There is a song of England that none shall ever sing; So sweet it is and fleet it is That none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing, And regal as her mountains, And radiant as the fountains Of rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can fling Against the cliffs of England, the st.u.r.dy cliffs of England, Could more than seem to dream of it, Or catch one flying gleam of it, Above the seas of England that never cease to sing.

There is a song of England that only lovers know; So rare it is and fair it is, O, like a fairy rose it is upon a drift of snow, So cold and sweet and sunny, So full of hidden honey, So like a flight of b.u.t.terflies where rose and lily blow Along the lanes of England, the leafy lanes of England; When flowers are at their vespers And full of little whispers, The boys and girls of England shall sing it as they go.

There is a song of England that only love may sing, So sure it is and pure it is; And seaward with the sea-mew it spreads a whiter wing, And with the sky-lark hovers Above the tryst of lovers, Above the kiss and whisper that led the lovely Spring Through all the glades of England, the ferny glades of England, Until the way enwound her With sprays of May, and crowned her With stars of frosty blossom in a merry morris-ring.

There is a song of England that haunts her hours of rest: The calm of it and balm of it Are breathed from every hedgerow that blushes to the West From the cottage doors that nightly Cast their welcome out so brightly On the lanes where laughing children are lifted and caressed By the tenderest hands in England, hard and blistered hands of England: And from the restful sighing Of the sleepers that are lying With the arms of G.o.d around them on the night's contented breast.

There is a song of England that wanders on the wind; So sad it is and glad it is That men who hear it madden and their eyes are wet and blind, For the lowlands and the highlands Of the unforgotten islands, For the Islands of the Blessed and the rest they cannot find As they grope in dreams to England and the love they left in England; Little feet that danced to meet them And the lips that used to greet them, And the watcher at the window in the home they left behind.

There is a song of England that thrills the beating blood With burning cries and yearning Tides of hidden aspiration hardly known or understood; Aspirations of the creature Tow'rds the unity of Nature; Sudden chivalries revealing whence the longing is renewed In the men that live for England, live and love and die for England: By the light of their desire They shall blindly blunder higher, To a wider, grander Kingdom and a deeper, n.o.bler Good.

There is a song of England that only heaven can hear; So gloriously victorious, It soars above the choral stars that sing the Golden Year; Till even the cloudy shadows That wander o'er her meadows In silent purple harmonies declare His glory there, Along the hills of England, the billowy hills of England; While heaven rolls and ranges Through all the myriad changes That mirror G.o.d in music to the mortal eye and ear.

_There is a song of England that none shall ever sing; So sweet it is and fleet it is That none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing, And regal as her mountains, And radiant as her fountains Of rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can fling Against the cliffs of England, the st.u.r.dy cliffs of England, Could more than seem to dream of it, Or catch one flying gleam of it, Above the seas of England that never cease to sing._

THE OLD SCEPTIC

I am weary of disbelieving: why should I wound my love To pleasure a sophist's pride in a graven image of truth?

I will go back to my home, with the clouds and the stars above, And the heaven I used to know, and the G.o.d of my buried youth.

I will go back to the home where of old in my boyish pride I pierced my father's heart with a murmur of unbelief.

He only looked in my face as I spoke, but his mute eyes cried Night after night in my dreams; and he died in grief, in grief.

Books? I have read the books, the books that we write ourselves, Extolling our love of an abstract truth and our pride of debate: I will go back to the love of the cotter who sings as he delves, To that childish infinite love and the G.o.d above fact and date.

To that ignorant infinite G.o.d who colours the meaningless flowers, To that lawless infinite Poet who crowns the law with the crime; To the Weaver who covers the world with a garment of wonderful hours, And holds in His hand like threads the tales and the truths of time.

Is the faith of the cotter so simple and narrow as this? Ah, well, It is hardly so narrow as yours who daub and plaster with dyes The shining mirrors of heaven, the shadowy mirrors of h.e.l.l, And blot out the dark deep vision, if it seem to be framed with lies.

No faith I hurl against you, no fact to freeze your sneers.

