Part 12 (1/2)

TO A TRAVELLER

The mountains, and the lonely death at last Upon the lonely mountains: O strong friend!

The wandering over, and the labour pa.s.sed, Thou art indeed at rest: Earth gave thee of her best, That labour and this end.

Earth was thy mother, and her true son thou: Earth called thee to a knowledge of her ways, Upon the great hills, up the great streams: now Upon earth's kindly breast Thou art indeed at rest: Thou, and thine arduous days.

Fare thee well, O strong heart! The tranquil night Looks calmly on thee: and the sun pours down His glory over thee, O heart of might!

Earth gives thee perfect rest: Earth, whom thy swift feet pressed: Earth, whom the vast stars crown.

_Ernest Dowson_

Ernest Dowson was born at Belmont Hill in Kent in 1867. His great-uncle was Alfred Domett (Browning's ”Waring”), who was at one time Prime Minister of New Zealand. Dowson, practically an invalid all his life, was reckless with himself and, as disease weakened him more and more, hid himself in miserable surroundings; for almost two years he lived in sordid supper-houses known as ”cabmen's shelters.” He literally drank himself to death.

His delicate and fantastic poetry was an attempt to escape from a reality too big and brutal for him. His pa.s.sionate lyric, ”I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fas.h.i.+on,” a triumph of despair and disillusion, is an outburst in which Dowson epitomized himself--”One of the greatest lyrical poems of our time,” writes Arthur Symons, ”in it he has for once said everything, and he has said it to an intoxicating and perhaps immortal music.”

Dowson died obscure in 1900, one of the finest of modern minor poets.

His life was the tragedy of a weak nature buffeted by a strong and merciless environment.

TO ONE IN BEDLAM

With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars, Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine; Those scentless wisps of straw that, miserable, line His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares.

Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine, And make his melancholy germane to the stars'?

O lamentable brother! if those pity thee, Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me; Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap, All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers, Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep, The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!

YOU WOULD HAVE UNDERSTOOD ME

You would have understood me, had you waited; I could have loved you, dear! as well as he: Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated Always to disagree.

What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter: Lest we should still be wis.h.i.+ng things unsaid.

Though all the words we ever spake were bitter, Shall I reproach you, dead?

Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover All the old anger, setting us apart: Always, in all, in truth was I your lover; Always, I held your heart.

I have met other women who were tender, As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare.

Think you, I turned to them, or made surrender, I who had found you fair?

Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited, I had fought death for you, better than he: But from the very first, dear! we were fated Always to disagree.