ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

{London Poems 1866}

                                                                                                                                                                 149

VIII.

NELL.

She gazes not at her who hears,
     But, while the gathering darkness cries,
Stares at the vacancy through tears,
     That burn upon her glistening eyes,
Yet do not fall. Her hair falls free
     Around a face grown deathly thin;
Her elbow rests upon her knee,
     And in her palms she props her chin;
Her voice sounds hollow on the air
     And often, ere her tale is told,
A groan disturbs her blank despair,
     And leaves a sense of bitter cold.

                                                                                               151

NELL.

I.

YOU’RE a kind woman, Nan! ay, kind and true!
     God will be good to faithful folk like you!
The neighbours all look black, and snap me short—
Well, I shall soon be gone from Camden Court.
You knew my Ned?
     A better, kinder lad never drew breath—
We loved each other true, though never wed
     In church, like some who took him to his death:
A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost
     His senses when he took a drop too much—
Drink did it all—drink made him mad when cross’d—
     He was a poor man, and they’re hard on such.
So kind! so true! that life should come to this!
     Gentle and good!—the very week before                                       152
The fit came on him, and he went amiss,
He brought me home, and gave me, with a kiss,
     That muslin gown as hangs behind the door.

II.

O Nan! that night! that night!
     When I was sitting in this very chair,
Watching and waiting in the candle-light,
     And heard his foot come creaking up the stair,
And turn’d, and saw him standing yonder, white
     And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair!
And when I caught his arm and call’d, in fright,
     He push’d me, swore, and pass’d
     Back to the door, and lock’d and barr’d it fast!
Then dropp’d down heavy as a lump of lead,
     Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter,
     And—Nan!—just then the candle-light grew brighter,
And I could see the hands that held his head,
All red! all red!
What could I do but scream? He groan’d to hear,
     Jump’d to his feet, and gripp’d me by the wrist;
     “Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell!” he hiss’d.
And I was still for fear.                                                                        153
“They’re after me—I’ve knifed a man!” he said.
“Be still!—the drink—drink did it—he is dead! ”
And as he said the word, the wind went by
With a whistle and cry—
The room swam round—the babe unborn seem’d to scream out, and die!

III.

Then we grew still, so still. I couldn’t weep—
     All I could do was cling to him and hark—
And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep,
But breathing hard and deep;
     The candle flicker’d out—the room grew dark—
And—Nan!—although my heart was true and tried,—
     When all grew cold and dim,
I shudder’d—not for fear of them outside,
     But just afraid to be alone with him:
And he was hard, he was—the wind it cried—
A foot went hollow down the court and died—
What could I do but clasp his knees and cling?
     And call his name beneath my breath in pain?
Until he raised his head a-listening,
     And gave a groan, and hid his face again;
“Ned! Ned!” I whisper’d—and he moan’d and shook—                   154
But did not heed or look!
“Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not true!”
     At that he raised his head and look’d so wild;
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw
     His arms around me, sobbing like a child,
And held me close—and not a word was spoken—
     While I clung tighter to his heart and press’d him—
And did not fear him, though my heart was broken—
     But kiss’d his poor stain’d hands, and cried, and bless’d him!

IV.

Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold
     With sound o’ falling rain,—
When I could see his face, and it look’d old,
     Like the pinch’d face of one as dies in pain;
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun,
We never thought to hide away or run,
Until we heard those voices in the street,
That hurrying of feet.
And Ned leap’d up, and knew that they had come.
“Run, Ned!” I cried, but he was deaf and dumb!
“Hide, Ned!” I scream’d, and held him—“hide thee, man!”                155
He stared with bloodshot eyes, and hearken’d, Nan!
And all the rest is like a dream—the sound
     Of knocking at the door—
A rush of men—a struggle on the ground—
     A mist—a tramp—a roar;
For when I got my senses back again,
     The room was empty,—and my head went round!
The neighbours talk’d and stirr’d about the lane,
     And Seven Dials made a moaning sound;
And as I listen’d, lass, it seem’d to me
Just like the murmur of a great dark sea,
     And Ned a-lying somewhere, stiff and drown’d!

