[Most of the poems were written in the 1890s and early 1900s. To view the full text of a poem, click on its title below.]

In Rugby Chapel

The Heroic Engine-Driver

An Anniversary

The Greater Love

To N. H. & V. H. R.

A Hero of the Mohegan

Thanks to America. For Rudyard Kipling

Ode of Congratulation to Her Most Glorious Majesty Queen Victoria on Her Diamond Jubilee from the Women of England

In Memoriam: V.R.I. A Voice from the Colonies

To Nansen – England’s Welcome

To the Two Last Survivors of Nansen’s Team of 28 Sledge Dogs Who Were Shot, As Being of No Further Use, on the Ice-Floe of Franz-Josef Island

The Dead Seal Children

At the Nelson Column

To Ranavalona: Queen of Madagascar

Calixtus

Honour to Whom Honour is Due

At an Archbishop’s Grave

To John Ruskin on His 78th Birthday

Spring Crocuses at Murren

To Frances Power Cobbe

A Birthday Greeting: To Miss F. P. Cobbe – Dec. 3rd 1892

At Hengwrt – The Guardian Cypress Trees

Hengwrt – Oct. 21st 1894

At Hengwrt – May 18th 1897

A Christmas Holiday

To the Old Folks of Keswick and Neighbourhood – Dec. 27th 1893

A Happier Christmas

A New Year’s Greeting 1898

Britain’s New Year Jan 1st 1900

A New Year’s Hope 1900

At a Sower’s Grave – Tyn y Ffynon – May 1897

By the Torrent Walk – Near Dolgelley – May 18th 1897

The Peace of Talyllyn

At the Grasmere Rushbearing. In Praise of St. Oswald

At the Royal Academy

To the Sillyman, Who Is the Wise Man after All

A Harvest Hymn

To My Friends at Limnerslease

Faith

Hope

Charity

A Hymn in Memory of the Master of Balliol

In Memory of Lord Leighton – President of the Royal Academy

A Day of Kings

Christ and the Coal Strike

The Star of Prayer

The Triumph of the Innocents

Hits: 1665

 

The White Swan of Well

Here when the winds were soft, the faery swan
    Clear from the flood her ebon oars would shake,
    Would of her wings a snowy pillow make,
And back reclining, bid the breezes fan,
Then swiftly silent, as a Faery can,
    Pleased with her image, she her way would take,
    Her own sweet will her rudder, down the lake,
While on before, the courier ripples ran.
But if the summer scented breeze should fail
To fill with speed enough her delicate sail,
    Then would she drop into the wave an oar,
    And push indignant to the neighbour shore,
Here anchored in the lily beds would keep,
Until the truant breezes broke her sleep.

 

 

A Harvest Festival

At Wray

Betimes tonight the milkmaid fills her pail,
    Tonight the dairy bowls may gather cream,
    Early tonight the ploughmen loose their team,
The thrasher shuts the barn, & leaves his flail,
The miller too shall sooner stay his sail,
    And scantly shall the cottage tapers gleam.
    Then smock’d & glad of heart, the people stream
Up to the festal Church that crowns the vale.
Thro’ flower-deck’d doors of God’s own House they come
    Young, Old, Rich, Poor, the Master & the Hind,
    The Lord of Harvest praise with equal mind,
With equal voices shout the Harvest Home,
While from the wreathèd corn that twines above
The preacher tells God’s bounty, claims their love.

22 Sept. 1874

 

 

To a Robin

Thou full-eyed bird that /hauntest/singest/lovest/ daylight’s end
    And listening questionest the quiet ground
    Whether thy /evening/sunset/ meal may there be found
Thou dost the /lonely/weary/ gardener befriend
His rustling rake and hoe thou dost attend,
    And where the blackest mulberries abound
    Thou perching trillest out thy simple sound
And to his heart thy solacing canst send.
Say is it /sadness/sweetness/ that thy heart conceives
    From Autumn silence & from falling leaves
    That we, who know thee praise thy homely tongue.
Or is it, Robin, thou canst understand,
That legend sympathy that stayed the hand
    Kept thy warm eggs & spared thy speckled young?

Sept: 1874

 

 

“Sister Constance”

Sweet “Sister Constance”, would your life were mine?
    So purely fed, so consecrate to Rule,
    Then would no peevish fret, no foolish pule
Creep in a sour winter to my prime.
But yours, your life is ever Autumn time,
    Season of fruitful good, and quiet cool,
Your eyes are ever with your heart at school,
Your ears are mellow with the Vesper chime.
    Oh! hands of “pure religion undefiled,”
    That comfort age, & tend the sickly child,
Oh! hearts not ever shadowed with a doubt,
And doors that keep peace in & jarring out,
    Well may the warriors in the noisy strife
    Win through your prayers, & thank the cloistered life.

Kilburn. 1875

 

 

In Memoriam Lady Franklin

Buried in the Catacombs, Kensal Green

Yes, lay her here for she can pay the dues,
    Her voice was once a trumpet to the State
    So she shall rest behind this mouldy grate
And dry to dust within these charnel flues,
Not much to win & little more to lose!
    Vain show to vainer fashion dedicate!
    A little later shall rust eat her date,
And rude eyes longer win the question “whose?”
If with the coffin nails her name must fall,
Her honour with the worms that cease to crawl,
    She claims such pitiful indulgence then,
But better had her bones been laid to earth,
In that plain land that /blessed her hero’s birth/gave her lord his worth/
    Land of wide skies, wide acres, generous men.

1875

 

 

Magdalen Meadows

Oh! how shall I sing of thy meadows surrounded,
    With trees and sweet waters, with flowers and birds,
The cuckoo that cried, or the squirrel that bounded,
    The belling of deer, the soft lowing of herds.

Tho’ to lands of new sight & strange growth you may travel
    May dig for rich treasure, you never shall know,
Such coral and silver of fish on the gravel
    Such trees shaking gold, in deep waters below.

The paths are mosaic, the pebbles are shining,
    Lights flicker and dance from cool arches of green
And the blue periwinkle like turquoise is turning
    And an emerald fretwork grows glancing between.

Hark, hark, how the air is athirst(?) with the singing,
    There is song from the branches, & song from the grass,
The mad merry bells a full message are swinging
    And the men laugh aloud, light of heart, as they pass.

Not a heart that is sad, not a face that is shewing
    The sickness of age, or the sadness of ruth,
Sweet Magdalen Meadows your charms are renewing
    I feel once again all the blessings of youth.

1875

 

 

The Rooks in Magdalen Walk

Cheered by the voice of the mysterious spring
    They pull the buds to build their nests withal
    The blossom’d elm - & each to other call
Those gloss coat builders with wild jargoning
They, weary workers, know no rest of wing,
    From mists of morn to mists of evenfall.
    Plying their clamourous tasks about the Hall,
Their tasks made light of love’s imagining.
Is it wise things that they have understood
    The children’s picnic pleasure in the wood
    That build their bowers of green in fancy’s mood?
Or is great Love the leader of their quest
Love that can choose the Blossoms fittest, best,
    Love that compacts & crowns the swinging nest?

 

 

The Sabbath

Born of the bells thou sweetest day of seven
    Old ? hath the worn out drudge’s fee,
    Land unto land across a restless sea
Harmonious linking with high thought of heaven,
Thou too with holy sense of joy can leaven
    Those floating houses that in mid ocean be.
    Minding old days the sailor bends the knee
In tropic calm, through icy tempests driven.
    Come not in pomp from populous cities blown
    With noise of indistinguishable bells,
But rather where the grazing kine have known
    The restful message of thy Sabbath knells,
Where the grey Sexton’s use hath made his own
The chime that to the farms its’ simple summons tells.

Aug. 1874

 

 

Herring Fishing

Clovelly

The sun had flushed the red rocks into blood
    Had climbed and died beyond in utter pain,
    Upon his skirts hung fringed a drift of rain
And after soughed the sea in sullen mood.
A sad wind lours beneath the growing night
    From deepening valleys of the shrinking sea
    And flinging thunder at the foaming quay
Storms to the stars up yonder wooded height.
There in her grumbling chimney sits the crone
    And tells her tale of shipwreck oer & oer.
    The mother’s heart is cut upon the shore
She sings her cot-song in an undertone.
Hark! Hark! that hands rough rattle on the pane
    The herring fisher is safe home again.

1 Aug: 1873

N. B. Herring boats go out at sunset.

 

 

The Drought

June! and the doors of heaven are shut, no rain
    Falls to allay the universal thirst
    The flowers sickening die before they burst
And yellow death lies on the nice green plain.

No rain! not e’en a dew drop, while the Earth
    Pants, & the worm is shrivelled in the dust,
    The Chrysalis essays to pierce the crust
Of Earth, but fails, and finds a death in Birth.

Scorched all the meads, & all the springs are dried
    Where one time drank the mothers of the fold,
E’en the thirsty lambs long grown too old
    Noseling the once full udder are denied.

The water-snake that hails across the load
    Is seared, & hissing seeks some shady pool
    The crevice-hidden slug in search of cool
Is stung to madness in his new abode.

The corn that gave large promise in the spring
    Is yellowed ‘ere its growth attained an ear
    And all the land is stricken with the fear
Of famine & the woes that famines bring.

No rain! the birds with /unceasing/instinctive/ care
    Wearily seeking the accustomed food
    Can scarce find water for their callow brood
And feel no freshness in the fiery air.

Yet they despair not, but their voices pour
    In prayerful praise to Him who holds the rain
    Trusting he has not made them all in vain,
Knowing he ne’er deserted them before.

Uppingham. 11 June 1870

 

 

Sonnet on Chatterton

The fairest flowers soonest fade away
And fruits that grow to ripeness ere their time
Are often blasted by one treacherous rime,
All unexpected in the month of May.
E’en so fell blighted thy too brilliant day
For this cold world – Unhappy Chatterton!
Scarce had’st thou life, when lo! thy light was gone
And ceased the proud beginnings of thy lay
Oh! what awaited thy too precocious powers?
The fearful racking of thy youthful brain
Thy daily tasks – thy sleepless midnight hours
And search of musty records all were vain
When Pride stepped in & goaded thee to die
Rather than live in cruel beggary.

Uppingham. Aug: 1869

The first sonnet I ever wrote.

 

 

Today

[English Prize verse]

Midnight is past – the pouring rain
  Drives hitting on the window pane
        The west wind fiercely blows;
No cats, or Tabby, black or white*
  Have left the warm hearthstones tonight
        To soil their dainty toes.

The rain has ceased; with sharp quick cries
  Around the house a swallow flies,
        And tells us dawn is here;
Then slowly from the dripping trees
  Voice answers voice, and by degrees
        Birds twitter everywhere.

Night’s mantle slips, and now again
  The south wind turns the steeple vane
        And light awhile is grey;
Then sudden in the dawning East
  A long cloud lights its rose flushed breast
        And ushers in Today.

Up rose the sun, and wondrous bright
  Bathed bluff Northampton’s hills in light
        Streamed up each opening vale
Peered through the triple window’d spire
  Set the school chapel all on fire
        And made the dawning pale.

But soon each tiny burning-glass
  That hung on tree, on bud, on grass
        Its spirit power would win;
And tired of catching solar rays
  Rises to Heaven in purple haze
        Like Eastern fabled Djinn.

It wraps from sight the distant wood
  Steals up the vale & o’er the flood,
        Where swimmers are at play,
Then passes by the cricket field,
  Where boys are met to win or yield,
        For ’tis a match today.

It fades, and leaden clouds on high,
  Portending thunder, fill the sky;
        Hush’d are the blackbirds songs,
The late-come swifts now skim the ground,
  To seek the gnats that there are found,
        In wavy buzzing throngs.

