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The Call of the Mountains The Old Manor House The Science Master Through the Centuries Winter Pain and Death Switzerland Burial at Sea The Master of the Marionettes Love's Counterfeit The Most Precious Thing Autumn To L Duty

Sonnets

Glastonbury Galileo Stratford-on-Avon To a Daffodil The Appian Way From the Fields V?nus de Milo Fire

The Call of the Mountains

Under the shade of the Kursaal veranda Idly I follow the flight of the seagulls, Gleaming like snow when their wings catch the sunshine, While from the palm-house adjacent is wafted Music half drowned in a babel of voices, Fitting the mode of this temple of follies.

Far though the mountains, their influence, ever Changeful in temper, from sombre to smiling, Constant in wileful and mystic allurement, Rouses unrest and a strange fascination.

Limpid and blue are the waters of Leman Clear in the deepness, translucent and shining, Blue as the ether's ineffable azure, Bright in the glow of the midsummer sunshine. Cleaving the air with their palpitant pinions, Wheeling and drifting, the beautiful seagulls Fly with the grace of unconscious perfection, Crying exultant and wild in a chorus.

Are you not fit for the realm of immortals, To float on the winds of the gardens Elysian? Or must you hover a little while longer-- Wandering souls in a state of probation-- Half-way uplifted beyond our defilement, Half-way removed from the land of the blessed?

Far in the distance beyond the blue water, Rises the hoary old father of mountains, Rugged and scarred with antiquity's furrows, Crowned with the snows of a million winters. Low in the shade of his ponderous presence, Dappling the slopes, are the homesteads of peasants, Each with its cloud of blue vapour ascending: And sweetly the bells across the green pastures Answer each other with voices persistent, Telling the herdsman the tale of his charges. Grim is the smile of the white-headed mountain For toilers below in the slumbering valley, Grim is the glance with a touch of derision, Seeming to say to his towering brothers-- Catogne and the broad-shouldered heights of the Midi, "Iguanodon,--Mastodon,--Man,--in their passing Serve but as signs on the path of the ages." Softly the plash of the waters of Leman Sounds from the rough-tumbled stones at its margin: Gently the zephyrs play over its surface, Making it glitter with myriads of sparklets. Swiftly the barques trim their sails in the sunshine-- Sails high and slender that swell to the breezes, White as the snow on the breast of the Jungfrau-- Mirrored in whiteness upon the blue water.

As I sat watching the lake and the mountains, Slowly a haze like a curtain of muslin, Flimsy and fine like a texture of cobweb, Drifted and rose till it shut out the bases And bulk of the mountains across the still water, Whilst high above it the crests and sierras Stood out as castles and walls of enchantment, Raised in the air like king Solomon's city, Held up aloft by invisible genii. Then in the faintly drawn lines of escarpment, Battlements, pinnacles, turrets and bastions Sprang into being, and fancy, untrammelled, Pictured a palace with walls, and a fortress Beleaguered and stormed by a shadowy army, Massed under pennons seen dim through the vapour.

Over the drawbridge a desperate sortie Made by the knights of the castle invested Brings the foes quickly in conflict together. Plumes white and restless like foam on the breakers Drift to and fro with the tide of the battle; Falchions and maces and curtaxes gleaming A moment aloft, strike sparks in descending On corslet and casque and dinted escutcheon, Whilst out of the contest, with stumbling footsteps The wounded are led sore stricken and helpless. Ladies in sarcenet, arabesque broidered With blossoms that climb fantastic in colour,-- Stiff flowers of blazonry's formal convention That rise from the hem to the throat in profusion, Where carcanets flash on bosoms unquiet,-- Look from their casements with eyes full of wonder, Down on the conflict that rages below them, Fierce in the shock and the heat of encounter, Hearing the war-cries and clashing of weapons, Winding of horns, and the groans of the dying. Till all was lost in the thickening curtain, Veiled by the mist were my golden romances.