V.

God help him? God will help him! Ay, no fear!
     It was the drink, not Ned—he meant no wrong;
So kind! so good!—and I am useless here,
     Now he is lost as loved me true and long.
Why, just before the last of it, we parted,
And Ned was calm, though I was broken-hearted;
And ah, my heart was broke! and ah, I cried
And kiss’d him,—till they took me from his side;
And though he died that way, (God bless him!) Ned                         156
     Went through it bravely, calm as any there:
They’ve wrought their fill of spite upon his head,
     And—there’s the hat and clothes he used to wear!

VI.

. . . That night before he died,
I didn’t cry—my heart was hard and dried;
But when the clocks went “one,” I took my shawl
     To cover up my face, and stole away,
And walk’d along the moonlight streets, where all
     Look’d cold and still and gray,—
Only the lamps o’ London here and there
     Scatter’d a dismal gleaming;
And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square,
     Just like a woman dreaming:
But just as “three” was sounded close at hand,
     I started and turn’d east, before I knew,—
Then down Saint Martin’s Lane, along the Strand,
     And through the toll-gate, on to Waterloo.
How I remember all I saw, although
     ’Twas only like a dream!—
The long still lines o’ lights, the chilly gleam
     Of moonshine on the deep black stream below;
While far, far, far away, along the sky                                                  157
     Streaks soft as silver ran,
And the pale Moon look’d paler up on high,
     And little sounds in far-off streets began!
Well, while I stood, and waited, and look’d down,
And thought how sweet ’twould be to drop and drown,
Some men and lads went by,
     And I turn’d round, and gazed, and watch’d ’em go,
Then felt that they were going to see him die,
     And drew my shawl more tight, and follow’d slow.
How clear I feel it still!
     The streets grew light, but rain began to fall;
I stopp’d and had some coffee at a stall,
     Because I felt so chill;
A cock crew somewhere, and it seem’d a call
     To wake the folk who kill!
The man who sold the coffee stared at me!
I must have been a sorry sight to see!
     More people pass’d—a country cart with hay
Stopp’d close beside the stall,—and two or three
     Talk’d about it! I moan’d, and crept away!

                                                                                                         158

VII.

Ay, nearer, nearer to the dreadful place,
     All in the falling rain,
I went, and kept my shawl upon my face,
     And felt no grief or pain—
Only the wet that soak’d me through and through
     Seem’d cold and sweet and pleasant to the touch—
It made the streets more drear and silent, too,
     And kept away the light I fear’d so much.
Slow, slow the wet streets fill’d, and all were going,
     Laughing and chatting, the same way,
And grayer, sadder, lighter, it was growing,
     Though still the rain fell fast and darken’d day!
Nan!—every pulse was burning—I could feel
My heart was made o’ steel—
As, crossing Ludgate Hill, where many stirr’d,
     I saw Saint Paul’s great clock and heard it chime,
And hadn’t power to count the strokes I heard,
     But strain’d my eyes and saw it was not time;
Ah! then I felt I dared not creep more near,
     But went into a lane off Ludgate Hill,
And sitting on a doorstep, I could hear
     The people gathering still!
And still the rain was falling, falling,                                                     159
     And deadening the hum I heard from there;
And wet and stiff, I heard the people calling,
     And watch’d the rain-drops glistening down my hair,
My elbows on my knees, my fingers dead,—
My shawl thrown off, now none could see,—my head
     Dripping and wild and bare.
I heard the murmur of a crowd of men,
     And next, a hammering sound I knew full well,
For something gripp’d me round the heart!—and then
     There came the solemn tolling of a bell!
O Lord! O Lord! how could I sit close by
And neither scream nor cry?
As if I had been stone, all hard and cold,
     But listening, listening, listening, still and dumb,
While the folk murmur’d, and the death-bell toll’d,
     And the day brighten’d, and his time had come. . .
. . . Till—Nan!—all else was silent, but the knell
Of the slow bell!
And I could only wait, and wait, and wait,
     And what I waited for I couldn’t tell,—
At last there came a groaning deep and great—
Saint Paul’s struck “eight”—
     I scream’d, and seem’d to turn to fire, and fell!

