of  wheat 

You  soared  and  sang  the  livelong  day, 

And  in  the  light  of  heaven  dissolved  away. 

VI 

The"  light  of  heaven  !     Is  it  not  here  ? 

One  rapture,  one  ecstatic  joy, 
One  passion,  one  sublime  despair, 

One  grief  which  nothing  can  destroy, 
You — though  your  dying  eyes  are  wet — 
Remember,  'tis  our  blunted  hearts  forget. 

VII 

Beat,  little  breast,  still  beat,  still  beat, 

g  Strive,  misted  eyes  and  tremulous  wings  ; 

Swell,  little  throat,  your  Sweet!   Sweet!   Sweet! 

Thro'  which  such  deathless  memory  rings  : 
Better  to  break  your  heart  and  die, 
Than,  like  your  gaolers,  to  forget  your  sky. 

215 


James  Stephens 


THE  SNARE 

I  HEAR  a  sudden  cry  of  pain  ! 
There  is  a  rabbit  in  a  snare : 
Now  I  hear  the  cry  again, 
But  I  cannot  tell  from  where. 

But  I  cannot  tell  from  where 
He  is  calling  out  for  aid  ; 
Crying  on  the  frightened  air, 
Making  everything  afraid. 

Making  everything  afraid, 
Wrinkling  up  his  little  face, 
As  he  cries  again  for  aid  ; , 
And  I  cannot  find  the  place. 

And  I  cannot  find  the  place 
Where  his  paw  is  in  the  snare  : 
Little  one  !     Oh,  little  one  ! 
I  am  searching  everywhere. 


216 


Stella  Benson 


THE  DOG  TUPMAN 

OH  little  friend  of  half  my  days, 
My  little  friend  who  followed  me 
Along  these  crooked  sullen  ways 
That  only  you  had  eyes  to  see. 

You  felt  the  same.     You  understood. 
You  too,  defensive  and  morose, 
Encloaked  your  secret  puppyhood — 
Your  secret  heart — and  held  them  close. 

For  I  alone  have  seen  you  serve, 
Disciple  of  those  early  springs, 
With  ears  awry  and  tail  a-curve 
You  lost  yourself  in  puppy  things. 

And  you  saw  me.     You  bore  in  mind 
The  clean  and  sunny  things  I  felt 
When,  throwing  hate  along  the  wind 
I  flashed  the  lantern  at  my  belt. 

The  moment  passed  and  we  returned 
To  barren  words  and  old  cold  truth, 
Yet  in  our  hearts  our  lanterns  burned, 
We  two  had  seen  each  other's  youth. 
217 


When  filthy  pain  did  wrap  me  round 
Your  upright  ears  I  always  saw, 
And  on  my  outflung  hand  I  found 
The  blessing  of  your  horny  paw  ; 

And  yet — oh  impotence  of  men — 
My  paw,  more  soft  but  not  more  wise, 
Old  friend,  was  lacking  to  you  when 
You  looked  your  crisis  in  the  eyes.  .  .  . 

You  shared  my  youth,  oh  faithful  friend, 
You  let  me  share  your  puppyhood  ; 
So,  if  I  failed  you  at  the  end, 
My  friend,  my  friend,  you  understood. 


218 


V.   H.   Friedlaender 


TO  A  BLUE  TIT 

DAY  after  day  you  who  are  free  as  air 
(And  how  much  freer,  then,  than  I !) 
Venture  your  birthright,  dare 
That  heavenly  liberty,  to  fly 
And  feed  upon  my  hand  :  I  marvel  why. 

No  other  bird  of  your  bright  company 

Commits  a  folly  so  divine  ! 
Their  chatter  bids  you  be 

Wary  of  guile — of  some  design 
That  you  alone  are  conscious  is  not  mine. 

And  even  I,  with  less  to  lose  than  you, 

I,  wingless  prisoner  of  the  dust, 
Would  shun  risks  you  renew 

Each  morning,  not  because  you  must, 
But  in  a  sweet  wild  miracle  of  trust. 

Bird,  as  you  call  me  to  the  window-ledge 
With  flashes  and  blue  flutterings, 

It  seems  the  grey  world's  edge  ; 

And,  with  the  thrill  your  light  touch  brings, 

I  am  your  kin  and  know  the  lift  of  wings  ! 


219 


Ralph  Hodgson 


LINES 

NO  pitted  toad  behind  a  stone 
But  hoards  some  secret  grace ; 
The  meanest  slug  with  midnight  "gone 
Has  left  a  silver  trace. 

No  dullest  eyes  to  beauty  blind, 
Uplifted  to  the  beast, 
But  prove  some  kin  with  angel  kind, 
Though  lowliest  and  least. 


220 


Ralph   Hodgson 


THE  BELLS   OF  HEAVEN 

'/T^WOULD  ring  the  bells  of  Heaven, 

The  wildest  peal  for  years, 
"^      If  Parson  lost  his  senses 
And  people  came  to  theirs, 
And  he  and  they  together 
Knelt  down  with  angry  prayers 
For  tamed  and  shabby  tigers, 
And  dancing  dogs  and  bears, 
And  wretched,  blind  pit  ponies, 
And  little  hunted  hares. 


221 


Ralph   Hodgson 


STUPIDITY  STREET. 

I  SAW  with  open  eyes 
Singing  birds  sweet 
Sold  in  the  shops 
For  the  people  to  eat, 
Sold  in  the  shops  of 
Stupidity  Street. 

I  saw  in  a  vision 
The  worm  in  the  wheat, 
And  in  the  shops  nothing 
For  people  to  eat ; 
Nothing  for  sale  in 
Stupidity  Street. 


222 


George  T.   Marsh 


IN  THE   "ZOO" 

EXILES,  they  tread  their  narrow  bounds 
Behind  the  iron  bars. 
Where'er  they  turn  the  hand  of  man 
Their  straining  vision  mars, 
Save  only  when  at  night  they  gaze 
Upon  the  friendly  stars. 

See  !  there  a  golden  eagle  broods 

With  glazed,  unseeing  eyes 
That  never  more  will  sweep  the  snows 

Where  blue  Sierras  rise  ; 
And  there,  sick  for  his  native  hills, 

A  sullen  panther  lies. 

What  dreams  of  silent  polar  nights 
Disturb  the  white  bear's  sleep  ? 

Roams  he  once  more  unfettered  where 
Eternal  ice-floes  sweep  ? 

What  memories  of  the  jungle's  ways 
Does  that  gaunt  tiger  keep  ? 

Such  wistful  eyes  the  hartbeest  turn 
Beyond  their  cramped  domain. 

They  seem  to  see  the  yellowing  leagues 
Of  wind-swept  veldt  again. 

And  look  !  a  springbok  lifts  his  head 
As  though  he  smelled  the  plain. 
223 


Exiles,  they  tread  their  narrow  bounds 

Behind  the  iron  bars, 
For  thus  the  ruthless  hand  of  man 

Each  God-made  creature  mars. 
But  oh,  what  hungry  eyes  they  raise 

Up  to  the  friendly  stars  ! 


224 


Geoffrey  Dearmer 


THE  TURKISH  TRENCH  DOG 

NIGHT    held    me    as   I  crawled  and  scrambled 
near 
The  Turkish  lines.     Above,  the  mocking  stars 
Silvered  the  curving  parapet,  and  clear 
Cloud-latticed  beams  o'erflecked  the  land  with  bars  ; 
I,  crouching,  lay  between 

Tense-listening  armies  peering  through  the  night, 
Twin  giants  bound  by  tentacles  unseen. 
Here  in  dim-shadowed  light 
I  saw  him,  as  a  sudden  movement  turned 
His  eyes  towards  me,  glowing  eyes  that  burned 
A  moment  ere  his  snuffling  muzzle  found 
My  trail ;   and  then  as  serpents  mesmerize 
He  chained  me  with  those  unrelenting  eyes, 
That  muscle-sliding  rhythm,  knit  and  bound 
In  spare-limbed  symmetry,  those  perfect  jaws 
And  soft-approaching  pitter-patter  paws. 
Nearer  and  nearer  like  a  wolf  he  crept — 
That  moment  had  my  swift  revolver  leapt — 
But  terror  seized  me,  terror  born  of  shame 
Brought  flooding  revelation.     For  he  came 
As  one  who  offers  comradeship  deserved, 
An  open  ally  of  the  human  race, 
And  sniffling  at  my  prostrate  form  unnerved 
He  licked  my  face  ! 


225 


Francis  Brett  Young 


BETE  HUMAINE 

RIDING  through  Ruwu  swamp,  about  sunrise, 
I  saw  the  world  awake  ;   and  as  the  ray 
Touched    the    tall    grasses  where   they  dream 

till  day, 

Lo,  the  bright  air  alive  with  dragonflies, 
With  brittle  wings  aquiver,  and  great  eyes 
Piloting  crimson  bodies,  slender  and  gay. 
I  aimed  at  one,  and  struck  it,  and  it  lay 
Broken  and  lifeless,  with  fast-fading  dyes. 
Then  my  soul  sickened  with  a  sudden  pain 
And  horror,  at  my  own  careless  cruelty, 
That  where  all  things  are  cruel  I  had  slain 
A  creature  whose  sweet  life  it  is  to  fly  : 
Like  beasts  that  prey  with  bloody  claw  :   Nay,  they 
Must  slay  to  live,  but  what  excuse  had  I  ? 


226 


NOTES 


NOTES 

Page  1 
THE  NYMPH  COMPLAINING  FOB  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  FAWN 

Cp.  the  description  of  Silvia's  stag  in  Virgil's  Aeneid  (Book  7). 
It  is  possible  that  Marvell  had  the  passage  in  mind  when  writing 
this  exquisite  poem. 

Page  5 
ON  AN  EAGLE 

Smart  was  the  author  of  A  Song  to  David,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  lyrics  of  the  eighteenth  century  before  Blake,  frequently 
quoted  in  modern  anthologies,  and  reprinted  in  1898  (edited  by 
J.  R.  Tutin).  A  collected  edition  of  his  works  (excluding 
A  Song  to  David)  was  published  in  1791. 

Page  7 
EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE 

Cowper's  delightful  prose  description  of  his  three  tame  hares 
first  printed  in  The  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  June  1784,  was 
reprinted  in  the  1800  edition  of  his  poems,  and  also  in  the 
excellent  Oxford  edition  (1905).  "It  is  no  wonder,"  he  wrote, 
"  that  my  intimate  acquaintance  with  these  specimens  of  the 
kind  has  taught  me  to  hold  the  Sportman's  amusement  in 
abhorrence  ;  he  little  knows  what  amiable  creatures  he  perse- 
cutes, of  what  gratitude  they  are  capable,  how  cheerful  they 
are  in  their  spirits,  what  enjoyment  they  have  of  life,  and  that, 
impressed  as  they  seem  with  a  peculiar  dread  of  man,  it  is  only 
because  man  gives  them  peculiar  cause  for  it."  In  the  following 
charming  passage  from  The  1  ask  he  again  refers  to  one  of  his 
pets  : 

"  Detested  sport, 

That  owes  it8  pleasures  to  another's  pain, 
That  feeds  upon  the  sobs  and  dying  shrieks 
229 


Of  harmless  nature,  dumb  but  yet  endued 

With  eloquence  that  agonies  inspire 

Of  silent  tears  and  heart-distending  sighs. 

Vain  tears,  alas  !  and  sighs  that  never  find 

A  corresponding  tone  in  jovial  souls. 

Well — one  at  least  is  safe.     One  sheltered  hare 

Has  never  heard  the  sanguinary  yell 

Of  cruel  man,  exulting  in  her  woes. 

Innocent  partner  of  my  peaceful  home, 

Whom  ten  long  years'  experience  of  my  care 

Has  made  at  least  familiar,  she  has  lost 

Much  of  her  vigilant  instinctive  rlread, 

Not  needful  here,  beneath  a  roof  like  mine. 

Yes — thou  may'st  eat  thy  bread  and  lick  the  hand 

That  feeds  thee  ;   thou  may'st  frolic  on  the  floor 

Secure  at  evening,  and  at  night  retire  secure 

To  thy  straw  couch,  and  slumber  unalarm'd  ; 

For  I  have  gained  thy  confidence,  have  pledged 

All  that  is  human  in  me  to  protect 

Thine  unsuspecting  gratitude  and  love. 

If  I  survive  thee  I  will  dig  thy  grave 

And  when  I  place  thee  in  it,  sighing,  say, 

I  knew  at  least  one  hare  that  had  a  friend." 

Cp.  Thomson's  Autumn  (1730),  lines  401  ff . : 

"  Poor  is  the  triumph  o'er  the  timid  hare,"  etc. 

Thomson,  who  devoutly  hated  hunting,  was  Cowper's  chief 
forerunner  in  voicing  his  feelings  about  it  in  his  poetry. 

