

Transcribed from the 1881 John Hawthorn edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org

                          [Picture: Book cover]

                     [Picture: Borth from the North]





                               BORTH LYRICS


                                    BY
                           EDWARD THRING, M.A.

                     HEAD MASTER OF UPPINGHAM SCHOOL
                 LATE FELLOW OF KING’S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE

                        [Picture: Postern in Quad]

                    WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY C. ROSSITER
                      _ENGRAVED BY DALZIEL BROTHERS_

                                UPPINGHAM
                              JOHN HAWTHORN
                                   1881




INTRODUCTION.


THOSE who took part in that strange camping out of the School in 1876 and
1877 will be glad to be reminded of their experiences now they are over.
And perhaps the School at Uppingham, in years to come, may like to have
some hint, however imperfect, of that medley of ruin and safety, fear and
fun, which passed from risk and danger, which seemed almost impossible to
be faced, to a happy ending.

THE SCHOOL-HOUSE,
   UPPINGHAM,
      _August_, 1880.




Dedication.


                                    TO
                  MR. T. H. BIRLEY AND MR. W. T. JACOB,
  THE TWO SCHOOL TRUSTEES WITHOUT WHOSE HELP THE SCHOOL WOULD HAVE BEEN
                                  LOST;

                                    TO
                         SIR PRYSE PRYSE, BART.,
  AND THE KINDLY WELSH PEOPLE, WHO MADE SAFETY POSSIBLE AND SUCCESSFUL;

                                    TO
                               THE PARENTS,
WHO TRUSTED THE SCHOOL, AND SENT IN FULL NUMBERS ON THE EVENTFUL NIGHT OF
                              APRIL 4, 1876;

                                    TO
                         ALL FAITHFUL COLLEAGUES,
      WHO DID TRUE WORK THROUGH THOSE DANGEROUS AND ANXIOUS MONTHS,

             THIS MEMORIAL OF A COMMON CAUSE IS DEDICATED BY

                                                               THE AUTHOR.




List of Illustrations.

BORTH FROM THE NORTH                             _Frontispiece_
POSTERN IN QUAD                                         _Title_
PORTION OF SCHOOL-HOUSE, GARDEN FRONT          _to face page_ 9
SCHOOL-HOUSE QUAD                                            10
BORTH FROM THE SOUTH                                         12
THE LERY ABOVE TAL-Y-BONT                                    19
THE BEACH BY MOEL YNYS                                       21
THE MARSH BEHIND BORTH                                       24
CHAPEL AND SCHOOL-HOUSE FROM MIDDLE GROUND                   30




I.
THE PROLOGUE.


      O SWALLOW, with resistless wing, that hold’st the air in fee,
      O swallow, with thy joyous sweep o’er earth and sunlit sea,
   O swallow, who, if night were thine, would’st wheel amongst the stars,
               Why linger round the eaves?
      Unhappy! free of all the world hast knit thy soul to clay?
      And glued thy heart up on the wall, thou swiftest child of day?
   Claim, glorious wing, thy heritage; break, break thy prison bars,
               Nor linger round the eaves.

      Sweep, glorious wings, adown the wind; fly, swallow, to the west;
      Before thee, life and liberty; behind, a ruined nest.
   Blow, freshening breeze, sweep, rapid wing, for all the winds are
   thine,
               The nest is only clay.
      The rapid wings were stretched in flight, the swallow sped away,
      And left its nest beneath the eaves, the much-loved bit of clay,
   Turned with the sun, to go where’er the happy sun might shine,
               And passed into the day.

             [Picture: Portion of School-house, Garden Front]




II.
THE SUMMONS.


   A THOUSAND year is nought to prayer,
      One day, so GOD it will:
   So the chapel fair, in GOD’S clear air,
      Looks calmly from its hill;

   And true and bold the schoolhouse old
      Before it sentinel,
   With close at hand a trusty band
      Of comrades guards it well.

   Each morn they meet, the young, young feet,
      They lightly come and go,
   A changeful stream, that still doth seem
      The same, and still doth flow.