Wafted by breezes, my white-sailed felucca Slipped through the blueness to where the grim stronghold Of Chillon keeps ever in grateful remembrance The patriot Bonivard, champion of freedom. The pillar of pain where, writhing in torment, The captives were scourged at cruelty's bidding, Is still to be seen, an eloquent witness. Tenantless now is the cavernous dungeon Where wretches awaited through darkness unending The dawn of their last and dreaded to-morrow. Stripped of its horrors, the chamber of torture Echoes no more to the shrieks of its victims, And death's grim abode where agony ended Is free from the crimes that redden its records. There by the column of stone in the dungeon Where Bonivard lay to pine through the seasons Of six weary years, I mused on his story. Undaunted by death's ever-threatening shadow, Unconquered though insolent tyranny triumphed, Chilled in the summer and frozen in winter, Famished, neglected and loaded with fetters, Yet borne up within by courage unflinching, Supported by Faith when Hope had departed, Scorning to murmur, he waited with patience. Morning's faint light through the narrow embrasure, The wandering cry of a sea-mew in freedom Heightened the gloom of his roughly hewn prison, Making a summons to death a deliverance. Night fell about him in Stygian darkness, While the faint lap of the waters of Leman, Beating the ramparts with madding persistence, Whispered despair in the still isolation. What were his thoughts when the vault of his prison Rang with glad cries in the glare of the torches? Breaking the silence, dispelling the shadows That darkened his life and threatened his reason, What were his thoughts at the moment of freedom? When round him a tempest of passion was raging, An unloosened storm of passionate feeling, When men incoherent and hoarse from the conflict Fought for the honour of breaking his fetters, Leaving him breathless with hearty embraces, Weak and unmanned in the sudden revulsion, Carried away by the flood of emotion, With something unknown that stifled expression, That silenced his voice and heaved in his bosom.

Strong is the spell of the dream-haunted mountains, Ruddy with gold in the glory of sunrise, Purple and silver and blue in the daytime, Tinged by the amethyst splendours of sunset, Gloomy, majestic and dark in the twilight, Mystic by moonlight, ethereal, airy, Changeful and fickle in hues as the opal, Under the mutable lights and the shadows, Ever alluring with subtle attraction.

Far, far away are the waters of Leman Whence I have fled at the call of the mountains. Here in the valley where rushes a torrent, Constant and cold, be it summer or winter, A village lies hid and hither the climbers, Strangely alike in their eager impatience, Wearing the look of enwrapped expectation, Pause ere they start on their perilous journey. Hemming me round, the implacable mountains Shut out the world and confine me in durance, Bending my soul to the yoke of their bondage, Dwarfing my self and my little emotions, Waking desire to escape limitations And barriers imposed by narrow horizons. Rugged, majestic, they tower above me, As lonely and pensive I gaze in the torrent, Wondering now at the summons insistent, No longer in dreams and rovings of fancy, But weighted with impulse, defying resistance, Rousing unrest like a spirit of evil. So, as I linger awhile in the village, Completely I know each day brings me nearer To what lies beyond, in the regions of silence.

To-morrow at dawn I fly from the village Back to the peace of the waters of Leman.

Gone, gone at last, is the morbid obsession! Gone to the shade in the regions of Limbo. Far, far away, o'er the waters of Leman, Mistily outlined and faint in the distance, Threatening no longer, the dream-haunted mountains Lazily whisper of rest and contentment.

