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LIONEL JOHNSON.

The death of Lionel Johnson on Saturday,
October 4fch, in St. Bartholomew's Hospital,
leaves the world poorer by the loss of an
ardent lover of letters and a sane and well-
equipped critic. He was born at Broadstairs
in 1867, and went to school at Winchester
College. Throughout life he was a devoted
Wykehamist, Winchester, Oxford, and Corn-
wall becoming the three haunted regions for
a mind singularly sensitive to local associa-
tions. To New College, Oxford, he came
with a fair reputation for scholarship, and
one more remarkable for an exceptional
maturity of literary achievement. Certainly
an essay on ' The Fools of Shakespeare,' con-
tributed to a volume published by th^ Win-
chester Shakespeare Society, is marked by
gifts of style and a range of allusion
which are beyond the reach of the ordi-
nary sixth - form boy. After taking his
(jegree — he nearly missed his first owing to the
fact that only one out of a whole board of
examiners could read his handwriting— he was
received into the Roman Catholic Church, of
which he had for some time been a professed,
but exoteric admirer. He had even thoughts of
itaking orders, but literature was his immediate
purpose, and he came to London to make a
livelihood by writing. He was a mainstay of
ithe Anti - Jacobin in its brief and brilliant
career under Mr. Greenwood, and subsequently
jcontributed to many papers, in particular the
Daily Chronicle and the Academy. He was an
early supporter of the Irish Literary Society,
claimed Celtic blood, and, alike as a Catholic
and a Liberal, shared in the hopes and fears of
Nationalism. Ill-health and the claims of an
exacting and nervous temperament made him
during the last few years virtually a recluse.
In earlier days he had a wide circle of friends,
in spite of a certain reserve and aloofness of
manner which rarely left him. Under the
mask of irony, coldness, and even perversity,
which he bore in personal intercourse, lay a
passionate spirit destined never to find com-
plete utterance. The best of him went into his
writing, which always reflected high ideals, fine
emotions, and grave scholarship. He hoped to
win fame as a poet, and his contributions to
the first ' Book of the Rhymers' Club ' (1892)
encouraged an expectation which his ' Poems '
(1895) and ' Ireland, with other Poems ' (1897),
did not completely fulfil. He was perhaps too
much of a scholar to be a really great poet, and
although all his verses are thoughtful and many
of them are beautiful, they only occasionally
attain to the immediate lyric cry. Apart from
his work in the journals, his only published
criticism was *The Art of Thomas Hardy'
(1894). But this is a fine book, and with
a happier fate he would probably have
become a really great critic. Some years
ago he had a set of essays in preparation,
and it is to be hoped that this collection
is in a state which may iustify its being



•ublished. The strongest influence upon his
ritical method was the example of Mr.
*ater, whom he acknowledged his master,
ot only by his reverent care for comely and
rdered English, but also by his preference for
lose things in literature which bore most
irectly upon the serious issues of life and
eath. His judgment was measured and set
own in charity. His reading was of the
idest ; it was difficult to name a book, either
1 the highways or the byways of literature,
ith which he was not familiar. Balzac, New-
lan, and the great hymn- writers of his own
hurch were amongst the forces which had most
rofoundly moved him. He also professed a
pecial devotion, not very usual amongst his
3nteraporaries, to the great English masters,
I prose and verse, of the eighteenth century,
[odern criticism can ill spare one whose
)uch was so sure and heart so firmly set on the
ling^ that are more excellent. ////'T'' /S"^



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This edition is limited to 750 copies for England
and America,



POEMS

BY

LIONEL JOHNSON.



BY ^ ]LI©MBIL




n 3






J ^7



TO THE HONOURED AND GREATLY LOVED SAINT

MARY COLLEGE OF WINCHESTER NEAR

WINCHESTER A WYKEHAMIST

COME OF WYKEHAMISTS

I DEDICATE THIS

BOOK.



MS5S934



Gultelmum Wickamum^ ut optimum parentem agnosco^ suscipio, colo,
cut si quid in me doElrinaey njirtutisy pietatis, et Catholic ae religionis^
maxime acceptum refero. ^ippe qui ab ineunte aetate^ in Winto-
niensi primum, deinde et Oxoniensi eius collegia, ad omnem ingenii,
do^rinae, et pietatis cultum capessendum institutus sim.

