"Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; Sluggards, awake, and front the morn!

Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; The sun's on meadow and mill.

Follow me, hearts that love the chase; Follow me, feet that keep the pace: Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride, We ride by moor and hill."

Huntsman, huntsman, whither away?

What is the quarry afoot to-day?

Huntsman, huntsman, whither away, And what the game ye kill?

Is it the deer, that men may dine?

Is it the wolf that tears the kine?

What is the race ye ride, ye ride, Ye ride by moor and hill?

"Ask not yet till the day be dead What is the game that's forward fled, Ask not yet till the day be dead The game we follow still.

{115}.

An echo it may be, floating past; A shadow it may be, fading fast: Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride, We ride by moor and hill."

{116}.

'O Pulchritudo'

O saint whose thousand shrines our feet have trod And our eyes loved thy lamp's eternal beam, Dim earthly radiance of the Unknown G.o.d, Hope of the darkness, light of them that dream, Far off, far off and faint, O glimmer on Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.

O Word whose meaning every sense hath sought, Voice of the teeming field and gra.s.sy mound, Deep-whispering fountain of the wells of thought, Will of the wind and soul of all sweet sound, Far off, far off and faint, O murmur on Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.

{117}.

'The Final Mystery'

This myth, of Egyptian origin, formed part of the instruction given to those initiated in the Orphic mysteries, and written versions of it were buried with the dead.

Hear now, O Soul, the last command of all-- When thou hast left thine every mortal mark, And by the road that lies beyond recall Won through the desert of the Burning Dark, Thou shalt behold within a garden bright A well, beside a cypress ivory-white.

Still is that well, and in its waters cool White, white and windless, sleeps that cypress tree: Who drinks but once from out her shadowy pool Shall thirst no more to all eternity.

Forgetting all, by all forgotten clean, His soul shall be with that which hath not been.

But thou, though thou be trembling with thy dread, And parched with thy desire more fierce than flame, Think on the stream wherefrom thy life was fed, And that diviner fountain whence it came.

Turn thee and cry--behold, it is not far-- Unto the hills where living waters are.

{118}.

"Lord, though I lived on earth, the child of earth, Yet was I fathered by the starry sky: Thou knowest I came not of the shadows' birth, Let me not die the death that shadows die.

Give me to drink of the sweet spring that leaps From Memory's fount, wherein no cypress sleeps."

Then shalt thou drink, O Soul, and therewith slake The immortal longing of thy mortal thirst, So of thy Father's life shalt thou partake, And be for ever that thou wert at first.

Lost in remembered loves, yet thou more thou With them shalt reign in never-ending Now.

{119}.

'Il Santo'

Alas! alas! what impious hands are these?

They have cut down my dark mysterious trees, Defied the brooding spell That sealed my sacred well, Broken my fathers' fixed and ancient bars, And on the mouldering shade Wherein my dead were laid Let in the cold clear aspect of the stars.

Slumber hath held the grove for years untold: Is there no reverence for a peace so old?

Is there no seemly awe For bronze-engraven law, For dust beatified and saintly name?

When they shall see the shrine Princes have held divine, Will they not bow before the eternal flame?

Vain! vain! the wind of heaven for ages long Hath whispered manhood, "Let thine arm be strong!

Hew down and fling away The growth that veils decay,

{120}.

Shatter the shrine that chokes the living spring.

Scorn hatred, scorn regret, Dig deep and deeper yet, Leave not the quest for word of saint or king.

"Dig deeper yet! though the world brand thee now, The faithful labour of an impious brow May for thy race redeem The source of that lost stream Once given the thirst of all the earth to slake.

Nay, thou too ere the end Thy weary knee mayst bend And in thy trembling hands that water take."

{121}.

'In July'

His beauty bore no token, No sign our gladness shook; With tender strength unbroken The hand of Life he took: But the summer flowers were falling, Falling and fading away, And mother birds were calling, Crying and calling For their loves that would not stay.

He knew not Autumn's chillness, Nor Winter's wind nor Spring's; He lived with Summer's stillness And sun and sunlit things: But when the dusk was falling He went the shadowy way, And one more heart is calling, Crying and calling For the love that would not stay.

{122}.

'From Generation to Generation'

O son of mine, when dusk shall find thee bending Between a gravestone and a cradle's head-- Between the love whose name is loss unending And the young love whose thoughts are liker dread,-- Thou too shalt groan at heart that all thy spending Cannot repay the dead, the hungry dead.

{123}.

'When I Remember'

When I remember that the day will come For this our love to quit his land of birth, And bid farewell to all the ways of earth With lips that must for evermore be dumb,

Then creep I silent from the stirring hum, And shut away the music and the mirth, And reckon up what may be left of worth When hearts are cold and love's own body numb.

Something there must be that I know not here, Or know too dimly through the symbol dear; Some touch, some beauty, only guessed by this-- If He that made us loves, it shall replace, Beloved, even the vision of thy face And deep communion of thine inmost kiss.