Softly the plash of the glittering fountain Falls on the night with the scent of mimosa, Mingled with polyglot phrases and laughter, Marking the pause 'twixt a waltz and mazurka. Soft are the lamps in the Kursaal rotunda Lighting discreetly the hall of lost footsteps Whose gleaming mosaics are painted with garlands, Blossoms exotic, luxuriant, languid, Red as the souls of the people about them, Hinting at passions through crimson and purple, Fitting the vogue of this temple of pleasure. On a divan in the hall where the idlers Promenade slowly, in converse together, I sit all alone in calm contemplation, Hearing the orchestra faint in the distance And the croupier's voice from his chamber seductive, Parrot-like crying in stale iteration, Summons and challenge across the green table. Keen-eyed old gamesters who prowl round the players, Seeking a pigeon to pluck at their leisure: Black-whiskered barons with blurred reputations Smirking at B. and his girls from Chicago: Swaggering captains at best detrimental: A country-bred youth just come to a fortune, Trying in vain to conceal his amazement: Couples awaiting the Absolute's fiat, Now in pursuit of a flying illusion: Hebrews from Frankfort and bankers from Paris Chatting to ladies resplendent in diamonds; A burgess of London whose wife says: "Disgraceful," But lingers to study Parisian fashions: Gamblers inveterate bent to a system, Silent, unheeding, absorbed in their figures: Well-groomed young fellows, light-hearted and careless, Come for the dance and the fun of flirtation, Bright-eyed and merry, unconsciously breathing The poisonous air of sepulchres whited. Perdita, watchful and guardedly smiling, Trying to lessen the distance between us, Wafts me a sign with a spray of verbena. Is she an angel, a beast or a demon, Or spirit incarnate that onward is passing To higher avatars by long transmigration? Ah! how it warms one, this human deflection, This touch with familiar follies and foibles, After the limitless space of the aeons, Out of the measure of time as we know it, Far in the distant and echoless ages, Austere, and untouched by our passing emotions, Where I have wandered in lonely remoteness Under the passionless spell of the mountains.

Cold and relentless, eternally lasting! Silent inscriptions in cryptical cipher! Unbroken record of time since creation, Whose secret is hid from human conception. How small are the things humanity prizes, The feverish joys of passion and pleasure, That pass like a dream to dusky oblivion! How short is man's life compared with the ages That frown from the face of the mystical mountains, Far in the blue o'er the waters of Leman.

The Old Manor House

The rusted gates whose forgings fine Enlace a gilded coronet, Now dim in lustreless decline, Groaned as I passed the lichened shapes Of rampant griffin on each side, Stiff with heraldic, stony pride. Then through the grass-grown drive I passed With ancient oaks on either hand, Throwing their shadows dark and vast Upon the bracken at their feet Where rabbits peeped in fear and ran From the rare sound of living man. For here no more the sumptuous train Displays the pomp of falconry; No more, besprent with mire and rain, The messenger-at-arms rides in: Nor, with his retinue of knights Some great man at the house alights.

Above the portico Of the great silent house, The quarterings' tinctures glow, Blazoning its history, From the old Sieur de Caulx, Whose heavy Norman sword Helped Harold's overthrow, And whose long line of sons Stretches, like a shadow, Thrown in the eventide, Through the old folio Where illumined pages Bravely the records show, Till the last, lonely heir Was carried down below, To the cold marble vaults A century ago.

A gallery o'erlooks the hall, A gallery where minstrels played And with their lutes sweet music made, While from the weapons on the wall, Reflected shone the lights that glowed Above the hospitable board When each successive, generous lord His loyalty or grandeur showed. Kings feasted there with stately dames, Ambassadors and Cardinals Who, cheered with wine and madrigals, Fed with their fancies amorous flames. And at some great eventful scene Full many a dance the chamber graced, Pavanes and sarabands were paced, And minuets when Anne was queen.

My footsteps echoing from the panelled walls, Stayed the long sleep of years, Stirring the thick, accumulated dust To movement in the ray of light that falls, From a half-shuttered oriel which appears Between the rafters, just Where a stone mullion its carved apex rears. Faint voices whispered round me as I stood Spellbound and listening there: The ghostly strains of melodies forgot, The happy laughter of fair womanhood: Children in noisy play, without a care: Fierce cries with passion hot, Triumphant some, and some wild with despair.

