BOOK I.

[Illustration: MISS INGELOW'S FORMER HOME.

BOSTON, LINCOLNSHIRE, ENG.

ST. BOTOLPH'S CHURCH IN THE DISTANCE.]

POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW

VOLUME II.

_TO JEAN INGELOW.

When youth was high, and life was new

And days sped musical and fleet,

She stood amid the morning dew,

And sang her earliest measures sweet,--

Sang as the lark sings, speeding fair

To touch and taste the purer air,

To gain a nearer view of Heaven;

'Twas then she sang "The Songs of Seven."

Now, farther on in womanhood,

With trainèd voice and ripened art,

She gently stands where once she stood,

And sings from out her deeper heart.

Sing on, dear Singer! sing again;

And we will listen to the strain,

Till soaring earth greets bending Heaven,

And seven-fold songs grow seventy-seven.

SUSAN COOLIDGE_

POEMS

BY

JEAN INGELOW

_IN TWO VOLUMES_

VOL. II.

BOSTON

ROBERTS BROTHERS

1896

AUTHOR'S COMPLETE EDITION.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

ROSAMUND

ECHO AND THE FERRY

PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING

KISMET

DORA

SPERANZA

THE BEGINNING

IN THE NURSERY

THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD

LOSS AND WASTE

ON A PICTURE

THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND

A MAID-MARTYR

A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST

LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE

THE WHITE MOON

AN ARROW-SLIT

WENDOVER

THE LOVER PLEADS

SONG IN THREE PARTS

'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM'

NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE

PERDITA

SERIOUS POEMS, AND SONGS AND POEMS OF LOVE AND CHILDHOOD.

LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING

THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN

THE SHEPHERD LADY

POEMS ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN.

HENRY

SAMUEL

KATIE

THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL)

HYMNS.

THE MEASURELESS GULFS OF AIR ARE FULL OF THEE

THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT OF HEAVEN

THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE

SWEET ARE HIS WAYS WHO RULES ABOVE

O NIGHT OF NIGHTS

DEAR IS THE LOST WIFE TO A LONE MAN'S HEART

WEEPING AND WAILING NEEDS MUST BE

JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD

THOU HAST BEEN ALWAY GOOD TO ME

THOU THAT SLEEPEST NOT AFRAID

NOW WINTER PAST, THE WHITE-THORN BOWER

SUCH AS HAVE NOT GOLD TO BRING THEE

A MORN OF GUILT, AN HOUR OF DOOM

MARY OF MAGDALA

WOULD I, TO SAVE MY DEAR CHILD?

AT ONE AGAIN

SONNETS.

FANCY

COMPENSATION

LOOKING DOWN

WORK

WISHING

TO ----

ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE

AN ANCIENT CHESS KING

COMFORT IN THE NIGHT

THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS

A SNOW MOUNTAIN

SLEEP

PROMISING

LOVE

FAILURE

A BIRTHDAY WALK

NOT IN VAIN I WAITED

A GLEANING SONG

WITH A DIAMOND

MARRIED LOVERS

A WINTER SONG

BINDING SHEAVES

THE MARINER'S CAVE

A REVERIE

DEFTON WOOD

THE LONG WHITE SEAM

AN OLD WIFE'S SONG

COLD AND QUIET

SLEDGE BELLS

MIDSUMMER NIGHT, NOT DARK, NOT LIGHT

THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE

THE FAIRY WOMAN'S SONG

ABOVE THE CLOUDS

SLEEP AND TIME

BEES AND OTHER-FELLOW-CREATURES

THE GYPSY'S SELLING SONG

A WOOING SONG

A COURTING SONG

LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD

THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES

THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY

FEATHERS AND MOSS

ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN

LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT

SONG FOR A BABE

GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE

THE TWO MARGARETS

MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE

MARGARET IN THE XEBEC

A STORY OF DOOM

POEMS

ROSAMUND.

_His blew His winds, and they were scattered._

'One soweth and another reapeth.'

Ay,

Too true, too true. One soweth--unaware

Cometh a reaper stealthily while he dreams--

Bindeth the golden sheaf, and in his bosom

As 't were between the dewfall and the dawn

Bears it away. Who other was to blame?

Is it I? Is it I?--No verily, not I,

'T was a good action, and I smart therefore;

Oblivion of a righteous enmity

Wrought me this wrong. I pay with my self ruth

That I had ruth toward mine enemy;

It needed not to slay mine enemy,

Only to let him lie and succourless

Drift to the foot o' the Everlasting Throne;

Being mine enemy, he had not accused

One of my nation there of unkind deeds

Or ought the way of war forbids.

Let be!

I will not think upon it. Yet she was--

O, she was dear; my dutiful, dear child.

One soweth--Nay, but I will tell this out,

The first fyte was the best, I call it such

For now as some old song men think on it.

I dwell where England narrows running north;

And while our hay was cut came rumours up

Humming and swarming round our heads like bees:

'Drake from the bay of Cadiz hath come home,

And they are forth, the Spaniards with a force

Invincible.'

'The Prince of Parma, couched

At Dunkirk, e'en by torchlight makes to toil

His shipwright thousands--thousands in the ports

Of Flanders and Brabant. An hundred hendes

Transports to his great squadron adding, all

For our confusion.'

'England's great ally

Henry of France, by insurrection fallen,

Of him the said Prince Parma mocking cries,

He shall not help the Queen of England now

Not even with his tears, more needing them

To weep his own misfortune.'

Was that all

The truth? Not half, and yet it was enough

(Albeit not half that half was well believed),

For all the land stirred in the half belief

As dreamers stir about to wake; and now

Comes the Queen's message, all her lieges bid

To rise, 'lieftenants, and the better sort

Of gentlemen' whereby the Queen's grace meant,

As it may seem the sort that willed to rise

And arm, and come to aid her.

