Andromeda, and Other Poems

THE SONG OF THE LITTLE BALTUNG.  A.D. 395

A harper came over the Danube so wide,   And he came into Alaric’s hall,And he sang the song of the little Baltung   To him and his heroes all.How the old old Balt and the young young Balt   Rode out of Caucaland,With the royal elephant’s trunk on helm   And the royal lance in hand.Thuringer heroes, counts and knights,   Pricked proud in their meinie;For they were away to the great Kaiser,   In Byzant beside the sea.And when they came to the Danube so wide   They shouted from off the shore,‘Come over, come over, ye Roman slaves,   And ferry your masters o’er.’And when they came to Adrian’s burgh,   With its towers so smooth and high,‘Come out, come out, ye Roman knaves,   And see your lords ride by.’But when they came lo the long long walls   That stretch from sea to sea,That old old Balt let down his chin,   And a thoughtful man grew he.‘Oh oft have I scoffed at brave Fridigern,   But never will I scoff more,If these be the walls which kept him out   From the Micklegard there on the shore.’Then out there came the great Kaiser,   With twice ten thousand men;But never a Thuring was coward enough   To wish himself home again.‘Bow down, thou rebel, old Athanarich,   And beg thy life this day;The Kaiser is lord of all the world,   And who dare say him nay?’‘I never came out of Caucaland   To beg for less nor more;But to see the pride of the great Kaiser,   In his Micklegard here by the shore.‘I never came out of Caucaland   To bow to mortal wight,But to shake the hand of the great Kaiser,   And God defend my right.’He shook his hand, that cunning Kaiser,   And he kissed him courteouslie,And he has ridden with Athanarich   That wonder-town to see.He showed him his walls of marble white—   A mile o’erhead they shone;Quoth the Balt, ‘Who would leap into that garden,   King Siegfried’s boots must own.’He showed him his engines of arsmetrick   And his wells of quenchless flame,And his flying rocks, that guarded his walls   From all that against him came.He showed him his temples and pillared halls,   And his streets of houses high;And his watch-towers tall, where his star-gazers   Sit reading the signs of the sky.He showed him his ships with their hundred oars,   And their sides like a castle wall,That fetch home the plunder of all the world,   At the Kaiser’s beck and call.He showed him all nations of every tongue   That are bred beneath the sun,How they flowed together in Micklegard street   As the brooks flow all into one.He showed him the shops of the china ware,   And of silk and sendal also,And he showed him the baths and the waterpipes   On arches aloft that go.He showed him ostrich and unicorn,   Ape, lion, and tiger keen;And elephants wise roared ‘Hail Kaiser!’   As though they had Christians been.He showed him the hoards of the dragons and trolls,   Rare jewels and heaps of gold—‘Hast thou seen, in all thy hundred years,   Such as these, thou king so old?’Now that cunning Kaiser was a scholar wise,   And could of gramarye,And he cast a spell on that old old Balt,   Till lowly and meek spake he.‘Oh oft have I heard of the Micklegard,   What I held for chapmen’s lies;But now do I know of the Micklegard,   By the sight of mine own eyes.‘Woden in Valhalla,   But thou on earth art God;And he that dare withstand thee, Kaiser,   On his own head lies his blood.’Then out and spake that little Baltung,   Rode at the king’s right knee,Quoth ‘Fridigern slew false Kaiser Valens,   And he died like you or me.’‘And who art thou, thou pretty bold boy,   Rides at the king’s right knee?’‘Oh I am the Baltung, boy Alaric,   And as good a man as thee.’‘As good as me, thou pretty bold boy,   With down upon thy chin?’‘Oh a spae-wife laid a doom on me,   The best of thy realm to win.’‘If thou be so fierce, thou little wolf cub   Or ever thy teeth be grown;Then I must guard my two young sons   Lest they should lose their own.’‘Oh, it’s I will guard your two lither lads,   In their burgh beside the sea,And it’s I will prove true man to them   If they will prove true to me.‘But it’s you must warn your two lither lads,   And warn them bitterly,That if I shall find them two false Kaisers,   High hanged they both shall be.’Now they are gone into the Kaiser’s palace   To eat the peacock fine,And they are gone into the Kaiser’s palace   To drink the good Greek wine.The Kaiser alone, and the old old Balt,   They sat at the cedar board;And round them served on the bended knee   Full many a Roman lord.‘What ails thee, what ails thee, friend Athanarich?   What makes thee look so pale?’‘I fear I am poisoned, thou cunning Kaiser,   For I feel my heart-strings fail.‘Oh would I had kept that great great oath   I swore by the horse’s head,I would never set foot on Roman ground   Till the day that I lay dead.‘Oh would I were home in Caucaland,   To hear my harpers play,And to drink my last of the nut-brown ale,   While I gave the gold rings away.‘Oh would I were home in Caucaland,   To hear the Gothmen’s horn,And watch the waggons, and brown brood mares   And the tents where I was born.‘But now I must die between four stone walls   In Byzant beside the sea:And as thou shalt deal with my little Baltung,   So God shall deal with thee.’The Kaiser he purged himself with oaths,   And he buried him royally,And he set on his barrow an idol of gold,   Where all Romans must bow the knee.And now the Goths are the Kaiser’s men,   And guard him with lance and sword,And the little Baltung is his sworn son-at-arms,   And eats at the Kaiser’s board,And the Kaiser’s two sons are two false white lads   That a clerk may beat with cane.The clerk that should beat that little Baltung   Would never sing mass again.Oh the gates of Rome they are steel without,   And beaten gold within:But they shall fly wide to the little Baltung   With the down upon his chin.Oh the fairest flower in the Kaiser’s garden   Is Rome and Italian land:But it all shall fall to the little Baltung   When he shall take lance in hand.And when he is parting the plunder of Rome,   He shall pay for this song of mine,Neither maiden nor land, neither jewel nor gold,   But one cup of Italian wine.Eversley, 1864.

