Andromeda, and Other Poems

HYPOTHESES HYPOCHONDRIACÆ 1

And should she die, her grave should beUpon the bare top of a sunny hill,Among the moorlands of her own fair land,Amid a ring of old and moss-grown stonesIn gorse and heather all embosomed.There should be no tall stone, no marble tombAbove her gentle corse;—the ponderous pileWould press too rudely on those fairy limbs.The turf should lightly he, that marked her home.A sacred spot it would be—every birdThat came to watch her lone grave should be holy.The deer should browse around her undisturbed;The whin bird by, her lonely nest should buildAll fearless; for in life she loved to seeHappiness in all things—And we would come on summer daysWhen all around was bright, and set us downAnd think of all that lay beneath that turfOn which the heedless moor-bird sits, and whistlesHis long, shrill, painful song, as though he plainedFor her that loved him and his pleasant hills;And we would dream again of bygone daysUntil our eyes should swell with natural tearsFor brilliant hopes—all faded into air!As, on the sands of Irak, near approachDestroys the traveller’s vision of still lakes,And goodly streams reed-clad, and meadows green;And leaves behind the drear realityOf shadeless, same, yet ever-changing sand!And when the sullen clouds rose thick on highMountains on mountains rolling—and dark mistWrapped itself round the hill-tops like a shroud,When on her grave swept by the moaning windBending the heather-bells—then would I comeAnd watch by her, in silent loneliness,And smile upon the storm—as knowing wellThe lightning’s flash would surely turn aside,Nor mar the lowly mound, where peaceful sleepsAll that gave life and love to one fond heart!I talk of things that are not; and if prayersBy night and day availed from my weak lips,Then should they never be! till I was gone,Before the friends I loved, to my long home.Oh pardon me, if e’er I say too much; my mindToo often strangely turns to ribald mirth,As though I had no doubt nor hope beyond—Or brooding melancholy cloys my soulWith thoughts of days misspent, of wasted timeAnd bitter feelings swallowed up in jests.Then strange and fearful thoughts flit o’er my brainBy indistinctness made more terrible,And incubi mock at me with fierce eyesUpon my couch: and visions, crude and dire,Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity,Space, time, thought, being, blank nonentity,Things incorporeal, fancies of the brain,Seen, heard, as though they were material,All mixed in sickening mazes, trouble me,And lead my soul away from earth and heavenUntil I doubt whether I be or not!And then I see all frightful shapes—lank ghosts,Hydras, chimeras, krakens, wastes of sand,Herbless and void of living voice—tall mountainsCleaving the skies with height immeasurable,On which perchance I climb for infinite years; broad seas,Studded with islands numberless, that stretchBeyond the regions of the sun, and fadeAway in distance vast, or dreary clouds,Cold, dark, and watery, where wander I for ever!Or space of ether, where I hang for aye!A speck, an atom—inconsumable—Immortal, hopeless, voiceless, powerless!And oft I fancy, I am weak and old,And all who loved me, one by one, are dead,And I am left alone—and cannot die!Surely there is no rest on earth for soulsWhose dreams are like a madman’s!  I am youngAnd much is yet before me—after yearsMay bring peace with them to my weary heart!Helston, 1835.

TREHILL WELL

There stood a low and ivied roof,   As gazing rustics tell,In times of chivalry and song   ‘Yclept the holy well.Above the ivies’ branchlets gray   In glistening clusters shone;While round the base the grass-blades bright   And spiry foxglove sprung.The brambles clung in graceful bands,   Chequering the old gray stoneWith shining leaflets, whose bright face   In autumn’s tinting shone.Around the fountain’s eastern base   A babbling brooklet sped,With sleepy murmur purling soft   Adown its gravelly bed.Within the cell the filmy ferns   To woo the clear wave bent;And cushioned mosses to the stone   Their quaint embroidery lent.The fountain’s face lay still as glass—   Save where the streamlet freeAcross the basin’s gnarled lip   Flowed ever silently.Above the well a little nook   Once held, as rustics tell,All garland-decked, an image of   The Lady of the Well.They tell of tales of mystery,   Of darkling deeds of woe;But no! such doings might not brook   The holy streamlet’s flow.Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts,   Of melancholy dreams,By that fair fount whose sunny wall   Basks in the western beams.When last I saw that little stream,   A form of light there stood,That seemed like a precious gem,   Beneath that archway rude:And as I gazed with love and awe   Upon that sylph-like thing,Methought that airy form must be   The fairy of the spring.Helston, 1835.