But see the long imprisoned sun,
  Bursts from amid the cloudlets dun,
        And bids the blackbirds sing;
Now snow-white fleecy clouds are seen
  Passing their mirage o’er the green,
        In shadows that they fling.

We stroll; the erst so dark green wheat
  Shines white & wan about our feet
        Washed by the heavy rains.
Corncrakes are busy in the grass
  And larks spring up as on we pass
        To carol evening strains.

Yon old green wall is bright with trails
  Of frosted silver, where the snails
        Have passed along, last night;
See this huge caterpillar track
  His way with undulating back,
        Now swollen, now slim and slight.

That nettle bed is all alive
  With hairy shapes that grow and thrive
         And die with wings at last.
Scarce said, as if to verify
  My words, a shattered butterfly
        An orange-tip flew past.

Then on through meads whose king-cups pour
  About our feet their golden store,
        The dust of fairy-land.
And may-flies rising as we walk
  With galaxy wings, from stalk to stalk
        Flit on – a lazy band.

We paused, ’neath chestnut trees, whose flowers
  Like cressets hung in faery bowers,
        Gleamed in the evening light;
When from the topmost boughs of all
  Two cuckoos flew, without a call
        Nor wishing us goodnight.

Here myriad emerald coated things,
  With tiny ever-sparkling wings
        Creep up each grassy blade
There lady-birds sit ruby bright
  And spiders, scarlet spots of light,
        Fleck here & there the shade.

Then Home – the Eastern sky’s aglow,
  Its huge clouds move majestic, slow,
        Illumined from the West;
But sudden all their glory flies,
  The life of light within them dies
        The sun has sunk to rest.

Uppingham. 1 June 1869

• Alluding to the cats that prowl about the School House wall at night.

 

 

Early Autumn

  Mid August

Autumn is coming, quick the lime leaves fall,
And falling strew a carpet for her feet,
See to the dusty hedgerows straight she goes,
The blackbird hears her coming & is mute.
Then down she sits, the pink five petal’d flowers
That in or childhood, conjured happiest dreams
Fades into white & flutters to the ground,
She snatches at the bearded thistles near
And at a breath, she scatters to the air
A thousand wingéd messengers of down,
To fly & tell her           she is there.
Then with the silver bodkin, thus devised
And purple vetchlings with convolvulus
Enwreathed, she proudly decks her golden hair
While ever and anon to wile the time
She strings her armlets of crude blackberries
That grow to pink beneath her ripening hand.
Ay, and the grey-green sloes, and carelessly
She catches the white butterflies that pass
Poor silly things, telling their tiny loves,
And tried, to each blue harebell blowing round
She gives the tinkling of a silver voice
Then tunes them into concert with her own.
And sings—

Song of Autumn

I come to still the throstle’s note
    To see the cuckoo fly
To bid the robin’s ruddy throat
    Breathe rapt’rous melody.

I come to wrap the world in mist
    To gild the long green lands
To tell the harvest-man to twist
    His rope of oaten-strands.

I come to help the groaning wain
    Drag slowly home its store
To hear the flashing flail again
    Upon the threshing floor.

I come to watch the plaited snake
    Laborious cast its skin
And creeping noiseless from the brake
    A new garbed life begin.

I come to bid the ant take wings
    And hie him from his town
What tune the gay field-cricket sings
    And woods are flecked with brown.

I come to weave the spikéd furze
    With webs of silver fair
To scatter wavy gossamers
    Through the scarce breathing air.

I come to see the mallow creep
    The oak its acorn shed
The hawthorn tree its berries steep
    In dye of crimson red.

Thence to the golden tressed fields of corn
    She speeds; Lo! here she urges to their toll
The swarthy reapers / joying much to see
The hissing scythe lay in one moment low,
A whole year’s work of earth & sun & man /
While there she bids the honest spearers vie
In building up the quickly growing wain
Or, stooping, plucks a hairy poppy bud
From out the swathe that bleeds within her hand.
Next, to the still green woodland she repairs,
The fan-leaved chestnut views her as she comes,
Burst through their spiked mail the impatient fruits
And blush, like seedlings, of the sycamore
She plucks the clustering nuts & reckless robs
The grape tree of the humble cottager,
Then pointing, pauses at a grass choked spring
To wash her juice-sprent fingers, scarce arrived,
The willing water bubbles to the brim,
And drowning innocent forget me nots
Through long disuséd channels threads its way.
By now, the vetchlings & the wild convolvulus
Have faded, so she braids her loosened locks,
With crimson knots of silk from the wild briar,
And haw-berries all deftly interlaced.
Above her caw a clamorous cloud of rooks,
The hare hops by her harmless & unharmed,
The nut-brown partridge calls her strong wing’d brood
Around her feet nor dreams of coming woe
The squirrel spies & remembering hastes
To gather acorns for his winter store,
Up mounts the moon, full-orbed she lays her down
The woolly coated fox cubs frolicking
Play round her as she sleeps & in the morn,
The robin wakes her, singing from the spray.
She rising, bathed in golden light, the bloom
Mist made scarce sun-disperséd from her cheeks,
And stealing from the soft green lighted woods,
Hies to the garden of some lordly hall,
And orchards smiling with a bounteous hope.
Arrived, she, tapping at the humming hives
Whispers the brown-winged bees to bide at home.
Content with gotten treasure – and they bide –
Then shakes late roses, ruthless, to the ground,
And dulls the flames that ’ere her coming flared
Thence to the orchard passes, and the trees,
Well laden, bow in homage to the earth;
She twines and breaks the weather-rusted shreds
That long had held the pear tree to the wall,
Startling the swallow peering from its nest,
And leaves it swinging in the gentle breeze,
While amber treasures trembling as she nears
Quick from their leafy lurking-places drop.

1870

 

 

Napoleon III

Now they proclaim him a traitor
    They who just chose him, their hero & lord
Hard to be bonded, yet easily parted
    Fickle and fitful, untrue to their word.

He, for long years, was your bulwark, ye knew it,
    Brand him, when fallen, a coward? Ye lie,
Boldly he staked on one throw, and he threw it,
    Bravely he lost, and his wish was to die.

Shame on you, France, while your sons called him craven
    They whose best thousands in battle he slew,
Wiped out the mark that your false tongues had graven,
    Gave to his desperate daring its due.

Told how, while words he had vauntingly spoken
    Rang in his ears all that terrible day,
Charged he with columns all reeling and broken,
    Strove, God forgive him, to fall in the fray.

Told how with tear in his eyes, while the sorrow
    For those who fell round him nigh frenzied his breast
He swore with, an oath unaccomplished, the morrow
    Should find him a victor or dead with the rest.

Better a captive to live where with pity
    Men will regard thee, thy foes though they be,
Than to return to that merciless city,
    Hooted and held in derision, but free.

Aye, though the eagles that fluttered above thee,
    Slain by the hands that once fed them, are dead,
Others there are that will grow up, and love thee,
    Younglings that feathered, will fly in their stead.

Sept: 1870

 

 

Loss of 'The Captain'

An angry wind in the half-furled shrouds
    Laughed loud with a fiendish glee
And a pitying moon through the storm rent clouds
    Looked down on a surging sea.

Slowly but surely the huge ship keeled
    So slow that the iron tongue
 Of the deck bell struck that one deep note pealed
   Then motionless, voiceless, hung.

A downward plunge like a wounded whale
    All sudden, unseen, scarce a scream,
Only the voice of the growling gale
    And the snort of the wave-choked steam.

A moment fraught with the bitterest throes
    Of death neath the ravenous wave
Another, five hundred spirits arose
    Each, from its watery grave.

One plunge, and five hundred mothers were left
    To weep for five hundred sons,
And a navy, queen of the seas was reft,
    Of her loudest thundering guns.

The sailor lad dreamed, as he swung in his sleep
    Of his home and his mother’s love
And he finished the dream ’twixt the restless deep
    And the shuddering stars above.

Down went the ship with her ghastly freight
    To the depths of a darker night
Nothing to show of her fearful fate
    But the loss of a lantern light.

Fathom on fathom, the huge hulk sank
    Like a guilty thing, while a sail
Or a splintered bar or a parted plank
    Sped up with its terrible tale.

Fathom on fathom, a shivering shock
    The snap of an iron mast
A clanging on chains on a wave worn rock
    And the dead are at rest at last.

There though all else be convulsed betide
    Pent up in their iron tomb
They’ll sleep side by side whatever betide
    In peace till the call of doom.

No yew trees shadow their bones as they lie
    But giant sea-ferns instead
And the finny sea monsters gather to pry
    Unscared at the fresh-come dead.

They fell not in fight, fury-flushed with the din
    Of the glorious battle cry
They heard but the roar as the waves rushed in
    And death was their victory.

Weep England, weep, thou mayest labour give
    Fresh voice to far greater guns
But never again to thy need will hie
    The least of thy silent sons.

         7 Sept: 1870

 

 

Passionate Grief

There’s autumn in the falling leaf
    And autumn in the songless dawn
There’s autumn in the sun-gilt sheaf
    And in the daisy starless lawn.

There’s autumn in the tedded hay
    And in the lush grown aftermath
In willow sallows waving grey
    And beechen mast upon the path.

There’s autumn in the nerveless wing
    Of life-enamoured butterflies
And autumn in the gathering
    Of restless swallows in the skies.

There’s autumn on this wold-born hill               /Halton/
    And in the mistful fen below
The air breathes autumn scent, but still
    No autumn comes upon my love.

Sept: 1871

 

 

To a Snail

Poor snail! from whom the nomad Scythian
Beneath the stars took lesson unawares,
No longer travelled homeless, but began
To sleep secure from heart invading cares,
It pleasures me to watch you graze a plant
With mild majestic motion, wondrous ease,
In miniature a howdah’d elephant
Turning and twisting wither ward you please
To view your silken-braided coat of mail
The crystal funnels of your shooting eyes
That feel the breath of roses all so frail
Each cautious nether-horn that hand-like tries
Where treachery lurks, and least mistrustful slides
Back to itself and hesitating hides.

 

Continued No. II

When now the sun, hid by a veil of rain
Itself had woven in the summer’s sky
Has peeped to view the gladdened green again
Abroad then little robber dost thou hie
For thou art proud and know’st thy rain-dewed shell
Burnished as Tritons then becomes thee well.
Wondering, I watch thee, a poor shattered thing
Building, God-taught thy spiralled house anew
Framing with nice exactness ring on ring
Nor till completed painting in each line
Poor snail man wars thee down, nor man alone
Oft loving have I traced where thou hast been
Walk’d on a silver pavement like a queen
And found thy house in ruin its owner gone.

Sept: 1871

 

In Memoriam

    E.M.R. and D.A. 14 Jan: 1872

Now five and twenty times the sound
    Of shuddering bells on Christmas morn
Had shook the ledge laid snow to ground
    Since Maiden Margaret was born.

And four & twenty springs had strown
    Their emerald dust upon the plain
And four & twenty autumns flown
    The myriad mills to crush the grain.

Then came a spring and when the thrush
    Had scarce ’gan whistle to the fen
And when from barren bush to bush
    Flits carolling the russet wren.

Oh! woe the day that it should come
    The merry Maiden Margaret
Felt love for other than her home
    Oh! joy deep mingled with regret.

She’ll never gather violets more
    Or fine flowers from the banks of Thame
Nor girlish come to ply the oar
    On Isis as she one time came.

The village maids will miss her smile
    The matrons shake their heads, and say,
“The times are hard and dear the while
    Maid Margaret abides away.”

And in the church grey tottering men
    Will sigh to see an empty chair
And wish they had not bided, when
    They went away, that happy pair.

