r. f. murray-his poems with a memoir-第7部分

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much　with　me；'　he　adds；　as　if　he　and　the　world　were　ever　friends；　or

ever　likely　to　be　friendly。



October　27th　found　him　dating　from　St。　Andrews　again。　　‘St。　Andrews

after　Edinburgh　is　Paradise。'　　His　Dalilah　had　called　him　home　to

her；　and　he　was　never　again　unfaithful。　　He　worked　for　his　firm

friend；　Professor　Meiklejohn；　he　undertook　some　teaching；　and　he

wrote　a　little。　　It　was　at　this　time　that　his　biographer　made

Murray's　acquaintance。　　I　had　been　delighted　with　his　verses　in

College　Echoes；　and　I　asked　him　to　bring　me　some　of　his　more　serious

work。　　But　he　never　brought　them：　　his　old　enemy；　reserve；　overcame

him。　　A　few　of　his　pieces　were　published　‘At　the　Sign　of　the　Ship'

in　Longman's　Magazine；　to　which　he　contributed　occasionally。



From　this　point　there　is　little　in　Murray's　life　to　be　chronicled。

In　1890　his　health　broke　down　entirely；　and　consumption　declared

itself。　　Very　early　in　1891　he　visited　Egypt；　where　it　was　thought

that　some　educational　work　might　be　found　for　him。　　But　he　found

Egypt　cold；　wet；　and　windy；　of　Alexandria　and　the　Mediterranean　he

says　little：　　indeed　he　was　almost　too　weak　and　ill　to　see　what　is

delightful　either　in　nature　or　art。





‘To　aching　eyes　each　landscape　lowers；

To　feverish　pulse　each　gale　blows　chill；

And　Araby's　or　Eden's　bowers

Were　barren　as　this　moorland　hill；'





says　the　least　self…conscious　of　poets。　　Even　so　barren　were　the

rich　Nile　and　so　bleak　the　blue　Mediterranean　waters。　　Though

received　by　the　kindest　and　most　hospitable　friends；　Murray　was

homesick；　and　pined　to　be　in　England；　now　that　spring　was　there。　　He

made　the　great　mistake　of　coming　home　too　early。　　At　Ilminster；　in

his　mother's　home；　he　slowly　faded　out　of　life。　　I　have　not　the

heart　to　quote　his　descriptions　of　brief　yet　laborious　saunters　in

the　coppices；　from　the　letters　which　he　wrote　to　the　lady　of　his

heart。　　He　was　calm；　cheerful；　even　buoyant。　　His　letters　to　his

college　friends　are　all　concerned　with　literature；　or　with　happy　old

times；　and　are　full　of　interest　in　them　and　in　their　happiness。



He　was　not　wholly　idle。　　He　wrote　a　number　of　short　pieces　of　verse

in　Punch；　and　two　or　three　in　the　St。　James's　Gazette。　　Other　work；

no　doubt；　he　planned；　but　his　strength　was　gone。　　In　1891　his　book；

The　Scarlet　Gown；　was　published　by　his　friend；　Mr。　A。　M。　Holden。

The　little　volume；　despite　its　local　character；　was　kindly　received

by　the　Reviews。　　Here；　it　was　plain；　we　had　a　poet　who　was　to　St。

Andrews　what　the　regretted　J。　K。　S。　was　to　Eton　and　Cambridge。　　This

measure　of　success　was　not　calculated　to　displease　our　alumnus

addictissimus。



Friendship　and　love；　he　said；　made　the　summer　of　1892　very　happy　to

him。　　I　last　heard　from　him　in　the　summer　of　1893；　when　he　sent　me

some　of　his　most　pleasing　verses。　　He　was　in　Scotland；　he　had

wandered　back；　a　shadow　of　himself；　to　his　dear　St。　Andrews。　　I

conceived　that　he　was　better；　he　said　nothing　about　his　health。　　It

is　not　easy　to　quote　from　his　letters　to　his　friend；　Mr。　Wallace；

still　written　in　his　beautiful　firm　hand。　　They　are　too　full　of

affectionate　banter：　　they　also　contain　criticisms　on　living　poets：

he　shows　an　admiration；　discriminating　and　not　wholesale；　of　Mr。

Kipling's　verse：　　he　censures　Mr。　Swinburne；　whose　Jacobite　song　（as

he　wrote　to　myself）　did　not　precisely　strike　him　as　the　kind　of

thing　that　Jacobites　used　to　sing。



They　certainly　celebrated





‘The　faith　our　fathers　fought　for；

The　kings　our　fathers　knew；'