Harpsfield.



^ CONTENTS.

WINCHESTER : P. I .

TO morfydd: p. 5.

PLATO IN LONDON I P. 6.
IN FALMOUTH HARBOUR I P. f.
A FRIEND : P. 9.

A BURDEN OF EASTER VIGIL: P. 1 1 .

BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING
CROSS : P. 12.

laleham: p. 13.

OUR LADY OF FRANCE : P. 1 5.

in memory : p. 16.

the precept of silence *. p. 20.

hill and vale : p. 20.

gwynedd : p. 22.

a cornish night : p. 26.

mystic and cavalier : p. 3o.

parnell: p. 31.

IN ENGLAND : P. 33.

TO OCEAN HAZARD : GIPSY : P. 38.

UPON A DRAWING I P. 39.

THE ROMAN STAGE '. P. 40.

"to weep IRISH :" P. 41.

SUMMER STORM : P. 4I.

TO A TRAVELLER : P. 42.

IN MEMORY OF M. B. : P. 42.

HAWTHORNE : P. 43.

GLORIES : P. 44.

LINES TO A LADY UPON HER THIRD BIRTHDAY : P. 45.

CELTIC SPEECH : P. 47,

WAYS OF WAR : P. 48.

THE COMING OF WAR: P. 49.

Ireland's dead : p. 51.

HARMONIES : P. 52.

ix



THE LAST MUSIC : P. 53.

A DREAM OF YOUTH : P. 54.

ROMANS: P. 58.

THE TROOPSHIP : P. 59.

DEAD : P. 60.

SANCTA SIL VARUM : P. 60.

BAGLEY WOOD I P. 65.

CORONA CRUCIS : P. 65.

A SONG OF ISRAEL : P. 66.

THE DARK ANGEL : P. 67.

A FRIEND : P. 69.

TO A PASSIONIST : P. 69.

ADVENTUS DOMINI *. P. 70.

MEN OF ASSISI : P. 70.

MEN OF AQUINO : P. 72.

LUCRETIUS : P. 73.

ENTHUSIASTS : P. 75.

CADGWITH : P. 75.

VISIONS : p. 78.

TO LEO XIIL : P. 81.

AT THE BURIAL OF CARDINAL MANNING: P. 82.

VIGILS : P. 82.

THE CHURCH OF A DREAM : P. 84.
THE AGE OF A DREAM : P. 85.
OXFORD NIGHTS : P. 85.
TO A SPANISH FRIEND : P. 88.
TO MY PATRONS : P. 89.
BRONTE : P. 90.
COMFORT : P. 92.
MOEL FAMMAU : P. 93.
SORTES VIRGILIANAE : P. 94.
CONSOLATION : P. 94.
ORACLES : P. 95.

THE DESTROYER OF A SOUL : P. 96.
OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS : P. 97.
ASH WEDNESDAY : P. 99.
DESIDERIA : P. 100.
ARM A VIRUMQUE : P. 100.
X



THE DAY OF COMING DAYS : P. I 01.
RENEGADE : P. lOI.
WALES : P. 102.

harvest: P. 102.

TO CERTAIN FRIENDS : P. IO4.
THE PETITION : P. I 04.
THE CLASSICS : P. I 05.

APRIL: P. 106.

A PROSELYTE : P. /08.
BEYOND : P. 109.

experience: p. 109.
escape : p. iio.
trentals : p. III.

THE RED wind: P. III.
SERTORIUS : P. 112.
SAINT COLUMBA : P. I I4.
BELLS : P. 115.



XI



••^POEMS^



WINCHESTER.

To the fairest ! ^

Then to thee
Consecrate and bounden be,
Winchester ! this verse of mine.
Ah, that loveliness of thine !
To have lived enchaunted years
Free from sorrows, free from fears,
Where thy Tower's great shadow falls
Over those proud buttressed walls ;
Whence a purpling glory pours
From high heaven's inheritors.
Throned within the arching stone !
To have wandered, hushed, alone.
Gently round thy fair, fern-grown
Chauntry of the Lilies, lying
Where the soft night winds go sighing
Round thy Cloisters, in moonlight
Branching dark, or touched with white :
Round old, chill aisles, where moon-smitten
Blanches the Orate^ written
Under each worn, old-world face
Graven on Death's holy place !