Cowper's  The  Task,  published  in  1785,  contains  many  striking 
humanitarian  passages,  where  the  poet  writes  in  a  more  im- 
passioned strain  than  is  usual  with  him.  Such  are  e.g.  the 
arraignment  of  man  for  his  cruelty  to  animals  (in  Book  VI)  and 
the  oft-quoted  lines  : 

"I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 
(Though  graced  with  polish'd  manners  and  fine  sense, 
Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm." 

Page  10 
AUGURIES  OF  INNOCENCE 

Text  from  the  Oxford  edition  of  Blake's  poems,  edited  by 
John  Sampson  (London  :  H.  Milford,  1913).  • 

230 


In  the  case  of  this  piece,  which  was  never  published  by  Blake, 
and  cannot,  as  usually  printed,  be  regarded  as  a  connected 
whole,  I  have  felt  at  liberty  to  break  the  rule  of  not  including 
extracts,  referred  to  in  the  preface  to  this  volume. 

"  The  title  Auguries  of  Innocence  probably,"  as  Mr.  Yeats 
conjectures,  "refers  only  to  the  opening  quatrain,  although 
the  manuscript  itself  has  no  space  or  line  separating  it  from 
the  couplets  which  follow.  These  proverbs  .  .  .  were  doubtless 
transcribed  from  scattered  jottings  elsewhere." 

Mr.  Sampson,  in  his  edition,  appends  an  interesting  attempt 
to  rearrange  the  proverbs  in  an  order  which  will  enable  the 
poem  to  be  read  as  a  whole  instead  of  as  a  series  of  more  or 
less  disconnected  distiches. 

Page  12 
NIGHT 

"  Nothing  like  this  was  ever  written  in  the  text  of  the  lion 
and  the  lamb  ;  no  such  heaven  of  sinless  animal  life  was  ever 
conceived  so  intensely  and  sweetly,"  wrote  Swinburne  of  this 
poem,  in  his  William  Blake  (1868). 

Cp.,  however,  the  beautiful  passage  on  Shelley's  The  Witch 
of  Atlas  (stanzas  6  and  7)  : 

"And  first  the  spotted  cameleopard  came, 

And  then  the  wise  and  fearless  elephant ; 
Then  the  shy  serpent  in  the  golden  flame 

Of  his  own  volumes  intervolved ; — all  gaunt 
And  sanguine  beasts  her  gentle  looks  made  tame. 

They  drank  before  her  at  her  sacred  fount ; 
And  every  beast  of  beating  heart  grew  bold 

Such  gentleness  and  power  even  to  behold. 

The  brindled  lioness  led  forth  her  young 

That  she  might  teach  them  how  they  should  forgo 
Their  inborn  thirst  of  death  ;   the  pard  unstrung 

His  sinews  at  her  feet  and  soxight  to  know 
With  looks  whose  motions  spoke  without  a  tongue 

How  he  might  be  as  gentle"  as  the  doe. 
The  magic  circle  of  her  looks  and  eyes 

All  savage  natures  did  imparadise.  .  .  ." 

And  the  long  passage  in  the  Kilmeny  of  James  Hogg  (1770-1835) 
beginning  : 

"  But  whenever  her  peaceful  form  appear 'd, 

The  wild  beasts  of  the  hill  were  cheer'd." 

231 


Page  14 
THE  ALPINE  HUNTER 

Schiller  derived  the  hint  for  this  poem  from  the  following 
passage,  relating  a  Swiss  legend,  in  Bonstetten's  Brieje  ueber  ein 
Schweizerisches  Hirtenland,  which  he  read  in  1803. 

"  An  aged  couple  had  a  disobedient  son,  who  would  not  herd 
their  cattle,  but  went  chamois-hunting.  Lost  amid  the  glaciers 
and  snow-fields  one  day,  he  gave  himself  up  for  dead.  There- 
upon the  Mountain  Spirit  approached  him  saying,  "  The  chamois 
you  are  hunting  are  my  flock  ;  why  do  you  persecute  them?" 
But  he  showed  him  the  way,  and  the  lad  returned  home  and 
pastured  his  cattle." 

Der  Alpenjaeger,  written  in  1804,  is  one  of  the  most  popular 
of  Schiller's  ballads  ;  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  no  satisfactory 
English  version  exists,  though  it  has  been  frequently  translated 
(among  others  by  Bulwer  Lytton),  I  have  included  it  on  account 
of  its  historical  interest.  The  anonymous  translation  here 
printed  was  selected,  wooden  though  it  is,  as  being  somewhat 
nearer  to  the  original  than  the  rest.  The  literal  rendering  of 
the  final  couplet,  which  has  become  a  proverbial  quotation  in 
Germany,  is  : 

"Room  for  all  the  Earth  affords, 
Why  pursuest  thou  my  flock  ?  " 


Page  16 

ON    SEEING    A    WOUNDED   HARE 

See  Burns's  letter  to  Alex.  Cunningham,  May  4,  1789. 

"  One  morning  lately  as  I  was  out  pretty  early  in  the  fields, 
sowing  some  grass  seeds,  I  heard  the  burst  of  a  shot  from  a 
neighbouring  plantation,  and  presently  a  poor  little  wounded 
hare  came  crippling  by  me.  You  will  guess  my  indignation 
at  the  inhuman  fellow  who  could  shoot  a  hare  at  this  season, 
when  all  of  them  have  young  ones.  Indeed  there  is  something 
in  that  business  of  destroying  for  our  sport,  individuals  in  the 
animal  kingdom  that  do  not  injure  us  materially,  which  I  could 
never  reconcile  to  my  ideas  of  virtue." 

Burns's  detestation  of  sport  was  constantly  expressed.  See 
e.g.  the  lines  in  Peggy  ("  Now  westlin  winds  and  slaught'ring 
guns  ")  : 

232 


"Avaunt,  away  !   the  cruel  sway, 

Tyrannic  man's  dominion  ; 
The  sportsman's  joy,  the  murd'ring  cry, 
The  flutt'ring  gory  pinion  !  " 

And,  in  The  Brigs  of  Ayr  : 

"The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  every  side, 
The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide, 
The  feathered  field -mates,  bound  by  Nature's  tie, 
Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  carnage  lie  : 
(What  warm  poetic  heart,  but  inly  bleeds 
And  execrates  man's  savage,  ruthless  deeds  !) " 

Even  when  lamenting  the  death  of  a  sportsman,  loved  by  him 
for  his  good  qualities,  the  humane  poet  cannot  refrain  from 
ironically  imagining  that 

"  On  his  mouldering  breast 
Some  spiteful  moorfowl  bigs  her  nest." 


Page  17 
To  A  MOUSE 

"  John  Blane,  farm-servant  at  Mossgiel,  stated  to  me  that 
he  recollected  the  incident  perfectly.  Burns  was  holding  the 
plough  with  Blane  for  his  driver,  when  the  little  creature  was 
observed  running  off  across  the  field.  Blane  .  .  .  was  thought- 
lessly running  after  it  to  kill  it,  when  Burns  checked  him,  but 
not  angrily,  asking  what  ill  the  poor  mouse  had  ever  done  him, 
and  during  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon  he  spoke  not.  In 
the  night  he  awoke  Blane,  who  slept  with  him,  and  reading  the 
poem,  which  had  in  the  meantime  been  composed,  asked  what 
he  thought  of  the  mouse  now."  Robert  Chambers.  (Life  of 
Burns,  1851.) 


Page  19 

ON    SCARING   SOME    WATERFOWL 

Cp.  Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt's  Sed  nos  qui  vivimus  (stanza  76)  : 

"...  Our  noise  in  loosing  her  has  roused  a  heron, 
And  with  him  teals  and  lapwings,  with  a  cry  of  swift  alarm. 
Ah  Man  !   thy  hated  face  disturbs  once  more  thy  natural  fellows, 
What  is  thy  kingship  worth  to  thee  if  all  things  fly  thy  hand  ?  " 

233 


See  also  Burns's  Letters  : 

"  I  never  hear  the  loud  solitary  whistle  of  the  curlew  in  a 
summer  noon,  or  the  wild  cadence  of  a  troop  of  grey  plovers 
in  an  autumnal  morning  without  feeling  an  elevation  of  soul 
like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or  poetry." 


Page  28 
A  WREN'S  NEST 

Written  in  1833.  "This  nest  was  built,  as  described,  in  a 
tree  that  grows  near  the  pool  in  Dora's  field  next  the  Rydal 
Mount  garden."  (Note  by  Wordsworth.) 


Page  31 
HART-LEAP  WELL 

"Written  at  Grasmere.  Hart-Leap  Well  is  a  small  spring 
of  water,  about  five  miles  from  Richmond  in  Yorkshire,  and 
near  the  side  qf  the  road  that  leads  from  Richmond  to  Askrigg. 
Its  name  is  derived  from  a  remarkable  Chase,  the  memory  of 
which  is  preserved  by  the  monuments  spoken  of  in  the  second 
part  of  the  poem,  which  monuments  do  now  exist  as  I  have 
here  described  them.  .  .  .  My  sister  and  I  had  passed  the  place 
on  our  winter  journey  from  Stockburn  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tees  to  Grasmere.  A  peasant  whom  we  met  near  the  spot 
told  us  the  story  so  far  as  concerned  the  name  of  the  Well,  and 
the  Hart,  and  pointed  out  the  Stones." 

(Note  by  Wordsworth.) 

This  was  in  1800.  The  concluding  stanzas  contain  some  of 
Wordsworth's  noblest  humanitarian  lines.  And  in  spite  of  the 
harsh  Anglicanism  and  conservatism  of  his  later  years — so 
fiercely  pilloried  by  Shelley  in  a  note  to  Peter  Bell  the  Third — in 
spite  of  his  reference  to  "  the  blameless  sport  "  of  angling  (Sonnet 
Written  in  the  Complete  Angler),  and  of  the  Sonnets  on  the 
Punishment  of  Death,  Wordsworth  never  wholly  lost  that  early 
faith  so  ardently  expressed  in  such  passages  as  the  following  : 

"  I  was  only  then 
Contented  when  with  bliss  ineffable 
I  felt  the  sentiment  of  Being  spread 
O'er  all  that  moves,  and  all  that  seemeth  still ; 


234 


O'er  all  that  leaps  and  runs  and  shouts  and  sings, 
Or  beats  the  gladsome  air  ;     o'er  all  that  glides 
Beneath  the  wave.  ..." 

(The  Prelude,  Book  II.) 

"  He  who  feels  contempt 
For  any  living  thing,  hath  faculties 
Which  he  has  never  used  ;    .  .  .  thought  with  him 
Is  in  its  infancy." 

(Lines  left  upon  a  seat  in  a   Yew  Tree,  1795.) 

"  'Tis  Nature's  law 

That  none,  the  meanest  of  created  things 
Or  forms  created  the  most  vile  and  brute, 
The  dullest  or  most  noxious,  should  exist 
Divorced  from  good — a  spirit  and  pulse  of  good, 
A  life  and  soul,  to  every  mode  of  being 
Inseparably  linked." 

(The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar,   1798.) 

"  Birds  and  beasts 

And  the  mute  fish  that  glances  in  the  stream 
And  harmless  reptile  coiling  in  the  sun, 
And  gorgeous  insect  hovering  in  the  air, 
The  fowl  domestic  and  the  household  dog — 
In  his  capacious  mind  he  loved  them  all  : 
Their  rights  acknowledging  he  felt  for  all.1' 
(The  Excursion,  Book  II,  dating  from  1795  to  1804.) 

The  two  strongly  humanitarian  poems,  Humanity  and  Liberty, 
were  written  as  late  as  1829,  the  latter  containing  the  character- 
istic lines  : 

"Who  can  divine  what  impulses  from  God 
Reached  the  caged  lark,  within  a  town-abode, 
From  his  poor  inch  or  two  of  daisied  sod  ? 
O  yield  him  back  his  privilege  !     No  sea 
Swells  like  the  bosom  of  a  man  set  free ; 
A  wilderness  is  rich  with  liberty." 

The  Eagles  sonnet  was  written  in  1831,  and  A  Wren's  Nest 
in  1833,  in  the  poet's  sixty-third  year. 

Page  38 
FIDELITY 

Written  in  1805.  Wordsworth  himself  stated  that  he  had 
purposely  made  his  narrative  as  prosaic  as  possible,  in  order 
that  no  discredit  might  be  cast  on  the  truth  of  the  incident. 

235 


(See  H.  Crabb  Robinson's  Diary,  September  10,  1816.)  The 
"traveller"  actually  disappeared  early  in  April  1805,  and  his 
body,  guarded  by  his  faithful  terrier,  was  not  discovered  till 
July  20th  following.  Scott's  well-known  HrlttJtyn  deals  with 
the  same  incident  : 

"  How  oft  did'st  thou  think  that  his  silence  was  slumber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how  oft  did'st  thou 

start  ? 

