With my fiddle to my shoulder, And my hair turning grey, And my heart growing older I must shuffle on my way! Tho' there's not a hearth to greet me I must reap as I sowed, And--the sunset shall meet me At the turn of the road. O, the whin's a dusky yellow And the road a rosy white, And the blackbird's call is mellow At the falling of night; And there's honey in the heather Where we'll make our last abode, My tunes and me together At the turn of the road. I have fiddled for your city Thro' market-place and inn! I have poured forth my pity On your sorrow and your sin! But your riches are your burden, And your pleasure is your goad! I've the whin-gold for guerdon At the turn of the road. Your village-lights 'll call me As the lights of home the dead; But a black night befall me Ere your pillows rest my head! God be praised, tho' like a jewel Every cottage casement showed, There's a star that's not so cruel At the turn of the road. Nay, beautiful and kindly Are the faces drawing nigh, But I gaze on them blindly And hasten, hasten by; For O, no face of wonder On earth has ever glowed Like the One that waits me yonder At the turn of the road. Her face is lit with splendour, She dwells beyond the skies; But deep, deep and tender Are the tears in her eyes: The angels see them glistening In pity for my load, And--she's waiting there, she's listening, At the turn of the road. TO A PESSIMIST Life like a cruel mistress woos The passionate heart of man, you say, Only in mockery to refuse His love, at last, and turn away. To me she seems a queen that knows How great is love--but ah, how rare!-- And, pointing heavenward ere she goes, Gives him the rose from out her hair. MOUNT IDA [This poem commemorates an event of some years ago, when a young Englishman--still remembered by many of his contemporaries at Oxford--went up into Mount Ida and was never seen again.] I Not cypress, but this warm pine-plumage now Fragrant with sap, I pluck; nor bid you weep, Ye Muses that still haunt the heavenly brow Of Ida, though the ascent is hard and steep: Weep not for him who left us wrapped in sleep At dawn beneath the holy mountain's breast And all alone from Ilion's gleaming shore Clomb the high sea-ward glens, fain to drink deep Of earth's old glory from your silent crest, Take the cloud-conquering throne Of gods, and gaze alone Thro' heaven. Darkling we slept who saw his face no more. II