ON THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD, KING OF THE BELGIANS 8

A King is dead!  Another master mind   Is summoned from the world-wide council hall.Ah, for some seer, to say what links behind—   To read the mystic writing on the wall!Be still, fond man: nor ask thy fate to know.   Face bravely what each God-sent moment brings.Above thee rules in love, through weal and woe,   Guiding thy kings and thee, the King of kings.Windsor Castle, November 10, 1865.

EASTER WEEK

(Written for music to be sung at a parish industrial exhibition)See the land, her Easter keeping,   Rises as her Maker rose.Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,   Burst at last from winter snows.Earth with heaven above rejoices;   Fields and gardens hail the spring;Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices,   While the wild birds build and sing.You, to whom your Maker granted   Powers to those sweet birds unknown,Use the craft by God implanted;   Use the reason not your own.Here, while heaven and earth rejoices,   Each his Easter tribute bring—Work of fingers, chant of voices,   Like the birds who build and sing.Eversley, 1867.

DRIFTING AWAY: A FRAGMENT

They drift away.  Ah, God! they drift for ever.I watch the stream sweep onward to the sea,Like some old battered buoy upon a roaring river,Round whom the tide-waifs hang—then drift to sea.I watch them drift—the old familiar faces,Who fished and rode with me, by stream and wold,Till ghosts, not men, fill old beloved places,And, ah! the land is rank with churchyard mold.I watch them drift—the youthful aspirations,Shores, landmarks, beacons, drift alike.. . . . .I watch them drift—the poets and the statesmen;The very streams run upward from the sea.   . . . . . .   Yet overhead the boundless arch of heaven   Still fades to night, still blazes into day.   . . . . .   Ah, God!  My God!  Thou wilt not drift away November 1867.

