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diff --git a/old/50591-0.txt b/old/50591-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a29334b..0000000 --- a/old/50591-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2249 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Songs of Three Counties, by Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Songs of Three Counties - And Other Poems - -Author: Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall - -Release Date: December 2, 2015 [EBook #50591] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THREE COUNTIES *** - - - - -Produced by MWS, Carolyn Jablonski and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - SONGS OF - THREE COUNTIES - - AND OTHER POEMS - - - - - With an Introduction by - R. B. CUNNINGHAME-GRAHAM - - - - - By - MARGUERITE RADCLYFFE-HALL - - - - - LONDON - CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD. - 1913. - - - - - Dedicated - - to - - The Marchioness of Anglesey - - - - - CONTENTS - - - INTRODUCTION BY R. B. CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM ix - RUSTIC COURTING: - WALKING OUT 1 - THE SHADOW OF RAGGEDSTONE 3 - THE LONG GREEN LANES OF ENGLAND 5 - THE HILLS 7 - EASTNOR CHURCHYARD 8 - THE MALVERN HILLS 9 - THE FIRST CUCKOO 11 - DUSK IN THE LANE 12 - THE MEETING-PLACE 13 - BY THE AVON 15 - JEALOUSY 16 - IN THE CITY 18 - I BE THINKIN’ 19 - SUNDAY EVENING 20 - THE LEDBURY TRAIN 21 - JILTED 22 - CASEND HILL 23 - THE LEDBURY ROAD 24 - THE CALL TO LONDON 25 - BREDON 27 - OUR DEAD 28 - PRIMROSE FLOWERS 29 - TRAMPING 30 - THE BLIND PLOUGHMAN 32 - MISCELLANEOUS POEMS: - WHEN THE WIND COMES UP THE HILL 35 - PEACE 36 - LIME-TREES 37 - A LITTLE SONG 38 - THE SONG OF THE WATCHER 39 - BY THE RIVER 41 - THE ROAD TO COLLA 42 - PRAYER 43 - DAWN 45 - TO THE EARTH 46 - DAWN AMONG THE OLIVE GROVES 48 - SILENT PLACES 49 - ONE EVENING NEAR NICE 50 - THOUGHTS AT AJACCIO 51 - THREE CHILD-SONGS: - THE THRUSH’S SONG 52 - WILLOW WAND 53 - A WINTER SONG 55 - AUTUMN IN SUSSEX 56 - SI PARVA LICET COMPONERE MAGNIS 57 - TO ITALY 59 - SUNDAY IN LIGURIA 60 - GEORGETOWN, U.S.A. 61 - ON THE POTOMAC RIVER, U.S.A. 63 - THE LOST WORD 65 - COMPARISONS 66 - A FRAGMENT 67 - APPRECIATIONS 69 - PRESS NOTICES 73 - - - - - INTRODUCTION - - -WITH as much grace as if a monoplanist should attempt to write a preface -to a book on flying for an albatross, so may a writer of mere prose -attempt to pen an introduction to a book of poetry. - -The bird and man both use the air, but with a difference. So do the poet -and the man of prose use pen and ink. - -Familiarity with tools, used in two branches of one art (or trade), is -apt to prove a snare. - -Music and poetry, the most ethereal of the arts upon the face of them, -are in a way more mathematical than prose, for both have formulæ. Hence, -their appeal goes quicker to men’s minds, and oversteps countries and -languages to some degree, and makes it difficult to write about them. Of -late, young poets, those who have bulked the largest in the public eye, -those that the world has hailed as modern, have often been obscure. What -is modernity? To be modern is to touch the senses of the age you write -for. To me, a fool who owns a motor-car is just as great a fool as was a -fool of the stone age. - -The only true modernity is talent, and Lucian of Samosata was as modern -to the full as Guy de Maupassant. The poet for whose verses I am writing -this my introduction, preface, foreword, call it what you will, is one -of those whose meaning he who runs may read. - -Does she do well in making herself clear? I think so, for though there -are those who prefer a mist of words, holding apparently that poetry -should be written in Chinook, or Malagasy, this opinion must of -necessity be of the nature of what Ben Jonson called a “humour.” - -Few men to-day read Eupheus and fewer Gongora. Yet in their time their -concepts were considered to be fine flowers of poetry. Those who wrote -so that all men could understand, as Sapho, Campion, Jorge Maurique, -Petrarca, Villon, and their fellow-singers in the celestial spheres -where poets sing, crowned with the bays of the approval of countless -generations, all wrote clearly. Their verses all were clear as is the -water running over chalk in a south country trout-stream, such as the -Itchin or the Test. - -I take two specimens of Miss Radclyffe-Hall’s poetry to illustrate what -I have said. She writes of a blind ploughman, whose prayer is to his -friend to set him in the sun. - - “Turn my face towards the East - And praise be to God.” - -One sees him sitting, wrinkled and bent, and ploughworn in the sun, and -thanking God according to his faith, for light interior, for that -interior vision which all the mystics claim. - - “God who made His sun to shine - On both you and me, - God who took away my eyes, - That my _soul_ might see.” - -This shows the poet in an unusual light, for most poets write on far -different subjects; but here is one which is eternal, and has been -eternal since the time of Œdipus. - -Again in the verses, “Thoughts at Ajaccio,” she shows a love of the -earth and of its fulness, a feeling which has been the birthright of all -English writers of good verse from the remotest times. - - “Fill me with scent of upturned ground, - Soft perfume from thy bosom drawn.” - -This is the feeling that has inspired so many poets, and shows the -writer not striving to be modern or filled with strange conceits; but -with a love and trust of the brown earth, from which all poets take -their birth, and into which they all return. - - R. B. CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM. - - - - -RUSTIC COURTING - - - - - I - - WALKING OUT - - - UPON a Sunday afternoon, - When no one else was by, - The little girl from Hanley way, - She came and walked with I. - - We climbed nigh to the Beacon top, - And never word spoke we, - But oh! we