Theodore Watts-Dunton: Poet, Novelist, Critic

Through Suffolk meads, where gorse and may were blowing, —
Chorus: Omar Khayyàm!

III

Who blent thy song with sound of cattle lowing,
And caw of rooks that perch on ewe and ram,
And hymn of lark, and bleat of orphan lamb,
And swish of scythe in Bredfield’s dewy mowing?
Chorus: Omar Khayyàm!

IV

’Twas Fitz, ‘Old Fitz,’ whose knowledge, farther going
Than lore of Omar, ‘Wisdom’s starry Cham,’
Made richer still thine opulent epigram:
Sowed seed from seed of thine immortal sowing. —
Chorus: Omar Khayyàm!

V

In this red wine, where Memory’s eyes seem glowing,
And days when wines were bright by Ouse and Cam,
And Norfolk’s foaming nectar glittered, showing
What beard of gold John Barleycorn was growing,
We drink to thee till, hark! the cock is crowing!
Omar Khayyàm!

It was many years after this – it was as a member of another Omar Khayyàm Club of much greater celebrity than the little brotherhood of Ouse and Cam – not large enough to be called a club – that Mr. Watts-Dunton wrote the following well-known sonnet: —

PRAYER TO THE WINDS

On planting at the head of FitzGerald’s grave two rose-trees whose ancestors had scattered their petals over the tomb of Omar Khayyàm.

“My tomb shall be on a spot where the north wind may strow roses upon it.”

    Omar Khayyàm to Kwájah Nizami.

Hear us, ye winds! From where the north-wind strows
Blossoms that crown ‘the King of Wisdom’s’ tomb,
The trees here planted bring remembered bloom,
Dreaming in seed of Love’s ancestral rose,
To meadows where a braver north-wind blows
O’er greener grass, o’er hedge-rose, may, and broom,
And all that make East England’s field-perfume
Dearer than any fragrance Persia knows.

Hear us, ye winds, North, East, and West, and South!
This granite covers him whose golden mouth
Made wiser ev’n the Word of Wisdom’s King:
Blow softly over Omar’s Western herald
Till roses rich of Omar’s dust shall spring
From richer dust of Suffolk’s rare FitzGerald.

I must now quote another of Mr. Watts-Dunton’s East Anglian poems, partly because it depicts the weird charm of the Norfolk coast, and partly because it illustrates that sympathy between the poet and the lower animals which I have already noted. I have another reason: not long ago, that good East Anglian, Mr. Rider Haggard interested us all by telling how telepathy seemed to have the power of operating between a dog and its beloved master in certain rare and extraordinary cases. When the poem appeared in the ‘Saturday Review’ (December 20, 1902), it was described as ‘part of a forthcoming romance.’ It records a case of telepathy between man and dog quite as wonderful as that narrated by Mr. Rider Haggard: —

CAUGHT IN THE EBBING TIDE

The mightiest Titan’s stroke could not withstand
An ebbing tide like this. These swirls denote
How wind and tide conspire. I can but float
To the open sea and strike no more for land.
Farewell, brown cliffs, farewell, beloved sand
Her feet have pressed – farewell, dear little boat
Where Gelert, [9 - A famous swimming dog belonging to the writer.] calmly sitting on my coat,
Unconscious of my peril, gazes bland!

All dangers grip me save the deadliest, fear:
Yet these air-pictures of the past that glide —
These death-mirages o’er the heaving tide —
Showing two lovers in an alcove clear,
Will break my heart. I see them and I hear
As there they sit at morning, side by side.

The First Vision

With Raxton elms behind – in front the sea,
Sitting in rosy light in that alcove,
They hear the first lark rise o’er Raxton Grove;
‘What should I do with fame, dear heart?’ says he.
‘You talk of fame, poetic fame, to me
Whose crown is not of laurel but of love—
To me who would not give this little glove
On this dear hand for Shakspeare’s dower in fee.

While, rising red and kindling every billow,
The sun’s shield shines ’neath many a golden spear,
To lean with you against this leafy pillow,
To murmur words of love in this loved ear—
To feel you bending like a bending willow,
This is to be a poet—this, my dear!’

O God, to die and leave her – die and leave
The heaven so lately won! – And then, to know
What misery will be hers – what lonely woe! —
To see the bright eyes weep, to see her grieve
Will make me a coward as I sink, and cleave
To life though Destiny has bid me go.
How shall I bear the pictures that will glow
Above the glowing billows as they heave?