CHRISTMAS DAY

How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day?A northern Christmas, such as painters love,And kinsfolk, shaking hands but once a year,And dames who tell old legends by the fire?Red sun, blue sky, white snow, and pearled ice,Keen ringing air, which sets the blood on fire,And makes the old man merry with the young,Through the short sunshine, through the longer night?   Or southern Christmas, dark and dank with mist,And heavy with the scent of steaming leaves,And rosebuds mouldering on the dripping porch;One twilight, without rise or set of sun,Till beetles drone along the hollow lane,And round the leafless hawthorns, flitting batsHawk the pale moths of winter?  Welcome thenAt best, the flying gleam, the flying shower,The rain-pools glittering on the long white roads,And shadows sweeping on from down to downBefore the salt Atlantic gale: yet comeIn whatsoever garb, or gay, or sad,Come fair, come foul, ’twill still be Christmas Day.   How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day?To sailors lounging on the lonely deckBeneath the rushing trade-wind?  Or to him,Who by some noisome harbour of the East,Watches swart arms roll down the precious bales,Spoils of the tropic forests; year by yearAmid the din of heathen voices, groaningHimself half heathen?  How to those—brave hearts!Who toil with laden loins and sinking strideBeside the bitter wells of treeless sandsToward the peaks which flood the ancient Nile,To free a tyrant’s captives?  How to those—New patriarchs of the new-found underworld—Who stand, like Jacob, on the virgin lawns,And count their flocks’ increase?  To them that dayShall dawn in glory, and solstitial blazeOf full midsummer sun: to them that morn,Gay flowers beneath their feet, gay birds aloft,Shall tell of nought but summer: but to them,Ere yet, unwarned by carol or by chime,They spring into the saddle, thrills may comeFrom that great heart of Christendom which beatsRound all the worlds; and gracious thoughts of youth;Of steadfast folk, who worship God at home;Of wise words, learnt beside their mothers’ knee;Of innocent faces upturned once againIn awe and joy to listen to the taleOf God made man, and in a manger laid—May soften, purify, and raise the soulFrom selfish cares, and growing lust of gain,And phantoms of this dream which some call life,Toward the eternal facts; for here or there,Summer or winter, ’twill be Christmas Day.   Blest day, which aye reminds us, year by year,What ’tis to be a man: to curb and spurnThe tyrant in us; that ignobler selfWhich boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute,And owns no good save ease, no ill save pain,No purpose, save its share in that wild warIn which, through countless ages, living thingsCompete in internecine greed.—Ah God!Are we as creeping things, which have no Lord?That we are brutes, great God, we know too well;Apes daintier-featured; silly birds who flauntTheir plumes unheeding of the fowler’s step;Spiders, who catch with paper, not with webs;Tigers, who slay with cannon and sharp steel,Instead of teeth and claws;—all these we are.Are we no more than these, save in degree?No more than these; and born but to compete—To envy and devour, like beast or herb;Mere fools of nature; puppets of strong lusts,Taking the sword, to perish with the swordUpon the universal battle-field,Even as the things upon the moor outside?   The heath eats up green grass and delicate flowers,The pine eats up the heath, the grub the pine,The finch the grub, the hawk the silly finch;And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey,Eats what he lists; the strong eat up the weak,The many eat the few; great nations, small;And he who cometh in the name of all—He, greediest, triumphs by the greed of all;And, armed by his own victims, eats up all:While ever out of the eternal heavensLooks patient down the great magnanimous God,Who, Maker of all worlds, did sacrificeAll to Himself?  Nay, but Himself to one;Who taught mankind on that first Christmas Day,What ’twas to be a man; to give, not take;To serve, not rule; to nourish, not devour;To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live.   O blessed day, which givest the eternal lieTo self, and sense, and all the brute within;Oh, come to us, amid this war of life;To hall and hovel, come; to all who toilIn senate, shop, or study; and to thoseWho, sundered by the wastes of half a world,Ill-warned, and sorely tempted, ever faceNature’s brute powers, and men unmanned to brutes—Come to them, blest and blessing, Christmas Day.Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem;The kneeling shepherds, and the Babe Divine:And keep them men indeed, fair Christmas Day.Eversley, 1868.

SEPTEMBER 21, 1870 9

Speak low, speak little; who may sing   While yonder cannon-thunders boom?Watch, shuddering, what each day may bring:   Nor ‘pipe amid the crack of doom.’And yet—the pines sing overhead,   The robins by the alder-pool,The bees about the garden-bed,   The children dancing home from school.And ever at the loom of Birth   The mighty Mother weaves and sings:She weaves—fresh robes for mangled earth;   She sings—fresh hopes for desperate things.And thou, too: if through Nature’s calm   Some strain of music touch thine ears,Accept and share that soothing balm,   And sing, though choked with pitying tears.Eversley, 1870.

