Classic Poem

P ART I

T O-DAY , and in this England! Wherefore not?
Shall the sepulchral yesterdays alone
Murmur of music, and our ears still lean
Toward sleeping stone for voices from the grave?
Back unto life, ye living! Nothing new
Under the sun? Say rather, nothing old.
Have the winds lost their freshness, or the Spring
One dimple of her beauty? Looks the moon,
Whom lovers will with tight-locked palms to-night
Gaze on in silence, by the silence hushed,
One hour less young than when o'er Trojan plains,
To Trojan eyes, she shepherded the stars?
Hero's true lamp is out; Leander's arms
No longer breast the barricading surge;
But beckoning lights still burn in lonely breasts,
And seas of separation moan unseen
'Twixt love and locked embraces, salter far
Than e'er embittered sweet Abydos' shore.
Let Delphi's fire be quenched; fresh vapours rise
From smouldering hollows in the human heart,
Propounding riddles only verse can read.
Who understand not, ne'er had understood.

" Sheds all its golden gains upon the ground,
Leaving itself quite bare! " Thus far, aloud,
Murmured Sir Alured, and then broke off,
Completing not his own mind's parallel.
For he was standing 'mid the smooth domain,
He newly called his own, his sire just dead,
And the year slowly dying, when his gaze
Paused at an ancient sycamore bereft
Of all its leaves, that lay upon the ground,
It black, they burnished, and had felt the shock
Of a too timely close comparison.
" Leaving itself quite bare! " again he sighed,
" Like the old arms of that too generous tree,
Whose latest, poorest, barest branch am I! "
Then strode he on, and gazed upon the earth,
As do we all when sadness with the soul
A silent parley holds, since that we know
Under the earth earth's sadness will be stilled.

Upon the crest, midway, of wooded ridge,
Stands brick-built Avoncourt, its feudal face
Set firmly toward the south, whose smile it takes
When smile is given; but, when the skies are dim,
It wears on its indented front a look
Like battered armour. Each fresh age hath striven
To keep it young and drape its rugged years
With gentler graces of the newer time.
Below the stone-girt terrace that recalls
Merlon and embrasure of sterner days,
Now softened down to peaceful purposes —
Peripatetic dialogue, or 'chance
The slow faint foot of some fair sentinel,
Who, since the voice she loves to list, not now
Murmurs unmeasured music in her ear,
Tells discreet night her secret and drinks in
The indefinite passion of the nightingale —
Stretch lake-like lawns, and islands of fair flowers.
Beyond, rolls wooded chase, where startled deer
With quick short jerks 'neath clean-lopped branches bound,
And in the bracken forest disappear,
Or upon open velvet spaces couched,
With antlers motionless and haunches sleek,
Consume the day in graceful idleness.
Its immemorial majesty of boughs
Shuts out the common world; but, should you stray
Past its exclusive precincts, you are lost,
Lost utterly in world of sprays and stems,
That ever and anon divide, and show
Long leafy cloisters where rapt silence prays
When no man's desecrating foot is there.

But though its woods, glades, pastures, still are fair,
Progress, that boastful spendthrift who eats up
The savings of the parsimonious Past,
Hath squandered all except its loveliness.
In time's fast growing legendary now,
When service was the other pole of sway,
On whose joint axis moved the duteous world,
The fief of Avoncourt was still alert
To furnish forth a knight, a horse, a shield,
And, on their feet, a modest retinue.
Then came the later and the laxer days,
When gentlehood, its armour doffing, stayed
Mildly at home, wielding a lazy rule,
And to poor mercenary starvelings left
The lists of honour. With no foe to kill
Save time, who, killed, straight comes to life again,
Its desultory lords their lives despatched
'Twixt fox and flagon; hunted, boozed, and slept,
More fatly fed and brawnier boors among
Big raw-boned boors, their brethren, who revered
With forelocks pulled a sceptre meaningless.
But when the New Age bustled into view,
And sleek evangelists with purse and scrip,
Converts to comfortable tenets, cried,
" Be rich and fear not! " and mankind received
The golden gospel with attentive ears,
And leaving father, mother, followed it,
Dominion's shadow slipped from Avoncourt.
It bore not, like the patriarch's spouse of old,
Within its womb a wonder late-conceived,
Such as in shires to north of Trent hath shed
On ostentatious plutocrats awhile
A counterfeited primacy which men
Will but to valorous wisdom long concede.
And so its race waxed insignificant;
Under the waves of opulence submerged,
And, since contending with the mounting tide,
More deeply drowned.