heard the thrushes sing - Within the cherry tree. - - The cherry tree was all a-bloom, - And Malvern lay below, - And far away the Severn wound— - ’Twas like a silver bow. - - She took my arm, I took her hand, - And never word we said, - But oh! I knew her eyes were brown, - Her lips were sweet and red. - - And when I brought her home again, - The stars were up above, - And ’twas the nightingale that swelled - His little throat with love! - - - - - II - - THE SHADOW OF RAGGEDSTONE - - - O RAGGEDSTONE, you darksome hill, - Your shadow fell for sure - Upon my own dear love and I, - Across the purple moor. - - For we were such a happy pair, - The day we climbed your crest; - And now my love she lays her head - Upon another’s breast. - - She sits beside another man, - And walks abroad with he, - And never sheds a single tear, - Or thinks a thought o’ me! - - My mind it seems a-fire like, - My heart’s as cold as lead, - My prayers they dry upon my lips - And somehow won’t get said. - - I wish that I could lay me down, - Upon the dreary plain - That stretches out to Raggedstone,* - And never rise again! - - ------------------ - -* A legend is attached to Raggedstone Hill in Worcestershire. The Hill -was cursed by a Benedictine Monk. From time to time a great shadow rises -up from it, spreading across the surrounding country. Woe betide those -on whom the shadow falls, as it brings with it terrible misfortune! Many -of the people living near Raggedstone still firmly believe in this -legend. - - - - - III - - THE LONG GREEN LANES OF ENGLAND - - - OH! the long green lanes of England! - They be very far away, - And it’s there that I’d be walking, - ’Mid the hawthorn and the may. - - Where the trees are all in blossom, - And the mating birds they sing - Fit to bust their little bodies, - Out of joy because it’s Spring. - - I’d be courting of my true love, - She’d be in her Sunday best, - With my arm around her shoulder - And her head upon my breast. - - For the new land it’s a fine land, - Where a man can get a start; - But there’s that about the old land - That will grip his very heart: - - For he’ll mind him o’ the cowslips, - Coming up all fresh and new - In the fields of early mornings, - Where the grass is white with dew. - - Oh! it’s money, money, money, - “Go and try to earn a bit;” - And “America’s the country - For the lad as doesn’t quit.” - - Seems that folks go mad on money, - Well, I’ll have enough some day, - But the long green lanes of England - They be Oh! so far away! - - - - - IV - - THE HILLS - - - WHEN I the hills of Malvern see, - There comes a sadness over me. - - The reason why, I cannot tell, - Perhaps I love those hills too well. - - But this I know, when I behold - Their springtime green, and autumn gold, - - And see that year by year they bear - Such witness that God’s earth is fair, - - I’m happy for their beauty’s sake, - And yet my heart begins to ache. - - - - - V - - EASTNOR CHURCHYARD - - - I BE hopin’ you remember, - Now the Spring has come again, - How we used to gather violets - By the little church at Eastnor, - For we were so happy then! - - O my love, do you remember - Kisses that you took and gave? - There be violets now in plenty - By the little church at Eastnor, - But they’re growing on your grave. - - - - - VI - - THE MALVERN HILLS - - - THE Malvern Hills be green some days, - And some days purple-blue, - There never was the like of them - The whole of England through. - - From Hanley straight into the Wells - The road runs long and white, - And there the hills they meet your gaze - Against the evening light. - - Against the evening light they stand, - So proud, and dark, and old, - The Raggedstone and Hollybush, - And Worcester Beacon bold. - - No matter where you chance to be, - However far away, - You’ll see the hills awaiting you - At close of every day. - - Oh! it’s a lovely sight to see - The twilight stealing down - Their steepish banks and little paths, - Along to Malvern town. - - And maybe on the Severn side, - Hung low on Bredon’s mound, - The big red harvest moon will rise, - So lazy-like and round. - - They talks a lot o’ foreign parts, - Them as has seen them do, - But give me Malvern Hills at dusk - All green or purple-blue! - - - - - VII - - THE FIRST CUCKOO - - - TO-DAY I heard the cuckoo call, - Atop of Bredon Hill, - I heard him near the blackthorn bush, - And Oh! my heart stood still! - - For it was just a year ago, - That to my love I said, - “When next we hear the cuckoo call, - Then you and I will wed.” - - My love and I we still be two, - And will be, many Springs; - I think the saddest sound on earth - Is when the cuckoo sings. - - - - - VIII - - DUSK IN THE LANE - - - COME, put yer little hand in mine, - And let it be at rest, - It minds me of a tired bird - Within a warm brown nest; - And bend that pretty head o’ your’n, - And lay it on my breast. - - The lambs they all be wearied out, - I penned them in the fold; - The lights along the Malvern Hills - They shine like stars o’ gold; - And yonder rises up the moon, - All round, and big, and bold. - - There’s not a single passer-by, - Nor sound along the lane, - And Oh! the earth be smelling sweet, - Like meadows after rain. - Then come a little closer, maid, - And kiss me once again. - - - - - IX - - THE MEETING-PLACE - - - I MIND me of the hawthorn trees, - With cuckoos flying near; - The hawthorn blossoms smelt so sweet, - The cuckoo called so clear! - - The hill was steep enough to climb, - It seemed to touch the sky! - You saw two valleys from the top, - The Severn and the Wye. - - The Severn and the Wye you saw, - And they were always green; - I think it was the prettiest sight - That I have ever seen. - - And there, so far above the town, - With not a soul to see, - Whenever she could slip away - My love would come to me! - - I never smell the hawthorn bloom, - Or hear the cuckoo sing, - But I am minded