IN AN ILLUMINATED MISSAL 2

I would have loved: there are no mates in heaven;I would be great: there is no pride in heaven;I would have sung, as doth the nightingaleThe summer’s night beneath the moonè pale,But Saintès hymnes alone in heaven prevail.My love, my song, my skill, my high intent,Have I within this seely book y-pent:And all that beauty which from every partI treasured still alway within mine heart,Whether of form or face angelical,Or herb or flower, or lofty cathedral,Upon these sheets below doth lie y-spred,In quaint devices deftly blazonèd.   Lord, in this tome to thee I sanctify   The sinful fruits of worldly fantasy.1839.

THE WEIRD LADY

The swevens came up round Harold the Earl,   Like motes in the sunnès beam;And over him stood the Weird Lady,In her charmèd castle over the sea,   Sang ‘Lie thou still and dream.’‘Thy steed is dead in his stall, Earl Harold,   Since thou hast been with me;The rust has eaten thy harness bright,And the rats have eaten thy greyhound light,   That was so fair and free.’Mary Mother she stooped from heaven;She wakened Earl Harold out of his sweven,   To don his harness on;And over the land and over the seaHe wended abroad to his own countrie,   A weary way to gon.Oh but his beard was white with eld,   Oh but his hair was gray;He stumbled on by stock and stone,And as he journeyed he made his moan   Along that weary way.Earl Harold came to his castle wall;   The gate was burnt with fire;Roof and rafter were fallen down,The folk were strangers all in the town,   And strangers all in the shire.Earl Harold came to a house of nuns,   And he heard the dead-bell toll;He saw the sexton stand by a grave;‘Now Christ have mercy, who did us save,   Upon yon fair nun’s soul.’The nuns they came from the convent gate   By one, by two, by three;They sang for the soul of a lady brightWho died for the love of a traitor knight:   It was his own lady.He stayed the corpse beside the grave;   ‘A sign, a sign!’ quod he.‘Mary Mother who rulest heaven,Send me a sign if I be forgiven   By the woman who so loved me.’A white dove out of the coffin flew;   Earl Harold’s mouth it kist;He fell on his face, wherever he stood;And the white dove carried his soul to God   Or ever the bearers wist.Durham, 1840.

PALINODIA

Ye mountains, on whose torrent-furrowed slopes,And bare and silent brows uplift to heaven,I envied oft the soul which fills your wastesOf pure and stern sublime, and still expanseUnbroken by the petty incidentsOf noisy life: Oh hear me once again!Winds, upon whose racked eddies, far aloft,Above the murmur of the uneasy world,My thoughts in exultation held their way:Whose tremulous whispers through the rustling gladeWere once to me unearthly tones of love,Joy without object, wordless music, stealingThrough all my soul, until my pulse beat fastWith aimless hope, and unexpressed desire—Thou sea, who wast to me a prophet deepThrough all thy restless waves, and wasting shores,Of silent labour, and eternal change;First teacher of the dense immensityOf ever-stirring life, in thy strange formsOf fish, and shell, and worm, and oozy weed:To me alike thy frenzy and thy sleepHave been a deep and breathless joy: Oh hear!Mountains, and winds, and waves, take back your child!Upon thy balmy bosom, Mother Nature,Where my young spirit dreamt its years away,Give me once more to nestle: I have strayedFar through another world, which is not thine.Through sunless cities, and the weary hauntsOf smoke-grimed labour, and foul revelryMy flagging wing has swept.  A mateless bird’sMy pilgrimage has been; through sin, and doubt,And darkness, seeking love.  Oh hear me, Nature!Receive me once again: but not alone;No more alone, Great Mother!  I have broughtOne who has wandered, yet not sinned, like me.Upon thy lap, twin children, let us lie;And in the light of thine immortal eyesLet our souls mingle, till The Father callsTo some eternal home the charge He gives thee.Cambridge, 1841.

A HOPE

Twin stars, aloft in ether clear,   Around each other roll alway,Within one common atmosphere   Of their own mutual light and day.And myriad happy eyes are bent   Upon their changeless love alway;As, strengthened by their one intent,   They pour the flood of life and day.So we through this world’s waning night   May, hand in hand, pursue our way;Shed round us order, love, and light,   And shine unto the perfect day.1842.

