XXV--APPARITION
Thin-legged, thin-chested, slight unspeakably, Neat-footed and weak-fingered: in his face - Lean, large-boned, curved of beak, and touched with race, Bold-lipped, rich-tinted, mutable as the sea, The brown eyes radiant with vivacity - There shines a brilliant and romantic grace, A spirit intense and rare, with trace on trace Of pa.s.sion and impudence and energy.
Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck, Most vain, most generous, sternly critical, Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist: A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck, Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all, And something of the Shorter-Catechist.
XXVI--ANTEROTICS
Laughs the happy April morn Thro" my grimy, little window, And a shaft of sunshine pushes Thro" the shadows in the square.
Dogs are tracing thro" the gra.s.s, Crows are cawing round the chimneys, In and out among the washing Goes the West at hide-and-seek.
Loud and cheerful clangs the bell.
Here the nurses troop to breakfast.
Handsome, ugly, all are women . . .
O, the Spring--the Spring--the Spring!
XXVII--NOCTURN
At the barren heart of midnight, When the shadow shuts and opens As the loud flames pulse and flutter, I can hear a cistern leaking.
Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm, Rough, unequal, half-melodious, Like the measures aped from nature In the infancy of music;
Like the buzzing of an insect, Still, irrational, persistent . . .
I must listen, listen, listen In a pa.s.sion of attention;
Till it taps upon my heartstrings, And my very life goes dripping, Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dropping, In the drip-drop of the cistern.
XXVIII--DISCHARGED
Carry me out Into the wind and the sunshine, Into the beautiful world.
O, the wonder, the spell of the streets!
The stature and strength of the horses, The rustle and echo of footfalls, The flat roar and rattle of wheels!
A swift tram floats huge on us . . .
It"s a dream?
The smell of the mud in my nostrils Blows brave--like a breath of the sea!
As of old, Ambulant, undulant drapery, Vaguery and strangely provocative, Fluttersd and beckons. O, yonder - Is it?--the gleam of a stocking!
Sudden, a spire Wedged in the mist! O, the houses, The long lines of lofty, grey houses, Cross-hatched with shadow and light!
These are the streets . . .
Each is an avenue leading Whither I will!
Free . . . !
Dizzy, hysterical, faint, I sit, and the carriage rolls on with me Into the wonderful world.
THE OLD INFIRMARY, EDINBURGH, 1873-75
ENVOY--TO CHARLES BAXTER
Do you remember That afternoon--that Sunday afternoon! - When, as the kirks were ringing in, And the grey city teemed With Sabbath feelings and aspects, LEWIS--our LEWIS then, Now the whole world"s--and you, Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came, Laden with BALZACS (Big, yellow books, quite impudently French), The first of many times To that transformed back-kitchen where I lay So long, so many centuries - Or years is it!--ago?
Dear CHARLES, since then We have been friends, LEWIS and you and I, (How good it sounds, "LEWIS and you and I!"): Such friends, I like to think, That in us three, LEWIS and me and you, Is something of that gallant dream Which old DUMAS--the generous, the humane, The seven-and-seventy times to be forgiven! - Dreamed for a blessing to the race, The immortal Musketeers.
Our ATHOS rests--the wise, the kind, The liberal and august, his fault atoned, Rests in the crowded yard There at the west of Princes Street. We three - You, I, and LEWIS!--still afoot, Are still together, and our lives, In chime so long, may keep (G.o.d bless the thought!) Unjangled till the end.
W. E. H.
CHISWICK, March 1888
THE SONG OF THE SWORD--TO RUDYARD KIPLING
The Sword Singing - The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword Clanging imperious Forth from Time"s battlements His ancient and triumphing Song.
In the beginning, Ere G.o.d inspired Himself Into the clay thing Thumbed to His image, The vacant, the naked sh.e.l.l Soon to be Man: Thoughtful He pondered it, p.r.o.ne there and impotent, Fragile, inviting Attack and discomfiture; Then, with a smile - As He heard in the Thunder That laughed over Eden The voice of the Trumpet, The iron Beneficence, Calling his dooms To the Winds of the world - Stooping, He drew On the sand with His finger A shape for a sign Of his way to the eyes That in wonder should waken, For a proof of His will To the breaking intelligence.
That was the birth of me: I am the Sword.
Bleak and lean, grey and cruel, Short-hilted, long shafted, I froze into steel; And the blood of my elder, His hand on the hafts of me, Sprang like a wave In the wind, as the sense Of his strength grew to ecstasy; Glowed like a coal In the throat of the furnace; As he knew me and named me The War-Thing, the Comrade, Father of honour And giver of kingship, The fame-smith, the song-master, Bringer of women On fire at his hands For the pride of fulfilment, PRIEST (saith the Lord) OF HIS MARRIAGE WITH VICTORY Ho! then, the Trumpet, Handmaid of heroes, Calling the peers To the place of espousals!
Ho! then, the splendour And glare of my ministry, Clothing the earth With a livery of lightnings!
Ho! then, the music Of battles in onset, And ruining armours, And G.o.d"s gift returning In fury to G.o.d!
Thrilling and keen As the song of the winter stars, Ho! then, the sound Of my voice, the implacable Angel of Destiny! - I am the Sword.
Heroes, my children, Follow, O, follow me!
Follow, exulting In the great light that breaks From the sacred Companionship!
Thrust through the fatuous, Thrust through the fungous brood, Sp.a.w.ned in my shadow And gross with my gift!
Thrust through, and hearken O, hark, to the Trumpet, The Virgin of Battles, Calling, still calling you Into the Presence, Sons of the Judgment, Pure wafts of the Will!
Edged to annihilate, Hilted with government, Follow, O, follow me, Till the waste places All the grey globe over Ooze, as the honeycomb Drips, with the sweetness Distilled of my strength, And, teeming in peace Through the wrath of my coming, They give back in beauty The dread and the anguish They had of me visitant!
Follow, O follow, then, Heroes, my harvesters!