Hast thou not seen the wilding vine
    Make doubly beautiful the tree
It clings to, such a lot is thine
    So cling and make him worthy thee.

To be more worthy, were to bring
    An angel back to earthly state
But being worthy, let him fling
    His strong arm round his tender mate.

And towards her love’s assistance bend
    To climb the stair way of the years
And hand in hand unto the end
   To joy her joy, to weep her tears.

3 Feb: 1872

[Note added by MJ Allen - E.M.R. is Emily Margaret Rawnsley, one of Hardwicke’s older sisters. D. A. is D. Arden, her fiancé. They married on 23 April 1872.]

 

 

‘A wasted life is like a wreck that lies’

A wasted life is like a wreck that lies
Half sunk in sands of fearful solitude
As ’twere the ribs of some huge shore-washed whale
That once plunged master of the mighty storm
But driven by that strange ocean river came
From realms Hyperborean and from seas
Rough with their steel blue mounds of hillocked ice
And sickening in these southern latitudes
And summer simmering seas forgot its strength
And helpless drove upon these sandy shoals
And lashing anger felt the cruel tide
Forsake its slimy sand-bespotted bulk,
And all the tortures of the high noon sun,
So gaping died the prey of pigmy men,
Who, soon as death had dimmed the giants’ eyes,
Clomb hand in hand the mountain of warm flesh,
And with mock bravery, piercing thro’ the depths
Of fatness, struck the mammoth’s purple heart,
And laughed to see the red tide flush the sand,
Or, doubting if the brute might still relax
The stiffening sinews of the death-wide jaws,
Bade their rough dames and wondering children walk
Into the mighty bone-fenced mouth, and take
Clusters of clinging tangle and sea shells
To deck their house shelves as memorials.

July 1872

 

 

The Invitation to the Wedding

Shepherds today your flock may wander wide
    To other fountains and to other ferns
Fling each his hand bright hazel crook aside
                    They will return.

Ye ploughmen leave your dew-drenched horses free
    And give a second Sabbath to your team
Let their hoofs gather rust nor care to see
                  The furrow gleam.

Hide reapers hide your sickles in the corn
    Last night the poppies slept not sick for dread,
But bid them flash their banner to this morn
                  A deeper red.

Ho! fishers drag your weary boats ashore
    Through their old sides the sun shall seam(?) a way
Your babes shall handle the bread-winning oar
                  Mock men today.

Ye ships that in your pride come whitely winging
Round by the harvest, midway up the steep
Soon as ye hear the marriage bells a ringing
                                   All shorewards keep.

Old men creep down and mumbling blessings smile
And aged dames remember and be glad
Ye lovers envying mich away the while
                                   And maids be sad.

And, children, if a bride-crown ye must weave
Yet weave it all of lilies that pure flower
Starred the green dusk and lit for happy eve
                                  Her bridal bower.

For better wreaths the clematis shall twine
Laced by the thousand busy gossamers
And underneath these silver nets shall shine
                                  Fresh flowering furze.

Nor strew a painted pavement for the bride
The thyme a living path of scent hath blown
To keep her way their arms on either side
                                 The brambles thrown.

May such a sun as warms the gentian’s throat
Fling vale & upland to a winking haze
And such an air be stirring as may float
                                  The thistle faze.

May grasshoppers unnumbered minstrelsies
Harmonious make a trill at eve the lea
And chasing each his shadow butterflies
                                  Wing out to sea.

Sing man & maid & let your voices swell
The lark’s cloud song, the robins from the spray
Shout silence from the hill bid echo tell
                                                   The Holiday.

 

 

Buried on New Year’s Day 1876 /At Plumtree/

F. E. B.

Lay her upon the threshold of the year
Beneath its roundling Portals they who throng
Shall gaze & pass in weariness along
Or touch with hands of sympathy the bier.
The children have their earliest violets here
The sick take some small comfort & the strong
A little thought – And they who move among
Our petty discords peacefulness & cheer
And we – not all – who when this year has ended
Shall stand beside the next year’s opening door
Must know each other’s face & way is changed
But find her still & peaceful as before
And says: “She is but sleeping, first to make
The next world dearer for a lost friend’s sake.”

Halton Jan 4th

 

 

Lady Augusta Stanley

Wife of the Dean of Westminster, buried in Henry VII’s Chapel. 9 March 1876

“Feet to the lame & eyes unto the blind”!
To us who grope in learning’s mist & pray
That Christ will touch our eyes with healing clay
To those who in dark alleys crawled & pined.
True loyal woman, generous sovereign mind
Our eyes for tears are doubly dimmed today
As in the Royal treasure-house we lay
The chains that did thine eagle spirit bind.
Thy name shall most endearingly survive
Where Queens may pause, knights wonder, poets weep
Lie with the poor about thy sleep, and give
The nations abbey one more trust to keep.
Thine eyes are clearer, thou has passed the door
We are but children – love us evermore

15 March 1876

 

 

Minnie

Died 25 July 1877. Buried at Welton 31 July. Aged 19 Years

Gone, & we fain would go! a broken heart
Sobs out the wish to bear thee company.
Great God of love and loss & agony,
Shew us the good, and we can bear the smart.
Was she too frail to bear the fever’s dart?
Too old to glad a mother’s fostering knee?
Too sad to enter into girlhood’s glee?
Too little loved to pain us as we part?
Nay – none of these – for she was lithe & strong
The love for mother, as in grace, had grown.
She led the laugh from morn till evensong
And shared our tears, at parting, with her own.
But unto Minnie only, was it given
The Virgin strength and youth to enter Heaven.

[Minnie Walls. Mention of her death in Catherine’s 1877-1882 diary, RR/1/6, p. 10.]

 

 

To a Robin

Bright bleeding breasted bird, great benison
Be thine! for I am sick at heart, & thou
Whilom thou singest from yon mist-black bough
Strikest a kindred heart-string, so sing on
This slumbrous silent dark September day
Were death but for thy presence. Thou disarmest
The fen-flown fog of chill, and tuneful charmest
The curious speckle-throat to join thy lay.
Men say that when on Calvary Christ died
Thou too wast there, thy voice in pain He heard
And blest thee, who in grief poor fluttering bird
Did’st after strive to staunch His bleeding side
Wherefore we harm thee not, and thou dost cheer
With song perpetual the livelong year.

Halton. Sept: 1871

 

 

To the West Wind

(from Clifton Down)

Magician wind, from off the western sea
Charming such health from yonder ?
Setting more? sail upon the timorous? wood
Flashing with brown the oak, with gold the lea.
Sending the sunshine streaming in the tree
Blowing to human hearts the thrush’s mood
Making men smile to feel the old Earth good
And scattering thro’ the air the wild lark’s glee.
Breathe through the Hawthorns of this happy down
Break all their pearls to starry fragrances
Make the green distance frown & laugh & frown
Pile high in heaven spring snow white palaces
Beat back its song into the blackbird’s face
And blow my love that sailed back to her love’s embrace.

Clifton College. 2 June 1877

 

 

Christmas Day at Halton 1874

Ring out old bells, where in the frost ye hang
Shake your glad tidings thro’ the dusky bars
There no stir abroad this morn that mars
Your music, oh, ring it as one time rang
The Heavenly Chorus when the planets sang
And sons of morning shouted to the stars
When the rough shepherd’s joy came unawares
To Mary smiling from her last birth pang.
Still as the years return the stars rejoice
The angels shout ye too must add your voice
To speed from tower to tower across the fen
The tale of Peace on Earth, good will to men
For unto us this day a son is given
Love breaks the bonds of Law & makes Earth Heaven.

Caythorpe 1874

 

 

In Memoriam

On seeing the monument to Sir John Franklin* on the morning of Lady Franklin’s funeral.

Quiet, and cold, and white as frozen snow!
Well has the master’s cunning hand expres’t
The honours on that honourable breast
The speaking eye, the calm command of brow.
Ah! if those eyes could weep, they would weep now!
Today we carry to a well-earned rest
One who hath need, not any more, of quest
Whose love out championed her marriage vow.
She needs no tomb, her monument shall be
The ancient bergs, that mound the Northern Sea,
And when to summer waters melting slip
Those giant crystals that enshrine thy ship
The men that sail where thou & thine do sleep
Shall tell her love more lasting, & as deep.

H.D.R. 23 July 1875

• (Monument by Noble in Westminster Abbey)

 

 

A Valentine to the Lady Alice

Soothed with the murmur of the wind,
    The music of the grove,
Henceforth no maid can charm my mind,
    No woman’s lips sing love.
But Lady! then I did not know
The songs that from your dear lips flow.

Filled with the strength of rock & wood,
    Of the unceasing stream,
I said, no strength of womanhood
    So loveable can seem.
But Lady! then I did not know,
The strength you lend to things below.

The sun leapt forth, the hills were glad,
    Heaven frowned, the hills were grieved,
No face, when I was joyed or sad
    Such light and shade received.
But Lady! then I did not know
What sympathy your looks can show.

Shy mosses climb about the Croft,
    Dews fall, doves light around
Where can a woman’s ways so soft
    So gently sweet be found?
But Lady! then I did not know
Your hand, or hear your footsteps low.

I watched the pearl upon the flower,
    To mist, for blossoms break,
What Lady’s heart would melt an hour,
    For fellow mortal’s sake?
But Lady! then I did not know
To your unbending what we owe.

I saw the Pansies greyly blue,
    The speedwell bluely grey,
No woman’s eye can please with hue
    Or rest as much as they.
But Lady! then I did not know
That in your eyes the Heartsease grow.

The lake showed mountains far apart
   The sarn(?) brought near the sky
In what girl’s face was ever heart
    Shewn close, so faithfully?
But Lady! then I did not know
How true of soul your face can glow.

And since clear song, strength, sympathy,
    Soft ways, unselfishness,
True eyes, a face of honesty,
    One mortal may possess,
And you possess them, Lady, know
You are my Queen of Queens from now.

Uppingham. H.D.R. 1878

 

 

  A Valentine to Sir Herbert

Since you have never loved aright,
    Or loved to well awrong,
Sir Valentine, the lusty knight
    To yours this whole day long.

And thus he speaks, “To cure your ill,
    Unto a chemist take
And beg in powder or in pill
    These doses he will make.

One ounce of “Concentrated care
    For someone but yourself,”
One drachm of, “Wishes not to share
    The honours of the shelf.”

One ounce of, “Carefulness to find
    That women are not Joys,”
One drachm of, “Faith in female mind,
    Their power of sharing joys.”

One scruple add of, “Sympathy
    With maiden daintiness,”
Their Knowledge of the reason why
    The saying No or Yes.

One ounce of “Pride that will refuse
    To be by woman caught,”
But two of “Knowledge to amuse,
    Yet help by wit and thought.”

Six drachms of “Earnestness of life”
    One drachm of “Solitude”
Then Herbert, you may find a wife,
    And stick to her for good.

Uppingham. H.DR. 1878

 

“Arthur”

Died April 26th 1880

Aye, leave him here, with the primroses above him,
He was so gentle and brave to the end;
Hands may not hold him now, hearts still may love him,
Eyes cannot see him but life call him friend.

Too little Earth, too much Heaven to be with us
More need to stay with us, less need to go
What! have we here so much pure light of day with us,
So little pain! we would still wish it so.

Quite old enough to know world ways were cruel,
Too young to feel how love helps and makes sweet,
His simple honour, affections clear jewel
Hung round a neck where the mothers hands meet.

Patient, unselfish his shield whitely shining
Bearing the name of the goodliest King
So for our sake he has gone unrepining
Down the deep vale where no echoes can ring.