" A wealthy wife mends all.
Why not? It is the custom of the time.
I loiter out of fashion. " As he spoke,
The staghound pacing gravely at his side
Gave a bound forward, and was suddenly lost.
He, freshly in his new-found thought entranced,
Walked on, and, heeding not the truant hound,
Let the path lead him, till the cloistered woods
Closed all around him, and on autumn leaves
He trod, with autumn leaves above his head.
But when the dream of mercenary bed
Waxed unto vivid nightmare, and he woke,
Catching his breath and asking was it true,
" Lufra! " he called, whistled, and waiting stood.
And lo! from out an aisle-like avenue
Came Lufra, slow, and on her grizzled head
A hand of white and tapering tenderness,
The index of a form he quickly scanned,
Fresh as a bud that just hath burst its sheath,
A fragrant blossom of May maidenhood.
" I have lost my way among these woods, " she gasped
With a little laugh of shy perplexity,
And glancing round as though to run away,
Had she known where to run to. " Much I fear,
I trespass too. " He, taken unawares
By the sharp contrast betwixt sordid dream
And fair reality, quickly exclaimed
Ere taking thought, " It were a churlish wood,
A churlish world, that deemed you trespasser!
Where would you go? "

To maiden ear and heart
There nothing is in all the scale of sound
So sweet as unpremeditated praise;
And he had lauded her unwittingly.
" I would go home; " and therewithal she named
A cosy farm upon the southern verge
Of the land that called him lord, and told him how,
There 'mid the milk-sweet breath of homely kine,
Of cocks that crowed as though 'twere always dawn,
Of orchard-branches strung with coral fruit,
And porches cool with untrimmed honeysuckle,
She from the stale and stifling town had come,
To tend, as well as inexperience might,
Her mother's sister, only mother now.
" And may I be your guide? " — " You must, " she said,
" Unless you mean me to go rudderless
Through this big wood which is to me a sea,
Whereof I have not got the chart; its paths,
Like to the waves, into each other fall,
Perplexing in their uniformity.
Do they not puzzle you? " — " Me? No, " he said,
" I learned to thread them ere I learned that life
Hath any puzzles. " Therewith walked they on,
Slim form by side of stalwart, mated well.
" Perhaps these woods are yours? " she said. " They are.
" Is it not sad? " For she had led him back
By that home question to the thought wherewith
His mind had started. " Sad? " she asked. " For whom?
For you, or for the woods? " — " Alas! for both. "
Quick glancing up, she noticed that his garb
Symbolised sorrow. " Sad, you mean, because
They fell to you but recently, and thus
Possession signifieth deeper loss. "
" Ay, sad enough is that, but sadder still
When they who go but burden him that stays.
May we not doubt if stooping Atlas finds,
Too busy with his burden to look up,
The earth he shoulders, very beautiful?
The rivers roll above him, and the woods,
Leafier they are, the more they cumber him.
But look! a shore to your bewildering sea. "

And true, the pathway ended, stopped abrupt
By a gate that led into a field new-reaped,
Whereon were pheasants gleaning. Here he leaned,
And she, because he was her guide, leaned too,
Gazing upon the scene, but he on her.
" How beautiful! " he murmured, — thinking of her;
While she, unconscious of his theme, and rapt
All in the scene, " How beautiful! " replied:
" How peaceful! " And the music of her voice
Made music and peace in his unpeaceful heart.

Earth, our reputed Mother, so we lend
Our souls to her familiar influence
Wills not that any of her children be
To one another strangers; and so close
Are we by instinct and dumb voice of blood,
That the harsh stepdame Custom ofttimes fails,
Even when girt with all its ceremony,
To keep us quite as alien as it would.
But when in lieu of jealous boundaries,
Of ambushed eyes, assassinating tongues,
And hearts expert in moral sophistry,
That from some lively premiss straight infer
Deadly conclusion, Nature's kindly troop,
The sky's ingenuous countenance, the frank,
The candid air, the unimputing woods,
The river flowing irresponsibly,
Make all our company, from them we draw
Contagious candour, and respond as free
As doth Æolian harp to hazard winds.

So, leaning there, with none to come between
The stirless autumn sunshine and their souls,
He, half to her, half to himself, resumed.
" Yes, they are mine, for that brief tenancy
Which we call life. We are but tenants all,
Despite pretentious parchments, and my sires,
Whom death hath ousted from this holding, held
Under a kindlier landlord, that lost time,
Which we are told we ne'er shall find again,
When days and nights were easy, and men's deeds
And duties travelled along well-worn grooves,
Impalpable, yet certain as the track
On which revolve the seasons. Now, alas!
All grows uncertain and irregular.
None serves, none sways. We chaffer for our rights,
And haggle over service. Which pays best,
We ask, where all pays badly, — till we learn
That unpaid duty is best paid of all. "

She listened; for believing youth that hears
Dark utterance, straight infers an oracle.
But he, aware he somewhat overmuch
Reflected autumn's abstract haziness,
Added, " Forgive me if I dreamed aloud,
And to a simple question gave you back
A round of riddles. Yes, the woods are mine.
Should I not rather say that I am theirs? "

Thereat, with little skill and no device,
But in that homely speech which moves us more
Than all the tropes of foreign rhetoric,
She said the very happiest lot on earth,
To her at least it seemed, was thus to be
Lord of the soil in England's lovely isle.
" Ay, ay, " he said, sharp interrupting her,
" Its loveliness we kill not all at once,
Though many a rood, once fair and profitless,
To profitable foulness hath been warped,
And Nature every year pays heavier tax,
To wear her native livery. There you stand,
Rich in your youth, rich in your comeliness,
Their value undecreased by time or change;
For comeliness and youth, ten aeons hence,
Will be as young and comely and as prized
As they are now, while these poor woods will be
Burnt up to make some pandemonium puff
The smoke of Progress into Heaven's fixed face,
Or measured out in yards to serve as fringe
On thrifty Competition's narrow skirts.
Still they are mine, and I am theirs, and we
Must face the age together: cruel age,
Which makes men timid to be poor, withal
Still poorer, squandering life in dying rich. "