THE MANGO-TREE

He wiled me through the furzy croft;   He wiled me down the sandy lane.He told his boy’s love, soft and oft,   Until I told him mine again.We married, and we sailed the main;   A soldier, and a soldier’s wife.We marched through many a burning plain;   We sighed for many a gallant life.But his—God kept it safe from harm.   He toiled, and dared, and earned command;And those three stripes upon his arm   Were more to me than gold or land.Sure he would win some great renown:   Our lives were strong, our hearts were high.One night the fever struck him down.   I sat, and stared, and saw him die.I had his children—one, two, three.   One week I had them, blithe and sound.The next—beneath this mango-tree,   By him in barrack burying-ground.I sit beneath the mango-shade;   I live my five years’ life all o’er—Round yonder stems his children played;   He mounted guard at yonder door.’Tis I, not they, am gone and dead.   They live; they know; they feel; they see.Their spirits light the golden shade   Beneath the giant mango-tree.All things, save I, are full of life:   The minas, pluming velvet breasts;The monkeys, in their foolish strife;   The swooping hawks, the swinging nests;The lizards basking on the soil,   The butterflies who sun their wings;The bees about their household toil,   They live, they love, the blissful things.Each tender purple mango-shoot,   That folds and droops so bashful down;It lives; it sucks some hidden root;   It rears at last a broad green crown.It blossoms; and the children cry—   ‘Watch when the mango-apples fall.’It lives: but rootless, fruitless, I—   I breathe and dream;—and that is all.Thus am I dead: yet cannot die:   But still within my foolish brainThere hangs a pale blue evening sky;   A furzy croft; a sandy lane.1870.

THE PRIEST’S HEART

It was Sir John, the fair young Priest,   He strode up off the strand;But seven fisher maidens he left behind   All dancing hand in hand.He came unto the wise wife’s house:   ‘Now, Mother, to prove your art;To charm May Carleton’s merry blue eyes   Out of a young man’s heart.’‘My son, you went for a holy man,   Whose heart was set on high;Go sing in your psalter, and read in your books;   Man’s love fleets lightly by.’‘I had liever to talk with May Carleton,   Than with all the saints in Heaven;I had liever to sit by May Carleton   Than climb the spherès seven.‘I have watched and fasted, early and late,   I have prayed to all above;But I find no cure save churchyard mould   For the pain which men call love.’‘Now Heaven forefend that ill grow worse:   Enough that ill be ill.I know of a spell to draw May Carleton,   And bend her to your will.’‘If thou didst that which thou canst not do,   Wise woman though thou be,I would run and run till I buried myself   In the surge of yonder sea.‘Scathless for me are maid and wife,   And scathless shall they bide.Yet charm me May Carleton’s eyes from the heart   That aches in my left side.’She charmed him with the white witchcraft,   She charmed him with the black,But he turned his fair young face to the wall,   Till she heard his heart-strings crack.1870

‘QU’EST QU’IL DIT’ 10

Espion ailé de la jeune amanteDe l’ombre des palmiers pourquoi ce cri?Laisse en paix le beau garçon plaider et vaincre—Pourquoi, pourquoi demander ‘Qu’est qu’il dit?’‘Qu’est qu’il dit?’  Ce que tu dis toi-mêmeChaque mois de ce printemps eternel;Ce que disent les papillons qui s’entre-baisent,Ce que dit tout bel jeun être à toute belle.Importun!  Attende quelques lustres:Quand les souvenirs 1’emmeneront ici—Mère, grand’mère, pâle, lasse, et fidèle,Demande mais doucement—‘Et le vieillard,   Qu’est qu’il dit?’Trinidad, January 10, 1870