Only the doubt you taught me to weld in the fires of youth Leaps to my hand like the flaming sword of nineteen hundred years, The sword of the high G.o.d's answer, _O Pilate, what is truth?_

Your laughter has killed more hearts than ever were pierced with swords, Ever you daub new mirrors and turn the old to the wall; And more than blood is lost in the weary battle of words; For creeds are many; but G.o.d is One, and contains them all.

Ah, why should we strive or cry? Surely the end is close!

Hold by your little truths: deem your triumph complete!

But nothing is true or false in the infinite heart of the rose; And the earth is a little dust that clings to our travelling feet.

I will go back to my home and look at the wayside flowers, And hear from the wayside cabins the kind old hymns again, Where Christ holds out His arms in the quiet evening hours, And the light of the chapel porches broods on the peaceful lane.

And there I shall hear men praying the deep old foolish prayers, And there I shall see, once more, the fond old faith confessed, And the strange old light on their faces who hear as a blind man hears,-- _Come unto Me, ye weary, and I will give you rest._

I will go back and believe in the deep old foolish tales, And pray the simple prayers that I learned at my mother's knee, Where the Sabbath tolls its peace thro' the breathless mountain-vales, And the sunset's evening hymn hallows the listening sea.

THE DEATH OF CHOPIN

Sing to me! Ah, remember how Poor Heine here in Paris leant Watching me play at the fall of day And following where the music went, Till that old cloud upon his brow Was almost smoothed away.

"Do roses in the moonlight flame Like this and this?" he said and smiled; Then bent his head as o'er his dead Brother might breathe some little child The accustomed old half-jesting name, With all its mockery fled,

Like summer lightnings, far away, In heaven. O, what Bohemian nights We pa.s.sed down there for that brief year When art revealed her last delights; And then, that night, that night in May When Hugo came to hear!

"Do roses in the moonlight glow Like this and this?" I could not see His eyes, and yet--they were quite wet, Blinded, I think! What should I be If in that hour I did not know My own diviner debt?

For G.o.d has made this world of ours Out of His own exceeding pain, As here in art man's bleeding heart Slow drop by drop completes the strain; And dreams of death make sweet the flowers Where lovers meet to part.

Recall, recall my little room Where all the masters came that night, Came just to hear me, Meyerbeer, Lamartine, Balzac; and no light But my two candles in the gloom; Though she, she too was there,

George Sand. This music once unlocked My heart, she took the gold she prized: Her novel gleams no richer: dreams Like mine are best una.n.a.lysed: And she forgets her poor bemocked Prince Karol, now, it seems.

I was Prince Karol; yes, and Liszt Count Salvator Albani: she My Floriani--all so far Away!--My dreams are like the sea That round Majorca sighed and kissed Each softly mirrored star.

O, what a golden round of hours Our island villa knew: we two Alone with sky and sea, the sigh Of waves, the warm unfathomed blue; With what a chain of nights like flowers We bound Love, she and I.

What music, what harmonious Glad triumphs of the world's desire Where pa.s.sion yearns to G.o.d and burns Earth's dross out with its own pure fire, Or tolls like some deep angelus Through Death's divine nocturnes.

"Do roses in the moonlight glow Like this and this?" What did she think Of him whose hands at Love's command Made Life as honey o'er the brink Of Death drip slow, darkling and slow?

Ah, did she understand?

She studied every sob she heard, She watched each dying hope she found; And yet she understood not one Poor sorrow there that like a wound Gaped, bleeding, pleading--for one word-- No? And the dream was done.

For her--I am "wrapped in incense gloom, In drifting clouds and golden light;"

Once I was shod with fire and trod Beethoven's path through storm and night: It is too late now to resume My monologue with G.o.d.

Well, my lost love, you were so kind In those old days: ah, yes; you came When I was ill! In dreams you still Will come? (Do roses always flame By moonlight, thus?) I, too, grow blind With wondering if she will.

Yet, Floriani, what am I To you, though love was life to me?

My life consumed like some perfumed Pale altar-flame beside the sea: You stood and smiled and watched it die!

You, you whom it illumed, Could you not feed it with your love?

Am I not starving here and now?

Sing, sing! I'd miss no smile or kiss-- No roses in Majorca glow Like this and this--so death may prove Best--ah, how sweet life is!

SONG

(AFTER THE FRENCH OF ROSTAND)