James Douglas - Theodore Watts-Dunton - Poet, Novelist, Critic

Who blent thy song with sound of cattle lowing,
And caw of rooks that perch on ewe and ram,
And hymn of lark, and bleat of orphan lamb,
And swish of scythe in Bredfield’s dewy mowing?
Chorus: Omar Khayyàm!

’Twas Fitz, ‘Old Fitz,’ whose knowledge, farther going
Than lore of Omar, ‘Wisdom’s starry Cham,’
Made richer still thine opulent epigram:
Sowed seed from seed of thine immortal sowing. —
Chorus: Omar Khayyàm!

In this red wine, where Memory’s eyes seem glowing,
And days when wines were bright by Ouse and Cam,
And Norfolk’s foaming nectar glittered, showing
What beard of gold John Barleycorn was growing,
We drink to thee till, hark! the cock is crowing!
Omar Khayyàm!

Hear us, ye winds! From where the north-wind strows
Blossoms that crown ‘the King of Wisdom’s’ tomb,
The trees here planted bring remembered bloom,
Dreaming in seed of Love’s ancestral rose,
To meadows where a braver north-wind blows
O’er greener grass, o’er hedge-rose, may, and broom,
And all that make East England’s field-perfume
Dearer than any fragrance Persia knows.

Hear us, ye winds, North, East, and West, and South!
This granite covers him whose golden mouth
Made wiser ev’n the Word of Wisdom’s King:
Blow softly over Omar’s Western herald
Till roses rich of Omar’s dust shall spring
From richer dust of Suffolk’s rare FitzGerald.

The mightiest Titan’s stroke could not withstand
An ebbing tide like this. These swirls denote
How wind and tide conspire. I can but float
To the open sea and strike no more for land.
Farewell, brown cliffs, farewell, beloved sand
Her feet have pressed – farewell, dear little boat
Where Gelert, 9 9 A famous swimming dog belonging to the writer. calmly sitting on my coat,
Unconscious of my peril, gazes bland!

All dangers grip me save the deadliest, fear:
Yet these air-pictures of the past that glide —
These death-mirages o’er the heaving tide —
Showing two lovers in an alcove clear,
Will break my heart. I see them and I hear
As there they sit at morning, side by side.

With Raxton elms behind – in front the sea ,
Sitting in rosy light in that alcove ,
They hear the first lark rise o’er Raxton Grove ;
‘ What should I do with fame , dear heart ?’ says he .
‘ You talk of fame , poetic fame , to me
Whose crown is not of laurel but of love —
To me who would not give this little glove
On this dear hand for Shakspeare’s dower in fee .

While , rising red and kindling every billow ,
The sun’s shield shines ’ neath many a golden spear ,
To lean with you against this leafy pillow ,
To murmur words of love in this loved ear —
To feel you bending like a bending willow ,
This is to be a poet — this , my dear !’

O God, to die and leave her – die and leave
The heaven so lately won! – And then, to know
What misery will be hers – what lonely woe! —
To see the bright eyes weep, to see her grieve
Will make me a coward as I sink, and cleave
To life though Destiny has bid me go.
How shall I bear the pictures that will glow
Above the glowing billows as they heave?

One picture fades, and now above the spray
Another shines: ah, do I know the bowers
Where that sweet woman stands – the woodland flowers,
In that bright wreath of grass and new-mown hay —
That birthday wreath I wove when earthly hours
Wore angel-wings, – till portents brought dismay?

Proud of her wreath as laureate of his laurel,
She smiles on him—on him, the prouder giver,
As there they stand beside the sunlit river
Where petals flush with rose the grass and sorrel:
The chirping reed-birds, in their play or quarrel,
Make musical the stream where lilies quiver—
Ah! suddenly he feels her slim waist shiver:
She speaks: her lips grow grey—her lips of coral!

‘From out my wreath two heart-shaped seeds are swaying,
The seeds of which that gypsy girl has spoken—
’Tis fairy grass, alas! the lover’s token.’
She lifts her fingers to her forehead, saying,
‘Touch the twin hearts.’ Says he, ‘’Tis idle playing’:
He touches them; they fall—fall bruised and broken.

Shall I turn coward here who sailed with Death
Through many a tempest on mine own North Sea,
And quail like him of old who bowed the knee —
Faithless – to billows of Genesereth?
Did I turn coward when my very breath
Froze on my lips that Alpine night when he
Stood glimmering there, the Skeleton, with me,
While avalanches rolled from peaks beneath?

Each billow bears me nearer to the verge
Of realms where she is not – where love must wait. —
If Gelert, there, could hear, no need to urge
That friend, so faithful, true, affectionate,
To come and help me, or to share my fate.
Ah! surely I see him springing through the surge.

Oh, Gelert, strong of wind and strong of paw
Here gazing like your namesake, ‘Snowdon’s Hound,’
When great Llewelyn’s child could not be found,
And all the warriors stood in speechless awe —
Mute as your namesake when his master saw
The cradle tossed – the rushes red around —
With never a word, but only a whimpering sound
To tell what meant the blood on lip and jaw.

In such a strait, to aid this gaze so fond,
Should I, brave friend, have needed other speech
Than this dear whimper? Is there not a bond
Stronger than words that binds us each to each? —
But Death has caught us both. ’Tis far beyond
The strength of man or dog to win the beach.