To the noblest !

None but thee.
Blest our living eyes, that see
Half a thousand years fulfilled
Of that age, which Wykeham willed
Thee to win j yet all unworn,
As upon that first March morn,

I - R



When thine honoured city saw
Thy young beauty without flaw,
Born within her water-flowing,
Ancient hollows, by wind-blowing
Hills enfolded ever more.
Thee, that lord of splendid lore,
Orient from old Hellas' shore,
Grocyn, had to mother : thee,
Monumental majesty
Of most high philosophy
Honours, in thy wizard Browne :
Tender Otway's dear renown.
Mover of a perfect pity,
Vi6tim of the iron city.
Thine to cherish is : and thee.
Laureate of Liberty ;
Harper of the Highland faith.
Elf, and faery, and wan wraith ;
Chaunting softly, chaunting slowly,
Minstrel of all melancholy ;
Master of all melody.
Made to cling round memory ;
Passion's poet. Evening's voice,
Collins glorified. Rejoice,
Mother I in thy sons : for all
Love thine immemorial
Name, august and musical.
Not least he, who left thy side.
For his sire's, thine earlier pride,
Arnold : whom we mourn to-day.
Prince of song, and gone away
To his brothers of the bay :
Thine the love of all his years ;
His be now thy praising tears.

To the dearest !

Ah, to thee !
Hast thou not in all to me
2



Mother, more than mother, been ?
Well toward thee may Mary Queen
Bend her with a mother's mien ;
Who so rarely dost express
An inspiring tenderness.
Woven with thy sterner strain,
Prelude of the world's true pain.
But two years, and still my feet
Found thy very stones^more sweet,
Than the richest fields elsewhere :
Two years, and thy sacred air
Still poured balm upon me, when
Nearer drew the world of men ;
When the passions, one by one,
All sprang upward to the sun :
Two years have I lived, still thine ;
Lost, thy presence ! gone, that shrine.
Where six years, what years ! were mine.
Music is the thought of thee ;
Fragrance, all thy memory.
Those thy rugged Chambers old.
In their gloom and rudeness, hold
Dear remembrances of gold.
Some first blossoming of flowers
Made delight of all the hours ;
Greatness, beauty, all things fair
Made the spirit of thine air :
Old years live with thee ; thy sons
Walk with high companions.
Then, the natural joy of earth,
Joy of very health and birth !
Hills, upon a summer noon :
Water Meads, on eves of June :
Chamber Court, beneath the moon :
Days of spring, on Twyford Down,
Or when autumn woods grew brown ;
As they looked, when here came Keats,
Chaunting of autumnal sweets ;
3



Through this city of old haunts,
Murmuring immortal chaunts ;
As when Pope, art's earlier king.
Here, a child, did nought but sing ;
Sang, a child, by nature's rule.
Round the trees of Twyford School :
Hours of sun beside Mead's Wall,
Ere the may begin to fall j
Watching the rooks rise and soar.
High from lime and sycamore :
Wanderings by old-world ways.
Walks and streets of ancient days ;
Closes, churches, arches, halls.
Vanished men's memorials.
There was beauty, there was grace,
Each place was an holy place :
There the kindly fates allowed
Me too room ; and made me proud.
Prouder name I have not wist !
With the name of Wykehamist.
These thy joys : and more than these :
Ah, to watch beneath thy trees.
Through long twilights linden-scented,
Sunsets, lingering, lamented.
In the purple west ; prevented.
Ere they fell, by evening star !
Ah, long nights of Winter ! far
Leaps and roars the faggot fire ;
Ruddy smoke rolls higher, higher,
Broken through by flame's desire ;
Circling faces glow, all eyes
Take the Hght ; deep radiance flies.
Merrily flushing overhead
Names of brothers, long since fled ;
And fresh clusters, in their stead.
Jubilant round fierce forest flame.
Friendship too must make her claim :
But what songs, what memories end,
4



When they tell of friend on friend ?
And for them, I thank thy name.

Love alone of gifts, no shame
Lessens, and I love thee : yet
Sound it but of echoes, let
This my maiden music be,
Of the love I bear to thee.
Witness and interplfeter.
Mother mine : loved Winchester !