Leaving the chamber so haunted by voices, Fearful, I hastened to where the great staircase Rears its proud height in a double ascension Till it is hid in the deepening shadows. Stiffly upstanding on each chief baluster, Absently gaze the historical griffins, Plunged in their silent and deep meditation. Many a Caulx have they seen pass before them, Long generations in motley procession, Halting and feeble, the sick and the aged: Sanguine and joyous, the young and the hopeful: Manhood triumphant, crestfallen or thoughtless: Urbane and discreet, my lady's confessor: Stealthily creeping, the villainous traitor: Quick and impatient, the fortunate lover: Children unconscious of aught but their playthings: Nobles in ermine, and simpering ladies: Then, the one end of all human emotions, Slow-pacing figures who bear on their shoulders, Silenced for ever, some lord of the staircase.

The steward, from the all-pervading gloom, Flung wide the shutters of the drawing-room, Showing a terrace graced with urn and faun And steps that led to a neglected lawn, Whilst rounded hill and valley far were seen Lit by the summer's radiating sheen. The room's magnificence, its noble size And faded splendour filled me with surprise. A costly pierglass in its tarnished frame, Which once reflected gallant squire and dame, Now with fidelity displayed the clear And gleaming lustres of the chandelier, Pendent, with ten score sconces silver chased, From the high ceiling which a master graced With courtly scenes wherein could be descried Ancestral figures in their pomp and pride. The sunlight played on gilded girandole, On silver candlestick and stiff console, All of that period when here befell The scene on which the steward loves to dwell, Showing the floor's dark stain of sombre red And how it came about that blood was shed. I marked the punchbowls, full of leaves and dust, A slim sword, silver-hiked, flecked with rust: A daintily escutcheoned chiffonier, Inlaid with shell and finished with veneer: Timepieces silent, set in ormolu: The damask screens of faded red and blue. And, to enhance the chamber's stately air, Great Chippendale had made each slender chair. The stream of life, arrested, seemed to wait A magic word to set it flowing straight.

Heated by wine and ombre-play, Two hundred years ago or more, Three gamblers, on a morning gray, Quarrelled about a questioned score.

Two blades were soon engaged. A tierce, Ill parried, stretched a swordsman low, Who lunged with failing point but fierce, And dying, dropped before his foe.

And when the growing light of morn Lit the Venetian mirror's face, He died, 'twixt pain and passion torn, And left a curse upon the place.

And from that day the records show A slowly creeping, sure decline That, just a hundred years ago, Ended the once illustrious line.

Sometimes upon the dusky hour That comes before the sun's first rays, When things occult display their power, A strange light on the chamber plays

That is not of the earth or sky, While hurrying footsteps come and go And then into the silence die With whispered mutterings hoarse and low.

A sliding panel, by the wainscot hid, Showed, in the unmarked thickness of the walls, A narrow passage and a secret stair That brought us to the level of the moat. Long dry and choked with bracken and with brier, It made a rugged pathway to a court Where stands the ruin of an ancient tower, Fenced in with walls pierced by an entrance low. "Here," said my guide, "when James the first was king, "A daughter of the house, through three long years, "Was by her father close a prisoner kept "Because she would not wed the man he chose. "Stern and unyielding, as became her race, "She set her will against her father's strength. "Through all the time she saw no living face: "No sound of human voice, except her own, "Fell on her ear. She nothing saw but clouds "That swept athwart the cold and pitiless sky, "And blinking stars at night that rose and set "Across the little window in the roof: "Then she went mad and on the stony walls "One day beat out her life in frenzied rage, "And refuge found beyond her father's power."

Time passed, and it was late When once again I stood Outside the ancient gate, Where the stone griffins ramped, Cold as relentless fate Changeless as destiny.

And I said: "'Tis in vain, Guardians impassible, That ye your watch maintain Over the ghosts of Caulx, While the years wax and wane Century by century.

