Ionica Part 10

A MERRY PARTING

With half a moon, and cloudlets pink, And water-lilies just in bud, With iris on the river brink, And white weed garlands on the mud, And roses thin and pale as dreams, And happy cygnets born in May, No wonder if our country seems Drest out for Freedom's natal day.

We keep the day; but who can brood On memories of unkingly John, Or of the leek His Highness chewed, Or of the stone he wrote upon?

To Freedom born so long ago, We do devoir in very deed, If heedless as the clouds we row With fruit and wine to Runnymede.

Ah! life is short, and learning long; We're midway through our mirthful June, And feel about for words of song To help us through some dear old tune.

We firmly, fondly seize the joy, As tight as fingers press the oar, With love and laughter girl and boy Hold the sweet days, and make them more.

And when our northern stars have set For ever on the maid we lose, Beneath our feet she'll not forget How speed the hours with Eton crews.

Then round the world, good river, run, And though with you no boat may glide, Kind river, bear some drift of fun And friendship to the exile bride.

June 15th, 1861.

SCHOOL FENCIBLES

We come in arms, we stand ten score, Embattled on the castle green; We grasp our firelocks tight, for war Is threatening, and we see our Queen.

And "will the churls last out till we Have duly hardened bones and thews For scouring leagues of swamp and sea Of braggart mobs and corsair crews?

We ask; we fear not scoff or smile At meek attire of blue and grey, For the proud wrath that thrills our isle Gives faith and force to this array.

So great a charm is England's right, That hearts enlarged together flow, And each man rises up a knight To work the evil-thinkers woe.

And, girt with ancient truth and grace, We do our service and our suit, And each can be, what'er his race, A Chandos or a Montacute.

Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day, Bless the real swords that we shall wield, Repeat the call we now obey In sunset lands, on some fair field.

Thy flag shall make some Huron Rock As dear to us as Windsor's keep, And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mock The surgings of th' Ontarian deep.

The stately music of thy Guards, Which times our march beneath thy ken, Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards, From heart to heart, when we are men.

And when we bleed on alien earth, We'll call to mind how cheers of ours Proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth Amongst thy glowing orange bowers.

And if for England's sake we fall, So be it, so thy cross be won, Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall, And worn in death, for duty done.

Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier's mate, Blending his image with the hopes of youth To hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fate Chills not our fancies with the iron truth.

Death from afar we call, and Death is here, To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien; And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer, Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our Queen.

1861.

BOCONNOC

Who so distraught could ramble here, From gentle beech to simple gorse, From glen to moor, nor cease to fear The world's impetuous bigot force, Which drives the young before they will, And when they will not drives them still.

Come hither, thou that would'st forget The gamester's smile, the trader's vaunt, The statesman actor's face hard set, The kennel cry that cheers his taunt, Come where pure winds and rills combine To murmur peace round virtue's shrine.

Virtue--men thrust her back, when these Rode down for Charles and right divine, And those with dogma Genevese Restored in faith their wavering line.

No virtue in religious camps, No heathen oil in Gideon's lamps.

And now, when forcing seasons bud With prophet, hero, saint, and quack, When creeds and fashions heat the blood, And transcendental tonguelets clack, Sweet Virtue's lyre we hardly know, And think her odes quite rococo.

Well, be it Roman, be it worse, When Pelhams reigned in George's name Poets were safe from sneer or curse Who gave a patriot cla.s.sic fame, And goodness, void of pa.s.sion, knit The hearts of Lyttelton and Pitt.

That age was as a neutral vale 'Twixt uplands of tumultuous strife, And turning from the sects to hail Composure and a graceful life, Here, where the fern-clad streamlet flows, Boconnoc's guests ensured repose.

That charm remains; and he who knows The root and stock of freedom's laws, Unscared by frenzied nations' throes, And hugging yet the good old cause, Finds in the shade these beeches cast The wit, the fragrance of the past.

Octave of St. Bartholomew, 1862.

A SKETCH AFTER BRANToME

The door hath closed behind the sighing priest, The last absolving Latin duly said, And night, barred slowly backward from the East, Lets in the dawn to mock a sleepless bed;

The bed of one who yester even took From scented aumbries store of silk and lace, From caskets beads and rings, for one last look, One look, which left the teardrops on her face;

A lady, who hath loved the world, the court, Loved youth and splendour, loved her own sweet soul, And meekly stoops to learn that life is short, Dame Nature's pitiful gift, a beggar's dole.

Sweet life, ah! let her live what yet remains.

Call, quickly call, the page who bears the lute; Bid him attune to descant of sad strains The lily voice we thought for ever mute.

The sorrowing minstrel at the cas.e.m.e.nt stands And bends before the sun that gilds his wires, And prays a blessing on his faltering hands, That they may serve his lady's last desires.

"Play something old and soft, a song I knew; Play _La defaite des Suisses,_" Then pearly notes Come dropping one by one, and with the dew Down on the breath of morning music floats.

He played as far as _tout est perdu_ and wept.

"_Tout est perdu_ again, once more," she sighed; And on, still softer on, the music crept, And softly, at the pause, the listener died.

1862.

ON LIVERMEAD SANDS

For waste of scheme and toil we grieve, For snowflakes on the wave we sigh, For writings on the sand that leave Naught for to-morrow's pa.s.ser-by.