1888.

TO MORFYDD.

A VOICE on the winds,
A voice by the waters.

Wanders and cries :
Oh ! what are the winds ?
And what are the waters f

Mine are your eyes !

Western the winds are.
And western the waters,

Where the light lies :
Oh I what are the winds f
And what are the waters ?

Mine are your eyes !

Cold, cold, grow the winds.
And wild grow the waters.

Where the sun dies :
Oh ! what are the winds f
And what are the waters ?

Mine are your eyes !

And down the night winds.
And down the night waters,
The music flies :



Oh ! what are the winds ?
And what are the waters ?
Cold be the winds.
And wild he the waters.
So mine be your eyes !



1 89 1.



PLATO IN LONDON.

To Campbell Dodgson,

The pure flame of one taper fall
Over the old and comely page :
No harsher light disturb at all
This converse with a treasured sage.
Seemly, and fair, and of the best,

If Plato be our guest.

Should things befall.

Without, a w^orld of noise and cold :
Here, the soft burning of the fire.
And Plato walks, where heavens unfold.
About the home of his desire.
From his own city of high things.

He shows to us, and brings.

Truth of fine gold.

The hours pass ; and the fire burns low ;
The clear flame dwindles into death :
Shut then the book with care ; and so.
Take leave of Plato, with hushed breath :
A little, by the falling gleams.

Tarry the gracious dreams : *

And they too go.

Lean fi-om the window to the air :
Hear London's voice upon the night !
Thou hast bold converse with things rare :
Look now upon another sight !
6



The calm stars, in their living skies :
And then, these surging cries,
This restless glare !

That starry music, starry fire.

High above all our noise and glare :

The image of our long desire.

The beauty, and the strength, are there.

And Plato's thought /hves, true and clear.

In as august a sphere :

Perchance, far higher.

1889.

IN FALMOUTH HARBOUR.

To Frank Mathew,

I.

The large, calm harbour lies below
Long, terraced Hnes of circling light :
Without, the deep sea currents flow :
And here are stars, and night.

No sight, no sound, no Hving stir.
But such as per fed: the still bay :
So hushed it is, the voyager

Shrinks at the thought of day.

We glide by many a lanterned mast ;
Our mournful horns blow wild to warn
Yon looming pier : the sailors cast

Their ropes, and watch for morn.

Strange murmurs from the sleeping town.
And sudden creak of lonely oars
Crossing the water, travel down
The roadstead, the dim shores.

A charm is on the silent bay ;
7



Charms of the sea, charms of the land.
Memories of open wind convey
Peace to this harbour strand.

Far off, Saint David's crags descend
On seas of desolate storm : and far
From this pure rest, the Land's drear End,
And ruining w^aters, are.

Well was it worth to have each hour
Of high and perilous blowing wind :
For here, for now, deep peace hath power
To conquer the worn mind.

I have passed over the rough sea.
And over the white harbour bar :
And this is Death's dreamland to me.
Led hither by a star.

And what shall dawn be ? Hush thee, nay !
Soft, soft is night, and calm and still :
Save that day cometh, what of day
Knowest thou : good, or ill ?

Content thee ! Not the annulling light
Of any pitiless dawn is here ;
Thou art alone with ancient night :
And all the stars are clear.

Only the night air, and the dream ;
Only the far, sweet-smelling wave ;
The stilly sounds, the circling gleam.
And thine : and thine a grave.

1887.

II.
Hence, by stern thoughts and strong winds borne,
Voyaged, with faith that could not fail,

8



Who cried : Lead^ kindly Light ! forlorn
Beneath a stranger sail.

Becalmed upon a classic sea ;
Wandering through eternal Rome ;
Fighting with Death in Sicily :
He hungered for his home.

These northern waves, these island airs !
Dreams of these haunted his full heart :
Their love inspired his songs and prayers.
Bidding him play his part.

The freedom of the living dead ;
The service of a living pain :
He chose between them, bowed his head,
And counted sorrow, gain.

Ah, sweetest soul of all ! whose choice
Was golden with the light of lights :
But us doubt's melancholy voice.
Wandering in gloom, unites.