   The stream shall run while shines the sun,
      And still the buttressed stone
   Shall hear the beat of young, young feet,
      And count them all its own.

   The fair sun shone, but ghastly and wan
      There came a spectral dream;
   The stone stood fast, but a dim fear passed
      Through buttress, and roof, and beam:

   With sad, sad heart life did depart,
      A ghostly silence fell;
   With sad, sad heart they turned to depart,
      And—farewell, home, farewell.

                        [Picture: School-House Quad]




III.
THOUGHTS.


   DARKEST clouds drop tender rain,
   Every leaf and blade is fain
   Its own jewel to obtain
   From the casket of its pain.

   And the thunder, black as night,
   Down descends in orbs of white,
   For the sun to fill with light,
   Tiny chambers of his might.

   Precious beads of hope are pearled
   On each sorrow through the world,
   Softest dews of peace in showers
   Lie beneath the clouded hours.




IV.
THE JOURNEY.


   THE ice froze cold, as cold as death,
      Yet runs the stream below;
   The very spring breathes bitter breath,
      But still the flowerets blow.
   Nor shall it perish from the land,
      The living seed they bore,
   As forth they fared, that pilgrim band,
      As pilgrims went of yore.

   Lead, river, down the mountain glen,
      Glide ’mid the sunny <DW72>s;
   Now lose thyself, now come again,
      E’en like a pilgrim’s hopes.
   And careless rivulets with their peace
      Smiled on the passers-by,
   From many a valley, where the trees
      See but their own dear sky.

   So swept they on a great bright plain,
      A charmèd breadth out-laid,
   Where mountains rounded to the main
      A charmèd circle made;
   And northward couched a huge hill dream,
      Which ofttimes, as it lay.
   To heave and pant in sleep did seem,
      Beneath the sultry day.

   And leaning up against the hill,
      Whose headland, purple-black,
   The southern waters, as they fill,
      Kiss daily, and fall back,
   A simple hamlet, nowise planned,
      Puts out a long arm white,
   Where level sea and level sand
      Scarce know each other’s right.

   The mountains rule the east, but all
      The west, the sea, the sea;
   Save when the sun at evenfall
      Disputes her sovereignty.
   A kindly people held the land,
      A kindly race and free;
   So rest they found, that pilgrim band,
      At Borth beside the sea.

                     [Picture: Borth from the South]




V.
THE SEA.—SAFETY.


   BRIGHT sea, in thy waters rolled
   Dost eternity enfold,
   Endless being, uncontrolled,
   Freedom, more than heart can hold,
   Every wave a hope divine,
   Sun-charms, golden line on line,
   Thou great moving mystery-shrine!
   Thine the first sounds that the earth
   Heard, its cradle-song at birth.
   Hidden voices in thy deep
   Half untold their secret keep,
   As they murmur evermore
   Old-world tidings to the shore.
   Glorious sea, thy moving light
   Spreads round earth a mantle bright,
   Wide as range of eye or mind,
   Tameless playmate of the wind.
   Like a shuttle glancing free
   In and out, thy life, O sea,
   Whatsoe’er thy mood hath been,
   Weaves a web of magic sheen.
   Gracious wandering life, the air
   Sports around thee for its share;
   Winds that move, and winds that rest,
   Heaving softly on thy breast,
   Like a sea-bird from the crest,
   Rise from off thy waves, and fly,
   Sweeping fresh the summer sky.
   Glorious sea, glad, unconfined,
   Free as range of eye or mind,
   Tameless playmate of the wind,
   Gracious power, whate’er thou be,
   Lay thy sweetest liberty
   At the pilgrims’ feet, O sea.




VI.
THE COLONY.


   EAST and west, and north and south,
   As if we were shot from a cannon’s mouth,
      Hurrah, hurrah! here we all are.
      Never was heard in peace or war,
         The first in the world are we,
   Never, oh, never, was heard before,
            Since a ball was a ball,
            And a wall a wall,
      And a boy to play was free,
   That a school as old as an old oak-tree,
      Fast by the roots, was flung up in the air,
      Up in the air without thought or care,
   And pitched on its feet by the sea, the sea,
         Pitched on its feet by the sea.

