The Summer-House On The Mound

How well my eyes remember the dim path! My homing heart no happier playground hath. I need not close my lids but it appears Through the bewilderment of forty years To tempt my feet, my childish feet, between Its leafy walls, beneath its arching green; Fairer than dream of sleep, than Hope more fair Leading to dreamless sleep her sister Care.

There grew two fellow limes, two rising trees, Shadowing the lawn, the summer haunt of bees, Whose stems, engraved with many a russet scar From the spear-hurlings of our mimic war, Pillar'd the portico to that wide walk, A mossy terrace of the native chalk Fashion'd, that led thro' the dark shades around Straight to the wooden temple on the mound. There live the memories of my early days, There still with childish heart my spirit plays; Yea, terror-stricken by the fiend despair When she hath fled me, I have found her there; And there 'tis ever noon, and glad suns bring Alternate days of summer and of spring, With childish thought, and childish faces bright, And all unknown save but the hour's delight.

High on the mound the ivied arbour stood, A dome of straw upheld on rustic wood: Hidden in fern the steps of the ascent, Whereby unto the southern front we went, And from the dark plantation climbing free, Over a valley look'd out on the sea. That sea is ever bright and blue, the sky Serene and blue, and ever white ships lie High on the horizon steadfast in full sail, Or nearer in the roads pass within hail, Of naked brigs and barques that windbound ride At their taut cables heading to the tide.

There many an hour I have sat to watch; nay, now The brazen disk is cold against my brow, And in my sight a circle of the sea Enlarged to swiftness, where the salt waves flee, And ships in stately motion pass so near That what I see is speaking to my ear: I hear the waves dash and the tackle strain, The canvas flap, the rattle of the chain That runs out thro' the hawse, the clank of the winch Winding the rusty cable inch by inch, Till half I wonder if they have no care, Those sailors, that my glass is brought to bear On all their doings, if I vex them not On every petty task of their rough lot Prying and spying, searching every craft From painted truck to gunnel, fore and aft,-- Thro' idle Sundays as I have watch'd them lean Long hours upon the rail, or neath its screen Prone on the deck to lie outstretch'd at length, Sunk in renewal of their wearied strength.

But what a feast of joy to me, if some Fast-sailing frigate to the Channel come Back'd here her topsail, or brought gently up Let from her bow the splashing anchor drop, By faint contrary wind stay'd in her cruise, The Phaethon or dancing Arethuse, Or some immense three-decker of the line, Romantic as the tale of Troy divine; Ere yet our iron age had doom'd to fall The towering freeboard of the wooden wall, And for the engines of a mightier Mars Clipp'd their wide wings, and dock'd their soaring spars. The gale that in their tackle sang, the wave That neath their gilded galleries dasht so brave Lost then their merriment, nor look to play With the heavy-hearted monsters of to-day.

One noon in March upon that anchoring ground Came Napier's fleet unto the Baltic bound: Cloudless the sky and calm and blue the sea, As round Saint Margaret's cliff mysteriously, Those murderous queens walking in Sabbath sleep Glided in line upon the windless deep: For in those days was first seen low and black Beside the full-rigg'd mast the strange smoke-stack, And neath their stern revolv'd the twisted fan. Many I knew as soon as I might scan, The heavy Royal George, the Acre bright, The Hogue and Ajax, and could name aright Others that I remember now no more; But chief, her blue flag flying at the fore, With fighting guns a hundred thirty and one, The Admiral ship The Duke of Wellington, Whereon sail'd George, who in her gig had flown The silken ensign by our sisters sewn. The iron Duke himself,--whose soldier fame To England's proudest ship had given her name, And whose white hairs in this my earliest scene Had scarce more honour'd than accustom'd been,-- Was two years since to his last haven past: I had seen his castle-flag to fall half-mast One morn as I sat looking on the sea, When thus all England's grief came first to me, Who hold my childhood favour'd that I knew So well the face that won at Waterloo.

But now 'tis other wars, and other men;-- The year that Napier sail'd, my years were ten-- Yea, and new homes and loves my heart hath found: A priest has there usurped the ivied mound, The bell that call'd to horse calls now to prayers, And silent nuns tread the familiar stairs. Within the peach-clad walls that old outlaw, The Roman wolf, scratches with privy paw.

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O Love, I complain, Complain of thee often, Because thou dost soften My being to pain:

Thou makest me fear The mind that createth, That loves not nor hateth In justice austere; Who, ere he make one, With millions toyeth, And lightly destroyeth Whate'er is begun.

An' wer't not for thee, My glorious passion, My heart I could fashion To sternness, as he.

But thee, Love, he made Lest man should defy him, Connive and outvie him, And not be afraid:

Nay, thee, Love, he gave His terrors to cover, And turn to a lover His insolent slave.

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