short hair and sideburns, facing right, dated 1872]

THE POEMS OF THOMAS GORDON HAKE SELECTED WITH A PREFATORY NOTE BY ALICE MEYNELL AND A PORTRAIT BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

LONDON: ELKIN MATHEWS AND JOHN LANE

CHICAGO: STONE AND KIMBALL 1894

_Of this edition 500 copies have been printed for England_

Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty

PREFATORY NOTE

The Poems in this collection are chosen from volumes published at intervals over more than fifty years—among them _The Piromides_, issued in 1839, _Madeline_, reviewed by Dante Gabriel Rossetti in the _Academy_ in 1871; _Parables and Tales_, to which Rossetti gave a _Fortnightly Review_ article in 1873; down to _The New Day_, dated 1890; together with verses which will be new even to the readers of the hitherto published works.

Dr. Hake has a solemn and distinct note, little confusible with the other notes of the concerted song of poets. Only nine years younger than the century, he inherited, by right of his time and place, a tradition of deep composure—poetry aloof from the peril of excitement which knows neither how to contain nor how to express itself. Dr. Hake’s expression always implies long intention, deliberate decision. The verse is a consequence long foreseen.

The emotion of moments lacks indeed no swiftness of passage, but we are made aware that it had a past of experience and has a future of power. It was not a gust born of the moment and then no more. Poetic passion must be like a wind; thou canst not tell whence it cometh nor whither it goeth; but surely it appeared with an approach and disappeared with a departure; it was a thing of transitory phase, but not of transitory life. Essentially durable and spiritual is the passion of those infrequent poems in which this poet, raising himself from the attitude of meditation, gathers his word into intenser action.

He has emotion which is thus proved true. For the proof of the authenticity of his thought, also, the reader will look into his own experience as he reads.

Il poeta mi disse: Che pense?

The question which Virgil asked of Dante is a poet’s question. The world takes it as generally the reader’s question; but it is emphatically the poet’s. Now, the thought to which Dr. Hake appeals in his reader’s mind is unquestionably not an easy nor an obvious one. In saying this we assign to the reader of poetry some part of the writer’s responsibility, some part of his honour. Or, if this is too much to say, the reader is at any rate responsible for choosing his poet. And if a poet is worth reading at all, he is to be trusted both with the importance and with the distinctness of his own thought.

The exceeding solemnity of what we have called Dr. Hake’s note—and it is as indescribable and as peculiar as the note of a voice—suggests a further meaning, even an allegory, where in fact he had no intention of proposing anything beyond the text. The more does this illusion occur, perhaps, because Dr. Hake tells a story—a story of events—in most meditative stanzas. He writes movingly of dreams and sleep; and his study of these has added to all or almost all his verse something of the ecstasy of dreams.

ALICE MEYNELL.

_February 1894._

PAGE ALONE 1 OLD SOULS 8 VENUS URANIA 16 THE CRIPPLE 17 THE INFANT MEDUSA 28 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY 29 THE LOVER’S DAY 45 THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE 47 FLOWERS ON THE BANK 57 THE BLIND BOY 59 WHEN I THINK OF THEE, BROTHER 72 ECCE HOMO! 74 THE SNAKE CHARMER 80 PYTHAGORAS 88 THE FIRST SAVED 95 REMINISCENCE 101 THE SHEPHERDESS 110 FAREWELL TO NATURE 117 THE POET’S FEAST 121 THE EXILE 122 THE SIBYL 133 THE PAINTER 135 THE SUN-WORSHIPPER 139 THE INSCRUTABLE 145 THE WEDDING RING 149 LET THE DEAD BURY THEIR DEAD 152 THE GOLDEN WEDDING 154

ALONE

Loved, wedded, and caressed, Although her children died She still seemed doubly blest, Her helpmate at her side More dear than all the rest!

But sorrow did not kill The thought of those so dear, Who all her feelings fill, As though still with her here To play about her still.

Her little children’s fate She never could recall, Yet lived she desolate, For she had lost them all,— And then she lost her mate.

When came that hour of woe And all she loved was gone, Not sorrow’s keenest blow Left her fond heart alone; No parting could it know.

Nigh her he still appears, The early times so cling; Her simple heart still hears Her children laugh and sing As in the happy years.

The dead to her remain; She heeds each gentle sound Of theirs within her brain, And answers smiling round: ‘Sweet love, say that again!’

Is it that angels dwell In that lone mother’s breast? She knows not what befell, And so is doubly blest: No more her heart can tell.

OLD SOULS