Distance wrought

Safety for us, my neighbours and near friends,

The peril lay along our channel coast

And marked the city, undefended fair

Rich London. O to think of Spanish mail

Ringing--of riotous conquerors in her street,

Chasing and frighting (would there were no more

To think on) her fair wives and her fair maids.

--But hope is fain to deem them forth of her.

Then Spain to the sacking; then they tear away

Arras and carvèd work. O then they break

And toss, and mar her quaint orfèverie

Priceless--then split the wine kegs, spill the mead,

Trail out the pride of ages in the dust;

Turn over with pikes her silken merchandise,

Strip off the pictures of her kings, and spoil

Their palaces that nigh five hundred years

Have rued no alien footsteps on the floor,

And work--for the days of miracle are gone--

All unimaginable waste and woe.

Some cried, 'But England hath the better cause;

We think not those good days indeed are done;

We look to Heaven for aid on England's side.'

Then other, 'Nay, the harvest is above,

God comforts there His own, and ill men leaves

To run long scores up in this present world,

And pay in another.

Look not here for aid.

Latimer, poor old saint, died in the street

With nigh, men say, three hundred of his kind,

All bid to look for worse death after death,

Succourless, comfortless, unfriended, curst.

Mary, and Gardiner, and the Pope's man Pole

Died upon down, lulled in a silken shade,

Soothed with assurance of a waiting heaven,

And Peter peering through the golden gate,

With his gold key in 's hand to let them in.'

'Nay, leave,' quoth I, 'the martyrs to their heaven,

And all who live the better that they died.

But look you now, a nation hath no heaven,

A nation's life and work and wickedness

And punishment--or otherwise, I say

A nation's life and goodness and reward

Are here. And in my nation's righteous cause

I look for aid, and cry, SO HELP ME GOD

As I will help my righteous nation now

With all the best I have, and know, and am,

I trust Thou wilt not let her light be quenched;

I go to aid, and if I fall--I fall,

And, God of nations, leave my soul to Thee.'

Many did say like words, and all would give

Of gold, of weapons, and of horses that

They had to hand or on the spur o' the time

Could gather. My fair dame did sell her rings,

So others. And they sent us well equipped

Who minded to be in the coming fray

Whether by land or sea; my hope the last,

For I of old therewith was conversant.

Then as we rode down southward all the land

Was at her harvesting. The oats were cut

Ere we were three days down, and then the wheat,

And the wide country spite of loathèd threat

Was busy. There was news to hearten us:

The Hollanders were coming roundly in

With sixty ships of war, all fierce, and full

Of spleen, for not alone our sake but theirs

Willing to brave encounter where they might.

So after five days we did sight the Sound,

And look on Plymouth harbour from the hill.

Then I full glad drew bridle, lighted straight,

Ran down and mingled with a waiting crowd.

Many stood gazing on the level deep

That scarce did tremble; 't was in hue as sloes

That hang till winter on a leafless bough,

So black bulged down upon it a great cloud

And probed it through and through with forkèd stabs

Incessant, and rolled on it thunder bursts

Till the dark water lowered as one afraid.

That was afar. The land and nearer sea

Lay sweltering in hot sunshine. The brown beach

Scarce whispered, for a soft incoming tide

Was gentle with it. Green the water lapped

And sparkled at all edges. The night-heavens

Are not more thickly speckled o'er with stars

Than that fair harbour with its fishing craft.

And crowds of galleys shooting to and fro

Did feed the ships of war with their stout crews,

And bear aboard fresh water, furniture

Of war, much lesser victual, sallets, fruit,

All manner equipment for the squadron, sails,

Long spars.

Also was chaffering on the Hoe,

Buying and bargaining, taking of leave

With tears and kisses, while on all hands pushed

Tall lusty men with baskets on their heads

Piled of fresh bread, and biscuit newly drawn.

Then shouts, 'The captains!'

Raleigh, Hawkins, Drake,

Old Martin Frobisher, and many more;

Howard, the Lord High Admiral, headed them--

They coming leisurely from the bowling green,

Elbowed their way. For in their stoutness loth

To hurry when ill news first brake on them,

They playing a match ashore--ill news I say,

'The Spaniards are toward'--while panic-struck

The people ran about them, Drake cries out,

Knowing their fear should make the danger worse,

'Spaniards, my masters! Let the Spaniards wait.

Fall not a-shouting for the boats; is time

To play the match out, ay to win, and then

To beat the Spaniards.'

So the rest gave way

At his insistance, playing that afternoon

The bravest match (one saith) was ever scored.

'T was no time lost; nay, not a moment lost;

For look you, when the winning cast was made,

The town was calm, the anchors were all up,

The boats were manned to row them each to his ship,

The lowering cloud in the offing had gone south

Against the wind, and all was work, stir, heed,

Nothing forgot, nor grudged, nor slurred, and most

Men easy at heart as those brave sailors seemed.

And specially the women had put by

On a sudden their deep dread; yon Cornish coast

Neared of his insolency by the foe,

With his high seacastles numerous, seaforts

Many, his galleys out of number, manned

Each by three hundred slaves chained to the oar;

All his strong fleet of lesser ships, but great

As any of ours--why that same Cornish coast

Might have lain farther than the far west land,

So had a few stout-hearted looks and words

Wasted the meaning, chilled the menace of

That frightful danger, imminent, hard at hand.

'The captains come, the captains!' and I turned

As they drew on. I marked the urgency

Flashing in each man's eye: fain to be forth

But willing to be held at leisure. Then

Cried a fair woman of the better sort

To Howard, passing by her pannier'd ass,

'Apples, Lord Admiral, good captains all,

Look you, red apples sharp and sweet are these,'

Quoth he a little chafed, 'Let be, let be,

No time is this for bargaining, good dame.