THE POETRY OF A ROOT CROP

Underneath their eider-robeRusset swede and golden globe,Feathered carrot, burrowing deep,Steadfast wait in charmèd sleep;Treasure-houses wherein lie,Locked by angels’ alchemy,Milk and hair, and blood, and bone,Children of the barren stone;Children of the flaming Air,With his blue eye keen and bare,Spirit-peopled smiling downOn frozen field and toiling town—Toiling town that will not heedGod His voice for rage and greed;Frozen fields that surpliced lie,Gazing patient at the sky;Like some marble carven nun,With folded hands when work is done,Who mute upon her tomb doth pray,Till the resurrection day.Eversley, 1845.

CHILD BALLAD

Jesus, He loves one and all,Jesus, He loves children small,Their souls are waiting round His feetOn high, before His mercy-seat.While He wandered here belowChildren small to Him did go,At His feet they knelt and prayed,On their heads His hands He laid.Came a Spirit on them then,Better than of mighty men,A Spirit faithful, pure and mild,A Spirit fit for king and child.Oh! that Spirit give to me,Jesu Lord, where’er I be!1847.

AIRLY BEACON

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;   Oh the pleasant sight to seeShires and towns from Airly Beacon,   While my love climbed up to me!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;   Oh the happy hours we layDeep in fern on Airly Beacon,   Courting through the summer’s day!Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;   Oh the weary haunt for me,All alone on Airly Beacon,   With his baby on my knee!1847.

SAPPHO

She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;Above her glared the noon; beneath, the sea.Upon the white horizon Atho’s peakWeltered in burning haze; all airs were dead;The cicale slept among the tamarisk’s hair;The birds sat dumb and drooping.  Far belowThe lazy sea-weed glistened in the sun;The lazy sea-fowl dried their steaming wings;The lazy swell crept whispering up the ledge,And sank again.  Great Pan was laid to rest;And Mother Earth watched by him as he slept,And hushed her myriad children for a while.She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;And sighed for sleep, for sleep that would not hear,But left her tossing still; for night and dayA mighty hunger yearned within her heart,Till all her veins ran fever; and her cheek,Her long thin hands, and ivory-channelled feet,Were wasted with the wasting of her soul.Then peevishly she flung her on her face,And hid her eyeballs from the blinding glare,And fingered at the grass, and tried to coolHer crisp hot lips against the crisp hot sward:And then she raised her head, and upward castWild looks from homeless eyes, whose liquid lightGleamed out between deep folds of blue-black hair,As gleam twin lakes between the purple peaksOf deep Parnassus, at the mournful moon.Beside her lay her lyre.  She snatched the shell,And waked wild music from its silver strings;Then tossed it sadly by.—‘Ah, hush!’ she cries;‘Dead offspring of the tortoise and the mine!Why mock my discords with thine harmonies?Although a thrice-Olympian lot be thine,Only to echo back in every toneThe moods of nobler natures than thine own.’Eversley, 1847From Yeast.

THE BAD SQUIRE

The merry brown hares came leaping   Over the crest of the hill,Where the clover and corn lay sleeping   Under the moonlight still.Leaping late and early,   Till under their bite and their treadThe swedes and the wheat and the barley   Lay cankered and trampled and dead.A poacher’s widow sat sighing   On the side of the white chalk bank,Where under the gloomy fir-woods   One spot in the ley throve rank.She watched a long tuft of clover,   Where rabbit or hare never ran;For its black sour haulm covered over   The blood of a murdered man.She thought of the dark plantation,   And the hares, and her husband’s blood,And the voice of her indignation   Rose up to the throne of God.‘I am long past wailing and whining—   I have wept too much in my life:I’ve had twenty years of pining   As an English labourer’s wife.‘A labourer in Christian England,   Where they cant of a Saviour’s name,And yet waste men’s lives like the vermin’s   For a few more brace of game.‘There’s blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,   There’s blood on your pointer’s feet;There’s blood on the game you sell, squire,   And there’s blood on the game you eat.‘You have sold the labouring-man, squire,   Body and soul to shame,To pay for your seat in the House, squire,   And to pay for the feed of your game.‘You made him a poacher yourself, squire,   When you’d give neither work nor meat,And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden   At our starving children’s feet;‘When, packed in one reeking chamber,   Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay;While the rain pattered in on the rotting bride-bed,   And the walls let in the day.‘When we lay in the burning fever   On the mud of the cold clay floor,Till you parted us all for three months, squire,   At the dreary workhouse door.‘We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders?   What self-respect could we keep,Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers,   Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?‘Our daughters with base-born babies   Have wandered away in their shame,If your misses had slept, squire, where they did,   Your misses might do the same.‘Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking   With handfuls of coals and rice,Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting   A little below cost price?‘You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,   And take to allotments and schools,But you’ve run up a debt that will never   Be paid us by penny-club rules.‘In the season of shame and sadness,   In the dark and dreary day,When scrofula, gout, and madness   Are eating your race away;‘When to kennels and liveried varlets   You have cast your daughter’s bread,And, worn out with liquor and harlots,   Your heir at your feet lies dead;‘When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,   Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave,You will find in your God the protector   Of the freeman you fancied your slave.’She looked at the tuft of clover,   And wept till her heart grew light;And at last, when her passion was over,   Went wandering into the night.But the merry brown hares came leaping   Over the uplands still,Where the clover and corn lay sleeping   On the side of the white chalk hill.Eversley, 1847.From Yeast.