How shall we honour him, how shall we render
Thanks to the boy whose so soon sheathed his sword?
Strive to be simpler, affectionate, tender,
Battle with selfishness, live for the Lord.

To leave him here in the stillest of places
Where the wold melts to the sea girdled fen
And while the tear drop is still on our faces
Let all our hearts sob an earnest amen.

H.D.R.

 

Consolation

(On the death of an infant. Thought suggested by a letter of Bp: Leighton to his brother-in-law)

And is indeed the pretty darling dead?
Nay! ? upon an angel’s breast
And put to sleep, where sleep is always best
His cot the grave, to wake in Heaven instead.
A little earlier he went to bed
As infants should, babes need a longer rest
While we, shame on us, are not yet undressed
But sit up idling, till the morn is red.
Red judgment morn! Dear child, we follow on
But we have much to do before we sleep
We needs must doff superfluous dress & don
The one white garment of repentance deep
That Death, who comes our flickering lamp to take
May find us quite composed to rest for Jesus’ sake.

HDR 14 Aug: 1879

 

A Wedding Sonnet

The wedding morn, at rising of the sun
I found two points of most translucent dew
Hung on a gossamer – a light wind blew
The gems slipt swift and silent into one
A larger world was mirrored thereupon
A stronger sun in liquid diamond grew
Up /from my feet /through the web/ a lark with singing flew
The dew drops fell the melody went on.
? of two souls, I cried, that worlds apart
Feel life’s thread tremble, for the end is near
Touched by love’s breath, to splendid oneness start
Give back more sunlight from a larger sphere.
Then pass, the song lives on, for Heaven above
Joys that sad earth has somewhere found true love.

H.D.R. 21 September 1880

 

The Bride

A reminiscence

With belted squire and shag-haired serving men
*Bernicia’s princely lords come there to see
**Was then St Wilfrid and the holy three
Who blessed this altar in Northampton’s fen
Beneath the bells, with sheepskin and rude pen
Careless of cause, forgetful of the fee
***The Witenagemot sitting did agree
That love was Robber royal, now as then
The Saxon porch n’er lifted prouder head
Than when it welcomed Alice to the door
For round her neck was hung by hands of poor
A memory-chain of kind things done and said
And passing up the silent Norman floor
She heard rich blessing from the holy dead.

HDR 21 Sept 80

* Bernack so called after King of Bernicia.
**St Wilfrid built the church & ? dedicated his churches to the same(?) saints.
***Witenagemot held their meetings under the Belfry tower.

 

 

The Stars on the Wedding Night

Through Galileo’s tube I looked to see
What stars burned o’er thy happy wedding night
So, Jupiter with his attendants bright
Shone in the south above the myrtle tree
Nor distant far, as close as worlds may be
Bowing obeisance Saturn wheeled in sight
An orb of sunshine, zoned about with light
Fit emblem, brother, of thy love and thee.
Oh! if refigured in September’s skies
I saw thee with thy bright eyed bridal train
Then faded dim before the glad surprise
Of thou two lives that shining one are twain.
Let bridal trains be dedicate to Jove
So Saturn shine, the type of wedded love.

HDR 21 Sept 1880

 

 

A Grandmother’s Dream

It was my own son’s son I thought to see
His arms outstretched, inviting me to play
And I, forgetful that my hairs were grey
Reached out, and took the lad upon my knee.
Such pure(?) blue eyes, such pretty coving glee
I could have kissed his dimpled cheek away
I strove to toss him, but a voice said “Nay,
“He is too lusty grown for such as thee.”
And then, I do remember, in my dream
How all the weight and sorrow of my years
Broke loose & down on his astonied cheek
Fell hot. But though the innocent could not speak
He looked such sweet reproach, my heart did seem
Quite reconciled, and half ashamed of tears.

HDR 17 May 1881

 

 

St Mary’s Church

When I remember how my spirits’ case
Is /as a/a most/ fitting garment newly made
Each morrow, and to mend what is decayed
How close the shuttles of the flesh must race
So this my soul’s enshrining. Then thy place
Seems fitly chosen. Mammon may invade
But thy great heart for Heaven walled in by trace
Beats close to the world for press of space
Swift go the wheels within the sounding walls
To weave what one day’s vacuity will soil
But thou great loom a higher task dost ply
Thy Hallelujahs enter to those halls
Thy organ notes make glad pale industry
Thy prayers come up & mix with poor men’s toil.

H.D.R. 21 June 1881

 

 

The Czar

Murdered March 1881

Black Ides of March when murder baffled long
    Right through the hands of Gods strong keeping broke
    And slew the victim with a double stroke
Of villainous spite as mad as it was strong
Is such the thanks that to the man belong
    Who smotes from off his peoples neck the yoke
    And while his hills still smelt of Battle smoke
Sowed seeds of peace & strove to right the wrong.
Dread Ides of March! The bursting of that bomb
    Was heard through Europe like as stubble flame
    Heart spreads to heart best fire of fiercest shame
    Wolves howl, the eagles cry, and ghouls of war
    Wring their red hands, above the murdered Czar
And Princes meet and tremble round his Tomb.

HDR

 

 

Clouds at Night Moving to the Sea

In April

Move to the sea in sable plumed might
    Ye silent guardians of the tender green
    In greater majesty ye march /so/thus/ seen
Ye whose bright cohorts filled the day with light
And as ye melt in yonder sea tonight
    Whisper the waves what blessings ye have been
    Tell of the gentle rains with sun between
Speak of the dewy flowers ye did delight
    How modest in your march how kind ye are
    What memories of goodness must ye have
Ye will not blot from /man/heaven/ a single star
    See bright Bootes leans upon your grave
Rocked to /short/your/ /sleep/rest/ ye shall arise again
    Led by tomorrow’s sun with freshness for the plain.

Sept 1874 HDR

 

 

September

Season of silent morn and quiet noon
    Of cloudless skies, and mellow purple eves
    That bids the stacker build the flying sheaves
And hears the thatcher hum the harvest-tune
Loud rookeries clamour, doves do frequent croon
    /The/Gay/ Robin whistles from the yellow leaves
    The old earth rests awhile ere she conceives
And pleasant dews do fall her rest to boon
Thy sober days were framed for sober fun
    The maids /trip nutting/go tripping/ to the hazel lawn
In the grey dell doth rouse the loitering dawn
    The huntsman halloa and the echoing gun
And /in/from/ the barn where /loud the platters ring/they sit suppering/
    Their harvest-home, the jolly ploughmen sing.

HDR 8 October 1874

 

 

Noel’s First Birthday

Thro’ what a strange vicissitude of sense
    Our little darling has obtained to wear
    The garland of his first completed year,
To add unto his crown of innocence!
With glad anticipation, half pretence,
    His first articulate infant words we hear,
    And watch the tiny traveller persevere
From chair to chair, across his rooms immense.
Pure as his infant heart the snow may fall,
    To justify the name our Baby-King
Bears, & shall hear; but we, who with parade
    In miniature, do keep his festival,
Feel that no winter can put back the Spring,
    His sunny life within our souls has made.

HDR 14 Dec: 1881

 

 

 Dean Stanley

His Work

Led by a painter’s hand, a poet’s lyre
Came Canaan? close – we saw in Sychar’s plain
The thirsting Saviour – wept with her of Nain,
And knelt with Paul /upon the sands/among the rocks/ of Tyre
Again Gomorrah’s clouds were flushed with fire
Old Abram’s tents were black in Mamre’s plain
The prophets spake, the Judges ruled again,
And Aaron echoed to the temple choir.
Not figures wove in faded tapestries
But men of human frailty, God-like aims,
Breathed from the Hebrew lines his hands unrolled
Beneath our half-forgetful western skies
Did Sinai thunder, and the tongues of flame
Flashed, and men felt the God that moved of old.

HDR

 

 

Christmas with Him

To-day we kept His birth who came to save!
    Old men and maids and Babes that crowd in arms,
    Stepped gladly at the gay bells loud alarms
Up towards the Church. A well-remembered stave
Of some Christ-carol filled the fragrant nave,
    Thou didst not enter, and the music’s charms
    Turned all to tears, then back unto the farms
The sad folk moved and left thee in thy grave.
Nay left thee not, for thou wast still the guest
Of those who piled the logs or sat at meat,
    Thy presence though the earthy doors oerhead
Were shut and sealed came forth, thy gracious feet
Passed all the thresholds blessing them and blest,
And Xmas-day was holier for the Dead.

H.D.R. Xmas Dec 1882

 

 

Christmas without Him

I never knew the sorrowing that dwells
    Within an incommunicable sound,
    Until I caught from those five Churches round
The merry noise of well-contented bells
That bore old Bethlehem’s story to the Fells
    And/listening/sunny/ moon-lit mountains for thy surround
    Was too far deep and too far underground,
Thou couldst not hear those merry Christmas shells.
Yet I remembered thou had lived’st thy time
    Nor fallen on sleep this thine accustomed ear
 – Framed for that higher music men call Heaven –
Had need of no Repeated Annual Chime
    To bid thee think of Christ who year by year
    Found in thy gentle heart a cradle newly given.

HDR Xmas 1882

 

 

Alas for The Yews of Borrowdale

Broken by the gales of Dec 11th 1883

Ill could he spare the trees St Patrick knew
    When first for Christ to these rude bales he spoke
    And better for had fallen the Rydal oak
Or Time’s blest hollow monument the Yew
Which stands in sight of Wetherlam: Ah few
    The souls who then had felt the tempests stroke
    So many bonds about the heart had broke
Had I wept so many memories from view
For to this grove in storm by fragments hurled
    And Glaramara down the centuries seen
    Awe and mute prayer and love & mystery throng
And since our Wordsworth murmured out his song
The dark four pillared vault of evergreen
    Was temple for the music of the world.

The Patrick’s Dale in Patterdale Yew which went over in the same storm Dec 11 1883.

 

 

A Farewell to Thomas Fawcett? of Wray on his Leaving for South Africa April 24th 1884. He had ? as Church Warden for upwards of 30 years during his life in the Wray district

Ye leave the milk white house that tops the hill,
    Haply no more to hear the sea-like sound,
    The larches roar on Latha’s burial mound,
No more to watch the ? sleek kine at their will
Drink of cool Blelham’s sedgy cup, but still,
    Where’er brave hearts! in future years bound
    One memory in your /heart/breast/ will sure be found
Of those sweet English fields your hands did till
And if at all beneath the burning skies
Where ploughshares dazzle and the ground is brass
Ye sigh to hear the babbling brooks of Wray
Run through the daffodils, in breadths of grass
Christ’s love shall lead your souls a pleasant way
His fountains in your deserts shall arise.

HD Rawnsley

 

 

Glenthorne

When the strong soul of Nature’s human mood
Bends to the will and takes the lover’s hand
Then out of roseate cliff and hoary strand
Springs habitable home from clouds that brood
The torrent leaps with benison, the wood
Climbs up with soft caresses, tall trees stand
With tutelary grace, from wonderland
Come fruit and flowers to bless the solitude.

But surely they with angels lived & loved
And knew ? ? of Heaven’s tranquility
Who planned this demi-Eden, set this lawn
High o’er the silver neon-silent sea
Their eyes had looked beyond our common dawn
And here on earth their Paradise they proved.

H.D.R. 10 Sept: 1888

 

 

To My Father

At Glenthorne

Show, where art thou, and I am here forlorn
    Here where the purple moorland in its pride
    Links with a pomp of woods toward the tide
? paradise, a vision born
Of sudden breath from some enchanter’s horn
    Too fain to last so thou art at my side
    And hand in hand by intricate paths we glide
Swift to the welcoming gateways of Glenthorne.

