Rhymes of the East and Re-collected Verses Part 6

From the dust, and the drought, and the heat, I am borne on the pinions of leave, From the things that are bad to repeat To the things that are good to receive.

From the glare of the day at its height On a land that was blinding to see, From the wearisome hiss of the night, By a turn of the wheel I am free.

I have pa.s.sed to the heart of the Hills, For a season of halcyon hours, 'Mid the music of murmurous rills, And the delicate odours of flowers;

And I walk in an exquisite shade, Where the fern-ta.s.selled boughs interlace; And the verdurous fringe of the glade Is a marvel of fairylike grace;

And with never an aim or a plan I can wander in uttermost ease, Where the only reminders of Man Are the monkeys aloft in the trees;

Or, perchance, on the 'silvery mere,'

In a 'shallop' I lazily float, With--it's possible--some one to steer, Or with no one (which lightens the boat).

O the glorious gift of release From the chains that encircle the thrall, To be quiet, and cool, and at peace, And to loaf, and do nothing at all!

I am clear of that infamous lark; I am far from the blare of the Band; And the bugles are silent, the bark Of the Colonel is hushed in the land.

And--I say it again--I am free, In the valleys of wandering bliss; And most gratefully 'own, if there _be_ An Elysium on earth, it is this!'

TO MY LADY OF THE HILLS

'... O she, To me myself, for some three careless moons, The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the sh.o.r.es of Nothing.'--_Tennyson_.

'Tis the hour when golden slumbers Through th' Hesperian portals creep, And the youth who lisps in numbers Dreams of novel rhymes to 'sleep'; _I_ shall merely note, at starting, That responsive Nature thrills To the _twilight_ hour of parting From my Lady of the Hills.

Lady, 'neath the deepening umbrage We have wandered near and far, To the ludicrously dumb rage Of your truculent Mamma; We have urged the long-tailed gallop; Lightly danced the still night through; Smacked the ball, and oared the shallop (In a vis-a-vis canoe);

We have walked this fair Oasis, Keeping, more by skill than chance, To the non-committal basis Of indefinite romance; Till, as love within me ripened, I have wept the hours away, Brooding on my meagre stipend, Mourning mine exiguous pay.

Dear, 'tis hard, indeed, to stifle Fervour such as mine has grown, And I 'd freely give a trifle Could I win you for mine own; But the question simply narrows Down to one persistent fact, That we cannot say we're sparrows, And we oughtn't so to act.

Married bliss is born of incomes; While to drag the long years through Till some hypothetic tin comes, Seems a childish thing to do; Rather let us own as lasting Our unpardonable crime, Giving thanks, with prayer and fasting, For so very high a time.

Fare you well. Your dreadful Mother, If I know that woman's mind, Has her eye upon Another _Vice_ me, my dear, resigned; And I see you mated shortly To some covenanted swain, Not objectionably portly, Not prohibitively plain.

Take his gifts, and ask a blessing.

Meddle not with minor cares.

Trust me, your unprepossessing Dam soon settles those affairs!

Then will I, with honeyed suasion, Pinch some thriftless man of bills Of a mark of the occasion For my Lady of the Hills.

THE Sh.o.r.eS OF NOTHING

There's a little lake that lies In a valley, where the skies Kiss the mountains, as they rise, On the crown; And the heaven-born elite Are accustomed to retreat From the pestilential heat Lower down.

Where the Mighty, for a s.p.a.ce, Mix with Beauty, Rank, and Grace, (I myself was in the place, At my best!) And the atmosphere's divine, While the deodar and pine Are particularly fine For the chest.

And a little month ago, When the sun was lying low, And the water lay aglow Like a pearl, I, remarkably arrayed, Dipped an un.o.btrusive blade In the lake--and in the shade-- With a girl.

O 'twas pleasant thus to glide On the 'softly-flowing tide'

(Which it's not!) and, undescried, Take a hand In the sweet, idyllic sports That are known in such resorts, To the sympathetic snorts Of the Band.

Till, when o'er the 'still lagoon'

Pa.s.sed the golden afternoon, The preposterous ba.s.soon, Growling deep, Saved the King and knelled the day As the crimson changed to grey And the little valley lay Half asleep.