How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks  did'st  thou  number, 
Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart  ?  " 

But  Scott's  rhetorical  stanzas,  where  the  main  theme  is  the 
death  of  "  the  Pilgrim  of  Nature  "  (who,  by  the  way,  appears 
to  have  gone  to  Nature  for  the  purpose  of  angling  !)  cannot 
compare  in  intensity  of  feeling  with  Wordsworth's  exquisitely 
simple  poem,  which  is  concerned  only  with  the  devotion  of 
the  dog. 

Page  41 
TRIBUTE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  DOG 

First  printed  in  1807.  "Changes  in  the  text  were  made  in 
later  editions,  chiefly  with  a  view  to  toning  dowrn  any  seeming 
extravagance  in  the  feeling  towards  the  dog,  and  in  the  ascription 
to  her  of  almost  human  passions.  Thus  two  opening  lines  of 
1807  were  omitted  in  the  1827  edition  : 

"  Lie  here  sequester'd  :   be  this  little  mound 
For  ever  thine,  and  be  it  holy  ground." 

Line  11  originally  stood  : 

"  I  pray'd  for  thee,  and  that  thine  end  were  past " — 
and  lines  27  and  28  : 

"  For  love,  that  comes  to  all ;   the  holy  sense, 
Best  gift  of  God,  in  thee  wras  most  intense." 

(E.  Dowden.) 

The  dog  here  celebrated  was  the  "  little  Music  " — "  a  loving 
creature  she  and  brave  " — who  was  the  subject  of  Wordsworth's 
poem  Incident  characteristic  of  a  favourite  dog,  which  precedes 
the  Tribute  in  collected  editions  of  his  poems. 

Page  44 
THE  WILD  DUCK'S  NEST 

Probably  written  in  1819.  "I  observed  this  beautiful  nest 
on  the  largest  island  of  Rydal  Water."  (Note  by  Wordsworth.) 

236 


Page  45 
SUGGESTED  BY  A  DRAWING  OF  THE  BIRD  OF  PARADISE 

First  published  in  1845.  Ten  years  earlier  Wordsworth  had 
written  another  poem  on  the  same  subject  :  On  seeing  a  coloured 
drawing  of  the  Bird  of  Paradise.  This,  though  it  contains  some 
fine  lines,  is  much  less  interesting  than  the  piece  here  printed. 

Page  47 
To  A  YOUNG  Ass 

Written  and  published  in  1794.  Lamb  thought  the  piece 
too  trivial  a  companion  for  Religious  Musings,  and  tried  in  vain 
to  dissuade  Coleridge  from  reprinting  it ;  while  Coleridge's 
best  editor,  Campbell,  remarks  that  "  the  poem  is  chiefly  inter- 
esting for  its  references  to  Pantisocracy  (11.  27-31)  by  which 
Coleridge  was  severely  bitten  at  the  time."  One  would  think, 
on  the  contrary,  that  it  is  chiefly  interesting  because  its  sentiments 
are  so  similar  to  those  expressed  in  the  famous  lines  of  The 
Ancient  Mariner,  written  only  four  years  later  : 

"Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 
I  watched  the  water-snakes  : 


O  happy  living  things  !   no  tongue 
Their  beauty  might  declare  : 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 
And  I  blessed  them,  unaware  :  " 


and 


"He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 

Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 
He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us 

He  made  and  loveth  all." 

Page  49 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  SPANIEL 

The  idea  contained  in  the  concluding  lines,  that  if  man  is 
destined  to  immortality,  his  sub-human  friends  ought  to  share 
it  with  him,  has  been  frequently  expressed  in  poetry,  from  the 
ancient  Sanscrit  Mahabharata  to  the  present  day. 

237 


Thus  the  Norse  poet,  Henrik  Wergeland,  a  great  humanitarian, 
in  his  mystic  poem  The  Beautiful  Family,  written  on  his  death 
bed  (1845),  looks  forward  to  a  joyous  reunion  after  death  with 
his  beloved  horse  : 

"  When  the  soul  is  lifted  into  glory  the  innocent  earthly  beings 

it  has  loved, 
Cling  to  it  as  to  a  magnet. 

If  you  desire  it  you  shall  see  your  horse. 
You  shall  seem  to  lay  your  hand  upon  his  neck. 
In  a  cloud-valley  you  shall  see  him 
Browsing  carnations  to  the  right  and  gilly-flowers  to  the  left." 

And  the  Australian,  H.  C.  Kendall,  writes  in  his  Rover  : 

"Indeed  I  fail  to  see  the  force 

Of  your  derisive  laughter 
Because  I  will  not  say  my  horse 
Has  not  some  horse-hereafter." 

Many  other  examples  (including  O.  W.  Holmes,  Jean  Ingelow, 
Lamartine,  and  the  Danish  poets  Kaalund  and  Paludan-Miiller) 
will  be  found  in  Frances  Cobbe's  little  book  The  Friend  of  Man 
(1889). 

Compare  also  Byron's  youthful  but  characteristic  Inscription 
on  the  Monument  of  a  Newfoundland  Dog  (1808)  : 

*'  But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmest  friend, 
The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend, 
Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master's  own, 
Who  labours,  fights,  lives,  breathes  for  him  alone, 
Unhonoured  falls,  unnoticed  all  his  worth, 
Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth  : 
While  Man,  vain  insect  !   hopes  to  be  forgiven 
And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  Heaven." 

As  to  the  prose  literature  dealing  with  the  immortality  of 
animals,  Ezra  Abbot's  The  Doctrine  of  a  Future  Life  (New  York, 
1871)  enumerates  over  two  hundred  works  on  the  question — 
which,  nevertheless,  appears  to  be  still  unsolved  ! 

Page  51 
THE  DANCING  BEAB 

Though  written  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago  as  a  satire 
against  the  slave-trade,  Southey's  verses  have  even  now  lost 
none  of  their  force  as  a  protest  against  the  inane  craze  for 
"  performing  "  animals. 

238 


Page  53 
To  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET 

For  an  essay  by  H.  S.  Salt  on  Leigh  Hunt  as  a  humanitarian 
(with  many  quotations  from  his  writings)  see  The  Humanitarian, 
July  1914.     Hunt's  poem  Captain  Sword  and  Captain  Pen  con- 
tains the  oft-quoted  lines  on  the  horse  wounded  in  battle  : 
"  O  Friend  of  Man  !     O  noble  creature, 
Patient  and  brave  and  mild  by  nature, 
Mild  by  nature,  and  mute  as  mild, 
Why  brings  he  to  these  passes  wild 
Thee,  gentle  Horse,  thou  shape  of  beauty  ? 
Could  he  not  do  his  dreadful  duty 
(If  duty  it  be,  which  seems  mad  folly), 
Nor  link  thee  to  his  melancholy." 

Page  54 
To  A  SKYLARK 

As  this  collection  excludes  "  extracts  "  it  is  unfortunately 
only  possible  to  represent  thus  inadequately,  by  a  single  well- 
known  poem,  the  most  thorough  and  consistent  of  all  our  great 
humanitarian  poets,  who  must  certainly  have  had  himself  in 
mind  when  he  wrote  >jf  one  who  was 

"  as  a  nerve  o'er  which  do  creep 
The  else  unfelt  oppressions  of  this  earth." 

"  If  we  seek  for  a  terse  and  comprehensive  title  for  his  poetical 
contribution  to  the  literature  and  thought  of  his  age,"  writes 
H.  S.  Salt,  in  his  Shelley,  Poet  and  Pioneer,  "  we  shall  call  it 
the  Poetry  of  Love."  And  this  quality  is  just  as  intense,  and 
just  as  clearly  perceptible  in  his  numerous  references  to  the 
sub-human  as  in  those  to  the  human.  As  H.  S.  Salt  says  in 
his  admirable  study  Shelley  as  a  Pioneer  of  Humanitatianism 
(London  1902)  :  "  Whenever  he  speaks  of  animals,  it  is  with 
an  instinctive,  childlike,  and  perfectly  natural  sense  of  kinship 
and  brotherhood.  Thus  in  Alastor,  in  the  invocation  of  Nature, 
we  find  him  saying  : 

"If  no  bright  bird,  insect,  or  gentle  beast 
I  consciously  have  injured,  but  still  loved 
And  cherished  these  my  kindred." 

And  the  same  tone  runs  through  the  famous  lines  in  Queen  Mob : 

"  No  longer  now 
He  slays  the  lamb  that  looks  him  in  the  face. 

239 


No  longer  now  the  winged  habitants, 
That  in  the  woods  their  sweet  lives  sing  away, 
Flee  from  the  form  of  man  ;   but  gather  round, 
And  prune  their  sunny  feathers  on  the  hands 
Which  little  children  stretch  in  friendly  sport 
Towards  these  dreadless  partners  of  their  play. 
All  things  are  void  of  terror  ;   man  has  lost 
His  terrible  prerogative,  and  stands 
An  equal  amidst  equals." 

And  again,  in  his  description  of  the  Lady  of  the  Garden,  in 
The  Sensitive  Plant  : 

"And  all  killing  insects,  and  gnawing  worms, 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms, 
She  bore,  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof, 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof, 

"  In  a  basket  of  grasses  and  wild  flowers  full, 
The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull 
For  the  poor  banished  insects,  whose  intent, 
Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent." 

Compare  also  The  Daemon  of  the  World,  part  II  (1816),  The 
Revolt  of  Islam,  X,  1  and  2  (1817),  etc. 

Page  58 
THE  CBICKET 

"  The  Naturalist  of  the  Supplement  to  the  British  Almanack 
tells  me  that  crickets  rusticate  in  summer,  and  return  to  their 
firesides  in  winter.  I  would  I  knew  this  for  a  fact." 

(Note  by  Hartley  Coleridge.) 

Page  59 
THE  DEATH  OF  THE  WOLF 

'  Written  at  the  Chateau  of  M in  1843." 

I  have  not  been  able  to  discover  a  more  exact  English  rendering 
of  Vigny's  famous  La  Mort  du  Loup  than  this  blank-verse  para- 
phrase The  original  is,  of  course,  in  rhymed  Alexandrines. 
Line  45.  Cp.  Byron's  Childe  Harold  (IV,  88).  Vigny  was  well 
acquainted  with  that  poem,  and  it  seems  likely  that  a  passage 
in  it  (IV,  21)  gave  him  the  first  suggestion  of  La  Mort  du  Loup  : 

"  Mute 

The  camel  labours  with  the  heaviest  load  ; 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence — not  bestowed, 
In  vain  should  such  examples  be  ;  .  .  ." 
240 


Line  87.  Cp.  Lenau's  lines  in  a  beautiful  passage  in  his  poem 
Die  Albigenser  : 

"From  dying  beasts  we  men  perchance  might  learn 

More  than  from  those  dim  stars  to  which  we  turn,"  etc. 
and  Robert  Arnaud's  fine  poem  D'un  Lion  a  crini&re  courte  que 
nous  tudmes  : 

"Et  nous  avons  en  peur,  nous,  les  hommes  de  proie, 
Nous  avons  craint  son  regard  fier,  a  cette  bete. 
Longuement  il  se  fixe  sur  nous  ;    puis  la  tete 
Retombe  sur  le  sol  farouche  qu'elle  broie." 
See  also  Vigny's  magnificent  lines  on  the  dying  eagle,  in 
Eloa  (1824);    and  the  description  of  the  scorpion  tortured  by 
boys,  in  the  preface  to  his  play  Chaiterton  (1835). 

Page  63 
THE  FOWLER 

This  interesting  and  little-known  piece  by  the  author  of  the 
oft-reprinted  Scots  novel  Mansie  Wauch,  is  taken  from  his 
Poems  (London,  1852),  which  also  contains  his  verses  To  a 
Wounded  Ptarmigan.  The  Fowler  was  doubtless  written  under 
the  influence  of  Wordsworth.  Cp.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes's 
poem  My  Aviary. 

Page  70 

THE  BEETLE-WORSHIPPER 

I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  W.  H.  Hudson  for  calling  my  attention 
to  these  lines  by  a  forgotten  author.  Ritchie  was  a  Scot,  some- 
thing of  a  traveller,  a  novelist,  and  one  of  the  busiest  miscellaneous 
writers  of  his  day. 

Page  72 

THE  BIRD'S  NEST 

The  original  was  first  printed  in  Lenau's  Die  Albigenser  (1842). 
See  also  his  letter  to  Sophie  Lowenthal  (June  25,  1839)  :  "  When 
I  was  a  boy  I  always  felt  sad  if  I  found  an  empty  bird's  nest 
in  the  woods,  thinking  of  the  flown  nestlings  and  longing  to 
see  them." 

Cp.  Charles  Tennyson- Turner's  sonnet  On  Shooting  a  Swallow 
in  early  Youth. 

