PERSONS: A YOUNG HERD. HIS MOTHER.
SCENE: THE QUEEN'S CRAGS.
TIME: CHRISTMAS EVE.
_The herd stands at the foot of the Crags, gazing across the dark fells.
His mother enters._
MOTHER: Son, come home, nor tarry here
In this peril-haunted place.
My old heart is filled with fear
By the white flame of thy face,
And thine eyes whose restless fire
Burneth ever wild and clear
As red peats between the bars.
Son, come home; the night is cold;
Dropping from the wintry stars,
Tingling frost falls through the air;
See, the bents are white with rime;
All the sheep are in the fold;
All the cattle in the byre;
Only we, of live things, roam
O'er the fells so far from home;
E'en the red fox in his lair
Snuggles close to keep him warm;
And the lonely, wandering hare
Crouches, shivering, in her form;
While by Greenlea's frozen edge
Hides the mallard in the sedge.
Son, come home; the ingle-seat
Waits thee by the glowing peat,
And the door is off the latch.
Come, and we will feast and sing,
As of old at Christmas time,
Until thou wilt drowse and nod
And with slumber-drooping head
Gladly seek thy bracken-bed
Underneath the heather-thatch;
Where the healing sleep will bring
Unto thee the peace of God.
Son, come home! Whom seekest thou there?
HERD: Guenevere! O Guenevere!
MOTHER: Cry no more on Guenevere.
Some wild warlock of the fells,
Born beneath the Devil's Scars,
Lures thee forth to drown thy soul
Deep in Broomlea-water cold.
Guenevere no longer dwells
Anywhere beneath the stars;
Though she walked these Crags of old,
Many hundred years ago,
Into earth she sank like snow;
As a sunset-cloud in rain
Breaks, and showers the thirsty plain,
All the glory of her hair
Fell to earth, we know not where.
Leave thy foolish quest forlorn.
Lo, to-night a King is born,
Who, when earthly kings at last
Into wildering night are passed,
Yet shall wear the crown of morn.
Mary, Thou whose love may turn
Eyes that after evil burn,
Draw his soul, that strays so far,
To Thy Son's white throning-star.
Queen of Heaven, hear my prayer!
HERD: Guenevere! O Guenevere!
MOTHER: Low she lies, and may not hear.
The white lily, Guenevere,
Ruthless time has trodden down;
Arthur is a tarnished crown,
High Gawain a broken spear,
Percival a riven shield;
They, who taught the world to yield,
Closed with death and lost the field,
Stricken by the last despair:
Launcelot is but a name
Blown about the winds of shame;
Surely God has quenched the flame
That burned men's souls for Guenevere.
Mary, heed a mother's woe;
Mary, heed a mother's tears!
Thou, whose heart so long ago
Knew the pangs and hopes and fears
We poor mortal mothers know;
Thou, to whom, on Christmas-morn,
Christ, the Son of God, was born;
Thou whose mother-love hath pressed
The sweet Babe against thy breast;
And with wondering joy hath felt
The warm clutch of little hands,
When the Kings from far-off lands--
Crowned with gold, in gold attire--
With the simple shepherds knelt
'Mid the beasts within the byre;
Mary, if Thy heart, afraid,
When beyond Thy care he strayed,
Sometimes grieved that he must grow
Unlike other boys and men--
Filled with dreams beyond Thy ken,
Anguished with diviner woe,
Pangs more fiery than Thy pain,
Deeper than Thy dark despair--
From the perils of the night
Give me back my son again.
Thou, whose love may never fail,
Heed a lonely mother's prayer!
Come in all Thy healing might!
_A sudden glory sweeps across the Fells. The vision appears in a cleft
of the Crags. The herd and his mother kneel before it._
MOTHER: Mary, Queen of Heaven, hail!
HERD (_falling forward_): Guenevere! Guenevere!