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Title: In the shadows
Author: David Gray
Author of introduction, etc.: John Ferguson
Release date: September 1, 2026 [eBook #79488]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Andrew Melrose Ltd., 1920
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79488
Credits: Tim Miller, Hcx2012, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE SHADOWS ***
IN THE SHADOWS
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME
_Sixth Edition_
THYREA
AND OTHER SONNETS
By JOHN FERGUSON
_Paper, 1/- net; cloth, 1/6 net_
LONDON: ANDREW MELROSE LTD.
IN THE SHADOWS
BY
DAVID GRAY
AUTHOR OF “THE LUGGIE AND OTHER POEMS”
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
JOHN FERGUSON
AUTHOR OF “THYREA”
LONDON: ANDREW MELROSE LTD.
3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. 2
1920
INTRODUCTION
It is remarkable how often Poetry and Consumption have gone together.
Is there some unsuspected connection, one feels tempted to ask, between
the _bacillus tuberculosis_ and the _cupido carmina scribendi_? The
question is not without interest. Not a few poets “whom the gods love”
have died young. But among all those cut off in early life the figure
of David Gray, author of _The Luggie and other Poems_, seems to me
to stand pathetically alone. _Bacillus tuberculosis_ is usually a
deceptive guest. But in David Gray, _spes phthisica_ was notably absent.
Gray’s poems are inseparably connected with his life. The son of a poor
handloom weaver, he was born near Kirkintilloch in 1838, and died at
the age of twenty-three. By pupil-teaching he supported himself for
four sessions at Glasgow University; then, bent on a literary life, he
turned to London.
He had arranged with his friend, Robert Buchanan, to leave Glasgow at
a certain hour; but, unfortunately missing each other, they travelled
by different trains. On arriving in London alone, the author of _The
Luggie_ wandered aimlessly about for hours. It was a raw, misty
afternoon, and never perhaps did a more disconsolate figure pace the
pavements of the city of his dreams. Carrying a carpet-bag--filled
with MSS.--and with but a few shillings in his pocket, the homeless
poet sauntered about in the mist and rain, till at last, footsore and
weary, he turned into Hyde Park to spend the night. One cannot tell
the thoughts that passed through his mind as he strolled up and down
the dismal Park “from weary chime to chime”; but it is known that he
contracted a violent cold which settled on his lungs, and brought about
the consumption of which he died.
The two friends did not meet until upwards of a week after their
arrival in London. Thereafter they lived together in what Gray calls
“the dear, old, ghastly, bankrupt garret.” Days and nights were spent
in polishing the poems meant to conquer literary London. But the labour
was in vain. He knocked at the doors of many influential editors, but
failed to gain admission.
In the meantime, his disease had made rapid progress. After a brief
residence in the south of England without benefit, Gray returned to
Kirkintilloch to die. “I wish to die there,” he wrote to his mother
from Torquay; and so, in due time--the mere wreck of what he once
was--he turned up at his father’s house, never to leave it alive again.
He lingered for some months, and the thirty sonnets here reprinted were
written while he lay waiting for death.
Through the exertions of friends, his MSS. were sent to the printer;
and, the day before his death, he had the satisfaction of holding in
his hand a specimen page of _The Luggie_ in print. On the following
morning he died. He was laid to rest beside the Luggie, “now numbered
with the streams illustrious in Scottish song.” The year after his
death his poems were given to the world. And thus Fame, which had
spurned the poet during his lifetime, laid her wreath upon his humble
grave.
David Gray’s dying sonnets speak for themselves. Technically they may
not fulfil all the requirements of the perfect sonnet, but they are so
pathetic in their homeliness, so genuine in feeling, and contain such
delicate flights of imaginative fancy that they cannot be read without
unstinted admiration. They touch the heart, cling to the memory, and
are profoundly human. _In the Shadows_ is, I think, the most poignantly
impressive “swan-song” ever written by poet. Sonnet No. 5 pierces the
soul. In anticipation of death the poet describes his broken life,
metaphor after metaphor succeeding each other with almost bewildering
rapidity. Apart from its intrinsic merit, Sonnet No. 11 is interesting
as the last sad memorial of the poet’s friendship with Robert Buchanan.