of my love, - And Malvern Hills in Spring! - - - - - X - - BY THE AVON - - - IN the meadows by the Avon, - Underneath the slope of Bredon, - There we often used to wander, - My girl and I. - - All around the thrushes singing, - And on Sunday, church bells ringing, - Overhead the soft clouds floating, - White in the sky. - - Still the waters of the Avon - Flow so gently under Bredon, - And on Sunday bells be ringing, - Clouds floating high. - - But I’m sick at heart and lonely, - Nothing here has changed, save only - Just we two, who once were courting, - My girl and I. - - - - - XI - - JEALOUSY - - - I SEE’D yer turn the other day - To watch a chap go by, - Because he wore a uniform, - And held his shoulders high. - And then yer wouldn’t even smile, - Or say a word to I! - - A kid he was, all pink and white, - And strutting like a chick, - A tassel at his silly side, - And carrying a stick. - And yet yer thought the world o’ him, - And started breathin’ quick— - - The same as when I kissed yer first, - Oh! maybe you forget! - But you was desperate sweet on I, - I mind yer blushes yet. - But now yer says me hands are rough, - Me coat will never set. - - Me hands they bean’t lily white, - Me coat may not be trim, - But you may know, if fightin’ comes, - I’ll fight as well as him, - Although they pad his shoulders out - To make his waist look slim. - - I haven’t got no buttons on - A showy coat of red; - I haven’t got no soldier’s cap - To wear upon me head. - But I can love yer just the same, - When all be done and said! - - - - - XII - - IN THE CITY - - - OH! City girls are pale-like, - And proud-like, and cold-like, - And nineteen out of twenty - Have never been our way. - I tells them of the tall hills, - The green hills, the old hills, - Where hawthorns are a-blossoming, - And thrushes call all day. - - Oh! London is a fine place, - A big place, a rich place, - Where nineteen out of twenty - Of all the girls are fair. - But well I knows a white road, - A long road, a straight road, - That leads me into Bosbury; - I’m wishing I was there! - - - - - XIII - - I BE THINKIN’ - - - THE hillside green with bracken, - And the red plough land, - The brownish hurrying rivers, - Where the willows stand. - The thickets and the meadows, - And the strong oak trees; - O, tell me traveller, have yer - Seen the like o’ these? - - The mists along the common, - At the close of day, - They’re lovely when the twilight - Makes the vale look grey. - The lanes be long and lonely, - But they all lead home; - I be thinkin’ lads are foolish - When they wants to roam! - - - - - XIV - - SUNDAY EVENING - - - THE noontide showers have drifted past, - The sunset’s on the hill, - The lights be gleaming through the dusk, - Adown by Clincher’s Mill. - - It’s such a pretty evening, maid, - All quiet-like, and blue; - With here and there a darksome cloud - That lets the silver through. - - The folk be all in Sunday best, - I see’d ’em passing by; - Then come along the quiet lane, - And walk a bit with I. - - - - - XV - - THE LEDBURY TRAIN - - - FROM Wind’s Point hill at eventide, - I see the train go by; - The train that goes to Ledbury, - Along the vale of Wye. - - It wanders through the clustered hops, - And through the green hedgerows, - It minds me of a fairy thing, - So gliding-like it goes. - - And standing there on Wind’s Point hill, - Within the sunset glow, - The purple shadows over Wales, - The little train below. - - With all the pine trees whispering, - And turning softly blue; - I feel as though I were a child, - With fairy tales come true! - - - - - XVI - - JILTED - - - OH! golden is the gorse-bush, - Beneath an April sky, - The lark is full of singing, - The clouds are white and high; - But my love, my love is faithless, - And she cares no more for I! - - Then what’s the good of living, - With the bright sun overhead, - When the earth is always ready - And will give a kinder bed, - Where no vows be made or broken, - And no bitter words are said! - - - - - XVII - - CASEND HILL - - - O CASEND HILL, I be so heavy-hearted, - So lonesome-like since from my love I parted, - That when the bracken on your sides is springing, - And all the mating thrushes start a-singing, - A kind of fear across my mind comes creeping, - I feel as though I’d surely fall a-weeping! - - O Casend Hill, the Spring does not forsake you, - At winter’s close the sun comes back to wake you; - And year by year the same sweet wind it passes, - To stir the lark that’s nesting in your grasses; - But no one comes to ask me how I’m faring, - In all the world there’s not a soul that’s caring! - - - - - XVIII - - THE LEDBURY ROAD - - - THE road that leads to Ledbury - Oh! it be such a pretty way, - As far as Wales you’ll likely see, - Suppose the month be May. - - The little birds they sing and sing, - The blackbirds and the thrushes do, - And after rain in early Spring - The grass looks green and new. - - I wish that I were walking there, - Along that road so still and wide, - A lad without a thought or care, - My true-love at my side! - - - - - XIX - - THE CALL TO LONDON - - - OH! come to London, young lad, - Lots is to be seen! - But he said: “I cannot come, maid, - Till the cuckoos all be dumb, maid, - On the hills of green.” - - Oh! come to London, brave lad, - Come and leave the plough. - But he said: “The blackthorn’s springing, - And a mottled thrush is singing - In the cherry bough.” - - Oh! come to London, fine lad, - Here’s where money flows. - But he said: “There’s gold in plenty, - Gold enough and more for twenty, - Where the kingcup grows.” - - Oh! come to London, strong lad, - I am wanting you. - But he said: “It be a grand sight, - When the stars at midnight - Stretch along the blue.” - - Oh! come to London, dear lad, - I am fair to see! - But he said: “Along of our way - Trees are thick with white may, - Wonderful they be!” - - - - - XX - - BREDON - - - BREDON is a lonesome hill, - It hasn’t any brothers; - It stands within the Severn vale, - Apart from all the others. - - The Cotswold Hills go hand in hand, - The Malverns touching shoulder; - But Bredon all alone does stand, - More proud than they, and bolder. - - Then it’s on Bredon I will roam - The livelong summer through; - For I’ve no brothers, I’ve no mate, - And I be lonesome too! - - - - - XXI - - OUR DEAD - - - THE day our dead are laid to rest - We heap the earth upon their breast; - Upon the earth we set a stone, - And then we leave them all alone. - - Some folks they weep, and some they pray, - But from the grave they’ll turn away. - There’s wood to chop, and fires to make, - And food to cook, and bread to bake. - - Another takes the empty seat, - For men who live must drink and eat; - And work is waiting to be done, - The work of two, that’s now for one. - - We sometimes speak of folks that’s dead, - Of what they did, and what they said; - We sometimes think of them at night, - But sometimes we forget them quite. - - - - - XXII - - PRIMROSE FLOWERS - - - I RODE through Eastnor woods to-day, - And all the air did promise May, - Did promise May till every tree - Found voice to make much melody. - - And oh, the primrose flowers! they glowed - In thousands all along the road, - Spreading their magic through the grove, - Like countless hoards of treasure-trove. - - I said, “Perchance ’tis God who threw - These golden coins from out the blue, - That with such bounty He might buy - The thoughts of one so poor as I!” - - - - - XXIII - - TRAMPING - - - OH! it’s good to be alive, man, - Good to take the road and tramp, - When the morning smells of meadows, - And the lanes are cool and damp. - - And the little furry creatures - Think the world is theirs for play, - Sitting still to watch you coming, - Half afraid to run away. - - There’s just light enough to see by, - Growing stronger as you go; - And the air is sort o’ hushed-like, - Breathing very long and slow. - - And the mountains near by Monmouth - Seem to melt into the sky; - And the banks along of Ross way - Seem to melt into the Wye. - - And there’s not a human stirring, - To disturb the field or fen. - Oh! you’ll never find your God, man, - If you do not find Him then! - - - - - XXIV - - THE BLIND PLOUGHMAN - - - SET my hands upon the plough, - My feet upon the sod; - Turn my face towards the east, - And praise be to God! - - Every year the rains do fall, - The seeds they stir and spring; - Every year the spreading trees - Shelter birds that sing. - - From the shelter of your heart, - Brother—drive out sin, - Let the little birds of faith - Come and nest therein. - - God has made His sun to shine - On both you and me; - God, who took away my eyes, - That my _soul_ might see! - - - - -MISCELLANEOUS POEMS - - - - - WHEN THE WIND COMES UP - THE HILL - - - OH! the wind among the trees, - How it stirs their wood to song! - Little whispered melodies, - All the winding road along. - - Was there ever such a sound, - Breaking through a noontide still, - As this tune the trees have found, - When the wind comes up the hill! - - - - - PEACE - - (Sidmouth) - - - EVENING upon the calm sweet sea, - A little wind asleep, - Dim sails that drift as tranquilly - As dreams in slumber deep. - A seagull on the water’s breast - Folds up his wings of white; - As peaceful and as much at rest - As is my heart to-night. - - - - - LIME-TREES - - - LIME-TREES meeting overhead, - Many lovers cold and dead, - Kissed and loved, and kissed again, - In the sunshine and the rain, - Underneath your scented green. - - When we two, in Earth’s kind breast, - Fall a-sleeping with the rest, - Then to us, who loved our fill, - Sweet to know you whisper still, - Happy leaves—of all that’s been! - - - - - A LITTLE SONG - - - A RIPPLE and a rush, and a mating thrush, - And, oh! the month must be at May. - A blossom and a tree, and a honey-bee, - And, oh! it’s such a perfect day! - - A meeting and a smile, and a sunlit mile, - And, oh! the world is very young. - Come winter, storm or cold, - Love never can grow old, - And oh! my little song is sung! - - - - - THE SONG OF THE WATCHER - - - AT the early break of day, - When the river mists grow pink, - And the moon begins to sink, - Down along the southern way; - When the gold mimosa tree - Rustles low and pleasantly, - To the little singing bird - That within her heart has stirred; - I, the watcher at the window, - Thank the gods who made dawn lovely, - By creating you for me! - - When the stately night steps down, - Silent footed, from the west, - With the moon against her breast - Folded in her cloudy gown; - When the endless, sighing sea - Stretches to eternity, - Yearning for the pale-eyed star, - Long beloved, and yet so far; - I, the watcher at the window, - Thank the gods who made night lovely, - By creating you for me! - - - - - BY THE RIVER - - - THROUGH the rustling river grasses - Warm and sweet the young wind passes, - Blowing shyly soft caresses - To their dewy emerald tresses. - - All along the silver sands - Little ripples joining hands, - Dance a quaint fantastic measure, - Making liquid sounds of pleasure. - - While away beyond the weir - Calls the cuckoo loud and clear, - Something mystic and remote, - Ringing in his fairy note. - - How I wish that I were small, - Swinging on the rushes tall, - Just a humble happy thing, - Born to live a while in Spring! - - - - - THE ROAD TO COLLA - - - THE blossoms of a Judas tree - Deep pink against an azure sea, - A silver moth on thoughtless wing, - A hidden bird that lights to sing, - A little cloud that wanders by, - Across the endless field of sky. - - A city in the far away, - Upon the hills beyond the bay, - And over all, the sun divine, - Pouring his stream of burning wine - Like nectar strong with youth and mirth, - Into this goblet of the earth! - - - - - PRAYER - - - IF I should