Page  77 

WINGED  THINGS 

See  also  the  translation  by  John  Payne  of  Hugo's  poem  The 
Tom-Tit,  describing  the  freeing  of  the  last  bird  in  his  aviary. 
(Flowers  of  France  :  the  Romantic  Period,  1876)  : 

241  B 


"And  I  said,  opening  my  hand,  *  Be  free  !  * 
The  bird  fled  forth  among  the  bushes,  fluttering 
Into  the  immensity  resplendent  of  the  spring  ; 
And  I  the  little  soul  saw,  in  the  distance  wend 
Toward  that  rosy  light  wherewith  a  flame  doth  blend, 
In  the  deep  air  among  the  infinite  tree-crests.  ..." 

Page  85 
To  A  STAKVED  HARE 

Many  of  Tennyson-Turner's  numerous  sonnets,  besides  those 
here  printed,  show  the  same  keen  sympathy  with  his  non-human 
fellow-creatures.  Such  are,  for  instance,  The  Lark's  Nest, 
The  Plea  of  the  Shot  Swallow,  On  Shooting  a  Swallow,  and  Rose 
and  Cushie,  the  last  recalling  Lucre tius's  wonderful  picture 
of  the  cow  mourning  for  her  calf  (De  Eerum  Natitra,  II,  352-66). 

His  brother,  Alfred  Tennyson,  considered  that  some  of  the 
sonnets  had  all  the  tenderness  of  the  Greek  epigram,  and  ranked 
a  few  of  them  among  the  noblest  in  the  language. 

Page  86 
THE  BEAST 

Many  of  the  notes  in  Hebbel's  posthumously  published  Diaries 
afford  ample  proof  that  during  the  last  few  years  of  his  life  his 
mind  was  greatly  occupied  with  the  question  of  man's  relations 
to  the  other  animals.  In  this  period  he  developed  views  akin 
to  those  propounded  by  Schopenhauer,  and  later  on  called  by 
Wagner  the  Religion  of  Compassion  ;  and  one  of  the  results 
was  a  series  of  poems  suffused  with  humanitarian  sentiment, 
such  as  the  pathetic  verses  on  his  dog  called  a  Memory  of  Child- 
hood, culminating  in  the  magnificent  stanzas  of  The  Brahman — 
a  glorification  of  the  Jaina  principle  of  the  sacredness  of  life — 
written,  as  he  himself  recorded,  during  great  suffering,  shortly 
before  his  death. 

His  Diary  contains  two  short  entries  which  formed  the  germ 
of  his  poem  The  Beast  : 

"  In  the  beast,  Nature,  helpless  and  naked,  seems  to  confront 
man,  saying,  *  I  have  done  so  much  for  you ;  what  are  you 
doing  for  me  ?  '"  (March  7,  1860.) 

"  The  beast  was  man's  first  teacher  :  in  return  for  this  man 
*  trains  '  the  beast."  (April  1,  1860.) 

This  recalls  the  words  of  another  great  German  poet,  Richard 
Wagner  :  "  To  the  beasts,  who  were  our  teachers  in  all  the  arts 
by  which  we  have  trapped  and  subjugated  them,  man  was 

242 


superior  in  nothing  save  deceit  and  cunning,  by  no  means  in 
courage  .  .  .  and  we  can  only  attribute  our  victory  over  them 
to  our  greater  power  of  dissembling." 

(Open  Letter  to  Weber,  Bayreuth,  1879;) 

Cp.  also  Shelley's  Prometheus  Unbound  : 

"...  even  as  a  leprous  child  is  left, 

Who  follows  a  sick  beast  to  some  warm  cleft 
Of  rocks  through  which  the  might  of  healing  springs  is  poured ; 

Then  when  it  wanders  home  with  rosy  smile, 

Unconscious,  and  its  mother  fears  awhile, 
It  is  a  spirit,  then,  weeps  on  her  child  restored." 


Page  87 
THE  SECRET  OF  BEAUTY 

Hebbel,  one  of  the  least  sentimental  of  writers,  records  the 
death  of  this  squirrel,  and  his  own  deep  grief,  in  a  long  entry 
in  his  Diary,  scarcely  to  be  read  without  tears  :  "  To  me  he  was 
a  direct  revelation  of  Nature.  I  am  ready  now  to  believe  in 
the  lion  of  Androcles,  in  the  suckling  she-wolf  of  the  Romans, 
in  St.  Genevieve's  hind ;  I  will  never  again  destroy  a  mouse, 
or  even  a  worm.  I  honour  my  kinship  with  the  dead  animal, 
however  distant,  and  I  shall  seek  henceforth — not  only  in  man- 
kind, but  in  everything  that  lives  and  moves — an  unfathomable 
divine  secret,  which  can  be  at  least  approached  by  love.  So 
greatly  has  this  creature  ennobled  me,  and  enlarged  my  horizon  ! 
...  If  I  put  him  on  a  tree  he  would  climb  up,  taste  a  plum,  or 
watch  some  astonished  bird  flying  round  him,  and  then  glide 
down  into  my  hands  again.  If  I  put  him  on  the  ground  he  would 
scamper  back  to  the  house  at  great  speed,  along  the  sand-strewn 
path.  Who  could  ever  describe  all  these  charming  pictures  ? 
In  my  poem,  which  this  beautiful  animal  evoked,  I  have  summed 
them  up.  But  I  must  end,  for  my  eyes  are  full  of  tears.  Once 
more — that  you  may  rest  in  peace  my  Herzi,  is  the  prayer  of 
your  eternal  debtor  Friedrich  Hebbel  "  (November  6,  1861). 

There  is  a  long  and  interesting  poem  by  the  Austrian  poet, 
Robert  Hamerling,  on  his  squirrel  (Mein  Eichhornchen ;  in 
Sinnen  und  Minnen,  1860),  from  which  the  following  lines 
are  taken  : 

"Wer  aber  beschreibt,  ach,  was  der  kleiner  Freund 
Meinem  Herzen  geworden  ?     Welches  sympathische  Band 
Von  seiner  Seele  zu  meiner  zuletzt 
Geheimnissvoll  hiniiberspann  ?  .  .  ." 
243 


Cp.  also  Wordsworth's  Humanity  (1829): 

"And  functions  dwell  in  beast  and  bird  that  sway 
The  reasoning  mind,  or  with  the  fancy  play, 
Inviting  at  all  seasons  ears  and  eyes 
To  watch  for  un delusive  auguries  : 
Not  uninspired  appear  their  simplest  ways." 

Page  101 
POOH  MATTHIAS 

For  some  interesting  and  characteristic  remarks  on  this 
poem  by  W.  H.  Hudson,  see  his  Birds  in  a  Village  (1893,  page  136). 
See  also  Arnold's  Kaiser  dead,  a  poem  which,  in  its  combination 
of  humour  and  tenderness,  recalls  Burns. 

Page  108 
THE  CAGED  LION 

The  fullest  English  translation  of  the  poems  of  Sandor  Petofi, 
the  "national  poet"  of  Hungary,  is  still  the  little  volume  of 
selections  by  Sir  John  Bowring  (London,  1866). 

Cp.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes's  To  a  Caged  Lion  : 

"  Poor  conquered  monarch  !   though  that  haughty  glance 
Still  speaks  thy  courage  unsubdued  by  time, 

And  in  the  grandeur  of  thy  sullen  tread 

Lives  the  proud  spirit  of  thy  burning  clime  ; — 

Fettered  by  things  that  shudder  at  thy  roar, 

Torn  from  thy  pathless  wilds  to  pace  this  narrow  floor  !  " 

Page  111 
THE  Two  BLACKBIRDS 

From  Meredith's  first  published  volume,  Poems  (1851),  which 
also  contains  the  delightful  Invitation  to  the  Country. 

Cp.  W.  H.  Hudson's  essay  on  "  Friendship  in  Animals " 
(in  Adventures  among  Birds,  1912)  for  some  similar  examples 
of  a  not  uncommon  occurrence. 

Page  114 
YOUTH  IN  AGE 

First  published  in  1908,  shortly  before  the  poet's  death. 
244 


Page  115 
THE  ADULTEKESS 

Cp.  Edwin  Arnold's  poem  The  Great  Journey  (from  the 
Mahalhdrata),  wherein  occurs  the  remarkable  passage  in  which 
the  King  steadfastly  refuses  the  proffered  joys  of  heaven, 
unless  his  dog  is  permitted  to  accompany  him  thither  : 

"'Monarch,'  spake  Indra,  'thou  art  now  as  we, 
Deathless,  divine  ;   thou  art  become  a  god ; 
Glory  and  power  and  gifts  celestial, 
And  all  the  joys  of  heaven  are  thine  for  aye  : 
What  hath  a  beast  with  these  ?     Leave  here  thy  hound  ! ' 
Yet  Yudishthira  answered  :    '  O  Most  High 

0  thousand-eyed  and  Wisest  !   can  it  be 
That  one  exalted  should  seem  pitiless  ? 
Nay  let  me  lose  such  glory  :  for  its  sake 

1  would  not  leave  one  living  thing  I  loved.'  " 

(Indian  Idylls,  1883.) 

See  also  The  Light  of  Asia  (1879)  : 

"  Then,  craving  leave,  he  spake 
Of  life,  which  all  can  take  but  none  can  give, 
Life  which  all  creatures  love  and  strive  to  keep, 
Wonderful,  dear,  and  pleasant  unto  each, 
Even  to  the  meanest ;   yea  a  boon  to  all 
Where  pity  is,  for  pity  makes  the  world 
Soft  to  the  weak  and  noble  for  the  strong. 
Unto  the  dumb  lips  of  his  flock  he  lent 
Sad  pleading  words,  showing  how  man,  who  prays 
For  mercy  to  the  gods,  is  merciless, 
Being  as  a  god  to  those  ;   albeit  all  life 
Is  linked  and  kin,  and  what  we  slay  have  given 
Meek  tribute  of  the  milk  and  wool,  and  set 
Fast  trust  upon  the  hands  which  murder  them.  .  .  ." 


Page  118 
MOTHER  CAREY'S  CHICKEN 

*'  I  once,  while  wandering  along  the  Norfolk  coast,  came  upon 
a  seagull  crouched  behind  a  boulder  on  the  wet  sand.  It  sat 
perfectly  still,  and  did  not  seem  to  see  me  or  hear  me  as  I  walked 
towards  it  along  the  shore.  Having  an  intimate  knowledge 
of  seagulls  and  their  ways,  I  was  naturally  astonished.  .  .  . 

245 


Soon,  however,  I  perceived  that  one  of  its  wings  lay  spread 
upon  the  sand  and  that  the  feathers  were  dabbled  with  blood  ; 
the  wing  was  broken  ;  it  had  been  shot  by  some  fool,  to  shoot 
whom,  as  he  pulled  his  Cockney  trigger,  would  certainly  have 
been  no  murder.  I  stooped  down  to  inspect  the  bird  more 
closely  ;  but  still  it  did  not  heed  me,  but  crouched,  staring 
straight  ahead,  listening — listening  to  the  music  of  the  waves. 
I  bent  lower,  and  looked  into  its  eyes.  In  them  was  an  expression 
such  as  I  had  never  seen  in  any  seagull's  eye  before.  Melancholy, 
unutterable  sadness  :  how  feeble  seem  these  words  to  describe 
the  expression  in  that  seagull's  eyes  !  It  haunted  me  for  years. 
The  poor  bird  was  blind — yes,  a  shot,  striking  it  somewhere 
in  the  neck  or  head,  paralysed  the  optic  nerves  of  both  eyes, 
and  from  the  darkness  it  was  listening  to  the  beloved  music 
of  the  sea."  (From  The  Life  and  Letters  of  T.  Watts-Dunton, 
by  Thomas  Hake  and  A.  C.  Rickett,  London,  1916.) 

Page  123 
To  THE  TORMENTORS 

Among  the  many  poets  who  have  touched  on  this  theme, 
two  specially  great  names  stand  out — Robert  Browning  and 
Richard  Wagner.  Both  gave  forcible  expression  to  their  hatred 
of  vivisection,  the  former  in  the  well-known  lines  of  Tray,  the 
latter  in  the  scathing  sentences  of  his  Open  Letter  to  Weber. 

Cp.  also  the  vision  of  a  Temple  of  Science  in  Robert  Buchanan's 
The  City  of  Dream  (1888)  : 

"The  hound  drew  back  and  struggled  with  the  chain 
In  act  to  fly,  but  every  way  dragged  and  driven 
He  reached  the  lecturer's  feet  and  there  lay  down 
Panting  and  looking  up  with  pleading  eyes ; 
The  lecturer  smiled  again  and  patted  him, 
When  lo  !   the  victim  licked  the  bloody  hand 
Pleading  for  kindness  and  for  pity  still.  ..." 