Let be;' and pushing past, 'Beshrew thy heart

(And mine that I should say it), bargain! nay.

I meant not bargaining,' she falters; crying,

'I brought them my poor gift. Pray you now take,

Pray you.'

He stops, and with a childlike smile

That makes the dame amend, stoops down to choose,

While I step up that love not many words,

'What should he do,' quoth I, 'to help this need

That hath a bag of money, and good will?'

'Charter a ship,' he saith, nor e'er looks up,

'And put aboard her victual, tackle, shot,

Ought he can lay his hand on--look he give

Wide sea room to the Spanish hounds, make sail

For ships of ours, to ease of wounded men,

And succour with that freight he brings withal.'

His foot, yet speaking, was aboard his boat,

His comrades, each red apples in the hand,

Come after, and with blessings manifold

Cheering, and cries, 'Good luck, good luck!' they speed.

'T was three years three months past.

O yet methinks

I hear that thunder crash i' the offing; hear

Their words who when the crowd melted away

Gathered together. Comrades we of old,

About to adventure us at Howard's best

On the unsafe sea. For he, a Catholic,

As is my wife, and therefore my one child,

Detested and defied th' most Catholic King

Philip. He, trusted of her grace--and cause

She had, the nation following suit--he deemed,

'T was whisper'd, ay and Raleigh, and Francis Drake

No less, the event of battle doubtfuller

Than English tongue might own; the peril dread

As ought in this world ever can be deemed

That is not yet past praying for.

So far

So good. As birds awaked do stretch their wings

The ships did stretch forth sail, full clad they towered

And right into the sunset went, hull down

E'en with the sun.

To us in twilight left,

Glory being over, came despondent thought

That mocked men's eager act. From many a hill,

As if the land complained to Heaven, they sent

A towering shaft of murky incense high,

Livid with black despair in lieu of praise.

The green wood hissed at every beacon's edge

That widen'd fear. The smell of pitchpots fled

Far over the field, and tongues of fire leaped up,

Ay, till all England woke, and knew, and wailed.

But we i' the night through that detested reek

Rode eastward. Every mariner's voice was given

'Gainst any fear for the western shires. The cry

Was all, 'They sail for Calais roads, and thence,

The goal is London.'

Nought slept, man nor beast.

Ravens and rooks flew forth, and with black wings,

Affrighted, swept our eyes. Pale eddying moths

Came by in crowds and whirled them on the flames.

We rode till pierced those beacon fires the shafts

O' the sun, and their red smouldering ashes dulled.

Beside them, scorched, smoke-blackened, weary, leaned

Men that had fed them, dropped their tired arms

And dozed.

And also through that day we rode,

Till reapers at their nooning sat awhile

On the shady side of corn-shocks: all the talk

Of high, of low, or them that went or stayed

Determined but unhopeful; desperate

To strike a blow for England ere she fell.

And ever loomed the Spaniard to our thought,

Still waxed the fame of that great Armament--

New horsemen joining, swelled it more and more--

Their bulky ship galleons having five decks,

Zabraes, pataches, galleys of Portugal,

Caravels rowed with oars, their galliasses

Vast, and complete with chapels, chambers, towers.

And in the said ships of free mariners

Eight thousand, and of slaves two thousand more,

An army twenty thousand strong. O then

Of culverin, of double culverin,

Ordnance and arms, all furniture of war,

Victual, and last their fierceness and great spleen,

Willing to founder, burn, split, wreck themselves,

But they would land, fight, overcome, and reign.

Then would we count up England. Set by theirs,

Her fleet as walnut shells. And a few pikes

Stored in the belfries, and a few brave men

For wielding them. But as the morning wore,

And we went ever eastward, ever on,

Poured forth, poured down, a marching multitude

With stir about the towns; and waggons rolled

With offerings for the army and the fleet.

Then to our hearts valour crept home again,

The loathèd name of Alva fanning it;

Alva who did convert from our old faith

With many a black deed done for a white cause

(So spake they erewhile to it dedicate)

Them whom not death could change, nor fire, nor sword,

To thirst for his undoing.

Ay, as I am a Christian man, our thirst

Was comparable with Queen Mary's. All

The talk was of confounding heretics,

The heretics the Spaniards. Yet methought,

'O their great multitude! Not harbour room

On our long coast for that great multitude.

They land--for who can let them--give us battle,

And after give us burial. Who but they,

For he that liveth shall be flying north

To bear off wife and child. Our very graves

Shall Spaniards dig, and in the daisied grass

Trample them down.'

Ay, whoso will be brave,

Let him be brave beforehand. After th' event

If by good pleasure of God it go as then

He shall be brave an' liketh him. I say

Was no man but that deadly peril feared.

Nights riding two. Scant rest. Days riding three,

Then Foulkstone. Need is none to tell all forth

The gathering stores and men, the charter'd ship

That I, with two, my friends, got ready for sea.

Ready she was, so many another, small

But nimble; and we sailing hugged the shore,

Scarce venturing out, so Drake had willed, a league,

And running westward aye as best we might,

When suddenly--behold them!

On they rocked,

Majestical, slow, sailing with the wind.

O such a sight! O such a sight, mine eyes,

Never shall you see more!

In crescent form,

A vasty crescent nigh two leagues across

From horn to horn, the lesser ships within,

The great without, they did bestride as 't were

And make a township on the narrow seas.

It was about the point of dawn: and light.

All grey the sea, and ghostly grey the ships;

And after in the offing rocked our fleet,

Having lain quiet in the summer dark.

O then methought, 'Flash, blessed gold of dawn,

And touch the topsails of our Admiral,

That he may after guide an emulous flock,

Old England's innocent white bleating lambs.