pray, my prayer would be - For gratitude unlimited: - For gratitude so vast and deep, - That it would move my soul to weep - Great tears, and all the words I said - To be as organ notes sublime, - Full-throated flowing words of rhyme, - Whose like no mortal eye hath read. - - Then would I kneel before the God - Whose matchless genius made the earth; - The Poet-God, who sows the hours - With all the scented hosts of flowers, - Who gives the little winds their birth, - Who doth unloose the sea-song’s might - To shake the very stars at night, - And fling the foam-flakes high in mirth. - - Whose mind is fragrant as a grove - Of cedar trees in summer rain, - Whose thoughts dead poets gathered up, - And poured within the brimming cup - They offered to the world in vain. - Whose whisper masters caught, and wrote - Into their music note by note, - Immortal, haunting, strain on strain. - - Whose image is revealed to all - Great lovers in the loved one’s face, - Whose passion mystical and deep - Kindles the holy fires that sleep - Within the heart’s most secret place. - Whose breath is incense on the shrine - Of earthly love, burning divine - And changeless, through all time and space! - - - - - DAWN - - - IT is the dawn, that wondrous fateful hour - Of strange desires, of thoughts and deeds that stir - Within the womb of possibility. - A wind new-wakened combs the silken sea, - Lifting the foam like some unearthly flower. - The lights still glimmer all along the quay: - And overhead a flight of hurried stars - Seek hiding swiftly, e’er the day shall be. - Ships pass like spectres, little white-sailed ships, - Gliding away towards their destiny. - The earth, expectant, seems to thrill and wait - For some loved being; through the eastern gate - Red clouds come floating. Oh! that I were day, - Resplendent, bountiful, a heaven-born fire, - Filled with the glory of my own desire, - And thou, the trembling earth awaiting me! - - - - - TO THE EARTH - - - OH! hadst thou kindly arms that could enfold me - While yet I live, sweet Earth, console and hold me - Unto thy bosom, thou, my fruitful Mother. - Oh! hadst thou human lips for soft caresses, - To meet mine own in some pure kiss that blesses, - Whose spell thou knowest, thou dear Earth, none other. - - For I am weary of the city’s sorrow, - Captive and weary, longing for a morrow - That shall release me from these walls, my prison; - My eyes are sickened with the surging faces, - And fain would gaze across thy sunlit spaces, - Seeking the happy lark but newly risen. - - My ears are deafened by the great pulse beating - Along the streets, monotonous, repeating - Its throbs of toil, futile yet never ending. - Would I could hear cool water running seaward, - Or sigh of wind at daybreak sweeping leeward, - Through purple pines whose happy boughs are bending. - - O Earth, dear Mother, as my spirit passes, - Make thou sweet fetters of thy flowers and grasses, - To bind it surely, lest it wander lonely - In some far sphere where never wild bird singeth, - Where never leaf at breath of Summer springeth, - For thou indeed art Heaven, O Earth, thou only! - - - - - DAWN AMONG THE OLIVE GROVES - - - ALONG the hills the olives grow, - And almonds bloom in early Spring, - And many are the streams that flow, - And countless are the birds that sing; - The air is cool with distant snow, - And musical with bells that ring. - - Beneath my feet the road winds down - In deepening shadow, far away - To where a little peaceful town - Lies sleeping by the quiet bay; - A distant sail, now white, now brown, - Shows phantomlike against the day. - - While gradually the Eastern skies - Grow flushed and bright, the late stars flee, - And eager clouds appear, and rise - Above the waves expectantly; - Till lo! before my wondering eyes, - The great sun steps from out the sea! - - - - - SILENT PLACES - - - SWEET are the silent places of the earth, - Green heart of woods through which no wind doth pass, - Long sloping meadows sown with silken grass, - Old gardens thick with scents of death, and birth. - - Pale dome of morning, ere the first bird sings, - Stretching above the silent palisade, - Vague and unearthly, wrought of light and shade. - O’er which the dusk still hangs with starlit wings. - - The hush of mid-day in the languid south, - Where marble borders rim the limpid pools, - In whose blue depths the ardent noontide cools - Her burning limbs, and bathes her sun-kissed mouth. - - And above all things, silent and at rest, - I mind me of a little quiet bay, - Set like a sapphire in the golden day, - With never ship to scourge its tranquil breast. - - Oh! happy waters of that quiet bay, - So near my heart—and yet so far away! - - - - - ONE EVENING NEAR NICE - - - PALE depth of sky, serene and wonderful, - Within whose fold the lamps of early stars - Shine far away and faintly luminous; - Whose pensive tones merge from the afterglow - Into this colour indescribable; - This blending of the sea and earth and clouds, - Soft and yet poignant, passionate yet calm. - I know not what the spirit in me feels, - When it beholds thee through my human eyes: - Nor what strange craving for forgotten things - Has stirred my soul to this disquietude! - - - - - THOUGHTS AT AJACCIO - - - KIND Earth, upon whose mother breast - The fruitful trees in time of spring, - Put forth their endless blossoming - From North to South, from East to West, - Whose sweet deep-furrowed soil is blest - With striving seeds and budding flowers, - And all the potent toil of hours, - From sunrise until even’s rest— - - Stretch forth thy leafy arms at dawn, - And touch me, compass me around, - Fill me with scent of upturned ground, - Soft perfume from thy bosom drawn. - The gifts I bring thou wilt not scorn, - Poor though they must be while I live, - For in my hour of death I give - My heart, that one rose may be born! - - - - - THREE CHILD-SONGS - - - - - I - - THE THRUSH’S SONG - - “OH! bother,” sang the thrush, - “I’m in an awful rush, - For I’ve got to get ready for the Spring. - With feathers from my breast, - I’ll line a cosy nest, - A terribly difficult thing! - - “Before it is too late, - I’ll have to find a mate, - And she must be dainty and small, - Obedient and sweet, - In jacket brown and neat, - And ready to come when I call. - - “The robins are all wed - (Or so I’ve heard it said), - And the wind from the South it does blow. - The ice has felt the sun, - And winter must be done, - For a primrose is growing in the snow!” - - - - - II - - WILLOW WAND - - - WILLOW wand, willow wand, - Change this little slender frond - To a Princess tall and fair, - With a mass of golden hair, - Of golden hair. - - Willow wand, willow wand, - Change this shallow meadow pond - To a deep and crystal pool, - Where she bathes at even cool, - At even cool. - - Wand cut from the willow tree, - Build a fairy home for me, - Build a home of light and shade, - Sun and shadow deftly made, - Most deftly made. - - There where nothing comes to part, - With the ladye of my heart - I will dwell for ever—ever; - We will quarrel never—never, - Oh! never—_never!_ - - - - - III - - A WINTER SONG - - - “SWIFT away, swift away,” - Sang the fickle swallow, - Oh! the fickle swallow, - Flying to the sun! - “Come, my little brothers, - Bring your feathered mothers, - Come away, come away, - Each and every one.” - - “Only stay, only stay,” - Sang the lonely poet, - Oh! the lonely poet, - All among the snow! - Robin Redbreast heard, and said, - “I am here though summer’s dead; - Cheer up, cheer up, - I will never go!” - - - - - AUTUMN IN SUSSEX - - - A GLORY is this autumn day, - That stretches far across the land, - To where the sea along the sand - Sings kindly, with a gentle lay - Upon its lips. The gleam and sway - Of burning leaves ignites the air - To strange soft fire; serene and bare - The wide fields lie on either hand. - - More lovely than the timid Spring - Who tells her beads of humble flowers, - More perfect than the sun-warmed hours - Of summer, gay with birds that sing, - Is this fulfilment earth doth bring - To offer up to God; this deep - Vast prayer before the winter sleep, - This final tribute to His powers! - - - - - SI PARVA LICET COMPONERE MAGNIS - - - IN the bowl of a shell - Sings the wonderful song of the sea, - All the ebb and the swell, - In the bowl of a shell. - - In the heart of a pool - Drifts the fathomless smile of the sky, - All the clouds white and cool, - In the heart of a pool. - - In the beam of a star - Shines the light of a far away world, - Out of space, dim and far, - In the beam of a star. - - In the cup of a rose - Dwells the languor and passion of June, - Eager life, warm repose, - In the cup of a rose. - - In the throat of a bird - Lives the message of God to His earth, - Lo! the mystical word - In the throat of a bird! - - - - - TO ITALY - - - O ITALY of chiming bells, - Of pilgrim shrines and holy wells, - Of incense mist and secret prayers, - Profound and sweet as scented airs - Blown from a field of lily flowers! - - O Italy of pagan vine, - That thrills with sap of sun-born wine, - Drenching the Christian soul with red - Warm liquid of a faith long dead, - Wafting it back to sensuous hours. - - No mortal woman ever held - Such sweet inconstancies, or welled - With such hot springs of turbid fire; - No being throbbed with such desire, - Thy very air is ecstacy! - - O pagan goddess, from whose lips - The gentle Christian worship slips, - I fear thee, knowing what thou art - Yet I adore thee; take my heart - I am thy lover, Italy! - - - - - SUNDAY IN LIGURIA - - - THIS is the Sabbath day, the day of rest, - That breathes so gently in this quiet place, - With such insistent peace that for a space - The silver olives on the mountain’s crest - Forget to whisper, folded in the grace - Of lengthening shadows gathered from the noon. - The clouds are golden, yet a placid moon - Slips out among them, calm and pale of face. - - O soul of mine, breathe in this holy thing - That steeps the hills down to the dreaming sea; - This endless prayer, this silent ecstacy, - That like a great white bird on sunlit wing - Hovers above the world; ’tis given thee - To merge thyself in this harmonious whole, - And be content, seeking no higher goal; - The earth is God’s, to-day eternity! - - - - - GEORGETOWN, - U.S.A. - - - IF you would hear the thrushes sing, - Then go to Georgetown in the spring, - And wander slowly at your ease - Along the avenues of trees. - - The sunshine and the shadows meet - To weave a web across the street, - And in and out its magic strands - Play little children, joining hands. - - The sky is washed with showers and dew, - Until it looks the palest blue, - And in the gardens down below - You almost _see_ the grasses grow. - - There’s something very very old - About the place, so we are told, - And yet it’s marvellously gay - And young, when seen on such a day! - - The silent corners all around - Break up in waves of pleasant sound, - The mansions of Colonial days - Allow the sun to gild their greys. - - The paving-stones, with earth between, - Are fringed with shoots of emerald green, - And oh! the song the thrushes sing - In Georgetown, when the year’s at spring! - - - - - ON THE POTOMAC RIVER, - U.S.A. - - - AT close of June’s most burning day, - We took a ship and sailed away: - In mid-Potomac stream sailed we, - To Old Point Comfort by the sea. - - The heavy hanging air of dusk - Was thick with scent of fainting musk, - And through the tired willow trees - Stirred never sound or breath of breeze. - - So still it was, that from afar - We seemed to hear a falling star, - And every drop we heard, that dript - From off the paddle as it dipped. - - The fireflies lit their yellow lamps, - And danced along the marshy damps; - They skimmed and