Page  137 
AT  A  DOG'S  GRAVE 

Cp.  the  anonymous  poem  in  the  Greek  Anthology  On  a 
Favourite  Dog  : 

"  Thou  who  passest  on  the  path,  if  haply  thou  dost  mark 
this  monument,  laugh  not  I  pray  thee,  though  it  is  a  dog's 
grave  ;  tears  fell  for  me,  and  the  dust  was  heaped  above  me 
by  a  master's  hands,  who  likewise  engraved  these  words  on 

246 


my  tomb  "  (translated  by  J.  W.  Mackail,  The  Greek  Anthology, 
1911). 

See  also  the  beautiful  lines  on  the  hound  Hodain  in  Swin- 
burne's Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  Book  V.  (1882). 

Page  139 
THE  TOAD 

One  of  the  "  Paraphrases  from  the  French  "  in  the  author's 
Poetical  Works  (1914). 

Cp.  Victor  Hugo's  Le  Crapaud  (No.  53  in  La  Ligende  des 
Sticks). 

See  also  Blunt's  poem  Satan  absolved  (1899),  written,  it  is 
interesting  to  note,  at  the  suggestion  of  Herbert  Spencer.  Of 
this  great  poem — which  ought  to  be  known  to  all  humanitarians — 
the  author  records  in  his  Diary  (May  27,  1899)  :  "I  have  finished 
Satan  Absolved  and  feel  more  content  with  life  as  a  consequence, 
having  the  sense  of  having  done  all  I  could,  and  having  made 
my  individual  protest  against  the  abominations  of  the  Victorian 
Age  "  (My  Diaries,  Part  I,  London,  1919). 

Page  148 
THE  PUZZLED  GAME-BIRDS 

Cp.  the  description  of  the  deserted  Tess's  discovery  of  the 
mangled  pheasants,  left  to  die  by  the  "shooting-party."  (Tess 
of  the  D'  Urbervilles,  XLI). 

"  She  had  occasionally  caught  glimpses  of  these  men  in 
girlhood  looking  over  hedges,  or  peering  through  bushes,  and 
pointing  their  guns,  strangely  accoutred,  a  bloodthirsty  light 
in  their  eyes.  She  had  been  told  that  rough  and  brutal  as  they 
seemed  just  then,  they  were  not  like  this  all  the  year  round, 
but  were,  in  fact,  quite  civil  persons  save  during  certain  weeks 
of  autumn  and  winter,  when  like  the  inhabitants  of  the  Malay 
Peninsula,  they  ran  amuck,  and  made  it  their  purpose  to 
destroy  life — in  this  case  harmless,  feathered  creatures  brought 
into  being  by  artificial  means  solely  to  gratify  these  propensities — 
at  once  so  unmannerly  and  so  unchivalrous,  towards  their  weaker 
fellows  in  Nature's  teeming  family.  With  the  impulse  of  a  soul 
that  could  feel  for  her  kindred  sufferers  as  much  as  for  herself, 
Tess's  first  thought  was  to  put  the  still  living  birds  out  of  their 
torture,  and  to  this  end  with  her  own  hands  she  broke  the  necks 
of  as  many  as  she  could  find.  ...  '  Poor  darlings — to  suppose 
myself  the  most  miserable  being  on  earth,  and  the  sight  o'  such 
misery  as  yours  !  '  she  exclaimed,  her  tears  running  down  as 
she  killed  the  birds  tenderly.  .  .  ." 

247 


Page  149 
THE  BLINDED  BIRD 

For  another  example  of  Thomas  Hardy's  tenderness  and 
humane  feeling  towards  animals,  see  the  beautiful  and  intimately 
personal  lines  called  Afterwards,  in  Moments  of  Vision  (1917), 
the  volume  from  which  this  poem  is  taken. 

"  If  I  pass  during  some  nocturnal  blackness,  mothy  and  warm, 
When  the  hedgehog  travels  furtively  over  the  lawn, 

Will  they  say,  '  He  strove  that  such  innocent  creatures  should 

come  to  no  harm, 
But  he  could  do  little  for  them  ;    and  now  he  is  gone  ?  ' ' 

See  also  the  letter  in  the  Humanitarian,  May,  1910,  wherein 
he  wrote  : 

"  Few  people  seem  to  perceive  fully  as  yet  that  the  most 
far-reaching  consequence  of  the  establishment  of  the  common 
origin  of  all  species  is  ethical ;  that  it  logically  involved  a  re- 
adjustment of  altruistic  morals,  by  enlarging,  as  a  necessity 
of  Tightness,  the  application  of  what  has  been  called  "  The 
Golden  Rule  "  from  the  area  of  mere  mankind  to  that  of  the 
whole  animal  kingdom.  Possibly  Darwin  himself  did  not  quite 
perceive  it." 


Page  150 
GOD  EVOLVING 

These  fine  lines  by  the  Victorian  agnostic  are  virtually  a 
poetical  restatement  of  Schopenhauer's  much-criticized  Ethic 
of  Compassion.  (See  Die  Orundlage  der  Moral,  1840,  a  treatise 
which  devotes  particular  attention  to  the  recognition  of  animals' 
rights  as  an  integral  part  of  morals.) 

Cp.  the  Buddhist  humane  precept  : 

"As  recking  nought  of  self,  a  mother's  love 

Enfolds  and  cherishes  her  only  son, 
So  through  the  world  let  thy  compassion  move 

And  compass  living  creatures  every  one, 
Soaring  and  sinking  in  unfettered  liberty 

Free  from  ill-will,  purged  of  all  enmity  !  " 

(Sutta  Nipata   148  and   149,  translated  by  K.  J.  Saunders  in 
The  Heart  of  Buddhism,   1915.) 

248 


Page  162 
MAN  WITH  THE  RED  RIGHT  HAND 

Cp.  the  terrible  indictment  of  man  for  his  ruthless  slaughter 
of  wild  life  in  Blunt's  Satan  Absolved  (1899),  from  which  the 
following  lines  are  taken  : 

"  All  pity  is  departed.     Each  once  happy  thing 

That  on  Thy  fair  earth  went,  how  fleet  of  foot  or  wing, 

How  glorious  in  its  strength,  how  wondrous  in  design, 

How  royal  in  its  raiment  tinctured  opaline,  .  .  . 

Each  one  of  them  is  doomed.     From  the  deep  central  seas 

To  the  white  Poles,  Man  ruleth  pitiless  Lord  of  these, 

And  daily  he  destroyeth.     The  great  whales  he  driveth 

Beneath  the  northern  ice,  and  quarter  none  he  giveth, 

Who  perish  there  of  wounds  in  their  huge  agony. 

He  presseth  the  white  bear  on  the  white  frozen  sea 

And  slaughtereth  for  his  pastime.     The  wise  amorous  seal 

He  flayeth  big  with  young ;   the  walrus  cubs  that  kneel 

But  cannot  turn  his  rage,  alive  he  mangleth  them, 

Leaveth  in  breathing  heaps,  outrooted  branch  and  stem. 

In  every  land  he  slayeth." 

See  also  Buchanan's  poem  The  Song  of  the  Fur-Seal. 

Page  156 
MY  CHAFFINCH 

"  Birds,"  wrote  Jefferies  in  The  Life  of  the  Fields,  "  are  lively 
and  intellectual,  imaginative  and  affectionate  creatures."  The 
steady  growth  of  humanitarian  feeling  in  Jefferies  (in  part 
actually  recorded  by  himself)  may  be  clearly  and  easily  traced 
in  his  writings,  from  the  early  Amateur  Poacher  (1879)  to  the 
posthumously  published  Nature  and  Eternity.  The  latter  is 
one  of  the  finest  and  most  characteristic  of  his  essays,  and  also 
that  in  which  he  gives  the  fullest  expression  to  his  sympathy 
with  "  the  creatures  called  '  lower  ',"  and  most  clearly  enunciates 
his  creed  of  the  kinship  of  all  sentient  life.  Like  Darwin  he  had 
come  to  believe  that  even  insects  have  "une  petite  dose  de 
raison." 

Page  158 
VOICES  OF  THE  VOICELESS 

See  also  the  author's  Animals'  Rights  (revised  edition,  London, 
1915)  and  his  paper  Are  Animals  Dumb  ?  in  The  Humanities 
of  Diet  (1914),  which  also  contains  some  of  his  admirable  render- 

249 


ings  of  humane  passages  from  the  poems  of  Lucretius,  Virgil, 
etc.  Humanitarianism  is  not  always  associated  with  humour, 
but  Salt's  numerous  witty  and  satirical  pieces  in  verse  and 
prose  afford  excellent  proof,  if  it  be  needed,  that  the  two  things 
are  thoroughly  compatible. 
Cp.  also  Shelley's 

"  From  many  a  dale 

The  antelopes  who  flocked  for  food  have  spoken 
9  With  happy  sounds  and  motions,  that  avail 

Like  man's  own  speech  ;  " 

(The  Revolt  of  Islam,  X,  2.) 

and  Hebbel's  Diaries  (1862):  "Animals  possess  the  whole 
vocal  gamut  of  emotional  sensation  in  common  with  man — 
and  that  vocal  gamut  is  the  root  of  all  language." 

Page  160 
THE  SQUIRREL 

Cp.  the  charming  description  of  the  Squirrel  in  Cowper's 
The  Task  (Book  VI),  leading  up  to  the  poet's  reflection  that — 

"  That  heart  is  hard  in  nature  and  unfit 
For  human  fellowship,  as  being  void 
Of  sympathy,  and  therefore  dead  alike 
To  love  and  friendship  both,  that  is  not  pleased 
With  sight  of  animals  enjoying  life, 
Nor  feels  their  happiness  augment  his  own." 

Page  163 
THE  LONDON  SPARROW 

Many  readers  will  be  grateful  for  the  opportunity  of  reading 
this  extremely  interesting  poem,  which  originally  appeared  in 
Merry  England,  a  periodical  of  the  eighties  of  last  century,  and 
is  now  for  the  first  time  completely  reprinted.  By  the  remark- 
able individuality  and  charm  of  his  writings  Mr.  Hudson  has 
probably  done  as  much  as  any  man  living  to  bring  about  a 
more  reasonable  attitude  in  our  outlook  on  wild  animal  life. 
It  is  unnecessary  here  to  specify  the  numerous  humanitarian 
passages  in  his  books  :  an  anthology  might  be  made  from  them 
alone.  But  I  may  refer  particularly  to  the  beautiful  prose- 
poem  at  the  close  of  A  Tired  Traveller  (in  Adventures  among 
J3irds,  1912);  the  defence  of  so-called  "faddists"  and  "senti- 

250 


mentalists  "  in  Afoot  in  England ;  the  essays  in  Birds  in  a 
Village  and  Birds  and  Man ;  and  the  various  pamphlets 
written  for  the  Royal  Society  for  the  Protection  of  Birds. 

Mr.  Hudson's  Birds  in  a  Village  (1893)  also  contains  a  de- 
lightful passage  on  the  London  Sparrow. 


Page  169 
THE  LIZARD 

This  and  the  succeeding  piece  are  by  the  well-known  American 
Socialist  poetr— the  author  of  The  Sower  and  The  Man  with  the 

Hoe who  is  keenly  interested  in  the  question  of  our  relations 

to  the  animal  world. 


Page  173 
THE  ROYAL  ASCETIG  AND  THE  HIND 

I  have  omitted  some  lines,  consisting,  however,  merely  of 
a  moral  tag  added  by  the  devout  authoress,  and  not  forming 
an  integral  part  of  the  piece.  Indeed  the  poem  itself  is  in  a 
sense  only  a  fragment,  for  it  is  a  close  translation  of  part  of 
Book  II,  chapter  13  of  the  Vishnu  Purdna  (accessible  for  English 
readers  in  the  translation  by  H.  H.  Wilson,  London,  1840). 
In  that  book  it  is  related  that  as  punishment  for  his  "  selfish 
affection,"  which  interrupted  his  abstraction,  the  King,  at  his 
next  birth,  found  himself  a  deer,  with  the  faculty  of  remembering 
his  previous  life  ! 

Hermits  in  all  times  and  lands  have,  as  is  natural,  lived  on 
friendly  terms  with  wild  animals.  A  delightful  chapter  in 
Palladia's  Paradise  of  the  Holy  Fathers  (translated  by  E.  W. 
Budge  1907),  which  also  contains  the  well-known  story  of 
St  Anthony  and  the  lions,  as  told  by  St.  Jerome,  records 
that  Abba  Theon— a  monk  of  the  Thebaid-  "  used  to  go  forth 
from  his  cell  by  night  and  mingle  with  the  wild  beasts  of  the 
desert,  and  give  them  to  drink  of  the  water  which  he  found. 
The  footmarks  which  appeared  by  the  side  of  his  abode  were 
those  of  buffaloes,  and  goats  and  gazelles,  in  the  sight  of  which 
he  took  great  pleasure."  Other  instances  of  this  fellowship 
will  be  found  in  the  same  work. 