Especially noteworthy are Sonnets Nos. 12, 16, and 21: No. 12 with its
inspiring lesson of “Sorrow and Death” as ministers to raise humanity
heavenward; No. 16, ending on a note of manly fortitude; and No. 21,
presenting an unforgettable picture of the promise of life’s day
overcast and finally sinking into the gloom of night. In its autumnal
tenderness Sonnet No. 19 is very beautiful. It is a sonnet of rare
loveliness, providing a mournful commentary on the reflection of the
Hebrew prophet that “we all do fade as a leaf.”
Gray’s reverent love of Nature and of his mother runs as an
undercurrent through the whole series. _In the Shadows_ reveals a
personality charming and spiritual, clinging to earth yet resigning
itself to inevitable destiny. It is also unquestionably the work of a
true poetic artist whose sun went down long before noon. And yet, as
an able critic has said, “he lived long enough to give evidence of a
warm heart and a sensitive nature; of a keen sympathy with all that is
true, tender, and beautiful; of poetic insight, and considerable power
of expression. He was born a poet as surely as the skylark is born to
mount and sing.” In conception and execution, in simple pathos and real
sincerity of feeling, his sonnets appeal alike to head and heart. They
strike a note of pity in every compassionate breast, all the deeper
when one remembers that the youthful author, in his own words:
“Died, not knowing what it was to live.”
In the earlier years of his “poor meagre life,” Gray hoped to win an
imperishable name. His poems, when they appeared, met with a generous
reception. Three editions were issued in 1862, 1874, and 1886--copies
of which are now practically unprocurable. In these circumstances I
ventured to suggest to Mr. Melrose the propriety of publishing a new
edition; but, while rejecting the idea, he fixed upon _In the Shadows_
to be issued in an unpretentious form as a separate publication. I most
earnestly trust that Mr. Melrose’s intuition may prove prophetic of a
revived interest in David Gray, and that the intensely human note of
the sonnets, as well as their unusual beauty, may bring that lasting
fame to the poet which he once so confidently anticipated.
JOHN FERGUSON.
_February 1920._
IN THE SHADOWS
INDUCTION
Enter, scared mortal! and in awe behold
The chancel of a dying poet’s mind,
Hung round, ah! not adorned, with pictures bold
And quaint, but roughly touched for the refined.
The chancel, not the charnel house! For I
To God have raised a shrine immaculate
Therein, whereon His name to glorify,
And daily mercies meekly celebrate.
So in, scared breather! here no hint of death--
Skull or cross-bones suggesting sceptic fear;
Yea, rather calmer beauty, purer breath
Inhaled from a diviner atmosphere.
I
If it must be; if it must be, O God!
That I die young, and make no further moans;
That, underneath the unrespective sod,
In unescutcheoned privacy, my bones
Shall crumble soon,--then give me strength to bear
The last convulsive throe of too sweet breath!
I tremble from the edge of life, to dare
The dark and fatal leap, having no faith,
No glorious yearning for the Apocalypse;
But, like a child that in the night-time cries
For light, I cry; forgetting the eclipse
Of knowledge and our human destinies.
O peevish and uncertain soul! obey
The law of life in patience till the Day.
II
“Whom the gods love die young.” The thought is old;
And yet it soothed the sweet Athenian mind.
I take it with all pleasure, overbold,
Perhaps, yet to its virtue much inclined
By an inherent love for what is fair.
This is the utter poetry of woe--
That the bright-flashing gods should cure despair
By love, and make youth precious here below.
I die, being young; and, dying, could become
A pagan, with the tender Grecian trust.
Let death, the fell anatomy, benumb
The hand that writes, and fill my mouth with dust--
Chant no funereal theme, but, with a choral
Hymn, O ye mourners! hail immortal youth auroral!