                                                                                                         160

VIII.

God bless him, live or dead!
     He never meant no wrong, was kind and true—
They’ve wrought their fill of spite upon his head—
     Why didn’t they be kind, and take me too?
And there’s the dear old things he used to wear,
And here’s a lock o’ hair!
And they’re more precious far than gold galore,
     Than all the wealth and gold in London town!
He’ll never wear the hat and clothes no more,
     And I shall never wear the muslin gown!
And Ned! my Ned!
     Is fast asleep, and cannot hear me call;—
God bless you, Nan, for all you’ve done and said,
     But don’t mind me! My heart is broke—that’s all!

[Note:
A revised version of ‘Nell’ appeared in The Poetical Works Vol. I (London: H. S. King & Co., 1874. Boston: James R. Osgood and Co., 1874) and this version was also included in the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan. This later version of ‘Nell’ is available in the ‘Additional London Poems’ section. ]

                                                                                                                                                                 161

IX.

ATTORNEY SNEAK

Sharp like a tyrant, timid like a slave,
     A little man, with yellow, bloodless cheek;
A snappish mingling of the fool and knave,
     Resulting in the hybrid compound—Sneak.

                                                                                                                                                                 163

ATTORNEY SNEAK.

PUT execution in on Mrs. Hart—
If people will be careless, let them smart:
Oh, hang her children! just the common cry!
Am I to feed her family? Not I.
I’m tender-hearted, but I dare be just,—
I never go beyond the law, I trust;
I’ve work’d my way, plotted and starved and plann’d,
Commenced without a penny in my hand,
And never howl’d for help, or dealt in sham—
No! I’m a man of principle, I am.

     What’s that you say? Oh, father has been here?
Of course, you sent him packing? Dear, oh, dear!
When one has work’d his weary way, like me,                                    164
To comfort and respectability,
Can pay his bills, and save a pound or two,
And say his prayers on Sunday in a pew,
Can look the laws of England in the face,
’Tis hard, ’tis hard, ’tis shame, and ’tis disgrace,
That one’s own father—old and worn and gray—
Should be the only hindrance in his way.
Swore, did he? Very pretty! Threaten’d? Oh!
Demanded money? You, of course, said “No?”
’Tis hard—my life will never be secure—
He’ll be my ruin some day, I am sure.

     I don’t deny my origin was low—
All the more credit to myself, you know:
Mother (I never saw her) was a tramp,
Father half tramp, half pedlar, and whole scamp,
Who travell’d over England with a pack,
And carried me about upon his back,
Trudging from door to door, to feasts and fairs,
Cheating the silly women with his wares,
Stealing the farmers’ ducks and hens for food,
Pilfering odds and ends where’er he could,
And resting in a city now and then,                                                      165
Till it became too hot,—and off again.
Beat me? No, he knew better. I confess
He used me with a sort of tenderness;
But would have warp’d my nature into sin,
Had I been weak, for lack of discipline.
Why, even now, I shudder to the soul,
To think how oft I ate the food he stole,
And how I wore upon my back the things
He won by cheats and lawless bargainings.
Oh, he had feelings, that I freely say;
But, without principle, what good are they?
He swindled and he stole on every hand,
And I was far too young to reprimand;
And, for the rest, why, he was circumspect,
And might have been committed for neglect.

