II Hard and heavy, remote but nearing, The grey sky gleams and the grey seas glimmer, Pale and sweet as a dream's delight, As a dream's where darkness and light seem dimmer, Touched by dawn or subdued by night. The dark wind, stern and sublime and sad, Swings the rollers to westward, clad With lustrous shadow that lures the swim mer, Lures and lulls him with dreams of light. Light, and sleep, and delight, and wonder, Change, and rest, and a charm of cloud, Fill the world of the skies whereunder Heaves and quivers and pants aloud All the world of the waters, hoary Now, but clothed with its own live glory, That mates the lightning and mocks the thunder With light more living and word more proud. III Far off westward, whither sets the sounding strife, Strife more sweet than peace, of shoreless waves whose glee Scorns the shore and loves the wind that leaves them free, Strange as sleep and pale as death and fair as life, Shifts the moonlight-coloured sunshine on the sea. Toward the sunset's goal the sunless waters crowd, Fast as autumn days toward winter: yet it seems Here that autumn wanes not, here that woods and streams Lose not heart and change not likeness, chilled and bowed, Warped and wrinkled: here the days are fair as dreams. IV O russet-robed November, What ails thee so to smile? Chill August, pale September, Endured a woful while, And fell as falls an ember From forth a flameless pile; But golden-girt November Bids all she looks on smile. The lustrous foliage, waning As wanes the morning moon, Here falling, here refraining, Outbraves the pride of June With statelier semblance, feigning No fear lest death be soon: As though the woods thus waning Should wax to meet the moon. As though, when fields lie stricken That hears what springtide saith And thrills for love, spring-stricken And pierced with April's breath. The keen white-winged north-easter That stings and spurs thy sea Doth yet but feed and feast her With glowing sense of glee: Calm chained her, storm released her, And storm's glad voice was he: South-wester or north-easter, Thy winds rejoice the sea. V A dream, a dream is it all the season, The sky, the water, the wind, the shore? A day-born dream of divine unreason, A marvel moulded of sleep - no more? For the cloudlike wave that my limbs while cleaving Feel as in slumber beneath them heaving Soothes the sense as to slumber, leaving Sense of nought that was known of yore. A purer passion, a lordlier leisure, A peace more happy than lives on land, Fulfils with pulse of diviner pleasure The dreaming head and the steering hand. I lean my cheek to the cold grey pillow, The deep soft swell of the full broad billow, And close mine eyes for delight past measure, And wish the wheel of the world would stand. The wild-winged hour that we fain would capture Falls as from heaven that its light feet clomb, So brief, so soft, and so full the rapture Was felt that soothed me with sense of home. To sleep, to swim, and to dream, for everSuch joy the vision of man saw never; For here too soon will a dark day sever The sea-bird's wing from the sea-wave's foam. A dream, and more than a dream, and dimmer At once and brighter than dreams that flee, The moment's joy of the seaward swimmer For there the downs and the sea-banks glimmer, And here to south of them swells the sea. ENGLAND: AN ODE [1894.] I SEA and strand, and a lordlier land than sea-tides rolling and rising sun Clasp and lighten in climes that brighten with day when day that was here is done, Call aloud on their children, proud with trust that future and past are one. Far and near from the swan's nest here the stormbirds bred of her fair white breast, Sons whose home was the sea-wave's foam, have borne the fame of her east and west; North and south has the storm-wind's mouth rung praise of England and England's quest. Fame, wherever her flag flew, never forbore to fly with an equal wing: France and Spain with their warrior train bowed down before her as thrall to king: India knelt at her feet, and felt her sway more fruitful of life than spring. Darkness round them as iron bound fell off from races of elder name, Slain at sight of her eyes, whose light bids freedom lighten and burn as flame; Night endures not the touch that cures of kingship tyrants, and slaves of shame. All the terror of time, where error and fear were lords of a world of slaves, Age on age in resurgent rage and anguish darkening as waves on waves, Fell or fled from a face that shed such grace as quickens the dust of graves. Things of night at her glance took flight: the strengths of darkness recoiled and sank: Sank the fires of the murderous pyres whereon wild agony writhed and shrank: Rose the light of the reign of right from gulfs of years that the darkness drank. Yet the might of her wings in flight, whence glory lightens and music rings, Loud and bright as the dawn's, shall smite and still the discord of evil things, Yet not slain by her radiant reign, but darkened now by her sail-stretched wings. II Music made of change and conquest, glory born of evil slain, Stilled the discord, slew the darkness, bade the lights of tempest wane, Where the deathless