III
With the tear-worthy four, consumption killed
In youthful prime, before the nebulous mind
Had its symmetric shapeliness defined,
Had its transcendent destiny fulfilled--
May future ages grant me gracious room,
With Pollok, in the voiceless solitude
Finding his holiest rapture, happiest mood;
Poor White for ever poring o’er the tomb;
With Keats, whose lucid fancy mounting far
Saw heaven as an intenser, a more keen
Redintegration of the Beauty seen
And felt by all the breathers on this star;
With gentle Bruce, flinging melodious blame
Upon the Future for an uncompleted name.
IV
Oh many a time with Ovid have I borne
My father’s vain, yet well-meant reprimand,
To leave the sweet-air’d, clover-purpled land
Of rhyme--its Lares loftily forlorn,
With all their pure humanities unworn--
To batten on the bare Theologies!
To quench a glory lighted at the skies,
Fed on one essence with the silver morn,
Were of all blasphemies the most insane.
So deeplier given to the delicious spell
I clung to thee, heart-soothing Poesy!
Now on a sick-bed rack’d with arrowy pain
I lift white hands of gratitude, and cry,
Spirit of God in Milton! was it well?
V
Last night, on coughing slightly with sharp pain,
There came arterial blood, and with a sigh
Of absolute grief I cried in bitter vein,
That drop is my death-warrant: I must die.
Poor meagre life is mine, meagre and poor!
Rather a piece of childhood thrown away;
An adumbration faint; the overture
To stifled music; year that ends in May;
The sweet beginning of a tale unknown;
A dream unspoken; promise unfulfilled;
A morning with no noon, a rose unblown--
All its deep rich vermilion crushed and killed
I’ th’ bud by frost:--Thus in false fear I cried,
Forgetting that to abolish death Christ died.
VI
Sweetly, my mother! Go not yet away--
I have not told my story. Oh, not yet,
With the fair past before me, can I lay
My cheek upon the pillow to forget.
O sweet, fair past, my twenty years of youth
Thus thrown away, not fashioning a man;
But fashioning a memory, forsooth!
More feminine than follower of Pan.
O God! let me not die for years and more!
Fulfil Thyself, and I will live then surely
Longer than a mere childhood. Now heart-sore,
Weary, with being weary--weary, purely.
In dying, mother, I can find no pleasure
Except in being near thee without measure.
VII
Hew Atlas for my monument; upraise
A pyramid for my tomb, that, undestroyed
By rank, oblivion and the hungry void,
My name shall echo through prospective days.
O careless conqueror! cold, abysmal grave!
Is it not sad--is it not sad, my heart--
To smother young ambition, and depart
Unhonoured and unwilling, like death’s slave?
No rare immortal remnant of my thought
Embalms my life; no poem, firmly reared
Against the shock of time, ignobly feared--
But all my life’s progression come to nought.
Hew Atlas! build a pyramid in a plain!
Oh, cool the fever burning in my brain!
VIII
From this entangling labyrinthine maze
Of doctrine, creed and theory; from vague
Vain speculations; the detested plague
Of spiritual pride, and vile affrays
Sectarian, good Lord, deliver me!
Nature! thy placid monitory glory
Shines uninterrogated, while the story
Goes round of this and that theology,
This creed, and that, till patience close the list.
Once more on Carronben’s wind-shrilling height
To sit in sovereign solitude, and quite
Forget the hollow world--a pantheist
Beyond Bonaventura! This were cheer
Passing the tedious tale of shallow pulpiteer.
IX
A vale of tears, a wilderness of woe,
A sad unmeaning mystery of strife;
Reason with Passion strives, and Feeling ever
Battles with Conscience, clear-eyed arbiter.
Thus spake I in sad mood not long ago,
To my dear father, of this human life,
Its jars and phantasies. Soft answered he,
With soul of love strong as a mountain river:
We make ourselves--Son, you are what you are
Neither by fate nor providence nor cause
External: all unformed humanity
Waiteth the stamp of individual laws;
And as you love and act, the plastic spirit
Doth the impression evermore inherit.
