New Poems, and Variant Readings

St. Martin’s Summer

AS swallows turning backward When half-way o’er the sea, At one word’s trumpet summons They came again to me— The hopes I had forgotten Came back again to me.

I know not which to credit, O lady of my heart! Your eyes that bade me linger, Your words that bade us part— I know not which to credit, My reason or my heart.

But be my hopes rewarded, Or be they but in vain, I have dreamed a golden vision, I have gathered in the grain— I have dreamed a golden vision, I have not lived in vain.

Than that the whole, hard world with one consent, In one continuous chorus of applause Poured forth for me and mine The homage of ripe praise.

I write the finis here against my love, This is my love’s last epitaph and tomb. Here the road forks, and I Go my way, far from yours.

Full many a marsh-fire lured me on, I reached at many a star, I reached and grasped them and behold— The stump of a cigar!

All through the sultry sweltering day The sweat ran down my brow, The still plains heard my distant strokes That have been silenced now.

This way and that, now up, now down, I hailed full many a blow. Alas! beneath my weary arm The thicket seemed to grow.

I take the lesson, wipe my brow And throw my axe aside, And, sorely wearied, I go home In the tranquil eventide.

And soon the rising moon, that lights The eve of my defeat, Shall see me sitting as of yore By my old master’s feet.

Prelude

BY sunny market-place and street Wherever I go my drum I beat, And wherever I go in my coat of red The ribbons flutter about my head.

I seek recruits for wars to come— For slaughterless wars I beat the drum, And the shilling I give to each new ally Is hope to live and courage to die.

I know that new recruits shall come Wherever I beat the sounding drum, Till the roar of the march by country and town Shall shake the tottering Dagons down.

For I was objectless as they And loitering idly day by day; But whenever I heard the recruiters come, I left my all to follow the drum.

The Vanquished Knight

I HAVE left all upon the shameful field, Honour and Hope, my God, and all but life; Spurless, with sword reversed and dinted shield, Degraded and disgraced, I leave the strife.

From him that hath not, shall there not be taken E’en that he hath, when he deserts the strife? Life left by all life’s benefits forsaken, O keep the promise, Lord, and take the life.

To the Commissioners of Northern Lights

I SEND to you, commissioners, A paper that may please ye, sirs (For troth they say it might be worse An’ I believe’t) And on your business lay my curse Before I leav’t.

I thocht I’d serve wi’ you, sirs, yince, But I’ve thocht better of it since; The maitter I will nowise mince, But tell ye true: I’ll service wi’ some ither prince, An’ no wi’ you.

I’ve no been very deep, ye’ll think, Cam’ delicately to the brink An’ when the water gart me shrink Straucht took the rue, An’ didna stoop my fill to drink— I own it true.

I kent on cape and isle, a light Burnt fair an’ clearly ilka night; But at the service I took fright, As sune’s I saw, An’ being still a neophite Gaed straucht awa’.

Anither course I now begin, The weeg I’ll cairry for my sin, The court my voice shall echo in, An’—wha can tell?— Some ither day I may be yin O’ you mysel’.

THE RELIC TAKEN, WHAT AVAILS THE SHRINE?

THE relic taken, what avails the shrine? The locket, pictureless? O heart of mine, Art thou not worse than that, Still warm, a vacant nest where love once sat?

Her image nestled closer at my heart Than cherished memories, healed every smart And warmed it more than wine Or the full summer sun in noon-day shine.

This was the little weather gleam that lit The cloudy promontories—the real charm was That gilded hills and woods And walked beside me thro’ the solitudes.