     Ah! how I managed, under stars so ill,
To thrive at all, to me is mystery still.
In spite of father, though, I got along,
And early learn’d to judge the right from wrong;
At roadsides, when we stopp’d to rest and feed,
He gave me lessons how to write and read,
I got a snack of schooling here and there,                                           166
And learn’d to sum by instinct, as it were.
Then, latterly, when I was seventeen,
All sorts of evil I had heard and seen;
Knew father’s evil ways, bemoan’d my fate,
Long’d to be wealthy, virtuous, and great;
Swore, with the fond ambition of a lad,
To make good use of what poor gifts I had.

     At last, tired, sick, of wandering up and down,
Hither I turn’d my thoughts,—to London town;
And finally, with little doubt or fear,
Made up my mind to try my fortune here.
Well, father stared at first, and shook his head;
But when he found I held to what I said,
He clasp’d me tight, and hugg’d me to his heart,
And begg’d and pray’d that I would not depart;
Said I was all for whom he had to care,
His only joy in trudging here and there;
Vow’d, if I ever left him, he would die,—
Then, last of all, of course, began to cry.
You know how men of his position feel?
Selfish, at best, even when it is real!
I tried to smooth him over, and, next day,                                           167
I pack’d what things I had, and ran away.

     I need not tell you all my weary fight,
To get along in life, and do aright—
How often people, when I sought a place,
Still push’d my blessed father in my face;
Until, at last, when I was almost stark,
Old Lawyer Hawk made me his under-clerk;
How from that moment, by avoiding wrong,
Possessing principle, I got along;
Read for the law, plotted, and dream’d, and plann’d,
Until—I reach’d the height on which I stand.

     ’Twas hard, ’twas hard! Just as my business grows,
In father pops his miserable nose,
Steps in, not sober, in a ragged dress,
And worn tenfold with want and wickedness;
Calls me hard names because I wish’d to rise;
Here, in the office, like a baby cries;
Smothers my pride with shame and with disgrace,
Till, red as fire, I coax’d him from the place.
What could I do under so great a blow?                                             168
I gave him money, tried to make him go;
But ah! he meant to rest, I plain could see,
His ragged legs ’neath my mahogany!
No principle! When I began complaining,
How he would be my ruin by remaining,
He turn’d upon me, white and wild, and swore,
And would have hit me, had I utter’d more.

     “Tommy,” he dared to say, “you’ve done amiss;
I never thought to see you come to this.
I would have stopp’d you early on the journey,
If I had ever thought you’d grow attorney,
Sucking the blood of people here in London;
But you have done it, and it can’t be undone.
And, Tommy, I will do my best to see
You don’t at all disgrace yourself and me.”

     I rack’d my brains, I moan’d and tore my hair,
Saw nothing left but ruin and despair;
Father at hand, why, all would deem me low:
“Sneak’s father? humph!”—the business would go.
The labour of long years would come to nought!                                 169
At last I hit upon a happy thought:
Why should not father, if he pleased to be,
Be decent and respectable like me;
He would be glad and grateful, if a grain
Of principle were settled in his brain.
I made the offer,—proud he seem’d and glad,—
There rose a hope he’d change to good from bad,
Though, “Tommy, ’tis a way of getting bread
I never thought to come upon,” he said;
And so I put him in the office here,                                                     [9:15]
A clerk at five and thirty pounds a year.

     I put it to you, could a man do more?
I felt no malice, did not close my door,
But gave the chance to show if he was wise:                                      [10:3]
He had the world before him, and could rise.