X
Last Autumn we were four, and travelled far
With Phœbe in her golden plenilune,
O’er stubble-fields where sheaves of harvest boon
Stood slanted. Many a clear and stedfast star
Twinkled its radiance thro’ crisp-leaved beeches,
Over the farm to which, with snatches rare
Of ancient ballads, songs and saucy speeches,
We hurried, happy mad. Then each had there
A dove-eyed sister pining for him, four
Fair ladies legacied with loveliness,
Chaste as a group of stars, or lilies blown
In rural nunnery. O God! Thy sore
Strange ways expound. Two to the grave have gone
Without apparent reason more or less.
XI
Now, while the long-delaying ash assumes
The delicate April green, and, loud and clear,
Through the cool, yellow, mellow twilight glooms,
The thrush’s song enchants the captive ear;
Now, while a shower is pleasant in the falling,
Stirring the still perfume that wakes around;
Now, that doves mourn, and from the distance calling,
The cuckoo answers, with a sovereign sound,--
Come, with thy native heart, O true and tried!
But leave all books; for what with converse high,
Flavoured with Attic wit, the time shall glide
On smoothly, as a river floweth by,
Or as on stately pinion, through the grey
Evening, the culver cuts his liquid way.
XII
Why are all fair things at their death the fairest?
Beauty the beautifullest in decay?
Why doth rich sunset clothe each closing day
With ever-new apparelling the rarest?
Why are the sweetest melodies all born
Of pain and sorrow? Mourneth not the dove,
In the green forest gloom, an absent love?
Leaning her breast against that cruel thorn,
Doth not the nightingale, poor bird, complain
And integrate her uncontrollable woe
To such perfection, that to hear is pain?
Thus, Sorrow and Death--alone realities--
Sweeten their ministration, and bestow
On troublous life a relish of the skies!
XIII
And, well-belovèd, is this all, this all?
Gone, like a vapour which the potent morn
Kills, and in killing glorifies! I call
Through the lone night for thee, my dear first-born
Soul-fellow! but my heart vibrates in vain.
Ah! well I know, and often fancy forms
The weather-blown churchyard where thou art lain--
The churchyard whistling to the frequent storms.
But down the valley, by the river side,
Huge walnut-trees--bronze-foliaged, motionless
As leaves of metal--in their shadows hide
Warm nests, low music, and true tenderness.
But thou, betrothed! art far from me, from me.
O heart! be merciful--I loved him utterly.
XIV
Father! when I have passed, with deathly swoon,
Into the ghost-world, immaterial, dim,
O may nor time nor circumstance dislimn
My image from thy memory, as noon
Steals from the fainting bloom the cooling dew!
Like flower, itself completing bud and bell,
In lonely thicket, be thy sorrow true,
And in expression secret. Worse than hell
To see the grave hypocrisy--to hear
The crocodilian sighs of summer friends
Outraging grief’s assuasive, holy ends!
But thou art faithful, father, and sincere;
And in thy brain the love of me shall dwell
Like the memorial music in the curved sea-shell.
XV
From my sick-bed gazing upon the west,
Where all the bright effulgences of day
Lay steeped in sunless vapours, raw and grey,--
Herein (methought) is mournfully exprest
The end of false ambitions, sullen doom
Of my brave hopes, Promethean desires:
Barren and perfumeless, my name expires
Like summer-day setting in joyless gloom.
Yet faint I not in sceptical dismay,
Upheld by the belief that all pure thought
Is deathless, perfect: that the truths out-wrought
By the laborious mind cannot decay,
Being evolutions of that Sovereign Mind
Akin to man’s; yet orbed, exhaustless, undefined.
XVI
The daisy-flower is to the summer sweet,
Though utterly unknown it live and die;
The spheral harmony were incomplete
Did the dew’d laverock mount no more the sky,
Because her music’s linkèd sorcery
Bewitched no mortal heart to heavenly mood.
This is the law of nature, that the deed
Should dedicate its excellence to God,
And in so doing find sufficient meed.
Then why should I make these heart-burning cries,
In sickly rhyme with morbid feeling rife,
For fame and temporal felicities?
Forgetting that in holy labour lies
The scholarship severe of human life.
XVII
O God, it is a terrible thing to die
Into the inextinguishable life;
To leave this known world with a feeble cry,
All its poor jarring and ignoble strife.