Ah, sweetest soul of all ! whose voice
Hailed morning, and the sun's increase :
We of the restless night rejoice.
We also, at thy peace.

1887,



A FRIEND.

To H. B. Irving,
All, that he came to give.
He gave, and went again :
I have seen one man live,
I have seen one man reign.
With all the graces in his train.
9



As one of us, he wrought
Things of the common hour :
Whence was the charmed soul brought,
That gave each a6t such power ;
The natural beauty of a flower ?

Magnificence and grace.
Excellent courtesy :
A brightness on the face.
Airs of high memory :
Whence came all these, to such as he ?

Like young Shakespearian kings,
He won the adoring throng :
And, as Apollo sings.
He triumphed with a song :
Triumphed, and sang, and passed along.

With a light word, he took
The hearts of men in thrall :
And, with a golden look.
Welcomed them, at his call
Giving their love, their strength, their all.

No man less proud than he,
Nor cared for homage less :
Only, he could not be
Far off from happiness :
Nature was bound to his success.

Weary, the cares, the jars.
The lets, of every day :
But the heavens filled with stars.
Chanced he upon the way :
And where he stayed, all joy would stay.

Now, when sad night draws down.
When the austere stars burn :

10



Roaming the vast live town,
My thoughts and memories yearn
Toward him, who never will return.

Yet have I seen him live,
And owned my friend, a king :
All that he came to give,
He gave : and I, who sing
His praise, bring all I have to bring.

1889.

A BURDEN OF EASTER VIGIL.

Awhile meet Doubt and Faith :
For either sigheth and saith.
That He is dead
To-day : the linen cloths cover His head.
That hath, at last, whereon to rest ; a rocky bed.

Come ! for the pangs are done.
That overcast the sun.
So bright to-day !
And moved the Roman soldier : come away !
Hath sorrow more to weep ? Hath pity more to say ?

Why wilt thou linger yet ?
Think on dark Olivet ;
On Calvary stem :
Think, from the happy birth at Bethlehem,
To this last woe and passion at Jerusalem !

This only can be said :
He loved us all ; is dead ;
May rise again.
But if He rise not f Over the far main.
The sun of glory falls indeed: the stars are plain.

1888.



II



BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES
AT CHARING CROSS.

To William Watson,

Sombre and rich, the skies ;
Great glooms, and starry plains.
Gently the night wind sighs ;
Else a vast silence reigns.

The splendid silence clings
Around me: and around
The saddest of all kings
Crowned, and again discrowned.

Comely and calm, he rides
Hard by his own Whitehall :
Only the night wind glides :
No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.

Gone, too, his Court : and yet,
The stars his courtiers are :
Stars in their stations set ;
And every wandering star.

Alone he rides, alone.
The fair and fatal king :
Dark night is all his own.
That strange and solemn thing.

Which are more full of fate :
The stars ; or those sad eyes ?
Which are more still and great :
Those brows ; or the dark skies ?

Although his whole heart yearn
In passionate tragedy :
Never was face so stern
With sweet austerity.
12



Vanquished in life, his death
By beauty made amends :
The passing of his breath
Won his defeated ends.

Brief life, and hapless ? Nay :
Through death, life grew sublime.
Speak after sentence ? Yea :
And to the end of time.

Armoured he rides, his head
Bare to the stars of doom :
He triumphs now, the dead,
Beholding London's gloom.

Our wearier spirit faints,
Vexed in the world's employ :
His soul was of the saints ;
And art to him was joy.

King, tried in fires of woe I
Men hunger for thy grace :
And through the night I go,
Loving thy mournful face.

Yet, when the city sleeps ;
When all the cries are still :
The stars and heavenly deeps
Work out a perfe6l will.

1889.

LALEHAM.

To Arthur Galton,

Only one voice could sing aright
His brother poet, lost in night :
His voice, who lies not far away.
The pure and perfedl voice of Gray.
13



The sleep of humble men he sang,

For whom the tolling church bells rang

Over their silent fields and vales,

Whence no rude sound their calm assails.

He knew^ their melancholy rest,

And peaceful sleep, on earth's kind breast ;

Their patient lives, their common doom,

The beauty of their simple tomb.

One thing he left unsung : how some,

To share those village slumbers, come :

Whose voices filled the world with joy.