     Well, for a month or more, he play’d no tricks,
Writ-drawing, copying, from nine to six,
Not smart, of course, nor clever, like the rest,                                     [11:3]
But trying, it appear’d, to do his best;
But by and by he changed—old fire broke out—                               170
He snapp’d when seniors order’d him about—
Came late to office, tried to loaf and shirk—
Would sit for precious hours before his work,
And scarcely lift a pen, but sleepily stare
Out through the window at the empty air,
And watch the sunshine lying in the lane,
Or the bluebottles buzzing on the pane,
And look as sad and worn and grieved and strange
As if he ne’er had had a chance to change;
Came one day staggering in a drunken fit;
Flatly refused one day to serve a writ.
I talk’d, appeal’d, talk’d of my honest name,
He stared, turn’d pale, swore loud, and out it came:
He hated living with that monkey crew,
Had tried his best and found it would not do;
He could not bear, forsooth, to watch the tears
Of people with the Law about their ears,
Would rather steal his meals from place to place,
Than bring the sorrow to a poor man’s face—
In fact, you see, he hated all who pay,
Or seek their moneys in the honest way;
Moreover, he preferr’d a roadside crust,
To cleanly living with the good and just:
Old, wild, and used to roaming up and down,                                      171
He could not bear to stagnate in a town;
To stick in a dark office in a street,
Was downright misery to a man with feet;
Serving the law was more than he could bear,
Give him his pack, his freedom, and fresh air.

     Mark that! how base, ungrateful, gross, and bad!
His want of principle had made him mad.
I gave him money, sent him off by train,
And trusted ne’er to see his face again.

     But he came back. Of course. Look’d wan and ill,
More ragged and disreputable still.
Despairing, groaning, wretchedest of men,
I granted him another trial then.
Still the old story—the same vacant stare
Out through the window at the empty air,
More watching of the sunshine in the lane,
And the bluebottles buzzing on the pane,
Then more of tipsiness and drunken dizziness,
And rage at things done in the way of business.
I saw the very office servants sneer,                                                    172
And I determined to be more severe.
At last, one winter morn, I went to him,
And found him sitting, melancholy, grim,
Sprawling like any schoolboy on his seat,
And scratching drawings on a foolscap sheet:
Here, an old hag, with half-a-dozen chits,
Lash’d with a cat-o’-nine-tails, labell’d “WRITS;”
There, a young rascal, ragged as a daw,
Drinking a cup of poison, labell’d “LAW;”
Elsewhere, the Devil, looking o’er a pile
Of old indictments with a crafty smile,
And sticking Lawyers on an office file;                                                [13:23]
And in a corner, wretchedly devised,
A shape in black, that kick’d and agonised,
Strung by a pauper to a gallows great,
And underneath it written, “TOMMIE’S FATE!”
I touch’d his arm, conducted him aside,
Produced a bunch of documents, and cried:
“Now, father, no more nonsense! You must be
No more a plague and a disgrace to me—
If you won’t work like others, you must quit;
See, here are two subpœnas, there a writ,
Serve these on Such-a-one and So-and-So.                                     . 173
Be sharp,—and mind your conduct, or you go.”
He never said a word, but with a glare
All round him, drew his thin hand through his hair,
Turn’d white, and took the paper silently,
Put on his hat, and peep’d again at me.
Then quietly, not like a man in ire,
Placed all the precious papers on the fire!                                            [13:41]
And turning quickly, crying with a shout,
“You, and all documents, be damn’d! ” went out.                                [13:43]

     He came again! Ay, after wandering o’er
The country as of old, he came once more.
I gave him money, off he went; and then,
After a little year, he came again;
Ay, came, and came, still ragged, bad, and poor,
And he will be my ruin, I am sure.
He tells the same old tale from year to year,
How to his heart I ever will be dear;
Or oft into a fit of passion flies,
Calls me ungrateful and unkind,—then cries,
Raves of his tenderness and suffering,
And mother’s too——and all that sort of thing!
He haunts me like a goblin pale and grim,                                      174 [14:13]
And—to be candid—I’m afraid of him;
For, ah! all now is hopeless, to my cost,—
Through want of principle the man is lost.

     —That’s Badger, is it? He must go to Vere,
The Bank of England clerk. The writ is here.
Say, for his children’s sake, we will relent,                                          [15:3]
If he’ll renew at thirty-five per cent.