O that some shadowy spectre would disclose
The Future, and the soul’s confineless hunger
Satisfy with some knowledge of repose!
For here the lust of avarice waxeth stronger,
Making life hateful; youth alone is true,
Full of a glorious self-forgetfulness:
Better to die inhabiting the new
Kingdom of faith and promise, and confess,
Even in the agony and last eclipse,
Some revelation of the Apocalypse!
XVIII
Wise in his day that heathen emperor,
To whom, each morrow, came a slave, and cried--
“Philip, remember thou must die;” no more.
To me such daily voice were misapplied--
Disease guests with me; and each cough, or cramp,
Or aching, like the Macedonian slave,
Is my _memento mori_. ’Tis the stamp
Of God’s true life to be in dying brave.
“I fear not death, but dying”[1]--not the long
Hereafter, sweetened by immortal love;
But the quick, terrible last breath--the strong
Convulsion. Oh, my Lord of breath above!
Grant me a quiet end, in easeful rest--
A sweet removal, on my mother’s breast.
XIX
October’s gold is dim--the forests rot,
The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day
Is wrapp’d in damp. In mire of village way
The hedgerow leaves are stamp’d, and, all forgot,
The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.
Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,
Weeps all her garnered sheaves and empty folds
And dripping orchards--plundered and forlorn.
The season is a dead one, and I die!
No more, no more for me the spring shall make
A resurrection in the earth and take
The death from out her heart--O God, I die!
The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breathe
Corruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!
XX
Die down, O dismal day! and let me live.
And come, blue deeps! magnificently strewn
With coloured clouds--large, light and fugitive--
By upper winds through pompous motions blown.
Now it is death in life--a vapour dense
Creeps round my window till I cannot see
The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens
Shagging the mountain-tops. O God! make free
This barren, shackled earth, so deadly cold--
Breathe gently forth Thy spring, till winter flies
In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold,
While she performs her custom’d charities.
I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare--
O God! for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air!
XXI
Sometimes, when sunshine and blue sky prevail--
When spent winds sleep, and, from the budding larch,
Small birds, with incomplete, vague sweetness, hail
The unconfirmed, yet quickening life of March,--
Then say I to myself, half-eased of care,
Toying with hope as with a maiden’s token--
“This glorious, invisible fresh air
Will clear my blood till the disease be broken.”
But slowly, from the wild and infinite west,
Up-sails a cloud, full-charged with bitter sleet.
The omen gives my spirit deep unrest;
I fling aside the hope, as indiscreet--
A false enchantment, treacherous and fair--
And sink into my habit of despair.
XXII
O winter! wilt thou never, never go?
O Summer! but I weary for thy coming;
Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow,
And frugal bees laboriously humming.
Now, the east wind diseases the infirm,
And I must crouch in corners from rough weather.
Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm--
When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together,
And the large sun dips, red, behind the hills.
I, from my window, can behold this pleasure;
And the eternal moon, what time she fills
Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure,
With queenly motion of a bridal mood,
Through the white spaces of infinitude.
XXIII
Oh, beautiful moon! Oh, beautiful moon! again
Thou persecutest me until I bend
My brow, and soothe the aching of my brain.
I cannot see what handmaidens attend
Thy silver passage as the heaven clears;
For, like a slender mist, a sweet vexation
Works in my heart, till the impulsive tears
Confess the bitter pain of adoration.
Oh, too, too beautiful moon! lift the white shell
Of thy soft splendour through the shining air!
I own the magic power, the witching spell,
And, blinded by thy beauty, call thee fair!
Alas! not often now thy silver horn
Shall me delight with dreams and mystic love forlorn!
XXIV
’Tis April, yet the wind retains its tooth.
I cannot venture in the biting air,
But sit and feign wild trash, and dreams uncouth,
“Stretched on the rack of a too easy chair.”
And when the day has howled itself to sleep,
The lamp is lighted in my little room;
And lowly, as the tender lapwings creep,
Comes my own mother, with her love’s perfume.
O living sons with living mothers! learn
Their worth, and use them gently, with no chiding,
For youth, I know, is quick; of temper stern
Sometimes; and apt to blunder without guiding.