THE LEGEND OF LA BREA 11

Down beside the loathly Pitch Lake,   In the stately Morichal,12Sat an ancient Spanish Indian,   Peering through the columns tall.Watching vainly for the flashing   Of the jewelled colibris;13Listening vainly for their humming   Round the honey-blossomed trees.‘Few,’ he sighed, ‘they come, and fewer,   To the cocorité14 bowers;Murdered, madly, through the forests   Which of yore were theirs—and oursBy there came a negro hunter,   Lithe and lusty, sleek and strong,Rolling round his sparkling eyeballs,   As he loped and lounged along.Rusty firelock on his shoulder;   Rusty cutlass on his thigh;Never jollier British subject   Rollicked underneath the sky.British law to give him safety,   British fleets to guard his shore,And a square of British freehold—   He had all we have, and more.Fattening through the endless summer,   Like his own provision ground,He had reached the summum bonum   Which our latest wits have found.So he thought; and in his hammock   Gnawed his junk of sugar-cane,Toasted plantains at the fire-stick,   Gnawed, and dozed, and gnawed again.Had a wife in his ajoupa15 —   Or, at least, what did instead;Children, too, who died so early,   He’d no need to earn their bread.Never stole, save what he needed,   From the Crown woods round about;Never lied, except when summoned—   Let the warden find him out.Never drank, except at market;   Never beat his sturdy mate;She could hit as hard as he could,   And had just as hard a pate.Had no care for priest nor parson,   Hope of heaven nor fear of hell;And in all his views of nature   Held with Comte and Peter Bell.Healthy, happy, silly, kindly,   Neither care nor toil had he,Save to work an hour at sunrise,   And then hunt the colibri.Not a bad man; not a good man:   Scarce a man at all, one fears,If the Man be that within us   Which is born of fire and tears.Round the palm-stems, round the creepers,   Flashed a feathered jewel past,Ruby-crested, topaz-throated,   Plucked the cocorité bast,Plucked the fallen ceiba-cotton,16   Whirred away to build his nest,Hung at last, with happy humming,   Round some flower he fancied best.Up then went the rusty muzzle,   ’Dat de tenth I shot to-day:’But out sprang the Indian shouting,   Balked the negro of his prey.‘Eh, you Señor Trinidada!   What dis new ondacent plan?Spoil a genl’man’s chance ob shooting?   I as good as any man.‘Dese not your woods; dese de Queen’s woods:   You seem not know whar you ar,Gibbin’ yuself dese buckra airs here,   You black Indian Papist!  Dar!’Stately, courteous, stood the Indian;   Pointed through the palm-tree shade:‘Does the gentleman of colour   Know how yon Pitch Lake was made?’Grinned the negro, grinned and trembled—   Through his nerves a shudder ran—Saw a snake-like eye that held him;   Saw—he’d met an Obeah man.Saw a fêtish—such a bottle—   Buried at his cottage door;Toad and spider, dirty water,   Rusty nails, and nine charms more.Saw in vision such a cock’s head   In the path—and it was white!Saw Brinvilliers17 in his pottage:   Faltered, cold and damp with fright.Fearful is the chance of poison:   Fearful, too, the great unknown:Magic brings some positivists   Humbly on their marrow-bone.Like the wedding-guest enchanted,   There he stood, a trembling cur;While the Indian told his story,   Like the Ancient Mariner.Told how—‘Once that loathly Pitch Lake   Was a garden bright and fair;How the Chaymas off the mainland   Built their palm ajoupas there.‘How they throve, and how they fattened,   Hale and happy, safe and strong;Passed the livelong days in feasting;   Passed the nights in dance and song.‘Till they cruel grew, and wanton:   Till they killed the colibris.Then outspake the great Good Spirit,   Who can see through all the trees,‘Said—“And what have I not sent you,   Wanton Chaymas, many a year?Lapp,18 agouti,19 cachicame,20   Quenc21 and guazu-pita deer.‘“Fish I sent you, sent you turtle,   Chip-chip,22 conch, flamingo red,Woodland paui,23 horned screamer,24   And blue ramier25 overhead.‘“Plums from balata26 and mombin,27   Tania,28 manioc,29 water-vine;30Let you fell my slim manacques,31   Tap my sweet morichè wine.32‘“Sent rich plantains,33 food of angels;   Rich ananas,34 food of kings;Grudged you none of all my treasures:   Save these lovely useless things.”‘But the Chaymas’ ears were deafened;   Blind their eyes, and could not seeHow a blissful Indian’s spirit   Lived in every colibri.‘Lived, forgetting toil and sorrow,   Ever fair and ever new;Whirring round the dear old woodland,   Feeding on the honey-dew.‘Till one evening roared the earthquake:   Monkeys howled, and parrots screamed:And the Guaraons at morning   Gathered here, as men who dreamed.‘Sunk were gardens, sunk ajoupas;   Hut and hammock, man and hound:And above the Chayma village   Boiled with pitch the cursed ground.‘Full, and too full; safe, and too safe;   Negro man, take care, take care.He that wantons with God’s bounties   Of God’s wrath had best beware.‘For the saucy, reckless, heartless,   Evil days are sure in store.You may see the Negro sinking   As the Chayma sank of yore.’Loudly laughed that stalwart hunter—   ‘Eh, what superstitious talk!Nyam 35 am nyam, an’ maney maney;   Birds am birds, like park am park;An’ dere’s twenty thousand birdskins   Ardered jes’ now fram New Yark.’Eversley, 1870.