SCOTCH SONG

Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw bride   To meet her winsome groom,When she was aware of twa bonny birds   Sat biggin’ in the broom.The tane it built with the green, green moss,   But and the bents sae fine,And the tither wi’ a lock o’ lady’s hair   Linked up wi’ siller twine.‘O whaur gat ye the green, green moss,   O whaur the bents sae fine?And whaur gat ye the bonny broun hair   That ance was tress o’ mine?’‘We gat the moss fra’ the elditch aile,   The bents fra’ the whinny muir,And a fause knight threw us the bonny broun hair,   To please his braw new fere.’‘Gae pull, gae pull the simmer leaves,   And strew them saft o’er me;My token’s tint, my love is fause,   I’ll lay me doon and dee.’1847.

THE YOUNG KNIGHT: A PARABLE

A gay young knight in Burley stood,Beside him pawed his steed so good,His hands he wrung as he were wood   With waiting for his love O!‘Oh, will she come, or will she stay,Or will she waste the weary dayWith fools who wish her far away,   And hate her for her love O?’But by there came a mighty boar,His jowl and tushes red with gore,And on his curled snout he bore   A bracelet rich and rare O!The knight he shrieked, he ran, he flew,He searched the wild wood through and through,But found nought save a mantle blue,   Low rolled within the brake O!He twined the wild briar, red and white,Upon his head the garland dight,The green leaves withered black as night,   And burnt into his brain O!A fire blazed up within his breast,He mounted on an aimless quest,He laid his virgin lance in rest,   And through the forest drove O!By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh,Through leat and furze brake fast drove he,Until he saw the homeless sea,   That called with all its waves O!He laughed aloud to hear the roar,And rushed his horse adown the shore,The deep surge rolled him o’er and o’er,   And swept him down the tide O!New Forest, July 12, 1847.

A NEW FOREST BALLAD

Oh she tripped over Ocknell plain,   And down by Bradley Water;And the fairest maid on the forest side   Was Jane, the keeper’s daughter.She went and went through the broad gray lawns   As down the red sun sank,And chill as the scent of a new-made grave   The mist smelt cold and dank.‘A token, a token!’ that fair maid cried,   ‘A token that bodes me sorrow;For they that smell the grave by night   Will see the corpse to-morrow.‘My own true love in Burley Walk   Does hunt to-night, I fear;And if he meet my father stern,   His game may cost him dear.‘Ah, here’s a curse on hare and grouse,   A curse on hart and hind;And a health to the squire in all England,   Leaves never a head behind.’Her true love shot a mighty hart   Among the standing rye,When on him leapt that keeper old   From the fern where he did lie.The forest laws were sharp and stern,   The forest blood was keen;They lashed together for life and death   Beneath the hollies green.The metal good and the walnut wood   Did soon in flinders flee;They tost the orts to south and north,   And grappled knee to knee.They wrestled up, they wrestled down,   They wrestled still and sore;Beneath their feet the myrtle sweet   Was stamped to mud and gore.Ah, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon,   That starest with never a frownOn all the grim and the ghastly things   That are wrought in thorpe and town:And yet, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon,   That night hadst never the graceTo lighten two dying Christian men   To see one another’s face.They wrestled up, they wrestled down,   They wrestled sore and still,The fiend who blinds the eyes of men   That night he had his will.Like stags full spent, among the bent   They dropped a while to rest;When the young man drove his saying knife   Deep in the old man’s breast.The old man drove his gunstock down   Upon the young man’s head;And side by side, by the water brown,   Those yeomen twain lay dead.They dug three graves in Lyndhurst yard;   They dug them side by side;Two yeomen lie there, and a maiden fair   A widow and never a bride.In the New Forest, 1847.