   Ere the old school walls were dumb
      With the silence of despair,
   “March boys, march! the end has come!”
      Rang the watchword proud and clear.
   We our standard rallied round,
   Thrice a hundred faithful found.

   Playgrounds—leagues on leagues of shore;
      Class-rooms—all the sea-king’s caves;
   We are touched by Ariel’s power,
      Free of air, and earth, and waves.
   We are elves of Ariel’s range,
   Nought but suffers a sea change.

   Ah! the wand has laid its spell
      Over cricket-fields and trees;
   Presto!—woods, and mountains, shells,
      Rocks, and sea-anemones;
   Thrice turn round and shut your eyes,
   Open to a fresh surprise.

   Open on the level sward
      Slid Gogerddan’s {16a} hills between,
   When Gogerddan’s genial lord
      Looked upon the starry green,
   Lady-bright with summer stars,
   Heard the schoolboys’ loud hurrahs.

   Lo! the panting cricket train
      Up the valley slowly creeps,
   Lo! a boyish hurricane
      E’en o’er Cader Idris sweeps.
   Never in the good greenwood
   Lived more gaily Robin Hood.

   Little bits of fairy world,
      Fairy streamlets, dropping rills,
   And the Lery {16b} softly curled
      In amongst the dreaming hills:
   Never in the good greenwood
   Lived more gaily Robin Hood.

   East and west, and north and south,
   As if we were shot from a cannon’s mouth,
      Hurrah, hurrah! here we all are.
      Never was heard in peace or war,
         The first in the world are we,
   Never, oh, never, was heard before,
            Since a ball was a ball,
            And a wall a wall,
         And a boy to play was free,
   That a school as old as an old oak-tree,
      Fast by the roots, was flung up in the air,
      Up in the air without thought or care,
   And pitched on its feet by the sea, the sea,
         Pitched on its feet by the sea.




VII.
RIPPLES.


   JOLLY, O, jolly, at eve,
   When the golden waves
   Are tumbling into the sun,
      And the silent air
   Is thinking of nothing, to run
      Down to the shore,
      Boys by the score,
   Into the hollow way
   Curved by the ebbing spray,
   Chasing him back to his watery den,
   Lightly, O, lightly he leaps out again.
   Backward, O, backward we run
   (Thinking-of-nothing-o fun),
   Jolly wet every one.
   Rare, O, rare,
   Nought can compare
   When the silent air
   Is thinking of nothing, to run,
   In thinking-of-nothing-o fun,
   Out on the ebbing wave,
   Chasing him back to his watery lair,
   Jolly wet every one,
   Thinking-of-nothing-o fun.

   Jolly, O, jolly, at eve,
   When the golden waves
   Are tumbling into the sun,
      And the silent air
   Is thinking of nothing, to go,
         All in a row,
         A hundred or so,
   Manfully take a stand,
   Just on the edge of the land,
   Just where the pebbles and inrushing sea
   Battle, and rattle, and never agree,
   Solemnly, solemnly, O!
   Each his own pebble to throw,
   With a heigho! jolly heigho!
   Rare, O, rare,
   Nought can compare
      When the silent air
   Is thinking of nothing, to go,
   With a heigho! jolly heigho!
   Solemnly, solemnly, throw
   Pebbles and pebbles at our jolly foe,
   Hundreds of heads in a row,
   Thinking of nothing, heigho!




VIII.
THE LERY.


      O HAPPY days, O happy days,
         Ye pass, but do not die,
      Bright visitants, like summer rain
         Dropped softly from the sky;
      Which rests awhile on earth,
   And sinks unseen, and reappears again
      In wondrous birth on birth,
   New born in herb and flower, in bud and tree,
   And fountain waters flowing clear and free.