shot, and skimmed again, - While beetles droned a dance-refrain. - - The old ship pushed the mists apart, - And crawled along with throbbing heart, - Pausing from time to time for breath - Beside some jetty, still as death. - - The moon rose up all reddish gold, - And lit the swirling misty fold - Of fog along the river bank, - Where grew the creepers dark and rank. - - Sometimes the lonely “look-out” cried - “All’s well”: the water swished and sighed - An endless and protesting song, - As stealthily we crept along. - - Until at last the wind blew free, - Where the Potomac met the sea; - And not so very far away - The shores of Old Point Comfort lay. - - - - - THE LOST WORD - - - HIGH above a waveless sea, - On the hills of long ago, - There you lived awhile with me, - And we loved—I know. - - For your hair I made a crown, - Twined it with these hands of mine, - Sun-warmed leaves and tendrils brown, - From the happy vine. - - You were like some woodland thing, - Fear and rapture in your eyes, - Tender as a breath of Spring - Blown from April skies. - - Then I called you, and you heard, - To your lover’s arms you came: - Ah! what was that magic word, - Your forgotten name! - - - - - COMPARISONS - - - A FIELD of scented clover - That honey-bees hang over, - A hazel-wood in Spring, - Where thrush and robin sing. - A stream that seaward flows, - Rejoicing as it goes, - A little tower where dwells - The sound of happy bells. - A morning fresh and blue, - Flower-decked, and wet with dew, - All these my love she minds me of— - And other sweet things too. - - - - - A FRAGMENT - - - THE clustering grapes of purple vine - Are crushed to make the crimson wine. - - The poppies in the grasses deep - Are crushed to brew the draught of sleep. - - The roses, when their glories bloom - Are crushed to yield their soul’s perfume. - - And hearts, perchance of these the least, - Are crushed for nectar at Love’s feast! - - - - -APPRECIATIONS - - -_The following poems from_ “’TWIXT EARTH AND STARS,” _by_ MARGUERITE -RADCLYFFE-HALL, _have been set to music:_ - -BY MR. HUBERT BATH - - “A SONG.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “ITALIAN SPRING.” _Boosey and Co._ - - “ON THE LAGOON.” _Boosey and Co._ - - “A SEA CYCLE.” (NO. XV.) _Chappell and Co._ - -BY MR. CUTHBERT WYNNE - - “LET NOT THE MORNING BREAK,” ETC. _The John Church Co., Ltd._ - -BY MR. EASTHROPE MARTIN - - “SHALL I COMPLAIN?” _Metzler and Co._ - -BY MR. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE - - “GENTLE DAME PRISCILLA.” _Chappell and Co._ - - -_The following poems from_ “A SHEAF OF VERSES” _are set to music:_ - -BY MR. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE - - “IN COUPLES.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “TO MY LITTLE COUSIN.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “TO A BABY.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “BUTTERFLY.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “OUR LITTLE LOVE IS NEWLY BORN.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “HANDS AND LIPS.” _Chappell and Co._ - - -_The following poems from “POEMS OF THE PAST AND PRESENT,” by -MARGUERITE RADCLYFFE-HALL, have been set to music:_ - -BY THE LATE MR. COLERIDGE TAYLOR. - - “THE BIRTH OF THE RAINBOW.” _Boosey and Co._ - - “ON THE HILL-SIDE.” _Boosey and Co._ - - FRUIT OF THE NISPERO, NOS. III., XI., XXIV. _Boosey and Co._ - -BY MADAME LIZA LEHMANN. - - “THE SILVER ROSE” (From Three Songs of Nowhere Town). _The John Church - Co., Ltd._ - -BY MR. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE - - “THE GARDEN.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “TO A LILY.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “A FAREWELL.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “‘GOOD MORNING,’ SAID THE THRUSH.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “THE HILLS OF BY AND BYE.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “THE RHYME OF THE SHEPHERD.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “THE WHITE BIRD.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “FRUIT OF THE NISPERO,” NOS. I., VIII., XIV., XX., XXIII. _Chappell - and Co._ - -BY MRS. GEORGE BATTEN. - - “A SONG OF YOUTH.” - - “TO A CHILD.” - - “FRUIT OF THE NISPERO,” NO. XVI. - - -_The following poems from_ “SONGS OF THREE COUNTIES AND OTHER POEMS,” - _have been set to music._ - -BY MR. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE - - “WALKING OUT.” _Chappell and Co._ - - “EASTNOR CHURCHYARD.” _Chappell and Co._ - -BY MRS. WOODFORDE FINDEN. - - “WILLOW WAND.” _Boosey and Co._ - - - - - PRESS NOTICES - - “POEMS OF THE PAST AND PRESENT.” - - -“Miss Radclyffe-Hall has an exceptional gift for enshrining a single -thought or fancy in a little lyric or a song. The little pieces ... most -of them catch a real thought, and sometimes—as in “A Reflection”—one -which makes the reader pause and meditate. Many of her pieces seem to -have been put to music, and they deserve it.”—_The Times, October 6th, -1910._ - - -“Miss Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall is already known to many readers as the -author of some sweet and dainty verses. Her latest book should widen the -circle of those acquainted with her work, for it shows her once more as -a tender singer of the spells of love, the beauty of Nature. There is in -many of her poems a wistfulness that is of beauty rather than of -sadness, while her power of expressing her moods and thoughts in simple -and melodious rhythms is, perhaps, more markedly shown here than in her -earlier work. Here is a haunting little piece from a trio of ‘Stuart -Songs’ (quotation). Part of the charm of this lies no doubt in the trick -of refrain, but, with her few simply chosen words, the writer has -suggested much of tenderness and tragedy. Many of the pieces seem to -have been written with a view to musical setting, and express a mood, a -sentiment, in tuneful fashion, and with a note of true sincerity. Here -is a beautiful picture, ‘In Liguria’” (quotation).