Who made high thoughts their one employ.

Ah, loving hearts 1 Too great to prize

Things whereon most men set their eyes :

The applauding crowd ; the golden lure

Of wealth, insatiate and unsure ;

A life of noise ! a restless death :

The sanctities of Hfe's last breath

Profaned with ritual pride and state ;

Last pageant of the little great !

But these, to whom all crowns of song.

And all immortal praise, belong.

Turn from each garish sight and sound,

To lay them down in humble ground :

Choosing that still, enchaunted sleep

To be, where kindly natures keep :

In sound of pleasant water rills.

In shadows of the solemn hills.

Earth's heart, earth's hidden way, they knew

Now on their grave light falls her dew.

The music of her soul was theirs :

They sleep beneath her sweetest airs.

Beside the broad, gray Thames one lies.
With whom a spring of beauty dies :
Among the willows, the pure wind
Calls all his wistful song to mind ;
And, as the calm, strong river flows,
14



With it his mightier music goes ;

But those winds cool, those waters lave,

The country of his chosen grave.

Go past the cottage flowers, and see,

Where Arnold held it good to be!

Half church, half cottage, comely stands

An holy house, from Norman hands :

By rustic Time well taught to wear

Some lowly, meditative air*:

Long ages of a pastoral race

Have softened sternness into grace ;

And many a touch of simpler use

From Norman strength hath set it loose.

Here, under old, red-fruited yews.

And summer suns, and autumn dews,

With his lost children at his side.

Sleeps Arnold : Still those waters glide.

Those winds blow softly down their breast :

But he, who loved them, is at rest.

1889.

OUR LADY OF FRANCE.

To Ernest Dow son.

Leave we awhile without the turmoil of the town ;
Leave we the sullen gloom, the faces full of care :
Stay we awhile and dream, within this place of prayer,
Stay we, and pray, and dream: till in our hearts die

down
Thoughts of the world, unkind and weary : till Christ

crown
Laborious day with love. Hark ! on the fragrant air,
Music of France, voices of France, fall piercing fair :
Poor France, where Mary star shines, lest her children

drown.

Our Lady of France I dost thou inhabit here ? Behold,
What sullen gloom invests this city strange to thee 1

15



In Seine, and pleasant Loire, thou gloriest from of old ;
Thou rulest rich Provence j lovest the Breton sea :
What dost thou far from home ? Nay! here my children

fold
Their exiled hands in orison^ and long for me,

1891.

IN MEMORY.
I.

Under the clear December sun.

Perishing and cold.
Sleep, Malise ! who hast early won

Light of sacred gold.
Sleep, be at rest : we still will keep
Dear love for thee lain down to sleep.

Youth, loving faces, holy toil,

These death takes from thee :
But of our love, none shall despoil

Thy fair soul set free.
The labours of thy love are done:
Thy labour's crown of love is won.

Sleep, Malise ! While the winds blow yet

Over thy quiet grave :
We, labouring death ward, will forget

Thee never : wherefore have
Hope, and pure patience : we, too, come
Presently to thee, in thine home.

1885.

II.

Ah ! fair face gone from sight.

With all its light
Of eyes, that pierced the deep

Of human night !
Ah ! fair face calm in sleep.
16



Ah ! fair lips hushed in death !

Now their glad breath
Breathes not upon our air

Music, that saith
Love only, and things fair.

Ah ! lost brother ! Ah I sweet

Still hands and feet !
May those feet haste to reach,

Those hands to greet,
Us, where love needs no speech.



1886.



III.
Sea-gulls, wheeling, swooping, crying.

Crying over Maes Garmon side !
Cold is the wind for your white wings* flying :

Cold and dim is our gray springtide.

But an hundred miles and more away,

In the old, sweet city.
Birds of spring are singing to ^hc May,

Their old, sweet ditty.

There he lies, whom I loved so well.
And lies, whom I love so dearly :

At thought of his youth, our buds will swell ;
Of his face, our sun shine clearly.

Sea-gulls, wheeling, swooping, crying.

Crying over Maes Garmon side !
Spirits of fire with him are flying.

Souls of flame, to the Crucified.

Yet, far away from the ancient places.
Ancient pleasures, and ancient days :