HYMN 36

Accept this building, gracious Lord,   No temple though it be;We raised it for our suffering kin,   And so, Good Lord, for Thee.Accept our little gift, and give   To all who here may dwell,The will and power to do their work,   Or bear their sorrows well.From Thee all skill and science flow;   All pity, care, and love,All calm and courage, faith and hope,   Oh! pour them from above.And part them, Lord, to each and all,   As each and all shall need,To rise like incense, each to Thee,   In noble thought and deed.And hasten, Lord, that perfect day,   When pain and death shall cease;And Thy just rule shall fill the earth   With health, and light, and peace.When ever blue the sky shall gleam,   And ever green the sod;And man’s rude work deface no more   The Paradise of God.Eversley, 1870.

THE DELECTABLE DAY

The boy on the famous gray pony,   Just bidding good-bye at the door,Plucking up maiden heart for the fences   Where his brother won honour of yore.The walk to ‘the Meet’ with fair children,   And women as gentle as gay,—Ah! how do we male hogs in armour   Deserve such companions as they?The afternoon’s wander to windward,   To meet the dear boy coming back;And to catch, down the turns of the valley,   The last weary chime of the pack.The climb homeward by park and by moorland,   And through the fir forests again,While the south-west wind roars in the gloaming,   Like an ocean of seething champagne.And at night the septette of Beethoven,   And the grandmother by in her chair,And the foot of all feet on the sofa   Beating delicate time to the air.Ah, God! a poor soul can but thank Thee   For such a delectable day!Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler,   To-morrow again have their way!Eversley, 6th November 1872.

JUVENTUS MUNDI

List a tale a fairy sent usFresh from dear Mundi Juventus.When Love and all the world was young,And birds conversed as well as sung;And men still faced this fair creationWith humour, heart, imagination.Who come hither from MoroccoEvery spring on the sirocco?In russet she, and he in yellow,Singing ever clear and mellow,‘Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you,Did he beat you?  Did he beat you?’Phyllopneustes wise folk call them,But don’t know what did befall them,Why they ever thought of comingAll that way to hear gnats humming,Why they built not nests but houses,Like the bumble-bees and mousies.Nor how little birds got wings,Nor what ’tis the small cock sings—How should they know—stupid fogies?They daren’t even believe in bogies.Once they were a girl and boy,Each the other’s life and joy.He a Daphnis, she a Chloe,Only they were brown, not snowy,Till an Arab found them playingFar beyond the Atlas straying,Tied the helpless things together,Drove them in the burning weather,In his slave-gang many a league,Till they dropped from wild fatigue.Up he caught his whip of hide,Lashed each soft brown back and sideTill their little brains were burstWith sharp pain, and heat, and thirst,Over her the poor boy lay,Tried to keep the blows away,Till they stiffened into clay,And the ruffian rode away:Swooping o’er the tainted ground,Carrion vultures gathered round,And the gaunt hyenas ranTracking up the caravan.But—ah, wonder! that was goneWhich they meant to feast upon.And, for each, a yellow wren,One a cock, and one a hen,Sweetly warbling, flitted forthO’er the desert toward the north.But a shade of bygone sorrow,Like a dream upon the morrow,Round his tiny brainlet clinging,Sets the wee cock ever singing,‘Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you,Did he beat you?  Did he beat you?’Vultures croaked, and hopped, and flopped,But their evening meal was stopped.And the gaunt hyenas foulSat down on their tails to howl.Northward towards the cool spring weather,Those two wrens fled on together,On to England o’er the sea,Where all folks alike are free.There they built a cabin, wattledLike the huts where first they prattled,Hatched and fed, as safe as may be,Many a tiny feathered baby.But in autumn south they goPast the Straits and Atlas’ snow,Over desert, over mountain,To the palms beside the fountain,Where, when once they lived before, heTold her first the old, old story.‘What do the doves say?  Curuck Coo,You love me and I love you.’1872.