Chapter III

O sacred, just, inevitable scorn,
Strong child of righteous judgment, whom with grief
The rent heart bears, and wins not yet relief,
Seeing of its pain so dire a portent born,
Must thou not spare one sheaf of all the corn,
One doit of all the treasure? not one sheaf,
Not one poor doit of all? not one dead leaf
Of all that fell and left behind a thorn?
Is man so strong that one should scorn another?
Is any as God, not made of mortal mother,
That love should turn in him to gall and flame?
Nay: but the true is not the false heart's brother:
Love cannot love disloyalty: the name
That else it wears is love no more, but shame.

_ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD DOYLE._

A light of blameless laughter, fancy-bred,
Soft-souled and glad and kind as love or sleep,
Fades, and sweet mirth's own eyes are fain to weep
Because her blithe and gentlest bird is dead.
Weep, elves and fairies all, that never shed
Tear yet for mortal mourning: you that keep
The doors of dreams whence nought of ill may creep,
Mourn once for one whose lips your honey fed.
Let waters of the Golden River steep
The rose-roots whence his grave blooms rosy-red
And murmuring of Hyblæan hives be deep
About the summer silence of its bed,
And nought less gracious than a violet peep
Between the grass grown greener round his head.

_IN MEMORY OF HENRY A. BRIGHT._

Yet again another, ere his crowning year,
Gone from friends that here may look for him no more.
Never now for him shall hope set wide the door,
Hope that hailed him hither, fain to greet him here.
All the gracious garden-flowers he held so dear,
Oldworld English blossoms, all his homestead store,
Oldworld grief had strewn them round his bier of yore,
Bidding each drop leaf by leaf as tear by tear;
Rarer lutes than mine had borne more tuneful token,
Touched by subtler hands than echoing time can wrong,
Sweet as flowers had strewn his graveward path along.
Now may no such old sweet dirges more be spoken,
Now the flowers whose breath was very song are broken,
Nor may sorrow find again so sweet a song.

_A SOLITUDE._

Sea beyond sea, sand after sweep of sand,
Here ivory smooth, here cloven and ridged with flow
Of channelled waters soft as rain or snow,
Stretch their lone length at ease beneath the bland
Grey gleam of skies whose smile on wave and strand
Shines weary like a man's who smiles to know
That now no dream can mock his faith with show,
Nor cloud for him seem living sea or land.

Is there an end at all of all this waste, These crumbling cliffs defeatured and defaced, These ruinous heights of sea-sapped walls that slide Seaward with all their banks of bleak blown flowers Glad yet of life, ere yet their hope subside Beneath the coil of dull dense waves and hours?

_VICTOR HUGO: L'ARCHIPEL DE LA MANCHE._

Sea and land are fairer now, nor aught is all the same, Since a mightier hand than Time's hath woven their votive wreath. Rocks as swords half drawn from out the smooth wave's jewelled sheath, Fields whose flowers a tongue divine hath numbered name by name, Shores whereby the midnight or the noon clothed round with flame Hears the clamour jar and grind which utters from beneath Cries of hungering waves like beasts fast bound that gnash their teeth, All of these the sun that lights them lights not like his fame; None of these is but the thing it was before he came Where the darkling overfalls like dens of torment seethe, High on tameless moorlands, down in meadows bland and tame, Where the garden hides, and where the wind uproots the heath, Glory now henceforth for ever, while the world shall be, Shines, a star that keeps not time with change on earth and sea.

_THE TWILIGHT OF THE LORDS._

I.

Is the sound a trumpet blown, or a bell for burial tolled, Whence the whole air vibrates now to the clash of words like swords-- 'Let us break their bonds in sunder, and cast away their cords; Long enough the world has mocked us, and marvelled to behold How the grown man bears the curb whence his boyhood was controlled'? Nay, but hearken: surer counsel more sober speech affords: 'Is the past not all inscribed with the praises of our Lords? Is the memory dead of deeds done of yore, the love grown cold That should bind our hearts to trust in their counsels wise and bold? These that stand against you now, senseless crowds and heartless hordes, Are not these the sons of men that withstood your kings of old? Theirs it is to bind and loose; theirs the key that knows the wards, Theirs the staff to lead or smite; yours, the spades and ploughs and hods: Theirs to hear and yours to cry, Power is yours, O Lords our Gods.'

II.

Hear, O England: these are they that would counsel thee aright. Wouldst thou fain have all thy sons sons of thine indeed, and free? Nay, but then no more at all as thou hast been shalt thou be: Needs must many dwell in darkness, that some may look on light; Needs must poor men brook the wrong that ensures the rich man's right. How shall kings and lords be worshipped, if no man bow the knee? How, if no man worship these, may thy praise endure with thee? How, except thou trust in these, shall thy name not lose its might? These have had their will of thee since the Norman came to smite: Sires on grandsires, even as wave after wave along the sea, Sons on sires have followed, steadfast as clouds or hours in flight. Time alone hath power to say, time alone hath eyes to see, If your walls of rule be built but of clay-compacted sods, If your place of old shall know you no more, O Lords our Gods.