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan:
v. 9, l. 15: And so I placed him in the office here,
v. 10, l. 3: Gave him the chance to show if he was wise:
v. 11, l. 3: Not smart, of course, or clever, like the rest,
v. 13, l. 23: And sticking Lawyers on an office file!
v. 13, l. 41: Threw all the precious papers on the fire!
v. 13, l. 43: ‘You, and your documents, be damn’d!’ went out.
v. 14, l. 13: He haunts me ever like a goblin grim,
v. 15, l. 3: Say, for his children’s sake, we may relent,]

                                                                                                                                                                 175

X.

BARBARA GRAY.

A mourning woman, robed in black,
Stands in the twilight, looking back;
Her hand is on her heart, her head
Bends musingly above the Dead,
Her face is plain, and pinch’d, and thin,
But splendour strikes it from within.

                                                                                                                                                                 177

BARBARA GRAY.

I.

“BARBARA GRAY!
Pause, and remember what the world will say,”
I cried, and turning on the threshold fled,
When he was breathing on his dying bed;
         But when, with heart grown bold,
         I cross’d the threshold cold,
Here lay John Hamerton, and he was dead.

II.

And all the house of death was chill and dim,
The dull old housekeeper was looking grim,
The hall-clock ticking slow, the dismal rain
Splashing by fits against the window-pane,
The garden shivering in the twilight dark,
Beyond, the bare trees of the empty park,
And faint gray light upon the great cold bed,                                        178
And I alone; and he I turn’d from,—dead.

III.

Ay, “dwarf” they called this man who sleeping lies;
No lady shone upon him with her eyes,
No tender maiden heard his true-love vow,
And pressed her kisses on the great bold brow.
What cared John Hamerton? With light, light laugh,
He halted through the streets upon his staff;
Halt, lame, not beauteous, yet with winning grace
And sweetness in his pale and quiet face;
Fire, hell’s or heaven’s, in his eyes of blue;
Warm words of love upon his tongue thereto;
Could win a woman’s Soul with what he said,
And I am here; and here he lieth dead.

IV.

I would not blush if the bad world saw now
How by his bed I stoop and kiss his brow!
Ay, kiss it, kiss it, o’er and o’er again,
With all the love that fills my heart and brain.

V.

For where was man had stoop’d to me before,
Though I was maiden still, and girl no more?
Where was the spirit that had deign’d to prize
The poor plain features and the envious eyes?                                      179
What lips had whisper’d warmly in mine ears?
When had I known the passion and the tears?
Till he I look on sleeping came unto me,
Found me among the shadows, stoop’d to woo me,
Seized on the heart that flutter’d withering here,
Strung it, and wrung it, with new joy and fear,                                    [5:10]
Yea, brought the rapturous light, and brought the day,
Waken’d the dead heart, withering away,
Put thorns and roses on the unhonour’d head,
That felt but roses till the roses fled!
Who, who, but he crept unto sunless ground,
Content to prize the faded face he found?
John Hamerton, I pardon all—sleep sound, my love, sleep sound!

VI.

What fool that crawls shall prate of shame and sin?
Did he not think me fair enough to win?
Yea, stoop and smile upon my face as none,
Living or dead, save he alone, had done?
Bring the bright blush unto my cheek, when ne’er
The full of life and love had mantled there?
And I am all alone; and here lies he,—
The only man that ever smiled on me.

                                                                                                         180

VII.

Here, in his lonely dwelling-house he lies,
The light all faded from his winsome eyes:
Alone, alone, alone, he slumbers here,
With wife nor little child to shed a tear!
Little, indeed, to him did nature give;
Nor was he good and pure as some that live,
But pinch’d in body, warp’d in limb,
He hated the bad world that loved not him!

VIII.