—_Daily Telegraph, -November 16th, 1910._ - - -“_Poems of the Past and Present_, notwithstanding their number, maintain -a standard consistently high. Fastidious workmanship, and an instinct -towards poetical grace in language and rhythm, are, apart from -inspiration, the two essentials for the writing of lyrics; and the -volume possesses both in a marked degree, besides an appreciable share -of the rarer quality. Though the personal note is seldom absent, and the -dominance of love as a theme makes more than ever for monotony nowadays, -these potential drawbacks are to a great extent redeemed by the -freshness and fancy which go to the painting of, among many others, such -a haunting little picture as the following from ‘In Liguria’ -(quotation). With her power of delicate visualization, her keen sense of -colour and music, and a technique almost flawless, the author should, as -her poetical horizon broadens, produce valuable results.”—_The Athenæum, -December 3rd, 1910._ - - -“One meets with many excellent lyrics scattered through the pages. What -is characteristic of the best of them, which are to be found among the -unrhymed verses, is a certain Southern, almost Oriental atmosphere, like -the scent at dawn of those strange blossoms of which she sings. This is -the appropriate setting, sometimes of a happy licence of imagination, in -a set of verses which will repay perusal by a reader of poetic -sympathies.”—_The Scotsman, October 13th, 1910._ - - -“A poetess with a very charming gift ... her little book should have a -great vogue as a Christmas gift-book.”—_Daily Express, July 7th, 1910._ - - -“Miss Radclyffe-Hall is facile, flowing, and often really musical; it is -not surprising that so many of her verses have been used by composers. -Such a lyric as ‘A Farewell,’ calls aloud for setting.”—_Pall Mall -Gazette, December 2nd, 1910._ - - -“Many fair and gentle thoughts are gracefully expressed by Marguerite -Radclyffe-Hall. Especially charming are the lyrics in the song sequence, -‘Fruit of the Nispero,’ and the three little ‘Stuart Songs’ of Mary the -Queen.”—_The Lady, December 29th, 1910._ - - -“There are a great many poems in this little volume, all showing -evidence of considerable facility and talent.”—_Evening Standard, -September 22nd, 1910._ - - -“A book of verse that appeared lately, by Miss Marguerite -Radclyffe-Hall, will, I know, delight you, for it is written with true -poetical feeling, and touches on so many subjects besides that of love, -that it is sure to please the taste of many and various readers. Amongst -the poems that I recommend to your notice are ‘An Italian Garden,’ ‘A -Sonnet to Elizabeth Barrett Browning,’ which breathes a deep and -reverential appreciation of our great poetess’s worth, ‘The Voice,’ and -several numbers in a series called ‘Fruit of the Nispero.’ It is easy to -imagine that many of these tuneful numbers should have been set to -music, for there are in them such tender harmonies as must appeal to -musical people.”—_The Lady, November 17th, 1910._ - - -“Her volume is full of pearls; they are to be gathered from every page, -and sometimes they are very brilliant. ‘The Hills of By and Bye,’ -‘Before Sunrise,’ ‘A Little Child,’ ‘In Liguria,’ and others are -beautiful poems; and ‘The Graveyard at Orotava’ is based on an -exquisitely poetic sentiment, the last two verses showing a high quality -of imaginative power. Miss Radclyffe-Hall’s style is individual and -remarkable for combined force and clarity. Very few living women poets -are at all her equal.”—_Sussex Daily News, October 26th, 1910._ - - -“This is a book of really good verse. All its ‘small songs’ are musical -and delicate, but in addition it has the rarer virtue of complete -sincerity.... There is no striving after effect by phrase or artifice. -Every lyric is the simple melodious expression of a poetic -thought.”—_Evening News, October 19th, 1910_. - - -“Miss Radclyffe-Hall’s latest book should widen the circle of those -acquainted with her work, for it shows her once more as a tender singer -of the spells of love, the beauty of Nature.”—_Liverpool Express, -November 22nd, 1910._ - - -“Many of her pieces are just adapted to musical setting, for they -express a mood, a sentiment, a graceful fancy, with a note of real -sincerity.”—_Christian Endeavour Times, December 22nd, 1910._ - - - - - PRINTED BY - THE WESTMINSTER PRESS - 411A HARROW ROAD - LONDON W. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE - - -Italicized phrases are presented by surrounding the text with -_underscores_. - -Mixed-case small capital letters are represented by all-capital letters. - -Repeating titles have been removed from the front of the book. - -Punctuation has been normalized, including standardization of -hyphenation and punctuation between poem titles within the book and -those in the Table of Contents. - -The division “Rustic Courting” as placed before the first poem has been -added to the Table of Contents. - -The contributor R. B. Cunninghame-Graham, as presented on the book’s -original title page, is otherwise presented as R. B. Cunninghame Graham. - -In the poem “The Meeting-Place”, the line “My love would come to me!” -has been retained non-indented as in the original, however, there is a -possibility this is a printer’s error, as that line does not follow the -pattern of indentation of the rest of the poem. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of Three Counties, by -Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THREE COUNTIES *** - -***** This file should be named 50591-0.txt or 50591-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/5/9/50591/ - -Produced by MWS, Carolyn Jablonski and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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