      O happy days, thy glow is on
         Green <DW72> and heathery hill,
      Reflection bright of happy eyes,
         Which there have looked their fill.
      Ye choose ye valleys sweet,
   Where o’er the water-song the dim woods rise,
      Your votaries to meet,
   And sweetest far your home where Lery bright
   Plays in your smile with pebbles and the light.

      We find you where we left you last,
         When that glad summer noon
      We turned to go, half gay, half sad,
         An end had come so soon;
      Just where the wider sweep,
         With oak, and fern, and purple heather clad,
      Curves from the shoulder steep,
   Whereon ye watch the streamlet down the glade
   Send its white thoughts through narrowing glooms of shade.

                   [Picture: The Lery above Tal-y-Bont]

   Look, now th’ imprisoned light is spread
      On a clear bed of rock;
   And the next moment tossed about,
      A fairy shuttlecock;
      Then in a still pool deep,
   Heart laid to heart in chambers hollowed out,
      The quiet wood doth sleep.
   So wooing still and wooed, demure or gay,
   The Lery down the vale a soul of joy doth stray.

   Thy train, dear happy days, are here,
      Each leaflet in its place,
   They tell me round yon jutting rock
      That I shall see your face.
      Lo! all are paddling there,
   For happy time recks not of mortal clock,
      The children of last year.
   Our fishers throw, while on the pebbly ridge
   Tea boils, and rash feet shake the miner’s bridge.

   Each tendril the old welcome gives,
      Each leaflet in its place,
   The very ants are marching still
      Along the selfsame trace;
      The hours themselves forget
   To drop another shadow on the rill,
      So there it lingers yet,
   And year by year we wake up with a kiss
   The sleeping princess of our summer bliss.




IX.
THE SANDS.


   EACH shall have his own love,
      High be linked to high,
   Sky be kissing mountain,
      Mountain kissing sky.

   Dozing in the orchard
      Let the goodman sit,
   Count on summer evenings
      Apples he will eat.

   Glory to the sands O!
      Glory give who can,
   Where a man, who stands O!
      Feels himself a man.

   Where the east wind gallops,
      Keen with keen-edged knife,
   And the wide world freshens,
      Salted with sea-life.

   Where the great free waters
      Have their freedom rolled,
   And the golden sunbeams
      Powdered them with gold.

   Blow, ye winds, your trumpets,
      Blow, ye winds, your fife,
   Glory to the sands O!
      Salted with sea-life.

   With the sea-bird shrieking
      To the sea below,
   Clang thy wild clang, sea-bird,
      Sea, thy organ blow.

                    [Picture: The beach by Moel Ynys]

   When the summer whispers
      Float in o’er the sea,
   Then a moving rainbow
      Spreads itself o’er thee.

   Rainbow light and silver,
      Silver sheen and gold,
   All the light of childhood,
      Happy childhood bold.

   There it gleams and glistens
      Moving as we go,
   Light of sun or childhood,
      Who is skilled to know?

   Liberty and joyance
      Still ye give each one,
   Manhood with the east wind,
      Childhood with the sun.

   Blow, ye winds, your trumpets,
      Blow, ye winds, your fife,
   Glory to the sands O!
      Salted with sea-life.

   With the sea-bird shrieking
      To the sea below;
   Clang thy wild clang, sea-bird,
      Sea, thy organ blow.




X.
THE MARSH CIRCLE.


   CHIMES there are on earth, harmonious splendours,
      Subtle symphonies of ear and eye,
   Yea, dim bridals, when the mortal spirit
      Weds a half-veiled immortality.

   Moments, as when some dumb, wistful creature
      Gazes in its master’s eyes, to find
   Deeps on deeps, and wins a higher nature
      By mysterious touch of higher mind.

   Whoso sees the deep eyes turned upon him,
      Nature’s dreamlike radiance, on the height
   Breathless-happy stands, and draws by seeing
      Blissful inspiration, clearer sight.

   Go where from his rampart Taliesin {23}
      O’er the beaten gold of the great plain
   Throws his charm on river, sea, and mountain,
      Blending all in one bright living strain.