Oh! happy hanging gardens where the springs
    Not ever fail, deep peacefulness is thine
        About thy lawns love calls from earth and sea
With such a spiritual power as brings
   Between the blossoming aloes and the pine
        The dear dear dead once more to visit thee.

H.D.R. 10 Sept 1888

 

 

In Memoriam

Sophy Elmhurst

Go to the grave, and tell her we have met
    Bid her come forth, and smile once more once more
    But alas! the deep earth, & the fast-closed door
And the green grass with tears not dew drops wet.
Dear Soul whose laughing eyes were ever set
    To fill the dark with light, to make the store
    Of simple kindness for the rich and poor
A crown of joy, thou hast thy coronet.
And we who stand and sorrow without words
    Because are more of those who this life’s span
        /Made earth more sweet/Brightened the earth/ has passed beyond recall
We say she once was ours – she is the Lord’s
    She whom the poet sang of – Lilian –
        Sings now in Heaven & smiles upon us all.

HDR Oct 1889

 

 

In Memory of Prof. Lushington

   Or the Bute Hall 26 March 1885

God don ? immortals even as he
    Who high uplifted o’er the foolish crowd
    Most calm most practical & with meek head bowed
Waits for no silence in the boisterous sea
Of mirth inopportune and ill tuned glee
    But breathes out all his gentle thought aloud
    And from behind his mind’s mysterious cloud
Waits us return but scatters sunlight free.

Pleads with men thy ? was divine
    When like the doves that circling cannot rest
    Thy words went fluttering forth, for then such grace
Shone through thy cloud of hair with heavenly shine
That careless noise and clamour was impressed
They heard no sound – they saw an angel’s face.

H.D.R.

 

 

Hits: 12468

 

In Rugby Chapel

Early Service . . . in Winter Term. Oct. 1894

To that School Chapel – where enshrined there lies
    The heart that made all Schoolboy’s hearts a shrine
    For Honour, Purity, and Truth divine,—
Who enters—when the Winter Suns arise,
And the loud organ to the prayer replies,—
    May see, above the worshipper, line on line,
    Ranked like an army—such great glory shine
As brings a Cloud of Angels to the eyes;—

The Hosts of Heaven descend and re-ascend
    And make the place a bethel—down the nave
        The lightning-flash of praise from soul to soul
        Flames,—and we hear a solemn thunder roll,
    As, like the falling of a double wave,—
The youthful hosts unto “Our Father” bend.

 

 

The Heroic Engine-Driver

They who, with sight of death, see Duty clear,
    And feel that, leagued with Duty, none shall die,
    Then shape for Heaven our national destiny,
Then give us glimpses of the golden year.
When all, who hold Great Britain’s honour dear,
    Swift at the call for help, as helpers fly—
    Yea, in the face of odds, and to that cry
“Fool, save thyself!” will turn a deafened ear.

Hero! You saw Fate roaring down the way
But to your engine’s foot-plate dared to leap
    And loosed the brakes and turned the steam to full,
    You knew that Death should never disannul
Life’s willing sacrifice you wrought that day,
And gave our hearts your gallant heart to keep.

 

 

An Anniversary

June 24th. 1903

The lane is full of roses, elder bloom
    Freshens the air made fragrant by the hay,
    The cuckoo calls, she has not long to stay,
Her’s is the vagrant’s joy, the wanderer’s doom;
But sweeter is the elder’s sweet perfume –
    And riches is the wilding rose array,
    We have a king upon the throne today
To-day the sudden cloud has wrought no gloom.

Fly cuckoo fly, and tell to far off fields
    That . . . is our England now than then
        Peace in our houses – and peace with joined hands
        Across the water in our daughters lands
   While throned within the hearts of British men
A king brought back from death the sceptre wields.

 

 

The Greater Love

“To loving of the brethren add ye love;”
    So spake the Apostle Paul, and he saw
    A wider world unfold, a noble law
Whereby all sentient things that live and move
Claim right to human sympathy and prove
The circle of God’s caring has no flaw,
But like a mighty magnet still can draw
In one communion Earth to Heaven above.

And we who enter the Apostle’s mind
Feel once again the breath of Eden blow,
And once again renew our brotherhood
With creatures of the field and stream and wood,
And in our loving-kindness to all kind
Know that our hearts God’s heart of grace can know.

[Written by Canon Rawnsley for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Sept, 1903.]

 

 

To N. H. & V. H. R.

On their Wedding-Day, July 11th 1903.

From far-off springs these happy souls, as one
    Henceforth, shall flow together to the sea,
    The thorn shall bloom beside them, flower & tree
Bless them, and birds that feel the benison,
Tell by their song which way the stream has gone,
    The dews of dawn their constant gift shall be,
    And when night falls the wanderer on the lea
Shall find his way by guidance of their tone.

Yet oh! ye fountains, mingling in your joy
    Lest ye forget the far off double urn
        Whence ye were poured, let this your life-long race
        With memory of the fountain-head keep pace
    Till borne on wings of angels ye return
To Heaven your home – pure hearted girl & boy.

 

 

 

A Hero of the Mohegan

                  To Victor Rawlings
Victor well named! for Victors such as these
      Bear far Victoria honour o’er the seas.

We were forging down the Channel, with our engines beating fast
But our hearts were beating faster, we had left our friends behind,
The October sun set glorious, not a star was over east,
And the purple sea heaved grandly, and the breeze was faint and kind.

All the light from Start to Lizard flashed and twinkled o’er the wave,
Our island queen sat jewelled in her splendour far and near,
But one star of evil glittered that would guide us to our grave,
And straight toward the ‘Manacles’ our ? man seemed to steer.

With groans of a Leviathan in pain, we smote the rock
Leapt – and smote – and like a wounded thing, keeled over on our side,
God save us? All the life on board died – silent at the shock –
Then a cry – as if a thousand men for life and mercy cried.

But I grasped the nearest life-belt, and sprang upward to the deck,
Thought of home, and thought of father, and of Barmouth’s “Cliff of Light”,—
Heard the roaring of the breakers – knew the Mohegan a wreck,—
Prayed to God and clenched my teeth, and girt my life-belt taut and tight.

But above the noise of breakers, and the cries of drowning men,
Came a cry – Oh God! a lifebelt, – and I saw a shrouded face
Thro’ the darkness, – and I turned away. – Great Heaven forgive me then!
And I felt a voice say “Coward” – “What of Christ in such a case.”

Coward, – I a simple sailor from the shore of gallant Wales!
Coward, – I, to save my own poor life, and let a woman die!
So I tore the belt from off me, and I said, “if nought avails
We may meet and greet each other safe beyond – Good bye – Good bye”.

Then down into the darkness did I leap in bootless quest
For a belt, or for a life buoy, – but my heart was full of might,
Death was robbed of all its terrors, I had given her my best
And the trembling voice that thanked me seemed to fill the dark with light.

And I sprang again up deck-ward, saw the last boat leave the side,
Felt the great ship sinking under, knew the whirl pool that would be
Flung my body from the bulwarks, – struck out strong, with Hope for guide,
Swam – and felt God’s arms beneath me in the gully of the sea.

Did I save her, Sir you ask me? Nay I know not, all I know
Is, – I did but do my duty, as the simplest sailor may, –
Leave a woman to her drowning when you’ve got a line to throw!
It may do for other nations, – but it’s not the British way.

October 1898

A friend writes from Barmouth – We have just been talking with a young fellow, Victor Rawlings by name, a sailor on board the ill-fated ship Mohegan which was wrecked on the Manacles on the 14th October, a lad of about 18, and son of one of the Chemists here. At the last moment, just as the ship was sinking a poor woman came to him, asking if he could get her a life-belt. He said No, then called back and gave her his own. Speaking of it he said no fellow with a bit of a heart could keep a belt and leave her without. He went below in the darkness in search of another – then saw the last boat leaving the side – jumped overboard – swam to a boat, and was picked up.

 

 

Thanks to America. For Rudyard Kipling

March 1899

        You, with the west wind on your face!
            You with the star light in your hair!
    Breathe(?) from the coast, your gentlest and best
            To bring back life that we ill can spare;
        So shall he shine with added grace
        Star of Song for the white man’s race
            Nurse him tenderly, give him care.

        Sister bound with full blood-tie
            Bound far more by the bond of tongue,
    Your heart had failed when the Mayflower sailed
            And the seventy million world was young,
        If e’er on the deck had ceased the cry
        If the psalm of life that can never die
            And the song of hope that our Shakespeare sung.

        For the Poet lives when the world is dead,
            And the Poet sees when the world is blind,
    And the Poet hears when the changing years,
            Have deafened the sense of human kind,
        Wherefore, watch by the Singers led—
        Lovingly lift the fallen head—
            We loose the fetters that Death would bind.

        Not in vain shall your gift be given
            Daughter, sister, and friend in one
    This sweet deed for our Singers need
            Shall gleam in the starlight, shine in the sun
        His song that works in our hearts like leaven
        Shall bind on earth what is bound in Heaven
            And sound till brotherhood’s work be done.

 

 

Ode of Congratulation to Her Most Glorious Majesty Queen Victoria on Her
                       Diamond Jubilee from the Women of England

Oh Queen, in the pause(?) of the triumph, and gladness of heart,
    While the Sons, in all lands that proclaim thee, have honoured thy name
Shall the Daughters of Britain be silent, and not beat a part
                                     To tell forth thy refrain?

For the ladies in ? and honour most near to thy throne,
    Thou hast added ? light to the heads and the bosoms that shine,
For the girls in the cottage, whose eyes are their ? alone
                                      This jewel was thine.

That thou hast believed in the right of the marvellous dower
    God gave to the woman he fashioned, – her meekness and grace,—
That thou hast had trust in His Fatherly love to empower,
                                     Who set they place.

Great Queen! thou didst find in thy youth, – in the fulness of years
    Thou hast passed, that the spirit is stronger than flesh, or than blood,
Thou hast shown that the brightest gems which thy diadem bears,
                                    Is the will to be good.

And the Lily and Rose in thy court, they are growing to-day
    As the Lily and Rose in the gardens of England are, – pure, –
For this, when the names of earth’s wither away, –
                                     Thy name shall endure.

And thou, with the heart of a mother hast traded thine own,
    Thy self to all maidens example, of wives, the Queen-wife, –
In the souls of thy subjects, the seed from thy palace hast sown,
                                   The love of home life.

But most we remember today, as we think of thy years,
    How two generations of women may praise and adore
The God of thy Crown and thy life, that in every places
                                              Men honour them more.

For in thee and thy wisdom, thy sisters have seemed the more wise,
    And in thee, and the strength of thy heart, to command, and to will,
The daughters of England more queenly appear in men’s eyes
                                   But womanly still.

For now is the prison door opened, and now are glad feet
    Sat form in a room that is wider(?) for earth and for heaven,
More ? for service the hearts of all women must beat
                                   Since work has been given.

And now are the portals of knowledge set wide, – and the heart, –
    The heart of the woman, is braced with the sinews of mind
What benison Queen could the years of thy reigning impart
                                     More blest for mankind?

And how in a warm federation of help and of hands
    Are the sisters of labour made strong, in the shop and the mill, –
And now, like a net for Christ’s kingdom, is spread in all lands
                                 One woman’s Good will.

Shall thy daughters not rise up and thank thee, – thou mother to all –
    Shall the maidens, the high-borne and lowly, not meet on the green –
Shall the children not joyously gather from Cottage and Hall, –
                                   And sing for their Queen!

The Queen – and not only of men in their strength and their pride
    But Queen, – nursing-mother, – for all in their sickness and pain
Lo! the houses of health, with the doors of their welcome flung wide,
                                     Are fruit of her reign.