in　a　different　tone　in　the　North。



The　perfect　health　of　mind；　in　these　letters　of　a　dying　man；　is

admirable。　　Reading　old　letters　over；　he　writes　to　Miss　…；　‘I　have

known　a　wonderful　number　of　wonderfully　kind…hearted　people。'　　That

is　his　criticism　of　a　world　which　had　given　him　but　a　scanty

welcome；　and　a　life　of　foiled　endeavour；　of　disappointed　hope。　　Even

now　there　was　a　disappointment。　　His　poems　did　not　find　a　publisher：

what　publisher　can　take　the　risk　of　adding　another　volume　of　poetry

to　the　enormous　stock　of　verse　brought　out　at　the　author's　expense？

This　did　not　sour　or　sadden　him：　　he　took　Montaigne's　advice；　‘not

to　make　too　much　marvel　of　our　own　fortunes。'　　His　biographer；

hearing　in　the　winter　of　1893　that　Murray's　illness　was　now

considered　hopeless；　though　its　rapid　close　was　not　expected；　began；

with　Professor　Meiklejohn；　to　make　arrangements　for　the　publication

of　the　poems。　　But　the　poet　did　not　live　to　have　this　poor

gratification。　　He　died　in　the　early　hours　of　1894。



Of　the　merits　of　his　more　serious　poetry　others　must　speak。　　To　the

Editor　it　seems　that　he　is　always　at　his　best　when　he　is　inspired　by

the　Northern　Sea；　and　the　long　sands　and　grey　sea　grasses。　　Then　he

is　most　himself。　　He　was　improving　in　his　art　with　every　year：　　his

development；　indeed；　was　somewhat　late。



It　is　less　of　the　writer　than　the　man　that　we　prefer　to　think。　　His

letters　display；　in　passages　which　he　would　not　have　desired　to　see

quoted；　the　depth　and　tenderness　and　thoughtfulness　of　his

affections。　　He　must　have　been　a　delightful　friend：　　illness　could

not　make　him　peevish；　and　his　correspondence　with　old　college

companions　could　never　be　taken　for　that　of　a　consciously　dying　man。

He　had　perfect　courage；　and　resolution　even　in　his　seeming

irresoluteness。　　He　was　resolved　to　be；　and　continued　to　be；

himself。　　‘He　had　kept　the　bird　in　his　bosom。'　　We；　who　regret　him；

may　wish　that　he　had　been　granted　a　longer　life；　and　a　secure

success。　　Happier　fortunes　might　have　mellowed　him；　no　fortunes

could　have　altered　for　the　worse　his　admirable　nature。　　He　lives　in

the　hearts　of　his　friends；　and　in　the　pride　and　sympathy　of　those

who；　after　him；　have　worn　and　shall　wear　the　scarlet　gown。



The　following　examples　of　his　poetry　were　selected　by　Murray's

biographer　from　a　considerable　mass；　and　have　been　seen　through　the

press　by　Professor　Meiklejohn；　who　possesses　the　original

manuscript；　beautifully　written。







MOONLIGHT　NORTH　AND　SOUTH







Love；　we　have　heard　together

The　North　Sea　sing　his　tune；

And　felt　the　wind's　wild　feather

Brush　past　our　cheeks　at　noon；

And　seen　the　cloudy　weather

Made　wondrous　with　the　moon。



Where　loveliness　is　rarest；

‘Tis　also　prized　the　most：

The　moonlight　shone　her　fairest

Along　that　level　coast

Where　sands　and　dunes　the　barest；

Of　beauty　seldom　boast；



Far　from　that　bleak　and　rude　land

An　exile　I　remain

Fixed　in　a　fair　and　good　land；

A　valley　and　a　plain

Rich　in　fat　fields　and　woodland；

And　watered　well　with　rain。



Last　night　the　full　moon's　splendour

Shone　down　on　Taunton　Dene；