Barbara Gray!
Pause, and remember how he turn’d away;
Think of your wrongs, and of your sorrows. Nay!
Woman, think rather of the shame and wrong
Of pining lonely in the dark so long;
Think of the comfort in the grief he brought,
The revelation in the love he taught.                                                    [8:7]
Then, Barbara Gray!
Blush not, nor heed what the cold world will say;
But kiss him, kiss him, o’er and o’er again,
In passion and in pain,
With all the love that fills your heart and brain!
Yea, kiss him, bless him, pray beside his bed,
For you have lived, and here your love lies dead.                                [8:14]

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1874 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan:
v. 8, l. 14: For you have loved, and here your love lies dead.
Alterations in the 1882 Selected Poems:
v. 8, l. 7: The revelation in the wrong he wrought.
v. 8, l. 14: For you have loved, and here your love lies dead.
Alterations in the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan:
v. 5, l. 10: Stung it and wrung it with new joy and fear, ]

                                                                                                                                                                 181

XI.

THE BLIND LINNET.

                                                                                                     SOPH. ŒD. TYR.

[Note:
Translation of quotation from Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus (trans. Sir Richard Jebb):

Why should I see, when sight showed me nothing sweet?

Lines 1329 - 1335:

It was Apollo, friends, Apollo who brought these troubles [1330] to pass, these terrible, terrible troubles. But the hand that struck my eyes was none other than my own, wretched that I am! [1335] Why should I see, when sight showed me nothing sweet? ]

                                                                                                                                                                   183

THE BLIND LINNET.

I.

THE sempstress’s linnet sings
     At the window opposite me;—
It feels the sun on its wings,
     Though it cannot see.
Can a bird have thoughts? May be.

II.

The sempstress is sitting,
     High o’er the humming street,
The little blind linnet is flitting
     Between the sun and her seat.
All day long                                                                               184
     She stitches wearily there,
And I know she is not young,
     And I know she is not fair;
For I watch her head bent down
     Throughout the dreary day,
And the thin meek hair o’ brown
     Is threaded with silver gray;
And now and then, with a start
At the fluttering of her heart,
     She lifts her eyes to the bird,
And I see in the dreary place
The gleam of a thin white face,
     And my heart is stirr’d.

III.

Loud and long
The linnet pipes his song!
For he cannot see
     The smoky street all round,
But loud in the sun sings he,
     Though he hears the murmurous sound;
For his poor, blind eyeballs blink,
     While the yellow sunlights fall,
And he thinks (if a bird can think)                                              185
     He hears a waterfall,
Or the broad and beautiful river
     Washing fields of corn,
Flowing for ever
     Through the woods where he was born;
And his voice grows stronger,
     While he thinks that he is there,
And louder and longer
     Falls his song on the dusky air.
And oft, in the gloaming still,
     Perhaps (for who can tell?)
     The musk and the muskatel,
That grow on the window sill,
     Cheat him with their smell.

IV.

But the sempstress can see
How dark things be;
How black through the town
     The stream is flowing;
And tears fall down
     Upon her sewing.
So at times she tries,                                                                 186
     When her trouble is stirr’d,
To close her eyes,
     And be blind like the bird.
And then, for a minute,
     As sweet things seem,
As to the linnet
     Piping in his dream!
For she feels on her brow
     The sunlight glowing,
And hears nought now
     But a river flowing—
A broad and beautiful river,
     Washing fields of corn,
Flowing for ever
     Through the woods where she was born—
And a wild bird winging
Over her head, and singing!
And she can smell
The musk and the muskatel
     That beside her grow,
And, unaware,
She murmurs an old air
     That she used to know!

                                                                                                                                                                 187

XII.

LONDON, 1864

                                                                                                                                 189

LONDON, 1864.

I.

WHY should the heart seem colder,
     As the song grows stronger and surer?
Why should the brain grow darker,
     And the utterance clearer and purer?
To lose what the people are gaining
     Seems often bitter as gall,
Though to sink in the proud endeavour
     Were the bitterest of all.
I would to God I were lying
     Yonder ’mong mountains blue,
Smiling in sweet conceptions
     That were dried from my brow like dew,
Burning, and aching, and yearning                                                      190
     To conquer, to sing, and to teach,
With the brain at white-heat, clutching
     At visions beyond my reach,—
But with never a feeling or fancy
     I could utter in tuneful speech!