   Now a sunny silence makes heart-music,
      As it comes up smiling o’er the sea;
   All the hill-sides dimple; on it passes,
      In and out the enchanted shadows flee.

   Now within the coronet of mountains
      And the sea-fringed margin of the west
   Nature’s thoughts are stirring, gusts of passion
      Ruffle the embroidery on her breast.

   Far away a trouble on the waters
      ’Gins to whiten, then a living veil
   Drops down from the sky, black gleam the headlands,
      Gleam the hills through drifts of shadowy trail.

   And the weird wild freedom of the marshland
      Stretches, breadths on breadths of level gold,
   Where the storm-scuds wander, and the rainbow
      In the midst lets fall its glittering hold.

   Broad, bright plain, free wanderland of fancy,
      Robed in colours, all the sun can weave
   Out of silver seas, and hill-sides glooming,
      Molten in the ruddy fires of eve,

   Cloth of gold from sands, and silken tissue
      Spun from the blue distance, threads of white
   Shot through by the rivers, crimson buddings
      Of the oak groves flushed with spring delight.

   He on whom the deep eyes once have turned their
      Hidden splendours, be he where he will,
   Evermore a prophet’s dream enfolding,
      Walks with yearnings which he ne’er can fill.

                    [Picture: The marsh behind Borth]




XI.
SHELLS.


   FAIRIES all, whoever ran
   Pell-mell from smoke-witted man,
   Scared from haunted well and tree
   Fairy mermaidens to be,
   Colonists of fairy sea;
   Empire found, and perils o’er,
   Soon ye peeped out on the shore,
   Frolic-bold as heretofore;
   Village green and woodland spells
   Lightly changed for shells O, shells!
   Your sea besoms twice a day
   Swish, and swirl, and hissing spray,
   Brush all mortal taint away.
   Twice a day the saucy waves,
   Heads bent low, your merry slaves,
   Tumble in of shells a store
   From the sea-king’s palace floor.
   On a day remembered well,
   Never butterfly befell
   Brighter bursting from his cell,
   Picked we the first fairy shell.
   Time his hinge had backward swung,
   Youth and Age together sprung
   In a world where all was young.
   Age was young and Youth as old,
   Age and Youth, two children bold,
   Caught old Time with potent spells,
   Magic words of shells O, shells!
   Shells—the very air did seem
   Opening into some bright dream,
   And an unseen gladness swept
   All around us as we stept.
   Miles of hope before us lay,
   Golden, glistening sheets of day,
   With a sea-charm washed alway,
   Fairy-sprinkled! who could tell?
   Every yard might give its shell;
   Little Cockles’ pearly sheen,
   Chariot fit for fairy queen,
   Pectens, dipped in colours won
   From the rays slipped off the sun
   In the waves, when day is done.
   Here a ripple in and out
   Mocking whirls the Cones about,
   Brings them to our fingers, then
   Laughs, and swings them off again.
   There a dark line softly lies
   Rich in promise ’neath the skies;
   Happy he foredoomed to burst
   On that fairy treasure first,
   Ere assailed by foot accurst,
   Or the jealous, tricksy sea
   Rushing catch him to the knee,
   And with slow malicious glee
   Gently suck it back; ah me!
   Shells O, shells! the slanted hail,
   Thunder-driven, blind, and pale,
   Beat on rovers bent, subdued,
   Each apart in solitude,
   Nursing his own woeful mood.
   Lo! a shell bank—at the cry
   Sunshine flashed along the sky,
   Reckless-bright each sunny eye
   Glistened, on the spoil they fly,
   Cockles, Mactras, Artemis,
   Pectens, unknown shapes of bliss,
   Turritella, Tellens frail,
   Orphans, delicate and pale,
   Newly risen from the sea
   Peerless Venus Chione.
   Such a ring was never seen
   Glancing coy on minstrel’s een
   In the sweetest, shyest gloom
   Of the young world’s maiden bloom,
   Ere the tender dew had died
   Hopeless, on the mountain-side,
   And away the fairies hied.
   Where the fairies hied would’st know?
   To the printless margin go,
   Where sea besoms twice a day
   Swish, and swirl, and hissing spray,
   Purge all mortal taint away,
   There the fairy children play.




