Andromeda and Other Poems Part 12

Go! and rest to-morrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams.

Let the luscious South-wind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes.

What does he but soften Heart alike and pen?

'Tis the hard gray weather Breeds hard English men.

What's the soft South-wester?

'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their true-loves Out of all the seas: But the black North-easter, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world.

Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea.

Come; and strong within us Stir the Vikings' blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of G.o.d!

1854.

A FAREWELL: TO C. E. G.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you, For every day.

I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long; And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever, One grand sweet song.

February 1, 1856.

TO G. A. G.

A hasty jest I once let fall-- As jests are wont to be, untrue-- As if the sum of joy to you Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball.

Your eyes met mine: I did not blame; You saw it: but I touched too near Some n.o.ble nerve; a silent tear Spoke soft reproach, and lofty shame.

I do not wish those words unsaid.

Unspoilt by praise and pleasure, you In that one look to woman grew, While with a child, I thought, I played.

Next to mine own beloved so long!

I have not spent my heart in vain.

I watched the blade; I see the grain; A woman's soul, most soft, yet strong.

Eversley, 1856.

THE SOUTH WIND: A FISHERMAN'S BLESSINGS

O blessed drums of Aldershot!

O blessed South-west train!

O blessed, blessed Speaker's clock, All prophesying rain!

O blessed yaffil, laughing loud!

O blessed falling gla.s.s!

O blessed fan of cold gray cloud!

O blessed smelling gra.s.s!

O bless'd South wind that toots his horn Through every hole and crack!

I'm off at eight to-morrow morn, To bring _such_ fishes back!

Eversley, April 1, 1856.

THE INVITATION: TO TOM HUGHES

Come away with me, Tom, Term and talk are done; My poor lads are reaping, Busy every one.

Curates mind the parish, Sweepers mind the court; We'll away to Snowdon For our ten days' sport; Fish the August evening Till the eve is past, Whoop like boys, at pounders Fairly played and gra.s.sed.

When they cease to dimple, Lunge, and swerve, and leap, Then up over Siabod, Choose our nest, and sleep.

Up a thousand feet, Tom, Round the lion's head, Find soft stones to leeward And make up our bed.

Eat our bread and bacon, Smoke the pipe of peace, And, ere we be drowsy, Give our boots a grease.

Homer's heroes did so, Why not such as we?

What are sheets and servants?

Superfluity!

Pray for wives and children Safe in slumber curled, Then to chat till midnight O'er this babbling world-- Of the workmen's college, Of the price of grain, Of the tree of knowledge, Of the chance of rain; If Sir A. goes Romeward, If Miss B. sings true, If the fleet comes homeward, If the mare will do,-- Anything and everything-- Up there in the sky Angels understand us, And no 'saints' are by.

Down, and bathe at day-dawn, Tramp from lake to lake, Washing brain and heart clean Every step we take.

Leave to Robert Browning Beggars, fleas, and vines; Leave to mournful Ruskin Popish Apennines, Dirty Stones of Venice And his Gas-lamps Seven-- We've the stones of Snowdon And the lamps of heaven.

Where's the mighty credit In admiring Alps?

Any goose sees 'glory'

In their 'snowy scalps.'

Leave such signs and wonders For the dullard brain, As aesthetic brandy, Opium and cayenne.

Give me Bramshill common (St. John's harriers by), Or the vale of Windsor, England's golden eye.

Show me life and progress, Beauty, health, and man; Houses fair, trim gardens, Turn where'er I can.

Or, if bored with 'High Art,'

And such popish stuff, One's poor ear need airing, Snowdon's high enough.

While we find G.o.d's signet Fresh on English ground, Why go gallivanting With the nations round?

Though we try no ventures Desperate or strange; Feed on commonplaces In a narrow range; Never sought for Franklin Round the frozen Capes; Even, with Macdougall, {295} Bagged our brace of apes; Never had our chance, Tom, In that black Redan; Can't avenge poor Brereton Out in Sakarran; Tho' we earn our bread, Tom, By the dirty pen, What we can we will be, Honest Englishmen.

Do the work that's nearest, Though it's dull at whiles, Helping, when we meet them, Lame dogs over stiles; See in every hedgerow Marks of angels' feet, Epics in each pebble Underneath our feet; Once a year, like schoolboys, Robin-Hooding go, Leaving fops and fogies A thousand feet below.

Eversley, August 1856.

THE FIND