The Queen, – who alone in her gladness, – in sorrow alone, –
    Has endured, as they only endure, who can see God above,
Who has felt, that all hearts that are desolate cried to the throne
                                   And cheered them with love.

The Queen, – who in care for all others, is careless of loss,
    With eyes on the Life of the world; – for the world sacrificed,
The Queen, – who has taught us how crowned ones may carry the Cross
                                    And follow the Christ.

May 1897

 

 

In Memoriam: V.R.I. A Voice from the Colonies

Weighed down by more than fourscore years,
    She hath fulfilled the destined reign,
Her wearied brow henceforward nears
    The crown of light that knows no pain,
And forth she goes in Heaven to prove
The Queenliest thing below was Love.

Her empire is not bound by earth,
    Nor fenced by seas that roll between
All things that feel the Spirit’s birth
    Here and in Heaven, shall own her Queen,
For all her days, self-sacrificed,
The King she followed was the Christ.

There is no mother, maid nor wife,
    Who has not looked to her for grace,
No sufferer in the storm and strife,
    But seemed to see her pitying face,
And every sorrow in the land
Has felt the ? of her hand.

Wherefore, across her seven seas,
    The fine great nations joined in one –
As children round a father’s knees
    Crowd close when mother hence has gone –
Draw nearer for their grief and pray
The empire of her heart shall stay.

 

 

To Nansen – England’s Welcome

Nansen! from out of darkness and of pain,
    Fresh for new venture, vigorous and strong,
    How do we praise thee! we who waited long
Feared for thee, drifting o’er the Arctic plain
Prayed for thee, moonless(?) – prisoner of the chain
    Of unrelenting winter, – locked among
    The heartless berg’s inhospitable throng, –
Hoped against hope, to see thy face again.

Star of the North! as glad as dawn, that ends
    The phantom flicker of Auroral light
        Life from the dead, – triumphant thou dost come
    Heart of the North – our wide-world hearts unite,
The land that gave us Franklin, greeting sends
        And all Valhalla bids thee welcome home.

 

 

 

To the Two Last Survivors of Nansen’s Team of 28 Sledge Dogs Who Were
Shot, as Being of No Further use, on the Ice-Floe of Franz Josef Land

Somewhere, beyond the uttermost North land
    Where comes one encircled tern, nor cries the loom,(?)
    And through long silence icebergs shock and boom,
Fall the survivors of that faithful band,—
Who, until heart-break, stretched the reindeer strand,
    Striving with death, and battling ? with doom,
    Who ? earth’s secret from its Polar gloom,
And, knowing nought, obeyed their lord’s command.

They who faced cold and famine,—they who fed
    On food of fearful loathing,—they who still
        Leapt water channels, sprang through ice and snow,
Who, though their brothers, one by one fell dead,—
        Pushed on,—lie stark upon the lonely floe
    Dumb slaves of man’s inexorable evil.

Nov. 1896

 

 

The Dead Seal Children

Round Robben Isle the happy seabirds fly
    To bring their callow nestlings joy and food
    But never more, above the shining flood,—
With human face, and meek pathetic eye,—
The seal shall hasten to its infant’s cry.
    The very waves are red with shame and blood,—
    There, on the barren beach, a multitude
Of tender nurselings famish faint and die.

And somewhere in the cities of the West
    The gentle ladies, clad in shining fur,
        Go home,—too happy, warm, and blest, to feel,
But, as they clasp their infants to their breast,—
    Some pang within their bosom sure will stir,—
        Not vainly shall the motherless appeal.

Note—The Americans claimed that owing to the killing at sea of breeding females, vast numbers of seal pups were left to starve on the islands near Sakhalin. The British ? who have reported state that on Robben Island and the Pribylof Isles, 20,000 dead pups were counted.

February 1897

 

At the Nelson Column

Oh England, England! in this darker hour
    Of rival hosts, and grudges ill-concealed
    Canst thou forget the man who wrought the shield
Of seamanship, to be our Island’s dower?
And shall he stand, high pillared, on his tower,
    And speak no word to city, nor to field
    Bidding us know as long as hills(?) are steeled
And hearts are oak, the British flag has power?

Nay,—as we bring the palm or lay the wreath
    Between the Lions of the Lion brave
        We think, how his winged hounds of war
    Made England sovereign mistress of the wave
And sealed us unto Duty by his death
        Divinely timed at glorious Trafalgar.

Oct 21 1895

 

 

To Ranavalona: Queen of Madagascar

Shall England, with St. George for warrior knight
    Let the soft-tongued expedience of the hour
    Hush all her protest; shall she not empower
Justice and Peace to dare to do the right?
Is Europe armed alone with selfish might
    And, if her sons, deaf-eared, like cravens cower,
    Shall not the west,—with freedom for its dower,
By Angel-mediation stay the fight?

Ranavalona! though your island throne
    Sink,—and your seas run purple with your blood
        Because, till death you would the foe withstand,
The world shall know you put your trust alone
        In Him who holds the nations in His Hand
    Whose word is universal brotherhood.

May 29th 1895

 

Calixtus

He was the Best—therefore we set this here
    In old Llanilar’s Churchyard by the sea,
    He was the Best—whether of King’s degree
Arch-Druid, Bishop, Prophet, Priest or Seer.
For we have learned, thro’ centuries to revere
    The best of human hearts, where e’er they be;
    And so, we touch the letters tenderly,
And spell Calixtus name with reverent fear.

Best of the men who there, on Mona’s shore
    Ruled by the only Right—the Right divine
        Of Goodness—head and shoulders o’er them all!
        And long as Barmouth’s tides shall rise and fall
And granite keeps the solemn trust of yore
    We guard this treasure in Llanilar’s shrine.

Note—On an ancient granite monolith in Llanilar Church with the inscription “Calixti mourdo Regio” –Calixtus was the Latin form of the Greek word Kallistos – which means the Best.

Oct. 27th 1895

 

 

Honour to whom Honour is due

Take up this weather-beaten, mummied thing
Into its royal resting-place restore
    This head,—albeit a crown it never wore—
Of England’s fate and fortune, once ’twas King
Where Hate has wronged, let Love do honouring,
    Fair jewels once this battered casket bore
    Seal for its Country, Patriot to the Core,
Care for God’s truth,—and pain such care must bring.

The tongue, that now is dead, has left a voice
    To sing, and bid men still be conscience free,
        Those eyes, so blinded, flamed with fire to ban
False state ideals, false religion’s choice
    Ah when shall England know one great as he
        To keep her great.—Our greatest Puritan.

Oct. 1895

 

 

At an Archbishop’s Grave

With lamentation pomp of praise and prayer
    In great Augustine’s Abbey was he laid
    And from his tomb came forth a voice that said
“This man had all the Churches in his care
Tended Apyria’s sheep, who ? the scare
    Of Turk and Kurdish ?,—sent words of aid
    To those six ancient prelates sore betrayed
And tangled in the Sultan’s murderous share.”

There, as I stood beside his peaceful grave
    Methought of him,—that tender-hearted man,
        Who died but could not watch Armenia’s woes
        I wondered what dumb prison walls enclose
In Syrian wild that Patriarch Lion-brave
    Who voiced his people’s rights—??

 

To John Ruskin

    On his 78th birthday. February 8 1897

Now fades o’er Coniston the wreath of snow
    The ravens mate, the happy blackbirds sing
    The woodbine tufts uncoil, the snowdrops spring
And in the woods the purpling birches glow,
But ah! the winter fades not from that brow
    Wherever is set the seal of suffering
    For truths that eight-and-seventy winters bring
With toil and sorrow very few can know.

Great son of Derwentwater—for that mere
    Fired your young heart, and filled with love your eyes –
        Rest, as they only rest whose task is done!
We cannot rest, your clarion voice we hear
        Till for St. George the whole wide world be won
    And work be joy, and earth be Paradise.

 

 

Spring Crocuses at Murren

We are the Sun’s first couriers, and we know
    What grass shall clothe the mountain and the moor,
    What flowers shall bless the children of the poor
And set the humblest cottage a-glow.
How long before the herdsmen open throw
    Their chalet windows nd the frost-bound door,—
We people with white multitudes the moor,
And push our tender spear-heads through the snow.

And mortals, straying to our upland home,
    Where no bees murmur yet, and no birds sing
    Have marvelled at our boldness, and have said
How are these gentle creatures unafraid?
They have not learned how from God’s hand we come
    To speed with joy His message of the Spring.

Note—The spring creatures in the ? at Murren were a sight to see. Whenever the snow drifts had melted, the whole ground had bee, as if by magic, covered with a white carpet of what at distance appeared to be a living multitude of whitest crocuses. Thousands upon thousands of these tiny delicate creatures, open their cups into the shape of stars beneath the midday sun. Thousands upon thousands were seen pushing their white heads, like dainty spears of silver, through the snow.

20th June 1896

 

 

To Frances Power Cobbe

     On her 70th birthday, Dec. 4th 1902

Old friend whose soul is large enough to give
    Welcome to all that send compassion’s store,—
    True woman,—tender-hearted to the core,
But strong,—teaching us manlier how to strive;
December comes, and days are fugitive,
    Strength wanes, albeit the spirit wanes more,
    But this remains,—dark worlds you dared explore
Are brightening with the Love that still shall live.

Wherefore on this your solemn natal day—
    Tho’ all the griefs of four score summers gone—
        And sorrow of two worlds—and ? spite—
Are heavy on you,—this we dare to lay,—
    This added burden.—Thanks for work well done
        And prayers—a nation’s gift of warmth and light.

 

 

A Birthday Greeting: To Miss F. P. Cobbe – Dec 3rd 1892

Friend! when the hail fades fastest on the lea
    We know the sooner will the sun appear
    And on the eve of this, thy seventieth year
I send this greeting tenderly to thee.
Knowing such storms have blown, that eyes scarce see
    The heights of pain, when thou didst pursue
    The depths of sorrow, agony, and fear
From which thou camest to set dumb creatures free.

For thou hast dared, for those who could not speak,
    To tell the nation—still with cruel heart
        Of man, half-tamed(?) from ?, there dwells one
    Who, in God’s home, would play a devil’s part,
To give the stronger ?, would plague the weak
        Till Pity’s self, and mercy be undone.

 

 

At Hengwrt – The Guardian Cypress Trees

Friend! when I saw the lovely Cypress tower
    That stands, perpetual Guardian at thy gate
    Untouched by age, unhurt by storm of hate
Changeless alike in sun, or winter shower—
Then I bethought of that immortal dower,
    The lofty courage of thy lone estate
    The faithful Guardian ship, that will not bate
One jot of hope for England’s kindlier hour.

Its pleasing shelter, every bird may share
    Thro’ the long year, its bounty scatters free
        The eastern fruitage western earth has made
And thou, both East and West are in they care
        Love’s universal fruit, in sun and shade
    Is thine—no creature comes unhelped to thee.

Nov. 1895

 

 

Hengwrt

October 21st 1894

Where guardian trees and cloistered laurels grow
    And, like a warder crying, “Who comes near”?
    The Cypress stands,—Old Hengwrt all the year
Gives greeting,—here in sight of ? glow,
In sound of Mawddach’s, and of ? flow,
    I feel the gleam of genial hearts, and hear
    The flood of wit and wisdom,—too sincere,
Too earnest far, for careless ear to know.

And here is love for all created things
    The wild-wood creature, on the garden walk
        Brings some soul—message,— every bird that flies
Bears heart communion on its tender wings,—
    And, if we pause, for question, in our talk,
        Almost with human voice, the stream replies.

With kindest regards to the ladies of Hengwrt.