XII.
SUNDAY.—THE HILL-TOP.


   HOW softly leading upward, the green <DW72>
      Leans ’gainst the southern sky,
   And restful feet have reached the top before
      They know they are so high.

   E’en so, up from the levels of the week,
      In its own quiet air,
   Enthroned within a more ethereal blue,
      The Sunday rises fair.

   And ofttimes, as GOD’S peace from church and field
      Upon their spirit lay,
   A happy group down set made all their own
      That gracious place and day.

   Far down the shadowy tracts of gleaming sand
      Seemed melting from the eye,
   And all the busy week, a few dark specks,
      Which sight could scarce descry.

   The small waves chattered all along the shore;
      But with low pleading sweet
   The billows crept up to the tall black rocks,
      And clasped their giant feet.

   And there in talk, or silence dearer still,
      They let their hearts go free,
   In that sweet confidence, which nothing asks
      But being still to be.

   The sea discourses to them, or they launch
      On summer clouds, that throw
   A purple mantle wrought in peaceful skies
      On dreaming waves below.

   And gathering up the light of the great plain,
      A web of colours rare,
   They blend them, as they look, with fancies meet,
      And peace of upper air,

   Till where the river ’twixt the distant hills
      Leads up into the skies,
   In that fair borderland of earth and heaven
      The changeful glory lies.

   Whoso within that dreamy circle sits,
      For him abideth still
   The calm of upper air, the magic light
      That hill sends on to hill.




XIII.
THE RETURN.


      SALT, and sand, and rocking wave,
         Salt, and sand, and sky,
      All ye had to give ye gave,
         But—good bye, good bye.
   Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
      And the ivy that clings to the wall;
   Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
      And the oak, and the ash-tree tall.

      Rocking wave, and mountain bold,
         Bright air, free to roam,
      Say not that our hearts are cold;
         Oh! but—home is home.
   Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
      And the ivy that clings to the wall;
   Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
      And the oak, and the ash-tree tall.

      Smoothest turf, a sunshine floor,
         Dance of cricket ball,
      Studies, where we shut the door
         On our cosy all.
   Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
      And the ivy that clings to the wall;
   Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
      And the oak, and the ash-tree tall.

      Grey old school-house, consecrate
         On thy hill afar,
      Chapel, keeping solemn state—
         Home we go, hurrah!
   Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
      And the ivy that clings to the wall;
   Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
      And the oak, and the ash-tree tall.

          [Picture: Chapel and School-house from Middle Ground]




XIV.
THE FLAGS.


   TO him, who wounded turned aside,
   It mattered little that he died
   In sunshine, in the fair springtide.

   On many a grave the flowers are gay,
   Oft ruin creeping on his prey
   Puts forth a velvet paw in play.

   O Flags, ye wrap within your fold
   A stranger tale than e’er was told
   Of Muses’ sons in days of old.

   The homeless school, of fortune braved,
   Will aye remember how ye waved
   Above them, in the hour that saved.

   As long as youth breathes living fire,
   As long as scorn is on the liar,
   And men can mount from high to higher.

   Rest in the school-room, rest, and be
   A spirit moving calm and free,
   A silent flame of liberty.

   Say, peace more stern than war demands
   Devotion purer, cleaner hands,
   Life larger, foot that firmer stands.

   Bid Hope his thrilling clarion blow,
   And fearless truth in boyhood glow,
   And honour send him on his foe.

   So life shall foster life, each son
   Still better what his sire hath done,
   And truth from truth full circle run.




FOOTNOTES.


{16a}  Gogerddan, the seat of Sir Pryse Pryse, Bart.

{16b}  The river at Borth.

{23}  Taliesin, the great Welsh Bard, buried on a hill overlooking the
plain of Borth.




***