dawn of England rose in sign that right should reign. Mercy, where the tiger wallowed mad and blind with blood and lust, Justice, where the jackal yelped and fed, and slaves allowed it just, Rose as England's light on Asia rose, and smote them down to dust. Justice bright as mercy, mercy girt by justice with her sword, Smote and saved and raised and ruined, till the tyrant-ridden horde Saw the lightning fade from heaven and knew the sun for God and lord. Where the foot fall sounds of England, where the smile of England shines, Rings the tread and laughs the face of freedom, fair as hope divines Days to be, more brave than ours and lit by lordlier stars for signs. All our past acclaims our future: Shakespeare's voice and Nelson's hand, Milton's faith and Wordsworth's trust in this our chosen and chainless land, Bear us witness: come the world against her, England yet shall stand. Earth and sea bear England witness if he lied who said it; he Whom the winds that ward her, waves that clasp, and herb and flower and tree Fed with English dews and sunbeams, hail as more than man may be. No man ever spake as he that bade our England be but true, Keep but faith with England fast and firm, and none should bid her rue; None may speak as he: but all may know the sign that Shakespeare knew. III From the springs of the dawn, from the depths of the noon, from the heights of the night that shine. Hope, faith, and remembrance of glory that found but in England her throne and her shrine, Speak louder than song may proclaim them, that here is the seal of them set for a sign. The word that assures her of life if she change not, and choose not the ways of death. Change darkens and lightens around her, alternate in hope and in fear to be: Hope knows not if fear speak truth, nor fear whether hope be not blind as she: But the sun is in heaven that beholds her immortal, and girdled with life by the sea. ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT He held no dream worth waking: so he said, He who stands now on death's triumphal steep, Awakened out of life wherein we sleep And dream of what he knows and sees, being dead. But never death for him was dark or dread: "Look forth," he bade the soul, and fear not. Weep, All ye that trust not in his truth, and keep Vain memory's vision of a vanished head As all that lives of all that once was he Save that which lightens from his word: but we, Who, seeing the sunset-coloured waters roll, Yet know the sun subdued not of the sea, Nor weep nor doubt that still the spirit is whole, And life and death but shadows of the soul. DECEMBER 13-15, 1889. HUMOROUS VERSE THE AGE OF WISDOM' Ho! PRETTY page, with the dimpled chin, Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, -- Wait till you come to forty year! Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, Pledge me round; I bid ye declare, All good fellows whose beards are grey, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome, ere Ever a month was pass'd away? The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd, Ere yet ever a month is gone. Gillian's dead, God rest her bier, How I loved her twenty years syne! Marian's married; but I sit here, Alive and merry at forty year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 1850. -W. M. THACKERAY. LITTLE BILLEE AIR "Il y avait un petit navire." THERE were three sailors of Bristol city Who took a boat and went to sea. But first with beef and captain's biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she. There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they got as far as the Equator They'd nothing left but one split pea. Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, "We've nothing left, us must eat we." Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis ; Should love good victuals and good And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is? I recollect his droll grimace; He'd come and smile before your table, And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. We enter-nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder"Monsieur is dead this many a day." "It is the lot of saint and sinner, So honest Terré's run his race!" "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?" "Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; "Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ?" "Tell me a good one."-"That I can, Sir: The Chambertin with yellow seal." "So Terré's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." My old accustom'd corner here is, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, Where are you, old companions trusty My memory can quick retrace; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; There's poor old Fred in the Gazette; On James's head the grass is growing: Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. SORROWS OF WERTHER WERTHER had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And, for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter. 1855. -W. M. THACKERAY. THE JUMBLIES THEY went to sea in a sieve, they did; In a sieve they went to sea. In a sieve we 'll go to sea!" Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. |