 

 

At Hengwrt

       May 18th 1897

This is the song of my home.—
All the night thro’ in the valley below me is lowing of herds—
All the day thro’ in the woodland above me is music of birds—
    Sound of the rookery’s clanging applause,
    Cooing of cushat and chatter of daws.
    Quaver of chaffinch and clear throstle call
    Croak of the heron’s deep note over all.
Winds shake the mountains—they cannot distress me
Rains fill the fountains to cheer and to bless me
    Mists from the sea for the harvest’s
                                               with mellow gifts, come.

    Ah! best the song of my heart!
All the night thro’ in the valley below me, a voice that I hear—
All the day thro’ in the woodland above me, no presence to cheer—
    Sound of a footfall that cannot return—
    Sigh of a spirit that knows how I mourn.
    Crying, “have patience” with clear angel call
    And Death with his deep raven note over all,—
Winds shake the world,—but they cannot distress me—
Tears fill my eyes,—but they soothe and they bless me,
Mist from the far-away sea gathers tenderly,
                                                Let me depart.

Note—Miss Stayd died October 13th 1896.

 

 

A Christmas Holiday

The camels groaned in Chimham’s ancient hall,
    And all the weary talk was,—“sell and buy”—
    The sullen Roman soldier came to spy,
Or tax the cattle, crowding every stall;—
Far on the height, behind his crest of wall,
    Great Herod filled the night with revelry;—
    From Bethlehem’s slope, beneath the star-lit sky
Shepherd to shepherd sent his answering call.

The poor man worked,—the sick man made his feast,—
     And few could know,—it was a restless time,—
         What things the angels sang above the hills,
Our feared wealth and working has increased,
        But once a year the roaring world is still
    And labour learns to hear the Christmas Chime.

Note—Chimham – a celebrated caravanserai 4 miles out of Jerusalem, founded by Chimham son of Barzillai – probably the same which sheltered two travellers and their child when “there was no room in the house”—Stanley’s Jewish Church – Vol. 2, p. 161.

 

 

To the Old Folks of Keswick and Neighbourhood – Dec. 27th 1893.

In memory of Richard Mitchell – rope maker and boatman who died at Finkle Street,
Portinscale, Nov. 29th 1893 in his 93rd year.

Just beyond the Derwent, friends,
    Where the Viking huts were reared
And the road for Swinside bends
Lined and laboured – early – late
    One to humble fortune reared
One too proud to change his state.

We shall never see him more
    In his garden by the lane
In his boat beside the shore
He has crossed the silent flood
    He is free from care and pain
Richard Mitchell, grave and good.

Never more, this shower and sun
    Shall we watch him at his trade,
While the hemp to strength was spun
Pacing up and down “the walk”
    Where the best of ropes were made
He too busy for to talk.

For dark Death, with solemn shears,
    Cut at length his long life’s rope
With its two and ninety years
All the wisdom, all the store
    Of his memory and his hope
These are vanished evermore!

But at least he leaves behind
    Some remembrance of the days
Which endeared him to his kind.
Soul of honour! Heart of trust!
    Honest Mitchell! This is praise
That shall bloom when all is dusk.

 

 

    A Happier Christmas

      1896. A Christmas Hope for Armenia

Where once at Abgar’s royal wedding came
    The Word of Life to Anatolian hills
    The Word of Death and Murder throbs and thrills;
The great Cathedral reeks with blood and flame;
Poor maidens weep unutterable shame;
    Fair Christian mothers suffer the vile wills
    Of Kurd and Turk—The ? and famine tills,
None dare to ? the new-born Saviour’s name.

But when the bells of Christmas through our land
    Ring forth their echoes of the Heavenly strain
        And all the West shall wake to hear the chime
        God grant, the Angel of a happier time
For old Edessa, in our midst may stand,
    To bear to her the Word of Life again.

 

 

A New Year’s Greeting 1898

Stand not in sorrow! sorrow cannot save:—
    This atom of the immeasurable years
    Flung on the floor of Time, with all its fears
And hopes well winnowed, falls into the grave;
Tho’ labour wars at home, and o’er the wave
    Ring cries of those unconquered mountaineers,
    The Christmas music echoes in our ears,
We go to meet the morning, and are brave.

It dawns with dumb unquestionable face,—
    Thrones shake,—kings tremble wondering what shall be –
       Great armies muster – statesmen watch and wait;
        But this New Year, so full of silent fate,
    Comes charged by Love to set the nations free
With gift of unimaginable grace.

With best wishes from Crosthwaite Vicarage.

 

 

 

   Britain’s New Year Jan 1^st 1900

She sees the life of half the nations crushed
    She hears the serpent hiss of whispering hate
    Mutter – “Behold this Britain that is great,
Reels, and from off her ancient throne is hushed.”
But still for right her banners are unfurled,
    For justice and her sons confederate
    And bruised and brave she doth her hour await,
With resolute calm she fronts a wondering world.

One hand – one heart – she greets the coming year,
    Knowing that deeper far within he soul
        Than greed of power, or ? deadly lust,
        Lies hunger to fulfil her Heavenly trust –
And claiming equal good for far and near,
    To bring fair Freedom to her ultimate goal.

 

 

A New Year’s Hope 1900

The death-year of the century comes with sound
    Of war and tumult, but from seas of blood
    And blight of battle springs desire for good
With peace on many a passionate field recrowned.
Faint not nor fear! Though clouds of hate have frowned
    And o’er her cradle dark the storm showers bend,
    This years shall feel the sun of brotherhood
And through her tears see rainbows upward bound.

For now, at last men know, that lust of gold
    And lust of war are brothers; new men hear,
        Even as they fight, their own hearts mocking them,
New love of God, as in the days of old,
        Shall seek once more the Babe of Bethlehem;
    New love of man shall bring earth’s glad new year.

 

 

At a Sowers Grave – Tyn y Ffynon – May 1897

Above his rest the thorn is white,
    Around his head the violet blows,
To hide his body out of sight,
    The close cotoneaster grows.

And here, with every springtides call,
    The fragrant shrubs their curlers wane
The lilac tops the garden wall
    To cast its sweetness o’er his grave.

And when, through heads of purple thrift
    The soft May breezes sigh no more,—
In silence, upward there will drift
    The sad sea music of the shore.

Here rest the wandering shy sea-bird,
    Here nests the throstle void of fear,
The cuckoo’s voice is earliest heard,
    The happy swift wheels latest, here,—

But he has done with birds and flowers,—
     Of sun, and sea he has no need,—
For, following now the Prince Sowers,
    He casts in other worlds his seed,—

And still the lilac bushes grow—
    The great sea calls,—the sky is blue,
And, in his place, his friends must sow,
    The Good, the Beautiful – the True.—

 

 

    By the Torrent Walk – near Dolgelley – May 18 1897

The quavering of the warbler’s throat,
    The blackbird’s song of glee,
The wooing of the cushat’s note,
    Are sounds enough for me.

But he who climbs the torrent walk
    On any morn in May,
May hear how Cader’s fountains talk,
    And what cloud-angels say.

Oh voice of mountain, voice of bird,
    One melody ye share,
A song by mortals seldom heard,
    Of life that knows no care.

And sometimes to a sad man’s heart
    Your power doth so appeal
That he forgets how large a part
    Grief bears to make us feel.

Oblivious of the human throes
    That mould our mortal span,—
Back, homeward, more content he goes,
    But less divine a man.

 

 

The Peace of Talyllyn

Shut from all harm, – the world outside,—
    Outside all sorrow and all sin,—
They scarce could wish for change, who died
    At quiet Talyllyn—

And I can well believe that they
    Who rest from toil on yonder hill,
When soul is soul, and clay is clay,
        Will linger with us still,—

Will see the gates of Heaven ajar,—
    And hear far off the Angel’s song,—
But say, here peace and goodness are,
    Here let us tarry long.

For here is stillness,—quiet lake,
    And quiet mountains—quiet fields—
Such healing here for hearts that ache
    As only nature yields.

So quiet,—if a cuckoo calls
    The shepherd stops to question why,—
And all the solid mountain wales
    Start at a young lamb’s cry.

But there is more at Talyllyn
    Thou hint that sometime pain shall cease,—
Here hill and valley fold us in
    To fill us with their peace.

May 15th 1897

 

 

 

At the Grasmere Rushbearing. In Praise of St. Oswald

When great Augustine, he whom Gregory sent
    To Ethelbert, beneath the Ebbsfleet oak,—
    Of Christ and for his mightier Kingdom spoke,—
And with his silver cross and litany went
To bear the Gospel to the men of Kent,—
    He little dreamed that here the village folk
    Already bowed beneath the Saviour’s yoke,
And, in their house of prayer, to Jesus bent.

We strew these rushes, emblem of the Spring
    And think of him who by the Eamont’s shore
        Taught Rome of Christ, the flower for all the world,—
    Of Kentigern, who set the Cross of yore,—
        But most, where Rotha’s stream is backward curled,
We thank our God for Oswald, – priest and king.

Note—The Grasmere Rushbearing – This interesting survival as some think of the Roman Floralia – takes place now in the octave of St. Oswald, to whom the Grasmere church is dedicated. It is sometimes forgotten that our British Church in the North with its teachers, Ninian and S. Kentigern and its memories of Herbert, Cuthbert and Oswald – was an ancient church before the landing of S. Augustine 1300 years ago.

It is believed that S. Ninian preached the gospel to the Roman soldiery, near Penrith by the banks of the Eamont where the church of Nine Kirks – or Ninian’s Kirk – preserves his name – circa 400 A.D.

Kentigern set up the Cross at Crosthwaite circa 553 A.D.

 

 

At the Royal Academy

May 1897

We move from room to room and over all
    Is sense of absent friends, and heavy loss.
    Where is the painter of “The ? ?”,
Or he who drew the Race and golden ball,
And pictured forth fair Daphne’s festival?
    Have we no need of preachers, and no dross
    To purge, no Christ before us with his Cross,
That thus no trumpet sounds along the wall.

The walls are dumb, our life has sunk so low
    That scarce a painter dare lift up his voice
        To call us to be patriots,—heroes,—none
        To urge us keep the name our father won,
And not a prophet sees the darkness grow
    Or bids the Child of morning make his choice.

 

 

To the Sillyman, Who is the Wise Man After All

By a treaty made at Ilorin, Niger territory, the Emir Saliman has declared all Rum and Gin that enters his territory shall be destroyed.

By treaty made at Ilorin
    The Emir Saliman declares
He will destroy all Rum and Gin
    That floods his country unawares.

This is good news indeed for some
    Who look on strong drink as a tiger,—
Let’s send all British Gin and Rum
    To go to glory, up the Niger.

They mock at Saliman and pronounce
    The Süli soft, and call him dreamer,
I wish our wise men had an ounce
    Of your good wit – most prudent Emir.

 

 

A Harvest Hymn

W. there as fellow-labourers together with God – beseech you that ye receive not the Gift of God in vain.

Sing now ye people, be joyful in your house of prayer,
    Summer is ended, the harvest time is past,—
                And our God who gave the soil,
                And His sons who gave their toil
Have worked as fellow-labourers and reap the fruit at last.

Great is the gift of the Keeper of earth’s granary
    Food for the millions who’d famish, and are fed
                For the workers in the mills
                And the cattle on the hills
And the ravens with their crying,—all look to One for bread.

Good is the will of the Spirit that is over us
    Dowering with glory the hands that till the earth
                The idler may not eat
                But the Maker of our meat
He turns our sweat to pearl drops,—and gives the toiler mirth.

Wherefore to-day, in the House of Prayer as Conquerors,
    Glad with the fruit of a warfare that was peace
                We rejoice, and pray Thee Lord
                Send the sickle for the sword
Let hate’s harvest lie ungathered – let the spoil of battle cease.