II.

Yea! that were richer and sweeter
     Than all that my soul hath found,—
Than to see and to know, and be able
     To utter the knowledge in sound;
For the heart feels colder and harder,
     And a glory hath gone from me,
And I hate, for I view so clearly,
     So much that I loved to see,
And the far blue misty mountains
     Are grand as they used to be!

III.

And Art, the avenging angel,
     Comes, with her still, gray eyes,
Kisses my forehead coldly,
     Whispers to make me wise;
And, too late, comes the revelation,                                                     191
     After the feast and the play,
That she works her end, not by giving,
     But cruelly taking away:
By burning the heart till it shrivels,
     Scorching it dry and deep
And changing the flower of living
     To a poor dried flower that may keep!
What wonder if often and often
     The passion, the wonder dies;
And I hate the terrible angel,
     And shrink from her passionless eyes,—
Who, instead of the rapture and vision,
     I held as the poet’s dower—
Instead of the glory of living,
     The impulse, the splendour, the power—
Instead of the singing raiment,
     The trumpet proclaiming the day,
Gives, and so coldly, only
     A pipe whereon to play!
While the spirit of boyhood hath perish’d,
     And never again can be,
And the singing seems so worthless,
     Since the glory hath gone from me,—
Though the far blue misty mountains,                                                   192
     And the earth and the air and the sea,
And the manifold music and beauty,
     Are grand as they used to be!

IV.

Is there a consolation
     For the joy that comes never again?
Is there a balm remaining?
     Is there a refuge from pain?
Is there a balm to quiet
     The shame and the grief and the stinging?
Only the sweet, strange sadness,
     That is the source of the singing.

V.

For the sound of the city is awful,
     As the people pass to and fro,
And the friendless faces are dreadful,
     As they come, and thrill through us, and go;
And the ties that bind us to others
     Of our error and weakness are born;
And our dear ones ever love dearest
     Those parts of ourselves that we scorn;
And the weariness will not be utter’d,                                                 193
     And the bitterness dare not be said,
And we hood the proud nature with meanness
     To shut out the sight of our Dead!
And what, then, remaineth as solace?
     Dear ones, or fortune, or fame?
Only the sweet singing sadness
     Cometh between us and shame.

VI.

And there dawneth a time to the Poet,
     When the bitterness passes away,
When his heart is humbled in silence,
     And he kneels in the dark to pray;
And the prayer is turn’d into music,
     And the music findeth a tongue,
And Art, the cold angel, seems kinder,
     And comforts the soul she has stung.
Then the Poet, worn with the struggle,
     Findeth his loss is his gain:
The sweet singing sadness is stranger,
     Though nought of the glory remain;
And the awful sound of the city,
     And the terrible faces around,
Take a truer, tenderer meaning,                                                          194
     And pass into sweetness and sound;
The mystery deepens and deepens,
     Strange vanishings gleam from the cloud,
And the Poet, though often and often
     Stricken, and eyeless, and bow’d,
Starteth at times from his wonder,
     And sendeth his Soul up aloud!

VII.

Lo! I stand at the gateway of Honour,
     And see the lights flashing within,
And I murmur these songs of the city,
     Its sorrow, its joy, and its sin;
And the sweetness is heavy upon me,
     Though grown of the past and its wrong;
My losses are sure if that sweetness
     Be felt in the soul of the song.
I murmur these songs of the city,
     And cast them as bread on the sea;
And mine eyes are dim with the singing
     That is all in the world to me!

[Note:
In the ‘London Poems’ section of the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan a number of additional poems follow ‘The Blind Linnet’ before ‘London, 1864’, which is extensively revised. This later version is available in the ‘Additional London Poems’ section.]

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