The  first  Act  of  Kalidasa's  exquisite  Shakuntala  contains  a 
charming  picture  of  an  Indian  hermitage.  The  king  is  about 
to  shoot  a  gazelle  whom  he  is  hunting,  when  the  hermits  stay 
his  hand  ;  and  in  proof  of  the  sacred  character  of  the  grove 

251 


he  points  out  to  his  charioteer  the  nesting  parrots  feeding  their 
young,  the  fearless  fawns  playing  close  by,  and 

"  the  trustful  deer 
That  do  not  flee  from  us  as  we  draw  near." 

In  the  beautiful  scene  of  Shakuntala's  leave-taking  (Act  IV), 
after  begging  her  father,  the  hermit  Kanva,  to  send  her  the 
good  news  "  when  the  pregnant  doe  wandering  about  near  the 
cottage  becomes  a  mother,"  she  stops  suddenly,  exclaiming  : 
"  Oh  !  Who  is  it  that  keeps  tugging  at  my  robe  as  if  to  hinder 
me  ?  "  to  which  the  hermit  replies  : 

"It  is  the  fawn  whose  lips,  when  torn 
By  kusha-grass,  you  soothed  with  oil, 

The  fawn  who  gladly  nibbled  corn 
Held  in  your  hand  ;   with  loving  toil 

You  have  adopted  him,  and  he 
Would  never  leave  you  willingly." 

Whereupon  Shakuntala,  addressing  the  fawn  as  "child"  (as 
Hebbel  records  that  he  often  used  to  call  his  squirrel),  beseeches 
her  father  to  be  a  mother  to  the  orphaned  creature. 

(See  Shakuntala,  translated  by  A.  W.  Ryder,  London,  Dent 
&  Co.,  1912.) 

Torn  Dutt,  the  brilliant  Hindu  girl  who  wrote  verse  in  English 
and  French,  died  at  the  age  of  21.  Among  her  original  English 
poems  the  ballad  of  Sindhu,  founded  on  an  old  Indian  legend, 
is  particularly  interesting,  since,  like  The  Ancient  Mariner, 
it  is  the  story  of  tragic  expiation  for  the  thoughtless  slaughter 
of  a  bird. 

A  critical  memoir  of  the  poetess,  by  Edmund  Gosse,  prefaces 
her  Ancient  Ballads  and  Legends  of  Hindustan  (London,  1882). 


Page  177 
A  RUNNABLE  STAG 

In  spite  of  the  concluding  stanzas,  and  the  delicious  irony 
in  the  picture  of  those  "  three  hundred  gentlemen  able  to  ride, 
three  hundred  horses  as  gallant  and  free  "  dauntlessly  torturing 
a  single  sentient  being  to  win  their  day's  pleasure,  this  splendid 
poem,  I  am  credibly  informed,  has  been  claimed  by  "  sportsmen  " 
as  a  hunting-song  ! 

Exmoor  deer  seeking  escape  from  their  baiters  by  swimming 
out  to  sea  are  not  always  lucky  enough  to  be  drowned,  however. 
Jefferies  in  his  Red  Deer  gives  a  graphic  description  of  a  hunted 

252 


hind  who  was  thrice  chased  back  to  shore  by  a  steamer,  and 
thus  eventually  slain. 

Two  other  well-known  English  poems  containing  descriptions 
of  a  stag-hunt — though  very  different  in  tone — may  be  mentioned 
here.  Both  are  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  were  written 
about  the  same  time.  The  first  is  James  Thomson's  Autumn 
(1730),  in  which  the  poet,  after  upbraiding 

"  the  steady  tyrant  man, 

Who  with  the  thoughtless  insolence  of  power 
Inflamed,  beyond  the  most  infuriate  wrath 
Of  the  worst  monster  that  e'er  roam'd  the  waste, 
For  sport  alone  pursues  the  cruel  chase  ..." 

refers  to  the  stag-hunters  as  "  the  inhuman  rout,"  and  urges 
those  who  plead  some  imaginary  connection  between  bravery 
and  hunting,  to  go  and  fight  lions  ! 

The  other  is  Somervile's  panegyric  on  hunting,  The  Chase 
(1735),  the  sportsman's  poetical  classic  even  to-day,  and  still 
amusing  to  read,  though  mainly  on  account  of  the  author's 
totally  unconscious  humour  !  It  was  frequently  reprinted  during 
last  century,  the  latest  edition,  charmingly  illustrated,  being 
dated  1896.  The  third  Book  contains  a  fine  picture  of  a  royal 
stag-hunt  at  Windsor.  The  one  point  where  the  sportsman 
Somervile  agrees  with  his  rival  the  humanitarian  Thomson,  is, 
curiously  enough,  in  his  description  of  the  terror  of  the  agonized 
boast  : 

"Now  the  blown  stag  thro'  woods,  bogs,  roads  and  streams, 

Has  measur'd  half  the  forest ;   but  alas  ! 

He  flies  in  vain,  he  flies  not  from  his  fears. 

Tho'  far  he  cast  the  ling'ring  pack  behind, 

His  haggard  fancy  still  with  horror  views 

The  fell  destroyer  ;   still  the  fatal  cry 

Insults  his  ears,  and  wounds  his  trembling  heart." 


Page  181 
THE  CABHOESE 

The  cabhorse  is  also  one  of  the  protagonists  of  a  remarkable 
poem,  Die  Drei  Pferde,  by  the  Swiss  peasant  poet  Alfred  Huggen- 
berger  (in  Die  Stille  der  Felde,  Leipzig,  1913).  Another  piece  by 
Haraucourt,  Le  Loup  (translated  by  Payne  in  Flowers  of  France), 
is  an  interesting  poetical  variation  on  the  theme  of  Francis  and 
the  wolf  of  Agobio. 

253 


Page   182  v 

THE  DEER  AND  THE  PROPHET 

Based  on  an  old  Afghan  ballad  by  Na§ir,  which  may  be  found, 
together  with  a  literal  French  version,  in  the  Chants  populaires 
des  Afghans  (Paris,  1888-90)  collected  by  Professor  James 
Darmesteter.  A  more  literal  verse  rendering  will  be  found  in 
E.  Martinengo-Cesaresco's  interesting  book  The  Place  of  Animals 
in  Human  Thought  (London,  1909). 

Page  186 
THE  SKYLARKS 

The  following  extract  from  the  Journal  of  the  Royal  Society 
for  the  Protection  of  Birds  (Christmas,  1916)  forms  a  depressing 
commentary  on  this  poem  :  "  An  article  in  the  Daily  News 
on  the  thriving  and  extravagant  Christmas  trade  of  Islington, 
has  the  following  paragraph  :  '  Another  sign  of  the  times  to 
make  the  reflective  pause  was  the  crowd  thronging  round  a 
busy  merchant  who  had  a  big  bath  full  of  larks  for  sale.  They 
were  live  larks,  very  woebegone  and  dreadfully  frightened. 
The  bath  was  netted  over  the  top  to  prevent  their  escape,  and 
from  time  to  time  the  presiding  naturalist  would  plunge  his 
hand  in  through  a  hole  in -the  netting,  grab  a  fluttering  bird 
by  the  wing  or  the  leg,  haul  it  out  and  cry  :  "  Buy,  buy,  buy  ! 
Here  y'are  !  finest  songsters,  and  only  a  tanner  apiece.  Buy, 
buy,  buy  !  "  He  found  a  readj'  sale.  The  purchasers  wrapped 
them  up  in  knotted  handkerchiefs  and  carried  them  joyfully 
home.'  In  face  of  this  continuous  torture  of  wild  birds  in  the 
Saturday  and  Sunday  markets — birds  netted,  prisoned,  suffo- 
cated, terrified,  and  with  a  fate  perhaps  happiest  if  they  die 
in  the  knotted  handkerchief,  we  are  pleased  to  call  ourselves 
a  humane  nation." 

Page  189 
OF  ST.  FRANCIS  AND  THE  Ass 

See  also  Mrs.  Hinkson's  poems  St.  Francis  and  the  Birds, 
St.  Francis  and  the  Wolf,  and  St.  Columba  and  the  Horse  (in 
Poems,  1901). 

Notwithstanding  the  mass  of  more  modern  literature  which 
has  gathered  round  the  wonderful  personality  of  the  Saint, 
Kenan's  general  statement  of  Francis's  conception  of  the 
Universal  Kinship  still  remains  one  of  the  clearest  and  best, 
and  may  be  quoted  here  : 

254 


"  That  great  mark  of  a  mind  free  from  commonplace  pedantry, 
affection  for  animals  and  sympathy  with  them,  was  stronger 
in  him  than  in  any  other  man.  Far  removed  from  the  brutality 
of  the  false  spiritualism  of  the  Cartesians,  he  only  acknowledged 
one  sort  of  life ;  he  recognized  degrees  in  the  scale  of  being,  but 
no  sudden  interruptions  ;  like  the  sages  of  India  he  could  not 
admit  the  false  classification  which  places  man  on  one  side, 
and  on  the  other  those  thousand  forms  of  life  of  which  we 
see  only  the  outside,  and  in  which,  though  our  eyes  detect  only 
uniformity,  there  may  be  infinite  diversity.  For  Francis  Nature 
had  but  one  voice."  (E.  Renan,  Studies  in  Religious  History, 
London,  1886.) 

Cp.  also  Wordsworth's  lines  on  Francis  in  the  Memorials  of 
a  Tour  in  Italy  (1837). 

Page   191 
THE  HEDGE-SPARROWS 

This  piece,  by  the  author  of  the  well-known  Songs  of  the  Army 
of  the  Night,  is  from  a  forgotten  volume  of  Poetical  Works 
originally  printed  in  Brisbane  in  1887.  I  have  slightly  altered 
the  title. 

The  sentiment  of  the  poem  recalls  that  wonderful  old  Irish 
lament  dating  from  the  eleventh  century  A.D.,  translated  by 
Professor  Kuno  Meyer  in  his  Selections  from  Ancient  Irish 
Poetry  (London,  Constable  &  Co.,  1913)  under  the  title  of  The 
Deserted  Home,  which  should  be  read  by  all  who  love  birds  or 
appreciate  noble  poetry  : 

"Sadly  talks  the  blackbird  here, 
Well  I  know  the  woe  he  found  : 
No  matter  who  cut  down  his  nest, 
For  its  young  it  was  destroyed. 


Thy  heart,  O  blackbird,  burnt  within 
At  the  deed  of  reckless  man  : 
Thy  nest  bereft  of  young  and  egg 
The  cowherd  deems  a  trifling  tale. 


At  thy  clear  notes  they  used  to  come, 
Thy  new-fledged  children  from  afar ; 
No  bird  now  comes  from  out  their  house, 
Across  its  edge  the  nettle  grows. 

255 


They  murdered  them,  the  cowherd  lads, 
All  thy  children  in  one  day  : 
One  the  fate  to  me  and  thee, 
My  own  children  live  no  more." 


Page  192 
ARMISTICE 

Cp.  Auguste  Gaud's  pastoral  La  Tristesse  des  Bceufs  (trans- 
lated by  John  Payne  in  Flowers  of  France),  a  poem  which,  both 
in  feeling  and  expression,  inevitably  recalls  the  paintings  c! 
Millet. 


Page  193 
To  MY  CAT 
Cp.  Baudelaire's  Le  Chat  (Les  Fleurs  du  Mai,  No.  51)  : 

"  Quand  mes  yeux,  vers  ce  chat  que  j'aime 
Tires  comme  par  un  aimant 
Se  retournent  docilement 
Et  que  je  regarde  en  moi-meme, 

Je  vois  avec  etonnement 
Le  feu  de  ses  prunelles  pales, 
Clairs  fanaux,  vivantes  opales, 
Qui  me  contemplent  fixement." 

Page  198 
PRISONER  OF  CARISBROOKE 

Green  Arras  (1896),  the  author's  first  volume  of  poems,  from 
which  this  is  taken,  also  contains  The  Great  Ride,  a  fierce  protest 
against  the  maltreatment  of  horses  under  the  plea  of  "  military 
necessity  "  ;  while  his  latest,  The  Heart  of  Peace  (1918)  includes 
an  elegy  which  is  thoroughly  Franciscan  in  spirit — the  tender 
half-humorous  lines  on  the  friend  of  the  Paris  sparrows,  Henri 
Pol  :  bird-lover. 

One  of  the  finest  of  Housman's  many  tales  is  that  called  The 
Truce  of  God,  which  tells  of  a  Hermit  and  his  friendship  with 
the  wild  beasts.  This  will  be  found  in  All-Fellows :  Seven 
Legends  (1896). 

256 


Page  201 
PITIFUL 

This  poem  faithfully  reflects  the  spirit,  and  to  some  extent 
even  sums  up  the  ideas  of  the  author's  various  humanitarian 
writings  published  during  the  last  few  years,  such  as  Sport 
(in  A  Commentary,  1908),  Memories  (1914),  and  the  Papers 
on  our  Treatment  of  Animals  (in  A  Sheaf,  1916). 