So was I long, but now I see her move,
Transfigured in the radiant mist of love.
XXV
Lying awake at holy eventide,
While in clear mournfulness the throstle’s hymn
Hushes the night, and the great west, grown dim,
Laments the sunset’s evanescent pride:
Lo! I behold an orb of silver brightly
Grow from the fringe of sunset, like a dream
From Thought’s severe infinitude, and nightly
Show forth God’s glory in its sacred gleam.
Ah, Hesper! maidenliest star that ere
Twinkled in firmament! cool gloaming’s prime
Cheerer, whose fairness maketh wondrous fair
Old pastorals, and the Spenserian rhyme:--
Thy soft seduction doth my soul enthral
Like music, with a dying, dying fall!
XXVI
There are three bonnie Scottish melodies,
So native to the music of my soul,
That of its humours they seem prophecies.
The ravishment of Chaucer was less whole,
Less perfect, when the April nightingale
Let itself in upon him. Surely, Lord!
Before whom psaltery and clarichord,
Concentual with saintly song, prevail,
There lurks some subtle sorcery, to Thee
And heaven akin, in each woe-burning air!
_Land of the Leal_, and _Bonnie Bessie Lee_,
And _Home, Sweet Home_, the lilt of love’s despair.
Now, in remembrance even, the feelings speak,
For lo! a shower of grace is on my cheek.
XXVII
“Thou art wearin’ awa’, Jean,
Like snaw when it’s thaw, Jean;
Thou art wearin’ awa’
To the land o’ the leal.”
O the impassable sorrow, mother mine!
Of the sweet, mournful air which, clear and well,
For me thou singest! Never the divine
Mahomedan harper, famous Israfel,
Such rich enchanting luxury of woe
Elicited from all his golden strings!
Therefore, dear singer sad! chant clear and low
And lovingly the bard’s imaginings.
O poet unknown! conning thy verses o’er
In lone, dim places, sorrowfully sweet;
And O musician! touching the quick core
Of pity, when thy skilful closes meet--
My tears confess your witchery as they flow,
Since I, too, _wear_ away like the unenduring snow.
XXVIII
Uplift in unparticipated night
Oh indefinable Being! far retired
From mortal ken in uncreated light:
While demonstrating glories unacquired
When shall the wavering sciences evolve
The infinite secret, Thee? What mind shall scan
The tenour of Thy workmanship, or solve
The dark, perplexing destiny of man?
Oh! in the hereafter border-land of wonder,
Shall the proud world’s inveterate tale be told,
The curtain of all mysteries torn asunder,
The cerements from the living soul unrolled?
Impatient questioner, soon, soon shall death
Reveal to thee these dim phantasmata of faith.
XXIX
And thus proceeds the mode of human life
From mystery to mystery again;
From God to God, thro’ grandeur, grief and strife,
A hurried plunge into the dark inane
Whence we had lately sprung. And is’t for ever?
Ah! sense is blind beyond the gaping clay,
And all the eyes of faith can see it never.
We know the bright-haired sun will bring the day,
Like glorious book of silent prophecy;
Majestic night assume her starry throne;
The wondrous seasons come and go: but we
Die, unto mortal ken for ever gone.
Who shall pry further? who shall kindle light
In the dread bosom of the infinite?
XXX
O thou of purer eyes than to behold
Uncleanness! sift my soul, removing all
Strange thoughts, imaginings fantastical,
Iniquitous allurements manifold.
Make it into a spiritual ark; abode
Severely sacred, perfumed, sanctified,
Wherein the Prince of Purities may abide--
The holy and eternal Spirit of God.
The gross, adhesive loathsomeness of sin,
Give me to see. Yet, O far more, far more.
That beautiful purity which the saints adore
In a consummate Paradise within
The Veil,--O Lord, upon my soul bestow,
An earnest of that purity here below.
PRINTED BY
MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED
EDINBURGH
Footnote:
[1] This is a saying of Socrates.
Transcriber’s Notes
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Perceived typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Footnotes have been moved to the end of the text.
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