"For behold! I have been Among them and have heard Their voices, I have seen With swift-discerning eyes Over their wide demesne Of human history."

The Science Master

Through the Centuries

While yet the Saxons ruled, a puissant Thane Made with his unkempt band of mounted spears A seizin of a hide of forest land Whereon he built a house of ample size, With dining-hall and bowers and sleeping-lofts, And stables shutting in a stone-paved yard: And round the whole he set a ponderous fence Of sharpened stakes fast bound with metal bands. And "Yan, the Wulf," for thus the Thane was known, Called the place "Wulfden" in his savage tongue. And here, year after year, he lived at ease, Oft making sallies for a cattle raid, Or fighting with some other such as he, To come back weary at the fall of night, Driving a herd before him, and his men Sweating beneath the spoil of plundered foes. Once as he sat at supper in his hall, Bemused with mead and satisfied with food, There came a wandering bedesman to his gate Craving permission "in Fayre Jesu's name" To build a church of stone within the shade Of his protection. And, in generous mood, The Thane gave gruff assent; and time slipped by.

Then William swept the land, and, to reward One of his knights, gave him the Wulf's demesne To hold in fee, and on the Saxon's land Arose a fortress with embattled walls, With donjon, keep and moat and tilting-yard, To hold in thraldom all the country-side. But still was left the little Saxon church, Unchanged save that the Norman owner gave New consecration in his patron's name, St. Martinus of Tours, a warrior saint Who guarded through the centuries his race.

Then in the War of Roses came the crash That brought extinction to the feudal name And desolation to its crumbling home. And yet, though scarred by time and gray with age, The little church of Saxon days remained The emblem of a never-dying faith.

The years rolled by and then there came a day Which gave a new possessor to the place, A nobleman in favour with that queen Who loved a witty tongue and ready sword When coupled with good looks and brave attire. He built a great Elizabethan pile, The ground-plan shaped to form the royal E, Conforming to the fashion of the times When loyalty spoke even from silent stone. And he, to please his lady's pious whim, Forbore to raze the chapel to the ground, But stayed with flying buttress either side, Repaired the roof and made it to her mind. And there they lie, both in one marble tomb On which their effigies with clasping hands Bear witness to an everlasting love.

And when vacation brings its hours of rest I sometimes sit within the Saxon church And muse upon the changes time has brought Save to the faith that reared the little shrine, And still builds churches "in Fayre Jesu's name."

Winter

'Tis winter and the darkening skies Awake regretful memories Of wooded hill and sunlit plain, Ringing with anthems to the sun Until his arching course was run And nightingales took up the strain.

The trees, then dense with leaves and flowers, Stood through the long and smiling hours, Housing an honest little folk, Throbbing with life by day and night, Whose voices, vibrant with delight, Of happy labour ever spoke.

The trees now spread their haggard arms, Bared of their pristine, leafy charms, To cold and unresponsive skies That neither smile nor weep, but chill With cold indifference, and kill Hope that all nature underlies.

A dreary moan floats on the wind From the gaunt oaks, that, ill defined, Show spectral shapes against the sky From which the fleeting day has flown While dead leaves on the earth are strown To mark the summer's mortuary.

Where are the thousand things of life That erstwhile made the place all rife With busy hum and restless wing And turmoil of a world of love? The blackbird on her nest above, Below, the beetle tunnelling.

Gone with the happiness I knew Because the heavens were always blue, While the sun shone from day to day And winter was not. 'Twas as far And nebulous as yonder star That throws its cold and sickly ray

Where once a glorious flood of light Ceased only with the falling night. Gloom hovers where triumphant joy Beatified each passing hour, For Winter now with ruthless power Fulfils its mission to destroy.

"I bring not death but rest to flower and tree, "And nurse the flame divine, Vitality, "That burns immortal since primeval night "When the Creator said: 'Let there be light!' "And loosed the sun upon his blazing way "To roll for ever through an endless day."

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