Let Spain within a pike's length hear them bleat,

Delivering of their pretty talk in a tongue

Whose meaning cries not for interpreter.'

And while I spoke, their topsails, friend and foe,

Glittered--and there was noise of guns; pale smoke

Lagged after, curdling on the sun-fleck'd main.

And after that? What after that, my soul?

Who ever saw weakling white butterflies

Chasing of gallant swans, and charging them,

And spitting at them long red streaks of flame?

We saw the ships of England even so

As in my vaunting wish that mocked itself

With 'Fool, O fool, to brag at the edge of loss.'

We saw the ships of England even so

Run at the Spaniards on a wind, lay to,

Bespatter them with hail of battle, then

Take their prerogative of nimble steerage,

Fly off, and ere the enemy, heavy in hand,

Delivered his reply to the wasteful wave

That made its grave of foam, race out of range,

Then tack and crowd all sail, and after them

Again.

So harassed they that mighty foe,

Moving in all its bravery to the east.

And some were fine with pictures of the saints,

Angels with flying hair and peakèd wings,

And high red crosses wrought upon their sails;

From every mast brave flag or ensign flew,

And their long silken pennons serpented

Loose to the morning. And the galley slaves,

Albeit their chains did clink, sang at the oar.

The sea was striped e'en like a tiger skin

With wide ship wakes.

And many cried, amazed,

'What means their patience?'

'Lo you,' others said,

'They pay with fear for their great costliness.

Some of their costliest needs must other guard;

Once guarded and in port look to yourselves,

They count one hundred and fifty. It behoves

Better they suffer this long running fight--

Better for them than that they give us battle,

And so delay the shelter of their roads.

'Two of their caravels we sank, and one

(Fouled with her consort in the rigging) took

Ere she could catch the wind when she rode free.

And we have riddled many a sail, and split

Of spars a score or two. What then? To-morrow

They look to straddle across the strait, and hold

Having aye Calais for a shelter--hold

Our ships in fight. To-morrow shall give account

For our to-day. They will not we pass north

To meddle with Parma's flotilla; their hope

Being Parma, and a convoy they would be

For his flat boats that bode invasion to us;

And if he reach to London--ruin, defeat.'

Three fleets the sun went down on, theirs of fame

Th' Armada. After space old England's few;

And after that our dancing cockle-shells,

The volunteers. They took some pride in us,

For we were nimble, and we brought them powder,

Shot, weapons. They were short of these. Ill found,

Ill found. The bitter fruit of evil thrift.

But while obsequious, darting here and there,

We took their messages from ship to ship,

From ship to shore, the moving majesties

Made Calais Roads, cast anchor, all their less

In the middle ward; their greater ships outside

Impregnable castles fearing not assault.

So did we read their thought, and read it wrong,

While after the running fight we rode at ease,

For many (as is the way of Englishmen)

Having made light of our stout deeds, and light

O' the effects proceeding, saw these spread

To view. The Spanish Admiral's mighty host,

Albeit not broken, harass'd.

Some did tow

Others that we had plagued, disabled, rent;

Many full heavily damaged made their berths.

Then did the English anchor out of range.

To close was not their wisdom with such foe,

Rather to chase him, following in the rear.

Ay, truly they were giants in our eyes

And in our own. They took scant heed of us,

And we looked on, and knew not what to think,

Only that we were lost men, a lost Isle,

In every Spaniard's mind, both great and small.

But no such thought had place in Howard's soul,

And when 't was dark, and all their sails were furled,

When the wind veered a few points to the west,

And the tide turned ruffling along the roads,

He sent eight fireships forging down to them.

Terrible! Terrible!

Blood-red pillars of reek

They looked on that vast host and troubled it,

As on th' Egyptian host One looked of old.

Then all the heavens were rent with a great cry,

The red avengers went right on, right on,

For none could let them; then was ruin, reek, flame;

Against th' unwieldy huge leviathans

They drave, they fell upon them as wild beasts,

And all together they did plunge and grind,

Their reefed sails set a-blazing, these flew loose

And forth like banners of destruction sped.

It was to look on as the body of hell

Seething; and some, their cables cut, ran foul

Of one the other, while the ruddy fire

Sped on aloft. One ship was stranded. One

Foundered, and went down burning; all the sea

Red as an angry sunset was made fell

With smoke and blazing spars that rode upright,

For as the fireships burst they scattered forth

Full dangerous wreckage. All the sky they scored

With flying sails and rocking masts, and yards

Licked of long flames. And flitting tinder sank

In eddies on the plagued mixed mob of ships

That cared no more for harbour, and were fain

At any hazard to be forth, and leave

Their berths in the blood-red haze.

It was at twelve

O' the clock when this fell out, for as the eight

Were towed, and left upon the friendly tide

To stalk like evil angels over the deep

And stare upon the Spaniards, we did hear

Their midnight bells. It was at morning dawn

After our mariners thus had harried them

I looked my last upon their fleet,--and all,

That night had cut their cables, put to sea,

And scattering wide towards the Flemish coast

Did seem to make for Greveline.

As for us,

The captains told us off to wait on them,

Bearers of wounded enemies and friends,

Bearers of messages, bearers of store.

We saw not ought, but heard enough: we heard

(And God be thanked) of that long scattering chase

And driving of Sidonia from his hope,

Parma, who could not ought without his ships

And looked for them to break the Dutch blockade,

He meanwhile chafing lion-like in his lair.

We heard--and he--for all one summer day,

Fenning and Drake and Raynor, Fenton, Cross,

And more, by Greveline, where they once again

Did get the wind o' the Spaniards, noise of guns.