Page  204 

THE  THRUSH  IN  SEVEN  DIALS 
See  also  the  author's  poem  A  Bird  in  the  Hand  : 

"Oh  for  a  Priest  of  the  Birds  to  arise 
Wonderful  words  on  his  lips  that  persuade 
Reasoning  creatures  to  leave  to  the  skies 
Song  at  its  purest,  a-throb  in  the  glade." 

Page  209 
MY  DOG 

These  characteristically  simple  lines  by  the  devout  poet  of 
Orthez  carry  us  back  more  than  two  thousand  years  to  the 
episode  of  Yudisthira  and  his  dog  in  the  Mahabharata.  (See 
note  to  page  115). 

Cp.  Lamartine's  apostrophe  to  his  dog  : 

"  No  !  when  thy  love  by  death  shall  be  o'erthrown 
It  will  revive,  and  in  some  heaven  unknown  ! 


We  shall  love  on  as  we  were  wont  to  love — 
Instinct  and  soul  is  one  to  him  above  ! 
Where  friendship  sheds  o'er  love  its  honoured  name, 
Where  nature  lights  a  pure  and  hallowed  flame, 
God  will  no  more  extinguish  his  soft  light 
That  shines  not  brighter  in  the  stars  of  night 
Than  in  the  faithful  spaniel's  anxious  eye." 

(Jocelyn,  9th  epoch  ;  English  translation  1844.) 

It  seems  probable  indeed,  that  ever  since  heaven  was  invented 
men  have  from  time  to  time  thus  soughfc»«K*muggle  their  animal 
friends  into  it  !  Moslems  even  admit  to  the  highest  heaven 
a  select  circle  of  famous  animals — among  them  the  dog  of  the 
Seven  Sleepers.  (See  also  the  note  to  page  49.) 

In  her  excellent  book  Six  French  Poets  (New  York,  1915) 

257  S 


Amy  Lowell  writes  :  "  Jammes  loves  all  animals.  .  .  .  Since 
the  days  when  as  a  child  the  shooting  of  a  monkey  at  Pau  set 
him  trembling,  he  has  suffered  with  them,  and  for  them  : 

"la  vision  du  Singe  qu'on  fusille 
Tu  le  sais  bien,  elle  est  toujours  en  moi." 

His  dog  figures  often  in  his  poems.  There  are  many  creatures 
in  his  books  :  cats,  kingfishers,  larks,  butterflies.  He  has  sung 
of  wasps,  their  humming,  their  flight,  when  they  seem  like 
golden  balls.  La  Fontaine's  rabbit,  the  beasts  who  followed 
St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  and  those  with  whom  Crusoe  consoled 
himself  on  his  island,  Jammes  has  loved  them  and  written 
about  them  all." 

One  of  the  most  fragrant  and  delicate  of  his  books,  Pensie 
des  Jardins,  contains  seven  poems  called  "  Some  Donkeys." 

The  two  translations  which  I  have  been  able  to  include  in 
this  volume,  are  admirably  successful  in  reproducing  the  essential 
Jammesian  simplicity. 

Page  222 
STUPIDITY  STBEET 

Longfellow's  well-known  narrative  poem  The  Birds  of  Killing- 
worth  treats  the  same  theme.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  despite 
the  poems  of  Shelley  and  Meredith  and  the  rest,  not  only  is  a 
caged  skylark  a  common  town  sight,  but  rows  of  these  "  ethereal 
minstrels'  "  corpses  may  still  be  seen  during  "  the  season " 
strung  up  in  the  meat  shops  of  Leadenhall  Market,  London 
— for  human  food  ! 

Page  223 
IN  THE  "Zoo*? 

This  piece  by  an  American  writer  is  taken  from  Scribner's 
Magazine,  July  1914  (Copyright  1914,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons). 

Cp.  The  Captive  Stork  by  Janos  Arany  (1817-82),  one  of 
the  greatest  of  Hungarian  writers,  a  poem  which  depicts  with 
exquisite  pathos  the  hopeless  misery  of  captivity  for  a  migratory 
bird. 


258 


. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

FRANCIS  ADAMS.     "Poetical    Works."     (London:     Griffith 
Farran  &  Co.,  1887.) 

SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD.     "Pearls  of  the  Faith."     (London: 
Trubner  &  Co.,  1883.) 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD.     "  Dramatic  and  Later  Poems."     (Lon. 
don  :  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1895.) 

STELLA  BENSON.     "Twenty."     (London:  Macmillan  &  Co., 
1919.) 

JETHRO  BITHELL.    "  Contemporary  French  Poetry."    (Lon- 
don :  Walter  Scott  Co.,  1912.) 

WILFRID  SCAWEN  BLUNT.     "  Poetical  Works."     (London : 
Macmillan  &  Co.,  1914.) 

ROBERT    WILLIAMS    BUCHANAN.       "Poetical    Works." 
(London  :  Chatto  &  Windus,  1901.) 

GIOSUE  CARDUCCI.     (i)  "  Poems  "  :     translated    by   Frank 
Sewall.     (London  :  B.  F.  Stevens,  1892.) 

(ii)  Poems,"  with  translations  by  Maud 
Holland.     (London  :  T.  Fisher  Unwin,  1897.) 

JOHN  DAVIDSON.     "  Holiday  and  other  Poems."     (London: 
John  Lane,  1906.) 

GEOFFREY  DEARMER.      "Poems."      (London:      William 
Heinemann,  1918.) 

TORU  DUTT.     "  Ancient  Ballads  and  Legends  of  Hindustan." 
(London  :   Kegan  Paul  &  Co.,  1882.) 

V.  H.  FRIEDLAENDER.     "  A  Friendship  and  other  Poems." 
(London:   "Country  Life,"  Ltd.,  1919.) 

NORMAN    GALE.      "  Country    Lyrics."      (London  :     G.     G. 
Harrap  &  Co.,  1913.) 

259 


THOMAS  HARDY,  (i)  "Poems  of  the  Past  and  Present." 
(London  :  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1902.) 

(ii)  "Time's  Laughing  Stocks."    (London: 
Macmillan  &  Co.,  1909.) 

(iii)  "Moments     of     Vision."     (London: 
Macmillan  &  Co.,  1917.) 

RALPH  HODGSON,  (i)  "The  last  Blackbird."  (London: 
George  Allen  &  Unwin,  1907.) 

(ii)  "Poems."       (London:      Macmillan 
&  Co.,  1917.) 

LAURENCE  HOUSMAN.  "  Green  Arras."  (London  :  John 
Lane,  1896.) 

VICTOR  HUGO.  "  Poems  from  Victor  Hugo,"  translated  by 
Sir  George  Young.  (London  :  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1901.) 

FRANCIS  JAMMES.  "  Contemporary  French  Poetry,"  trans- 
lated by  Jethro  Bithell.  (London  :  The  Walter  Scott  Co., 
1912.) 

RICHARD  JEFFERIES.  "  Field  and  Hedgerow."  (London  : 
Longmans  &  Co.,  1889.) 

GEORGE  MACDONALD.  "Poetical  Works."  (London: 
Chatto  &  Windus,  1911.) 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE,  (i)  "Peacock  Pie."  (London: 
Constable  &  Co.,  1913.) 

(ii)  "  Motley."     (London  :      Con- 
stable &  Co.,  1918.) 

EDWIN  MARKHAM.  (i)  "  Lincoln  and  other  Poems."  (Lon- 
don :  Maclure,  Phillips  &  Co.,  1901.) 

(ii)  "  The  Shoes  of  Happiness  and  other 
Poems."     (London  :  Alex.  Moring  &  Co.,  1920.) 

GEORGE  MEREDITH.  "  Poetical  Works."  (London:  Con- 
stable &  Co.,  1912.) 

D.  M.  MOIR.     "  Poetical  Works."     (London  :   1852.) 

SIR  LEWIS  MORRIS.  "Poetical  Works."  (London: 
Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  Trubner  &  Co.,  1907.) 

ALFRED  NOYES.  "Collected  Poetical  Works."  (London: 
Blackwood  &  Sons,  1910.) 

JOHN  PAYNE.     "  Flowers    of    France :     The    latter    days." 
(London  :  The  Villon  Society,  1913.) 
260 


H.  D.  RAWNSLEY.     (i)  "Poems    at    Home    and    Abroad." 
(Glasgow  :  J.  Maclehose  &  Sons,  1909.) 

(ii)  "  Sonnets  at  English  Lakes."     (Lon- 
don :  Longmans  &  Co.,  1882.) 

SIR  JAMES  RENNELL  RODD.     "  Feda  and  other  Poems." 
(London:  Edward  Arnold,  1886.) 

MARY  ROBINSON    (Mme.    Duclaux).     "Collected    Poems." 
(London  :  T.  Fisher  Unwin,  1902.) 

H.  S.  SALT,     (i)  "The   Humanities   of   Diet."     (Manchester: 
The  Vegetarian  Society,  1914.) 

(ii)  "  Kith   and   Kin,    Poems   of    Animal   Life." 
(London  :  G.  Bell  &  Sons,  1901.) 

JAMES  STEPHENS.     "  Songs    from    the    Clay."     (London : 
Macmillan  &  Co.,  1915.) 

ARTHUR  SYMONS.     (i)  "  The  Fool  of  the  World.     (London  : 
Wm.  Heinemann,  1906.) 

(ii)  "Knave  of  Hearts."    (London:  Wm. 
Heinemann,  1913.) 

A.  C.  SWINBURNE,     (i)  Poems    and    Ballads,"    3rd    Series. 
(London  :  Wm.  Heinemann,  1889.) 

(ii)  "Astrophel  and  other  Poems."  (Lon- 
don :  Wm.  Heinemann,  1#94.) 

(iii)  "  A    Channel    Passage."     (London  : 
Wm.  Heinemann,  1904.) 

CHARLES   TENNYSON    TURNER.      "Collected    Sonnets." 
(London  :  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1898.) 

KATHERINE  TYNAN.      "  Poems."      (London  :    Lawrence  & 
Bullen,  1901.) 

THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON.      "  The  Coming  of  Love  and 
other  Poems."     (London  :  John  Lane,  1906.) 

ROSAMUND  MARRIOTT  WATSON.      "  Poems."     (London  : 
John  Lane,  1912.) 

FRANCIS  BRETT  YOUNG.      "Poems,   1916-1918."      (Lon- 
don  :  W.  Collins,  Sons  &  Co.,  1919.) 


261 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  &  TRANSLATORS 


PAGE 

Adams,  Francis     .         .       ,.*.  .*.  /.-  .         .     191 

Arnold,  Edwin       .         .        ..  .         .  -.*       115-117 

Arnold,  Matthew  .          .         .  .         .  .         97-107 

Benson,  Stella        .          .         .  .         .  .      217,  218 

Bithell,  Jethro       .        •,          .  .          r  »      207,209 

Blake,  William       .          .          .  .  .  .  '       10-13 

Blunt,  Wilfrid  S.  ...  .          .  139-146 

Browne,  Stella       .         .          .  .  ...        .     127 

Browning,  Elizabeth      .         .  .  .  »           78-80 

Buchanan,  Robert          .         .  .  .  .       150-155 

Burns,  Robert       .         *         .  .  .  .           16-24 

Carducci,  Giosud    .          .         .    ;  »  .  .      128,129 

Cladel,  L6on           .          .         .  .  .  ,.127 

Coleridge,  Hartley           .          .  .  .  .^     '  .       58 

Coleridge,  S.  T /         47,  48 

Cowper,  William    .          ...  .  .  .         .     7-9 


Davidson,  John     . 
Dearmer,  Geoffrey 
De  la  Mare,  Walter 
Dutt,  Tom   . 


177-180 

.  225 

210-213 

173-176 


Friedlaender,  V.  II. 


219 


Gale,  Norman 
Galsworthy,  John 


263 


204-206 
201-203 


Haraucourt,  Edmond     . 
Hardy,  Thomas     . 
Hebbel,  Friedrich 
Hinkson,  Katherine  Tynan 
Hodgson,  Ralph    . 
Holland,  Maud 
Housman,  Laurence 
Hudson,  W.  H.     . 
Hugo,  Victor 
Hunt,  Leigh 

Jammes,  Francis  . 
Jeff  cries,  Richard  . 

Lenau,  Nicolaus    . 

Macdonald,  George 
Markham,  Edwin  . 
Marsh,  G.  T. 
Marvell,  Andrew    . 
Meredith,  George  . 
Moir,  D.  M. 
Morris,  Lewis 

Noyes,  Alfred 

Payne,  John 
Petofi,  Alexander  . 

Rawnsley,  H.  D. 
Ritchie,  Leitch 
Robinson,  Mary 
Rodd,  J.  Rennell  . 

Salt,  H.  S.    . 
Schiller,  Friedrich  . 
Sewall,  Frank 
Shelley,  P.  B.        . 
Smart,  Christopher 
Southey,  Robert    . 