And　pasture　fresh　and　tender；

And　coppice　dusky　green；

The　heavenly　light　did　render

In　one　enchanted　scene；



One　fair　unearthly　vision。

Yet　soon　mine　eyes　were　cloyed；

And　found　those　fields　Elysian

Too　rich　to　be　enjoyed。

Or　was　it　our　division

Made　all　my　pleasure　void？



Across　the　window　glasses

The　curtain　then　I　drew；

And；　as　a　sea…bird　passes；

In　sleep　my　spirit　flew

To　grey　and　windswept　grasses

And　moonlit　sandsand　you。







WINTER　AT　ST。　ANDREWS







The　city　once　again　doth　wear

Her　wonted　dress　of　winter's　bride；

Her　mantle　woven　of　misty　air；

With　saffron　sunlight　faintly　dyed。

She　sits　above　the　seething　tide；

Of　all　her　summer　robes　forlorn　…

And　dead　is　all　her　summer　pride　…

The　leaves　are　off　Queen　Mary's　Thorn。



All　round；　the　landscape　stretches　bare；

The　bleak　fields　lying　far　and　wide；

Monotonous；　with　here　and　there

A　lone　tree　on　a　lone　hillside。

No　more　the　land　is　glorified

With　golden　gleams　of　ripening　corn；

Scarce　is　a　cheerful　hue　descried　…

The　leaves　are　off　Queen　Mary's　Thorn。



For　me；　I　do　not　greatly　care

Though　leaves　be　dead；　and　mists　abide。

To　me　the　place　is　thrice　as　fair

In　winter　as　in　summer…tide：

With　kindlier　memories　allied

Of　pleasure　past　and　pain　o'erworn。

What　care　I；　though　the　earth　may　hide

The　leaves　from　off　Queen　Mary's　Thorn？



Thus　I　unto　my　friend　replied；

When；　on　a　chill　late　autumn　morn；

He　pointed　to　the　tree；　and　cried；

‘The　leaves　are　off　Queen　Mary's　Thorn！'







PATRIOTISM







There　was　a　time　when　it　was　counted　high

To　be　a　patriotwhether　by　the　zeal

Of　peaceful　labour　for　the　country's　weal；

Or　by　the　courage　in　her　cause　to　die：



FOR　KING　AND　COUNTRY　was　a　rallying　cry

That　turned　men's　hearts　to　fire；　their　nerves　to　steel；

Not　to　unheeding　ears　did　it　appeal；

A　pulpit　formula；　a　platform　lie。



Only　a　fool　will　wantonly　desire

That　war　should　come；　outpouring　blood　and　fire；

And　bringing　grief　and　hunger　in　her　train。

And　yet；　if　there　be　found　no　other　way；

God　send　us　war；　and　with　it　send　the　day

When　love　of　country　shall　be　real　again！







SLEEP　FLIES　ME







Sleep　flies　me　like　a　lover

Too　eagerly　pursued；

Or　like　a　bird　to　cover

Within　some　distant　wood；

Where　thickest　boughs　roof　over

Her　secret　solitude。



The　nets　I　spread　to　snare　her；

Although　with　cunning　wrought；

Have　only　served　to　scare　her；

And　now　she'll　not　be　caught。

To　those　who　best　could　spare　her；

She　ever　comes　unsought。



She　lights　upon　their　pillows；

She　gives　them　pleasant　dreams；

Grey…green　with　leaves　of　willows；

And　cool　with　sound　of　streams；

Or　big　with　tranquil　billows；

On　which　the　starlight　gleams。



No　vision　fair　entrances

My　weary　open　eye；

No　marvellous　romances

Make　night　go　swiftly　by；

But　only　feverish　fancies

Beset　me　where　I　lie。



The　black　midnight　is　steeping

The　hillside　and　the　lawn；

But　still　I　lie　unsleeping；

With　curtains　backward　drawn；

To　catch　the　earliest　peeping

Of　the　desired　dawn。



Perhaps；　when　day　is　breaking；

When　birds　their　song　begin；

And；　worn　with　all　night　waking；

I　call　their　music