For coming with the wind, wielding themselves

Which way they listed (while in close array

The Spaniards stood but on defence), our own

Went at them, charged them high and charged them sore,

And gave them broadside after broadside. Ay,

Till all the shot was spent both great and small.

It failed; and in regard of that same want

They thought it not convenient to pursue

Their vessels farther.

They were huge withal,

And might not be encountered one to one,

But close conjoined they fought, and poured great store

Of ordnance at our ships, though many of theirs,

Shot thorow and thorow, scarce might keep afloat.

Many were captured fighting, many sank.

This news they brought returned perforce, and left

The Spaniards forging north. Themselves did watch

The river mouth, till Howard, his new store

Gathered, encounter coveting, once more

Made after them with Drake.

And lo! the wind

Got up to help us. He yet flying north

(Their doughty Admiral) made all his wake

To smoke, and would not end to fight, but strewed

The ocean with his wreckage. And the wind

Drave him before it, and the storm was fell,

And he went up to th' uncouth northern sea.

There did our mariners leave him. Then did joy

Run like a sunbeam over the land, and joy

Rule in the stout heart of a regnant Queen.

But now the counsel came, 'Every man home,

For after Scotland rounded, when he curves

Southward, and all the batter'd armament,

What hinders on our undefended coast

To land where'er he listeth? Every man

Home.'

And we mounted and did open forth

Like a great fan, to east, to north, to west,

And rumour met us flying, filtering

Down through the border. News of wicked joy,

The wreckers rich in the Faroes, and the Isles

Orkney, and all the clansmen full of gear

Gathered from helpless mariners tempted in

To their undoing; while a treacherous crew

Let the storm work upon their lives its will,

Spoiled them and gathered all their riches up.

Then did they meet like fate from Irish kernes,

Who dealt with them according to their wont.

In a great storm of wind that tore green leaves

And dashed them wet upon me, came I home.

Then greeted me my dame, and Rosamund,

Our one dear child, the heir of these my fields--

That I should sigh to think it! There, no more.

Being right weary I betook me straight

To longed-for sleep, and I did dream and dream

Through all that dolourous storm; though noise of guns

Daunted the country in the moonless night,

Yet sank I deep and deeper in the dream

And took my fill of rest.

A voice, a touch,

'Wake.' Lo! my wife beside me, her wet hair

She wrung with her wet hands, and cried, 'A ship!

I have been down the beach. O pitiful!

A Spanish ship ashore between the rocks,

And none to guide our people. Wake.'

Then I

Raised on mine elbow looked; it was high day;

In the windy pother seas came in like smoke

That blew among the trees as fine small rain,

And then the broken water sun-besprent

Glitter'd, fell back and showed her high and fast

A caravel, a pinnace that methought

To some great ship had longed; her hap alone

Of all that multitude it was to drive

Between this land of England her right foe,

And that most cruel, where (for all their faith

Was one) no drop of water mote they drink

For love of God nor love of gold.

I rose

And hasted; I was soon among the folk,

But late for work. The crew, spent, faint, and bruised

Saved for the most part of our men, lay prone

In grass, and women served them bread and mead,

Other the sea laid decently alone

Ready for burial. And a litter stood

In shade. Upon it lying a goodly man,

The govourner or the captain as it seemed,

Dead in his stiff gold-broider'd bravery,

And epaulet and sword. They must have loved

That man, for many had died to bring him in,

Their boats stove in were stranded here and there.

In one--but how I know not--brought they him,

And he was laid upon a folded flag,

Many times doubled for his greater ease,

That was our thought--and we made signs to them

He should have sepulture. But when they knew

They must needs leave him, for some marched them off

For more safe custody, they made great moan.

After, with two my neighbours drawing nigh,

One of them touched the Spaniard's hand and said,

'Dead is he but not cold;' the other then,

'Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead.'

Again the first, 'An' if he breatheth yet

He lies at his last gasp.' And this went off,

And left us two, that by the litter stayed,

Looking on one another, and we looked

(For neither willed to speak), and yet looked on.

Then would he have me know the meet was fixed

For nine o' the clock, and to be brief with you

He left me. And I had the Spaniard home.

What other could be done? I had him home.

Men on his litter bare him, set him down

In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall.

And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon,

Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now

Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds

Of that great ensign covered store of gold,

Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades

Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare,

And other gear. I locked it for my part

Into an armoury, and that fair flag

(While we did talk full low till he should end)

Spread over him. Methought, the man shall die

Under his country's colours; he was brave,

His deadly wound to that doth testify.

And when 't was seemly order'd, Rosamund,

My daughter, who had looked not yet on death,

Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread--

Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers,

White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast.

Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard,

But while with daunted heart she moved anigh,

His eyelids quiver'd, quiver'd then the lip,

And he, reviving, with a sob looked up

And set on her the midnight of his eyes.

Then she, in act to place the burial gift

Bending above him, and her flaxen hair

Fall'n to her hand, drew back and stood upright

Comely and tall, her innocent fair face

Cover'd with blushes more of joy than shame.

'Father,' she cried, 'O father, I am glad.

Look you! the enemy liveth.' ''T is enough,

My maiden,' quoth her mother, 'thou may'st forth,

But say an Avè first for him with me.'

Then they with hands upright at foot o' his bed

Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them,

Till as I think for wonder at them, more

Than for his proper strength, he could not die.

So in obedient wise my daughter risen,

And going, let a smile of comforting cheer

Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her

For many a night and day that he beheld.

And then withal my dame, a leech of skill,

Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound,

Her women aiding at their best. And he

'Twixt life and death awaken'd in the night

Full oft in his own tongue would make his moan,

And when he whisper'd any word I knew,

If I was present, for to pleasure him,

Then made I repetition of the same.