May 1897

 

 

 

To My Friends at Limnerslease

G.J & Mrs Watts. On the ninth anniversary of their wedding-day. Nov 20th 1898.

Friends, when tomorrow’s morning sun shall shine
    Thro’ fadeless firs, and quickening Surrey air,—
    Let this poor sonnet of remembrance bear
A whole life’s honour packed in every line,
And let it say, “Tho’ Autumn now decline
    To winter, age did never yet impair
    The hand that helped a nation by its care
The heart that worshipped at Truth’s inner shrine.”

Fear not, the tenth sweet year has come to prove
    Ye both have known the most eternal thing
        Between the sleep that was, and is to be,
    No Death can ever disavowed bring
Of Heaven’s great gift of immortality
God gives to thou who only live to love.

 

 

Faith

I am pure Faith. There’s not a lark that sings
    But shares this gift, when in the dewy nest
    She feels sweet life has still to give its best,
And waits the stirring of those tiny wings.

I am pure Faith. There’s not a bell that rings
    For marriage, but will have me for its guest;
    Faith in each other – only so is blest
The happy wedding happy wooing brings.

Faith in the marvellous future for all life;
    Faith in the love that being still must be;
    Faith in a happier earth, a surer heaven
Faith in the peace that yet shall crown all strife;
    Faith in the cross that leads to victory,
    And faith in Him whom God for us has given.

[The sonnets ‘Faith’, ‘Hope’ and ‘Charity’ were written for the performance of “Phyllis” – Cantata, at St. Thomas’s Church Lower Crumpsall, Manchester, January 1896, by the Vicar of Crosthwaite, Keswick.]

 

 

Hope

I am sweet Hope. There’s not a seed on earth
    But has my nature, yearning for the light,
    Knowing the hours of patience and of night
Shall end in spring-tide, and blossom-mirth.

I am sweet Hope. The men who sail the Firth
    Cast with my hands their nets in bay and bight,
    I am sweet Hope – by me the heart does plight
Its troth; by me the little babes have birth.

Hope for the sure fulfilment of our days –
Hope for the time when hate shall sheathe the sword –
    Hope for a sober England, brave and just –
    Hope for the end of selfishness and lust –
When He the Saviour, whom the nations praise,
Shall find our souls at anchor on His Word.

[The sonnets ‘Faith’, ‘Hope’ and ‘Charity’ were written for the performance of “Phyllis” – Cantata, at St. Thomas’s Church Lower Crumpsall, Manchester, January 1896, by the Vicar of Crosthwaite, Keswick.]

 

 

Charity

I am true Love. There’s not a lamb that cries,
    A dog that barks, but knows that love is kind;
    And feels far off the monument of the mind
That fits man’s soul for joy in Paradise.

I am true Love. The bird that homeward flies
    To warm its nestlings, knows me; yea the blind
    Mole in the meadow, village lord, and kind,
Have learned by me life’s full felicities.

I am true Love. When sin drove men apart,
I, still in mercy, did each wanderer dower;
    For I am he who calls men out of death
   And fills the soul with life’s divinest breath.
Wherefore I claim love’s emblems – and for flower
God’s rose – the love of Christs’ spear-wounded Heart.

[The sonnets ‘Faith’, ‘Hope’ and ‘Charity’ were written for the performance of “Phyllis” – Cantata, at St. Thomas’s Church Lower Crumpsall, Manchester, January 1896, by the Vicar of Crosthwaite, Keswick.]

 

 

A Hymn in Memory of the Master of Balliol

“Knowest thou that the Lord will take away thy Master from thy head to-day? And he said, yea, I knowest, hold ye your peace.”

When from the scholar’s side God called
    His Master, o’er the flood,
The heart, for loveliness, appalled,
    Felt silence only good.

So, from our head, today, is gone
    Our Master, – and we stand
By Jordan, silently alone,
    A mournful scholar band.

For us, no chariot-wheels of flame,
    On us, no mantle fell,
We turn forlorn the way we came,
    And face the torrent’s swell.

But in our hearts, the holy fire
    He kindled, still is bright,
Clad in the robe of his desire,
    We dare to do the right.

Great Spirit of the Living God
    Take to Thyself our head,
And in the paths of love he trod
    Oh! give us grace to tread.

Oct 1893

 

 

 

In Memory of Lord Leighton – President of the Royal Academy

Who died Jan 25th 1896, buried in St. Paul’s Feb. 3rd.

City of lilies, by the Arno’s tide,
    Thou hast remembered well six hundred years
    The glad procession, and the triumphant cheers
That went with Cimabue, in its pride,
To bear the Mother of the Crucified
    To Rucellai’s altar; now with tears
    Not soon to pass, thy heart in sorrow hears
That he who told thy triumphing had died.

For of thy sons a son, tho’ western born,
    He worked with Leonardo, had the fear
        Of mighty Raphael still before his eyes.
He mixed his colours with the golden morn,
    And, finding lack of gorgeous glory here,
He has gone forth, right glad, to Paradise.

The picture that first brought the President into notice, was that exhibited in the R.A. in 1885 which depicted procession passing through the streets of Florence, to the Church of Santa Maria Novella, with the picture of the Madonna by Cimabue, in such triumph as gained that quarter of the city the name it still retains – Borgo dei Allegri.

 

 

 

A Day of Kings

The Kaiser’s drive through the Lake District, August 14th 1895.

This is a day of Kings,—along the way,
    To meet the Kaiser,—our old kings of Song
    From Rydal Mount to Greta meadows throng;
Coleridge and Wordsworth,—he who knew, the stay
*Of states, was mind, not wealth,—who feared the day
    When men for gold,—not learning’s store—would long
    And the yard measure, not the sword be strong;
Southey, who dared unto his face gainsay.

**Europe’s mean-hearted tyrant.—And I see
Stand by his humble cot, on Chestnut hill
      ***Young Shelley. Hark! he cries for welcoming—
Great Kaiser know,—who sovereign lord would be,
    Must set his throne upon his vanquished will,
        And of himself,—for empire,—be the king.

*Wordsworth’s Sonnets
**Ode written during the Negotiations with Buonaparte – Jan 7 1812.
***Shelley’s Sonnet on Political Power.

 

 

Christ and the Coal Strike

Christ came walking adown the way,
    The broken cottage was open wide,
There, in her coffin, a young child lay,
    And pale for sorrow the mother cried,
    “Hadst Thou been here she had never died.”

The men were on strike, and the money was spent,
    The doctors said they could do no good,
So off with his pick, my master went,
    But he came back bruised, and covered with blood,
    He had dared, for his darling, to seek some food.

And the Christ, in pity He groaned a groan
    “Have the children hereabout asked for bread
And the hand of the fathers given a stone,—
    That now the fathers are stoned instead,
    And their own babes wither, and die unfed”?

Then Christ went on thro’ the wind and cold
    And the poor man crouched at an empty grate,
Cried “Sir be with us as once of old,—
    I starve, while our leaders in comfort prate,
    But dearer coal cannot mend my state.

And Christ made answer, “I too felt
    The cold, while others were warmed at the fire;
Thro’ all the centuries men have knelt
    To kiss my robe, they have not come higher
    To God,—Love’s warmth was my soul’s desire”.

And the Christ went thence to the meeting room,
    The Union leaders, they bade him in,
He heard their passionate fret and fume,
    With talk of coal-proprietor’s sin,
    And vows of vengeance, if money should win.

And He said, in a pause,—“Have ye never heard
    That all under God have equal rights
But they who follow great mammon for Lord
    Have equal wrongs, but unequal fights
    The Law of Service alone unites”.

Then the Christ He came to the Hall of debate,
    Where the grim coal-owners were talking loud,
He called the man from the empty grate,
    He brought the child in her coffin’s shroud,
    And he summoned outside a hungry crowd.

Rights of property,—owner’s choice,—
    Rights of Capital,—contracts free,—
Claims of manor, with lordly voice,
    Cries of coal coming over the sea
    Mingled with Mammon’s unholy glee.

But lo! in a hush,—out spake the Christ,
    “God who made it, He claims the coal
How shall labour be fairly priced
    And the broken heart of a land be whole
    Till Love for the Living have paid its toll”?

From the street of the city, from far-off glen,
    At the saying of Christ there came a sound,
And the great blast-furnaces roared “Amen”
    And a cheer ran thundering under-ground,
    And the factory wheels went humming round.

For Love of the Living to help the land,
    For love of the dying to keep alive,
The masters reached to the men a hand,—
    And the men their hands in return would give
    And Labour and Capital ceased to grieve.

 

 

The Star of Prayer

  Written on Morris’s tapestry in Exeter Chapel, Oxford.

They have forgot the star within the shade;
They have forgot the very gifts they bring;
Gold and the sword, and that rare fragrant thing
Which doth forbid our mortal flesh to fade.
And so, to this world’s root, the axe is laid;
A new tree sprouts for weakness now is King:
The flowers leap up, the birds thro’ roses sing,
And only now is sad the mother maid.

Yet one among them unforgetful stands
Who holds the gift that hath the greater power
A flame with unextinguishable fire.
His gentle feet have never hurt a flower
The star of prayer is bright within his hands,
Faith’s light for souls that onward still aspire.

June 5th 1890

 

 

The Triumph of the Innocents

There in the star-light underneath the moon
    The Star of all the stars was gently going
    And very soft the balmy air was blowing,
But, to her Babe sad Mary could not croon;—
And Joseph, with his basket and his shoon
    Slung o’er his shoulders, fearful and foreknowing
    Gazed backward never, for the cock was crowing,
The watch-dogs barked, the dawn would break too soon.

Then, as I gazed on that triumphant band
    Of infant victims, decked and sacrificed
    And saw how scatheless from the murder’s sword
        The happy throng did homage to the Lord
A child beside me took me by the hand
    And led me in its fearlessness to Christ.

On Holman Hunt’s Picture at Birmingham Art Gallery Feb. 7th 1897.

Hits: 12117

[Although a few of the poems were written in the late 1860s and the 1880s, most are dated during the 1870s when Hardwicke was at University in Oxford, followed by a short stint as a social worker in London, then two years as a curate in Bristol. To view the full text of a poem, click on its title below.]

The White Swan of Well

A Harvest Festival

To a Robin

“Sister Constance”

In Memoriam: Lady Franklin

Magdalen Meadows

The Rooks in Magdalen Walk

The Sabbath

Herring Fishing

The Drought

Sonnet on Chatterton

Today

Early Autumn

Napoleon III

Loss of ‘The Captain’

Passionate Grief

To a Snail

To a Snail: Continued No. II

In Memoriam: E.M.R. and D.A. 14 Jan. 1872

‘A wasted life is like a wreck that lies’

The Invitation to the Wedding

Buried on New Year’s Day 1876/At Plumtree/F.E.B.

Lady Augusta Stanley

Minnie

To a Robin

To the West Wind

Christmas Day at Halton 1874

In Memoriam: On Seeing the Monument to Sir John Franklin on the Morning of Lady Franklin’s Funeral

A Valentine to the Lady Alice

A Valentine to Sir Herbert

"Arthur"

Consolation

A Wedding Sonnet

The Bride

The Stars on the Wedding Night

A Grandmother’s Dream

St. Mary’s Church

The Czar

Clouds at Night Moving to the Sea

September

Noel’s First Birthday

Dean Stanley: His Work

Christmas With Him

Christmas Without Him

Alas for the Yews of Borrowdale

A Farewell to Thomas Fawcett of Wray on His Leaving for South Africa

Glenthorne

To My Father

In Memoriam: Sophy Elmhurst

In Memory of Prof. Lushington

 

Hits: 1161