It is finished. She was kind.

'Out of sight is out of mind.'

But the taste remains behind, (And the bills,) And I'd give the world to know If there's some one else in tow With my love (a month ago) In the Hills!

O ye valleys, tell me, pray, Was she on the lake to-day?

Does she foot it in the gay, Social whirl?

O ye Mountains of Gilboa, Send a bird, or kindly blow a Breeze to tell me all you know a- bout that girl!

THE LAST HOCKEY

_After A. T._

So for the last great Hockey of the Hills, --Damsel _v._ Dame--by ruder cynics called The Tournament of the Dead Dignities, We gained the lists, and I, thro' humorous lens, Perused the revels. Here on autumn gra.s.s Leapt the lithe-elbowed Spin, and strongly merged In scrimmage with the comfortable Wife And temporary Widow,--know you not, Such trifles are the merest commonplace In loftier contours?--Twenty-two in all They numbered, and none other trod the field Save one, the bold Sir Referee, whose charge It was to keep fair order in the lists, And peace 'twixt Dame and Damsel: married, he.

O brothers, had ye seen them! O the games!

Fleet-footed some: lightly they leapt, and drave Or missed the pellet; then, perchance, would turn With hand that sought their tresses. Others moved Careless, in half disdain, nor urged pursuit; Yet ever and anon would shriek, and miss The pellet, while the bold Sir Referee Skipt in avoidance. From the factions came The cry of voices shrilling woman-wise, The clash of stick on stick, the m.u.f.fled shin, The sudden whistle, and the murmurous note Of mutual disaffection. Otherwhere The myriad coolie chortled, knightly palms Clapped, and the whole vale echoed to the noise Of ladies, who in session to the West Sat with the light behind them, self-approved.

Fortune with equal favour poised the scale, And loudlier rang the trouble, till I heard 'A Susan! Ho! A Susan!'--She, oh she, One whom myself had picked from out the crowd Of hot girl-athletes with their tousled hair, Was on the ball. Deftly she smote, and drave On, and so paddled swiftly in its wake.

The good ash gleamed and fell; the forward ranks Gave pa.s.sage; once again she smote, again Paddled, nor pa.s.sed, but paddling ever neared The mournful guardian of the Sacred Goal, Hewing and hacking. Little need to tell Of Susan in her glory; whom she smote She felled, and whom she shocked she overthrew; And, shrieking, pa.s.sed exultant to her doom.

For Susan, while she clove a devious course, Moved crab-like, in a strange diagonal, And, driving, crossed the frontiers. Thither came The bold Sir Referee, and shrilled abroad The tremulous, momentary 'touch.' But she, Heaving with unaccustomed exercise, Blinded and baffled, wild with all despair, Stood sweeping, as a churl that sweeps the scythe In earlier pastures. Twice he skipped, and poured The desperate whistle. Once again, and he, Skipping, diffused the whistle. But at last, So shrewd a blow she dealt him on the shin, That had he stood reverse-wise on his head, Not on his feet, I know not what had chanced.

Then to the shuddering Orient skies there rose A marvellous great shriek, the splintering noise Of shattered ash-plant and of battered shank, Mixed with a higher. For Susan, overwrought, Lost footing, and with one clear dolorous wail Fell headlong, only more so. And I saw, Clothed in black stockings, mystic, wonderful, That which I saw. The coolies yelled. The crowd Closed round, and so the tourney reached an end.

Then home they bore the bold Sir Referee In Susan's litter; and they tended him With curious tendance; and they drowned his views On Susan, and the tourney, and the place Whither he'd see them ere again he ruled Such functions, with a sweet, small song (I call It sweet that should not!). This is how it ran:--

'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. The stick, The little stick he leapt at in the lists Has riven and cleft the bark, and raised a bulk Of crescent span, that spreads on every side A thousand hues, all flushing into one.

'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. She came, The woman with her ash, and lo the wound!

But we will make a bandage for the limb, And swathe it, heel to knee, with splints and wool, And embrocations for the hurts of man.

'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n; he wailed; With our own ears we heard him, and we knew _There dwelt an iron nature in the grain_!

The splintering ash was cloven on his limb; His limb was battered to the cannon-bone.'