'Cordova,' quoth he faintly, 'Cordova,'

'T was the first word he mutter'd. 'Ay, we know,'

Quoth I, 'the stoutness of that fight ye made

Against the Moors and their Mahometry,

And dispossess'd the men of fame, the fierce

Khalifs of Cordova--thy home belike,

Thy city. A fair city Cordova.'

Then after many days, while his wound healed,

He with abundant seemly sign set forth

His thanks, but as for language had we none,

And oft he strove and failed to let us know

Some wish he had, but could not, so a week,

Two weeks went by. Then Rosamund my girl,

Hearing her mother plain on this, she saith,

'So please you, madam, show the enemy

A Psalter in our English tongue, and fetch

And give him that same book my father found

Wrapped in the ensign. Are they not the same

Those holy words? The Spaniard being devout,

He needs must know them.'

'Peace, thou pretty fool!

Is this a time to teach an alien tongue?'

Her mother made for answer. 'He is sick,

The Spaniard.' 'Cry you mercy,' quoth my girl,

'But I did think 't were easy to let show

How both the Psalters are of meaning like;

If he know Latin, and 't is like he doth,

So might he choose a verse to tell his thought.'

Then said I (ay, I did!) 'The girl shall try,'

And straight I took her to the Spaniard's side,

And he, admiring at her, all his face

Changed to a joy that almost showed as fear,

So innocent holy she did look, so grave

Her pitiful eyes.

She sat beside his bed,

He covered with the ensign yet; and took

And showed the Psalters both, and she did speak

Her English words, but gazing was enough

For him at her sweet dimple, her blue eyes

That shone, her English blushes. Rosamund,

My beautiful dear child. He did but gaze,

And not perceive her meaning till she touched

His hand, and in her Psalter showed the word.

Then was all light to him; he laughed for joy,

And took the Latin Missal. O full soon,

Alas, how soon, one read the other's thought!

Before she left him, she had learned his name

Alonzo, told him hers, and found the care

Made night and day uneasy--Cordova,

There dwelt his father, there his kin, nor knew

Whether he lived or died, whether in thrall

To the Islanders for lack of ransom pined

Or rued the galling yoke of slavery.

So did he cast him on our kindness. I--

And care not who may know it--I was kind,

And for that our stout Queen did think foul scorn

To kill the Spanish prisoners, and to guard

So many could not, liefer being to rid

Our country of them than to spite their own,

I made him as I might that matter learn,

Eking scant Latin with my daughter's wit,

And told him men let forth and driven forth

Did crowd our harbours for the ports of Spain,

By one of whom, he, with good aid of mine,

Should let his tidings go, and I plucked forth

His ducats that a meet reward might be.

Then he, the water standing in his eyes,

Made old King David's words due thanks convey.

Then Rosamund, this all made plain, arose

And curtsey'd to the Spaniard. Ah, methinks

I yet behold her, gracious, innocent,

And flaxen-haired, and blushing maidenly,

When turning she retired, and his black eyes,

That hunger'd after her, did follow on;

And I bethought me, 'Thou shalt see no more,

Thou goodly enemy, my one ewe lamb.'

O, I would make short work of this. The wound

Healed, and the Spaniard rose, then could he stand,

And then about his chamber walk at ease.

Now we had counsell'd how to have him home,

And that same trading vessel beating up

The Irish Channel at my will, that same

I charter'd for to serve me in the war,

Next was I minded should mine enemy

Deliver to his father, and his land.

Daily we looked for her, till in our cove,

Upon that morn when first the Spaniard walked,

Behold her rocking; and I hasted down

And left him waiting in the house.

Woe 's me!

All being ready speed I home, and lo

My Rosamund, that by the Spaniard sat

Upon a cushion'd settle, book in hand.

I needs must think how in the deep alcove

Thick chequer'd shadows of the window-glass

Did fall across her kirtle and her locks,

For I did see her thus no more.

She held

Her Psalter, and he his, and slowly read

Till he would stop her at the needed word.

'O well is thee,' she read, my Rosamund,

'O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be.

Thy wife--' and there he stopped her, and he took

And kissed her hand, and show'd in 's own a ring,

Taking no heed of me, no heed at all.

Then I burst forth, the choler red i' my face

When I did see her blush, and put it on.

'Give me,' quoth I, and Rosamund, afraid,

Gave me the ring. I set my heel on it,

Crushed it, and sent the rubies scattering forth,

And did in righteous anger storm at him.

'What! what!' quoth I, 'before her father's eyes,

Thou universal villain, thou ingrate,

Thou enemy whom I shelter'd, fed, restored,

Most basest of mankind!' And Rosamund,

Arisen, her forehead pressed against mine arm,

And 'Father,' cries she, 'father.'

And I stormed

At him, while in his Spanish he replied

As one would speak me fair. 'Thou Spanish hound!'

'Father,' she pleaded. 'Alien vile,' quoth I,

'Plucked from the death, wilt thou repay me thus?

It is but three times thou hast set thine eyes

On this my daughter.' 'Father,' moans my girl;

And I, not willing to be so withstood,

Spoke roughly to her. Then the Spaniard's eyes

Blazed--then he stormed at me in his own tongue,

And all his Spanish arrogance and pride

Broke witless on my wrathful English. Then

He let me know, for I perceived it well,

He reckon'd him mine equal, thought foul scorn

Of my displeasure, and was wroth with me

As I with him. 'Father,' sighed Rosamund.

'Go, get thee to thy mother, girl,' quoth I.

And slowly, slowly, she betook herself

Down the long hall; in lowly wise she went

And made her moans.

But when my girl was gone

I stood at fault, th' occasion master'd me;

Belike it master'd him, for both felt mute.

I calmed me, and he calmed him as he might.

For I bethought me I was yet an host,

And he bethought him on the worthiness

Of my first deeds.

So made I sign to him.

