Robert F. Murray: His Poems with a Memoir Part 3

He was not wholly idle. He wrote a number of short pieces of verse in _Punch_, and two or three in the _St. James's Gazette_. Other work, no doubt, he planned, but his strength was gone. In 1891 his book, _The Scarlet Gown_, was published by his friend, Mr. A. M. Holden. The little volume, despite its local character, was kindly received by the Reviews.

Here, it was plain, we had a poet who was to St. Andrews what the regretted J. K. S. was to Eton and Cambridge. This measure of success was not calculated to displease our _alumnus addictissimus_.

Friendship and love, he said, made the summer of 1892 very happy to him.

I last heard from him in the summer of 1893, when he sent me some of his most pleasing verses. He was in Scotland; he had wandered back, a shadow of himself, to his dear St. Andrews. I conceived that he was better; he said nothing about his health. It is not easy to quote from his letters to his friend, Mr. Wallace, still written in his beautiful firm hand.

They are too full of affectionate banter: they also contain criticisms on living poets: he shows an admiration, discriminating and not wholesale, of Mr. Kipling's verse: he censures Mr. Swinburne, whose Jacobite song (as he wrote to myself) did not precisely strike him as the kind of thing that Jacobites used to sing.

They certainly celebrated

'The faith our fathers fought for, The kings our fathers knew,'

in a different tone in the North.

The perfect health of mind, in these letters of a dying man, is admirable. Reading old letters over, he writes to Miss ---, 'I have known a wonderful number of wonderfully kind-hearted people.' That is his criticism of a world which had given him but a scanty welcome, and a life of foiled endeavour, of disappointed hope. Even now there was a disappointment. His poems did not find a publisher: what publisher can take the risk of adding another volume of poetry to the enormous stock of verse brought out at the author's expense? This did not sour or sadden him: he took Montaigne's advice, 'not to make too much marvel of our own fortunes.' His biographer, hearing in the winter of 1893 that Murray's illness was now considered hopeless, though its rapid close was not expected, began, with Professor Meiklejohn, to make arrangements for the publication of the poems. But the poet did not live to have this poor gratification. He died in the early hours of 1894.

Of the merits of his more serious poetry others must speak. To the Editor it seems that he is always at his best when he is inspired by the Northern Sea, and the long sands and grey sea gra.s.ses. Then he is most himself. He was improving in his art with every year: his development, indeed, was somewhat late.

It is less of the writer than the man that we prefer to think. His letters display, in pa.s.sages which he would not have desired to see quoted, the depth and tenderness and thoughtfulness of his affections. He must have been a delightful friend: illness could not make him peevish, and his correspondence with old college companions could never be taken for that of a consciously dying man. He had perfect courage, and resolution even in his seeming irresoluteness. He was resolved to be, and continued to be, himself. 'He had kept the bird in his bosom.' We, who regret him, may wish that he had been granted a longer life, and a secure success. Happier fortunes might have mellowed him, no fortunes could have altered for the worse his admirable nature. He lives in the hearts of his friends, and in the pride and sympathy of those who, after him, have worn and shall wear the scarlet gown.

The following examples of his poetry were selected by Murray's biographer from a considerable ma.s.s, and have been seen through the press by Professor Meiklejohn, who possesses the original ma.n.u.script, beautifully written.

MOONLIGHT NORTH AND SOUTH

Love, we have heard together The North Sea sing his tune, And felt the wind's wild feather Brush past our cheeks at noon, And seen the cloudy weather Made wondrous with the moon.

Where loveliness is rarest, 'Tis also prized the most: The moonlight shone her fairest Along that level coast Where sands and dunes the barest, Of beauty seldom boast,

Far from that bleak and rude land An exile I remain Fixed in a fair and good land, A valley and a plain Rich in fat fields and woodland, And watered well with rain.

Last night the full moon's splendour Shone down on Taunton Dene, And pasture fresh and tender, And coppice dusky green, The heavenly light did render In one enchanted scene,

One fair unearthly vision.

Yet soon mine eyes were cloyed, And found those fields Elysian Too rich to be enjoyed.

Or was it our division Made all my pleasure void?

Across the window gla.s.ses The curtain then I drew, And, as a sea-bird pa.s.ses, In sleep my spirit flew To grey and windswept gra.s.ses And moonlit sands--and you.

WINTER AT ST. ANDREWS

The city once again doth wear Her wonted dress of winter's bride, Her mantle woven of misty air, With saffron sunlight faintly dyed.

She sits above the seething tide, Of all her summer robes forlorn-- And dead is all her summer pride-- The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.

All round, the landscape stretches bare, The bleak fields lying far and wide, Monotonous, with here and there A lone tree on a lone hillside.

No more the land is glorified With golden gleams of ripening corn, Scarce is a cheerful hue descried-- The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.

For me, I do not greatly care Though leaves be dead, and mists abide.

To me the place is thrice as fair In winter as in summer-tide: With kindlier memories allied Of pleasure past and pain o'erworn.

What care I, though the earth may hide The leaves from off Queen Mary's Thorn?

Thus I unto my friend replied, When, on a chill late autumn morn, He pointed to the tree, and cried, 'The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn!'

PATRIOTISM

There was a time when it was counted high To be a patriot--whether by the zeal Of peaceful labour for the country's weal, Or by the courage in her cause to die:

_For King and Country_ was a rallying cry That turned men's hearts to fire, their nerves to steel; Not to unheeding ears did it appeal, A pulpit formula, a platform lie.

Only a fool will wantonly desire That war should come, outpouring blood and fire, And bringing grief and hunger in her train.

And yet, if there be found no other way, G.o.d send us war, and with it send the day When love of country shall be real again!

SLEEP FLIES ME

Sleep flies me like a lover Too eagerly pursued, Or like a bird to cover Within some distant wood, Where thickest boughs roof over Her secret solitude.

The nets I spread to snare her, Although with cunning wrought, Have only served to scare her, And now she'll not be caught.

To those who best could spare her, She ever comes unsought.

She lights upon their pillows; She gives them pleasant dreams, Grey-green with leaves of willows, And cool with sound of streams, Or big with tranquil billows, On which the starlight gleams.

No vision fair entrances My weary open eye, No marvellous romances Make night go swiftly by; But only feverish fancies Beset me where I lie.

The black midnight is steeping The hillside and the lawn, But still I lie unsleeping, With curtains backward drawn, To catch the earliest peeping Of the desired dawn.

Perhaps, when day is breaking; When birds their song begin, And, worn with all night waking, I call their music din, Sweet sleep, some pity taking, At last may enter in.

LOVE'S PHANTOM

Whene'er I try to read a book, Across the page your face will look, And then I neither know nor care What sense the printed words may bear.

At night when I would go to sleep, Thinking of you, awake I keep, And still repeat the words you said, Like sick men murmuring prayers in bed.