THE RED KING

The King was drinking in Malwood Hall,There came in a monk before them all:He thrust by squire, he thrust by knight,Stood over against the dais aright;And, ‘The word of the Lord, thou cruel Red King,The word of the Lord to thee I bring.A grimly sweven I dreamt yestreen;I saw thee lie under the hollins green,And through thine heart an arrow keen;And out of thy body a smoke did rise,Which smirched the sunshine out of the skies:So if thou God’s anointed beI rede thee unto thy soul thou see.For mitre and pall thou hast y-sold,False knight to Christ, for gain and gold;And for this thy forest were digged down all,Steading and hamlet and churches tall;And Christés poor were ousten forth,To beg their bread from south to north.So tarry at home, and fast and pray,Lest fiends hunt thee in the judgment-day.’   The monk he vanished where he stood;King William sterte up wroth and wood;Quod he, ‘Fools’ wits will jump together;The Hampshire ale and the thunder weatherHave turned the brains for us both, I think;And monks are curst when they fall to drink.A lothly sweven I dreamt last night,How there hoved anigh me a griesly knight,Did smite me down to the pit of hell;I shrieked and woke, so fast I fell.There’s Tyrrel as sour as I, perdie,So he of you all shall hunt with me;A grimly brace for a hart to see.’   The Red King down from Malwood came;His heart with wine was all aflame,His eyne were shotten, red as blood,He rated and swore, wherever he rode.They roused a hart, that grimly brace,A hart of ten, a hart of grease,Fled over against the kingés place.The sun it blinded the kingés ee,A fathom behind his hocks shot he:   ‘Shoot thou,’ quod he, ‘in the fiendés name,To lose such a quarry were seven years’ shame.’And he hove up his hand to mark the game.Tyrrel he shot full light, God wot;For whether the saints they swerved the shot,‘Or whether by treason, men knowen not,But under the arm, in a secret part,The iron fled through the kingés heart.The turf it squelched where the Red King fell;And the fiends they carried his soul to hell,Quod ‘His master’s name it hath sped him well.’Tyrrel he smiled full grim that day,Quod ‘Shooting of kings is no bairns’ play;’And he smote in the spurs, and fled fast away.As he pricked along by Fritham plain,The green tufts flew behind like rain;The waters were out, and over the sward:He swam his horse like a stalwart lord:Men clepen that water Tyrrel’s ford.By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh,Through glade and furze brake fast drove he,Until he heard the roaring sea;Quod he, ‘Those gay waves they call me.’By Mary’s grace a seely boatOn Christchurch bar did lie afloat;He gave the shipmen mark and groat,To ferry him over to Normandie,And there he fell to sanctuarie;God send his soul all bliss to see.And fend our princes every one,From foul mishap and trahison;But kings that harrow Christian menShall England never bide again.In the New Forest, 1847,

THE OUTLAW

Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father’s trade,To bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade.Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord,—Let them die o’ rent wha like, mither, and I’ll die by sword.Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben,Scrabbling ower the sheets o’ parchment with a weary weary pen;Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o’ sky,Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die.Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown,Trailing strings o’ footsore horses through the noisy dusty town;Louting low to knights and ladies, fumbling o’er his wares,Telling lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on cares.Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi’ ruffian bands,Pining weary months in castles, looking over wasted lands.Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o’ war—There’s blood on my hand eneugh, mither; it’s ill to make it mair.If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha’ been douce and still,And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my fill;Sat at hame wi’ the woman I looed, and wi’ bairnies at my knee:But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve’s no for me.For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken full wellHow you lay all night up among the deer out on the open fell;And so it was that I won the heart to wander far and near,Caring neither for land nor lassie, but the bonnie dun deer.Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals;I do but hunt God’s cattle, upon God’s ain hills;For no man buys and sells the deer, and the bonnie fells are freeTo a belted knight with hawk on hand, and a gangrel loon like me.So I’m aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the deer,Ranging far frae frowning faces, and the douce folk here;Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping down the screes,Looking out frae craig and headland, drinking up the simmer breeze.Oh, the wafts o’ heather honey, and the music o’ the brae,As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a’ the day.Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round the sky—That’s a bonnier life than stumbling ower the muck to colt and kye.And when I’m taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o’ my deer,Ye’ll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws, to dangle in the air;But ye’ll send up my twa douce brethren, and ye’ll steal me frae the tree,And bury me up on the brown brown muirs, where I aye looed to be.Ye’ll bury me ’twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far away,Where I may hear the heathcock craw, and the great harts bray;And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I’ll go glowering at the sky,The livelong night on the black hill sides where the dun deer lie.In the New Forest, 1847.