PAGB 

.      181 

147-149 

86-88 

189,  190 

220-222 

.      129 

198-200 

163-168 

76,77 

53 

207-209 
156,  157 

72-75 

.  110 
169-172 
223,  224 

.      1-4 

111-114 

63-69 

123-126 

214-215 

.  181 
108,  109 

160-162 

70,  71 

182-185 

186-188 

158,  159 
14,  15 

.  128 
54-57 

.  5,6 
49-52 


264 


Stephens,  James  . 
Swinburne,  A.  C,  . 
Symons,  Arthur  . 

Turner,  Charles  Tennyson 
Vigny,  Alfred  de  . 

Watson,  Rosamund  Marriott 
Watts-Dunton,  Theodore 
Whitman,  Walt     . 
Wordsworth,  William     . 

Young,  Francis  Brett    . 
Young,  George      .         • 


PAGE 

.     216 

130-138 

194-197 

81-85 
59-62 

192,  193 

118-122 

89-96 

25-46 

.     226 
76,77 


265 


INDEX   OF  TITLES  AND    FIRST  LINES 
OF  POEMS 

PAGE 
A  baby  watched  a  ford  whereto     ...       .      '.-          •          •    147 

A  barking  sound  the  shepherd  hears       .         •          .          .     38 
A  blackbird  in  a  wicker  cage          k.        ,'         .          .          .111 
A  guid  New  Year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie    .        ...          .          .21 

A  hundred  years  it  seemeth  since  I  lost  thee  .          .163 

A  huntsman,  enemy  of  those  .          .         •  .182 

Above  the  shooters,  at  their  coward  play        .          .          .161 
Adulteress,  The         .  .  ,         .         .         .    115 

Ah  !  that  half  bashful  and  half  eager  face  !     .          .  ,       .     81 

All  but  blind \  -V        .          .212 

Alpine  Hunter,  The 14 

Amends  to  Nature  ,          .          .          ...          .    194 

Among  the  dwellings  framed  by  birds     .          .          .          .     28 

And  have  they  drown'd  thee  then  at  last  !  poor  Phillis  !  .     49 

Armistice .192 

Ass,  My  .          .          .          .          .          .        ,..          .          .    127 

Ass,  To  a  young 47 

Assassins         .........   146 

Assassins  find  accomplices.     Man's  merit  .          .          .146 

Auguries  of  Innocence     .          .          .          .          .          .          .10 

Auld  Farmer's  New  Year  Morning  salutation,  The  .          .21 

Beast,  The 86 

Beat,  little  breast,  against  the  wires        .          .          .          .214 
Beetle -worshipper,  The   .......     70 

Bells  of  Heaven,  The 221 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed        .          .          .25 
Bete  Humaine         ........   226 

Bird  of  Paradise,  Suggested  by  a  picture  of  the      .          .     45 

Bird-nesting .81 

Bird's  Nest,  The     .          . 72 

Blackbirds,  The  two Ill 

267 


PAGE 

Blinded  Bird,  The 149 

Blue  Tit,  To  a 219 

Brother  of  a  Weed,  The 195 

Butterfly,  To  a      ...  .  .27 

Cabhorse,  The 181 

Caged  Lion,  The .          .108 

Cat,  To  a 134 

Cat,  To  my 193 

Chaffinch,  My 156 

Crayfish,  The 76 

Creatures  that  had  wings  were  always  dear  to  me  .          .  77 

Cricket,  The 58 

Cynotaphium           ........  82 

Dancing  Bear,  The 51 

Day  after  day  you  who  are  free  as  air  .          .          .          .219 
Dear  little  friend,  who,  day  by  day,        .          .          .          .123 

Deer  and  the  Prophet,  The 182 

Dishonoured  Rock  and  Ruin  !  that,  by  law     .          .          .43 

Dog,  My 209 

Dog,  Tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  .          .          .          .          .41 

Dog  Tupman,  The 217 

Dog's  Grave,  At  a 137 

Donkey,  To  a 129 

Eagle,  On  an          ........       5 

Eagles 43 

Epitaph  on  a  Hare         .......        7 

Exiles,  they  tread  their  narrow  bounds  ....   223 

Fidelity 38 

Four  years  ! — and  didst  thou  stay  above         .          .          .97 

Fowler,  The 63 

Friend  of  the  Fields,  A 171 

From  the  broad  summit  of  the  furrowed  wold         .          .192 

Geist's  Grave 97 

God  evolving  ........    150 

Goldfinch  starved  to  death  in  his  cage,  On  a  .          .       9 

Good-night,  we  say,  when  comes  the  time  to  win    .          .137 
Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket,  To  the       .          .          .          .53 

Green  Linnet,  The 25 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass   .         .         .         .53 

268 


PAGE 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit  ! 54 

Half  loving-kindliness  and  half  disdain,  .  .  .  .193 
Hare,  On  seeing  a  wounded  .  .  .  .  .  .16 

Hare,  To  a  starved 85 

Hart,  The  stricken          .          .          .          .          .          .          .145 

Hart-Leap  Well .31 

Hedge-sparrows,  The       .          .          .  .         .          .191 

Here  in  this  den  of  smoke  and  filth        ....   204 

Here  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue,  .  .  .7 
His  hours  he  spends  upon  a  fragrant  fir  .  .  .156 
How  com'st  thou  on  that  gentle  hand,  where  love  should 

kisses  bring     .          .          « 70 

How  joyously  the  young  sea-mew  .          .          .          .78 

cannot  brook  thy  gaze,  beloved  bird  .  .  .  .118 

have  an  old  remembrance — 'tis  as  old  ,  '       .  .     63 

have  loved  colours,  and  not  flowers ;    .  .  .  .194 

have  shut  up  my  soul  with  vehemence  .  .  .195 

hear  a  sudden  cry  of  pain  !          •         »  .    .  .  .216 

love  thee,  pious  Ox;  a  gentle  feeling  .  .  „  v'      .   128 

paid  the  fisherman  on  the  sands,          .'  .  ,  .     76 

saw  with  open  eyes     .          ,          ,          .  ,  .  .  222 

sit  among  the  hoary  trees  .         .      "  .  .  .  .169 

Imperial  bird  who  wont  to  soar      .         .  .  ,  .       5 

In  early  spring  I  watched  two  sparrows  build  .   .      .191 

In  Memoriam         -.         .         .         .         .  »  ,  .   159 

In  the  well -house  by  Carisbrooke,  .          .  .  .  .198 

Inhuman  man  !  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art,  .  .16 

I've  watched  you  now  full  half  an  hour,  .  .  .27 

Lie  here,  without  a  record  of  thy  worth,        . .  .,  .41 

Light-hearted  dweller  in  the  voiceless  wood,    .  .  ..160 

Lines     .          .          .         .          .          .          .         ,  .  .   220 

Linnet,  The  ....         .'         .          .  .  .   213 

Lizard,  The   .          .          .          .         .         .         .  .  .    169 

London  Sparrow,  The     .         .         .  .  .  .   163 

Man  of  the  Red  Right  Hand 152 

Man  with  the  Red   Right  Hand  knelt  in  the  night  and 

prayed 152 

Midge,  On  a  .  >  .110 

Mother  Carey's  Chicken 118 

Mouse,  To  a 17 

My  path  anigh  a  lonely  church  once  led,         .          .          .72 

269 


PAQK 

Nicholas  Nye 210 

Night 12 

Night  held  me  as  I  crawled  and  scrambled  near     .          .225 

No  pitted  toad  behind  a  stone 220 

Now  you  are  dead,  my  faithful  dog,  my  humble  friend,  209 
Nymph  complaining  for  the  Death  of  her  Fawn,  The  .  1 

O  ancient  patience,  wherefore  dost  thou  gaae  .          .129 

O  God  when  You  send  for  me,  let  it  be  .  .  .  207 
O  thou  art  this  harsh  world's  poor  Caliban  !  .  .  .36 
O  who  shall  tell  us  of  the  truth  of  things  ?  .  .  .139 
Oh  little  friend  of  hah*  my  days,  ....  217 

Oh  the  sky,  the  sky,  the  open  sky  .  .  .  .  186 
Old  neighbour  of  the  fields,  "  Good-day  ! "  .  .  .171 
Once  I  was  part  of  the  music  I  heard  ....  114 

Our  Father,  ere  he  went 189 

Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking  .  .  .  .89 
Ox,  To  the  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .128 

Pent  within  rusty  bars  the  lion  stands  .          .          .108 

Pigeon-shooting  at  Ambleside  .          .          .          .          .161 

Pitiful 201 

Pity!  for  He  is  pitiful ;— a  king     .  .115 

Poor  bird  !  why  with  such  energy  reprove  .  .  .84 
Poor  little  Foal  of  an  oppressed  race  !  .  .  .  .47 

Poor  Matthias 101 

Poor  Matthias  ! — Found  him  lying  .....  101 
Prayer  to  go  to  Paradise  with  the  Asses  .  .  .  207 

Prisoner  of  Carisbrooke 198 

Puzzled  Game-birds,  The 148 

Rare  music !     I  would  rather  hear  cat -courtship      .          .  51 

Riding  through  Ruwu  swamp,  about  sunrise  .          .          .  226 

Royal  Ascetic  and  the  Hind,  The 173 

Runnable  Stag,  A 177 

Saint  Francis  and  the  Ass 189 

Sea  Mew,  The 78 

Seamew,  To  a 130 

Secret  of  Beauty,  The 87 

Skylark,  To  a 54 

Skylark  caged,  The 214 

Skylarks,  The  ....    186 

Slipping  upon  the  ice,  all  whither  night  and  day       .          .181 

Snare,  The 216 

270 


PAGE 

Soft-footed  stroller  from  the  herbless  wood  .  .  .85 
So  zestfully  canst  thou  sing  ?  .  .  .  .  .  149 
Spaniel,  On  the  death  of  a  favourite  old  .  .  .49 

Squirrel,  The 160 

Stag  impaled,  The 162 

Starling,  The 84 

Stately,  kindly,  lordly  friend, 134 

Stupidity  Street 222 

The  clouds  raced  by  across  the  yellow  moon  .          .  .59 

The  cross  was  on  his  hide,  for  all  to  see         .          .  .127 

The  fields  were  full  of  summer  sound  ;  .          .  .158 

The  gentlest  Poet,  with  free  thoughts  endowed        .  .     45 

The  Imperial  Consort  of  the  Fairy-king  .          .          .  .44 

The  Knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley  moor  .  .31 

The  stricken  hart  had  fled  the  brake      .         .         .  .145 

The  sun  descending  in  the  west,     •  .         .  .12 

The  wanton  Troopers  riding  by      ,         .         ...       1 

They  are  not  those  who  used  to  feed  us  •      .         .  .   148 

Thistle  and  darnel  and  dock  grew  there  .         .  .   210 

Thrush  in  Seven  Dials,  A       .         .         .         .         ..204 

lime  was  when  I  was  free  as  air  .          .    ;     .         —  .       9 

To  see  a  Wo:  Id  in  a  grain  of  sand          .         .      .  ,  .10 

Toad,  The      .          .         .         .    -.    .         .         ..       .-  .    139 

Tormentors,  To  the        '•.       ,.         .         .         .         .  .    123 

Turkish  Trench  Dog,  The        .          .        1.  "...   225 

Turn  from  the  mirage  of  a  God  on  high          .         .  .   150 

Two  years — two  years  !     And  is  it  then  so  long      .  .159 

'Twould  ring  the  bells  of  Heaven   .         .         .         .  .221 

Upon  this  leafy  bush  .  .  .  .  ,  .  .213 
Voices  of  the  Voiceless  .  ...  .  .  .  .168 

Wagtail  and  Baby          .         »         .         .  .          .147 

Waterfowl  in  Loch  Turit,  On  scaring  »  .  .  .19 
Wee  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie  I  .  .  .  .17 
What  magic  draws  us  to  thee  with  such  yearning,  .  87 

When  God  made  man  to  live  his  hour,  .         .         .         .201 

When  I  had  wings,  my  brother, 130 

When  some  dear  human  friend  to  Death  doth  bow,  .  82 
When  the  pods  went  pop  on  the  broom,  green  broom,  .  177 
Whence  do  ye  come  ye  creatures  ?  Each  of  you  .  .110 
Where  art  thou,  merry  whistler  of  the  hearth  ?  .  .58 

Why,  ye  tenants  of  the  lake, 19 

271 


PAGE 

Wild  Duck's  nest,  The 44 

Wilt  thou  leave  the  lambs  untended  ?     .          .         .          .14 

Winged  Things 77 

With  a  mind  fixed  intently  on  his  gods  .          .          .173 

With  head  drawn  back  and  heaving  flank  distressed,        .   162 

Wolf,  Death  of  the .59 

Wren's  Nest,  A 28 

Youth  in  Age 114 

Zoo,  In  the 223 


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