The tide was up, and soon I had him forth,

Delivered him his goods, commended him

To the captain o' the vessel, then plucked off

My hat, in seemly fashion taking leave,

And he was not outdone, but every way

Gave me respect, and on the deck we two

Parted, as I did hope, to meet no more.

Alas! my Rosamund, my Rosamund!

She did not weep, no. Plain upon me, no.

Her eyes mote well have lost the trick of tears:

As new-washed flowers shake off the down-dropt rain,

And make denial of it, yet more blue

And fair of favour afterward, so they.

The wild woodrose was not more fresh of blee

Than her soft dimpled cheek: but I beheld,

Come home, a token hung about her neck,

Sparkling upon her bosom for his sake,

Her love, the Spaniard, she denied it not,

All unaware, good sooth, such love was bale.

And all that day went like another day,

Ay, all the next; then was I glad at heart;

Methought, 'I am glad thou wilt not waste thy youth

Upon an alien man, mine enemy,

Thy nation's enemy. In truth, in truth,

This likes me very well. My most dear child,

Forget yon grave dark mariner. The Lord

Everlasting,' I besought, 'bring it to pass.'

Stealeth a darker day within my hall,

A winter day of wind and driving foam.

They tell me that my girl is sick--and yet

Not very sick. I may not hour by hour,

More than one watching of a moon that wanes,

Make chronicle of change. A parlous change

When he looks back to that same moon at full.

Ah! ah! methought, 't will pass. It did not pass,

Though never she made moan. I saw the rings

Drop from her small white wasted hand. And I,

Her father, tamed of grief, I would have given

My land, my name to have her as of old.

Ay, Rosamund I speak of with the small

White face. Ay, Rosamund. O near as white,

And mournfuller by much, her mother dear

Drooped by her couch; and while of hope and fear

Lifted or left, as by a changeful tide,

We thought 'The girl is better,' or we thought

'The girl will die,' that jewel from her neck

She drew, and prayed me send it to her love;

A token she was true e'en to the end.

What matter'd now? But whom to send, and how

To reach the man? I found an old poor priest,

Some peril 't was for him and me, she writ

My pretty Rosamund her heart's farewell,

She kissed the letter, and that old poor priest,

Who had eaten of my bread, and shelter'd him

Under my roof in troublous times, he took,

And to content her on this errand went,

While she as done with earth did wait the end.

Mankind bemoan them on the bitterness

Of death. Nay, rather let them chide the grief

Of living, chide the waste of mother-love

For babes that joy to get away to God;

The waste of work and moil and thought and thrift

And father-love for sons that heed it not,

And daughters lost and gone. Ay, let them chide

These. Yet I chide not. That which I have done

Was rightly done; and what thereon befell

Could make no right a wrong, e'en were 't to do

Again.

I will be brief. The days drag on,

My soul forebodes her death, my lonely age.

Once I despondent in the moaning wood

Look out, and lo a caravel at sea,

A man that climbs the rock, and presently

The Spaniard!

I did greet him, proud no more.

He had braved durance, as I knew, ay death,

To land on th' Island soil. In broken words

Of English he did ask me how she fared.

Quoth I, 'She is dying, Spaniard; Rosamund

My girl will die;' but he is fain, saith he,

To talk with her, and all his mind to speak;

I answer, 'Ay, my whilome enemy,

But she is dying.' 'Nay, now nay,' quoth he,

'So be she liveth,' and he moved me yet

For answer; then quoth I, 'Come life, come death,

What thou wilt, say.'

Soon made we Rosamund

Aware, she lying on the settle, wan

As a lily in the shade, and while she not

Believed for marvelling, comes he roundly in,

The tall grave Spaniard, and with but one smile,

One look of ruth upon her small pale face,

All slowly as with unaccustom'd mouth,

Betakes him to that English he hath conned,

Setting the words out plain:

'Child! Rosamund!

Love! An so please thee, I would be thy man.

By all the saints will I be good to thee.

Come.'

Come! what think you, would she come? Ay, ay.

They love us, but our love is not their life.

For the dark mariner's love lived Rosamund.

Soon for his kiss she bloomed, smiled for his smile.

(The Spaniard reaped e'en as th' Evangel saith,

And bore in 's bosom forth my golden sheaf.)

She loved her father and her mother well,

But loved the Spaniard better. It was sad

To part, but she did part; and it was far

To go, but she did go. The priest was brought,

The ring was bless'd that bound my Rosamund,

She sailed, and I shall never see her more.

One soweth and another reapeth. Ay,

Too true! too true!

ECHO AND THE FERRY.

Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven;

He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood.

They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven!

A small guest at the farm); but he said, 'Oh, a girl was no good!'

So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood.

It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl--only seven!

At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out.

The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flash'd about,

And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven?

I thought so. Yes, everyone else was eleven--eleven!

So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet,

And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was litter'd;

And under and over the branches those little birds twitter'd,

While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven.

A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven.

But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet,

And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old.

Then I knew! for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold!

Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter;

And then some one else--oh, how softly!--came after, came after

With laughter--with laughter came after.

And no one was near us to utter that sweet mocking call,

That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall.

But this was the country--perhaps it was close under heaven;

Oh, nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even.

I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this

Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings not at all.

Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver:

She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small,

Then flashed down her hole like a dart--like a dart from the quiver.

And I waded atween the long grasses and felt it was bliss.

--So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver

And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall

White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall--

A little low wall--and looked over, and there was the river,

The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river

Clear shining and slow, she had far far to go from her snow;

But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow,

And she murmur'd, methought, with a speech very soft--very low.

'The ways will be long, but the days will be long,' quoth the river,

'To me a long liver, long, long!' quoth the river--the river.

I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky,

The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under.

But at last--in a day or two namely--Eleven and I

Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder.