" I thought the age we live in was, " she said,
Still in response to scornful images
Tendering the words of meek simplicity,
" Reputed great. I ever hear it praised,
Called wiser, better, more intelligent
Than all its sires. But I am ignorant,
And only echo back the sounds I hear. "
" We play with sounding words; men ever did:
It is not children only love the drum; "
Again with ready gibe he answered her.
" Progress: — but whither? Our contentions are
The wheels that carry Progress on its road.
But who is it that drives, and who that gains,
Because we still accelerate the pace?
The axles of our poor revolving selves
Grow hot and hotter and still muddier;
But never one inch nearer comes the goal.
How should it, when no pocket compass shows
Whether we go to, or away from, it? "

" God is the goal, " she said, with reverent lips.
" Then being the goal, He must be stationary,
While we progress. Do we progress towards Him?
Do railways, or with broad or narrow gauge,
Bring us one station nearer unto Heaven?
The electric leap, annihilating time,
As long as ever leaves Eternity;
And all its boasted currents, speed as far
As ere they can, bury themselves in earth,
And end their circuit where they started from. "
Then, in a sadder tone, " O bootless round!
I do but see a motion meaningless,
With its monotonous mutability.
The years are linked to years, a lengthening chain;
But the hours wax not brighter, nor the days
Longer, nor yet the seasons fuller of hope. "

" How sad you make the autumn afternoon!
And yet I cannot gladden it, " she said.
" But others might, and, doing it, would plead
That Progress truer triumphs has to show
Than these, material, mechanical,
That leave us matter still. Does thought not move? "
" It moves, " he answered, " just as ocean moves,
Backward and forward; but its bulk remains
Long while unchanged, as do its boundaries.
Like architecture, thought would seem to have ta'en
All forms already that are possible.
Nought new is said, but only newly vamped;
And these pretentious novelties wherein
The upstart age struts proudly, are but gems
Carefully carven by an olden time,
Some cunning hand hath furbished up anew
And furnished with fresh setting. " — " That sounds true, "
Gaining contentious courage, she replied:
" But metaphors well-chosen always do. "
" Life is itself a metaphor, " he said,
" Full of ambiguous meaning, striving still
To represent a something that is not.
We cannot get behind ourselves. Thus, he
Who stands at the meridian of life,
Will count as much enlightenment behind
As in the future he anticipates.
The eye whose sun is setting deems mankind
Hath run its course of wisdom; while the boy,
Since just out of his cradle, never doubts
That History backward is as dark as night,
And that the sunshine of the waking world
Is all to come. All partial, and all, false.
If this be sad, then life hath little joy. "

" Meanwhile we make no progress to my goal, "
She said with a smile. So through the gate they passed,
Across the crackling stubble, onward thence
Over reaped aftermaths, bright emeralds set
In golden ring of autumn's circling woods;
Over rude stile, with help of stronger hand,
First touch of palms whereby the spirit will oft
Send half-obscure electric messages,
Deciphered later.

P ART II

" Loved me? Hath love a past then? What is that,
Once love, now love no longer? . . . Boastful fool!
Who is the victor now? These empty hands,
These empty halls, declare it, and I range
With farewell feet ancestral corridors,
With echo for my servitor. . . . Violet eyes,
And hair like sheaves of sunshine; eyebrows broad,
Matching the tresses, arched, but outlined strong —
Not baby stencillings — 'neath which, at times,
Broadened a gaze that seemed as looking out
Of all the Past at all Futurity.
Small dainty hands, as soft as captured bird,
So soft, we fear to crush it! — soft and white,
With feet to mate, fantastically fine,
True hint of her perfection, promised mine,
Now pawned another's for a sordid gain,
And ne'er to be redeemed! O roof despised,
Withal so proud, that might have sheltered both,
And now must shelter neither, house thy ghosts,
My ancestors, and what I might have been,
Had woman's faith been fixed! Now all things slip,
Past, present, future, down the gulf of time,
That whelms not me, who need must ride aloft
Upon its eddy, a still whirling leaf,
Too trivial to drown! "

P ART III

Deep thickets of green silence. For it was
A summer noon, and summer was asleep,
And lent them welcome, but beheld them not.
Only themselves, and stillness, and the sweet
Shelter of interpenetrating boughs,
And bracken thick and footfalls unreturned
From the deep soft dry sheddings of the pine.

Deep down into her lucid eyes he gazed,
And clear he saw his image quivering there,
The shadow of his gazing and his thought.
For she was like a snow-fed lake that draws
Into its bosom only high-born streams;
And he was like a cloudless night whose day
Has been the battlefield of clashing storms,
Raging, retreating, and returning still.
But now below the horizon were they gone,
And on her upward soul downward he shone,
With the serenity of a silent star.