He said that was Echo. 'Was Echo a wise kind of bee

That had learned how to laugh: could it laugh in one's ear and then fly

And laugh again yonder?' 'No; Echo'--he whispered it low--

'Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see

And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he,

But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder.

Yet I that had money--a shilling, a whole silver shilling--

We might cross if I thought I would spend it.' 'Oh yes, I was willing'--

And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry,

And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry

When they called for the ferry; but oh! she was very--was very

Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried,

'Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry--the ferry!'

By the still water's side she was heard far and wide--she replied

And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, 'You man of the ferry,

You man of--you man of the ferry!'

'Hie over!' he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling,

Across the clear reed-border'd river he ferried us fast;--

Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpass'd

All measure her doubling--so close, then so far away falling,

Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware,

And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there!),

Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical countenance fair.

We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead;

In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead;

By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow deep-nested, in brown--

Not Echo, fair Echo! for Echo, sweet Echo! was flown.

So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call.

The church was among them, grey moss over roof, over wall.

Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green grassy mound

And looked in at a window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round

Might have come in to hide there. But no; every oak-carven seat

Was empty. We saw the great Bible--old, old, very old,

And the parson's great Prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat

Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold

Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle and then waver and play

On the low chancel step and the railing, and Oliver said,

'Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed

She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown;

And she stepped upon flowers they strew'd for her.' Then quoth small Seven:

'Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?'

All doubtful: 'It takes a long time to grow up,' quoth Eleven;

'You're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never

Last on till you're tall.' And in whispers--because it was old

And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,

Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk,

Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we spoke.

Then we went from it softly and ran hand in hand to the strand,

While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter the land.

And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the ferry,

'O Katie!' 'O Katie!' 'Come on, then!' 'Come on, then!' 'For, see,

The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree'--'by the tree.'

'By the tree.' Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry:

'Hie over!' 'Hie over!' 'You man of the ferry'--'the ferry.'

'You man of the ferry--

You man of--you man of--the ferry.'

Ay, here--it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old;

All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told.

Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white

To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon?

Will it all seem an echo from childhood pass'd over--pass'd on?

Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in the dim failing light

I hear her! As then the child's voice clear and high, sweet and merry

Now she mocks the man's tone with 'Hie over! Hie over the ferry!'

'And, Katie.' 'And, Katie.' 'Art out with the glow-worms to-night,

My Katie?' 'My Katie?' For gladness I break into laughter

And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years;

Again, some one else--oh, how softly!--with laughter comes after,

Comes after--with laughter comes after.

PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING.

_A Schoolroom._

_SCHOOLMASTER (_not certificated_), VICAR, _and_ CHILD.

_VICAR_. Why did you send for me? I hope all's

right?

_Schoolmaster_. Well, sir, we thought this end o' the room

was dark.

_V_. Indeed! So 't is. There's my new study lamp--

_S_. 'T would stand, sir, well beside yon laurel wreath.

Shall I go fetch it?

_V._ Do, we must not fail.

Bring candles also.

[_Exit Schoolmaster. Vicar arranges chairs._

Now, small six years old,

And why may you be here?

_Child._ I'm helping father;

But, father, why d'you take such pains?

_V._ Sweet soul,

That's what I'm for!

_C._ What, and for nothing else?

_V._ Yes! I'm to bring thee up to be a man.

_C._ And what am I for?

_V._ There, I'm busy now.

_C._ Am I to bring you up to be a child?

_V._ Perhaps! Indeed, I have heard it said thou art.

_C._ Then when may I begin?

_V._ I'm busy, I say.

Begin to-morrow an thou canst, my son,

And mind to do it well.

[_Exit Vicar and Child._

_Enter a group of women, and some children._

_Mrs. Thorpe._ Fine lot o' lights!

_Mrs. Jillifer._ Should be! Would folk put on their Sunday best

I' the week unless they looked to have it seen?

What, you here, neighbour!

_Mrs. Smith._ Ay, you may say that.

Old Madam called; said she, 'My son would feel

So sorry if you did not come,' and slipped

The penny in my hand, she did; said I,

'Ma'am, that's not it. In short, some say your last

Was worth the penny and more. I know a man,

A sober man, who said, and stuck to it,

_Worth a good twopence_. But I'm strange, I'm shy.'

'We hope you'll come for once,' said she. In short,

I said I would to oblige 'em.

_Mrs. Green_. Ah, 't was well.

_Mrs. S_. But I feel strange, and music gets i' my throat,

It always did. And singers be so smart,

Ladies and folk from other parishes,

Candles and cheering, greens and flowers and all

I was not used to such in my young day;

We kept ourselves at home.

_Mrs. J_. Never say 'used,'

The most of us have many a thing to do

We were not used to. If you come to that,

Why none of us are used to growing old,

It takes us by surprise, as one may say,

That work, when we begin 't, and yet 't is work

That all of us must do.

_Mrs. G_. Nay, nay, not all.

_Mrs. J_. I ask your pardon, neighbour; you be right. Not all.

_Mrs. G_. And my sweet maid scarce three months dead.

_Mrs. J_. I ask your pardon truly.

_Mrs. G_. No, my dear,

Thou'lt never see old days. I cannot stint

To fret, the maiden was but twelve years old,

So toward, such a scholar.

_Mrs. S._ Ay, when God,

That knows, comes down to choose, He'll take the best.

_Mrs. T._ But I'm right glad you came, it pleases _them_.

My son, that loves his book, 'Mother,' said he,

'Go to the Reading when you have a chance,

For there you get a change, and you see life.'

But Reading or no Reading, I am slow

To learn. When parson after comes his rounds,

'Did it,' to ask with a persuading smile,

'Open your mind?' the woman doth not live

Feels more a fool.

_Mrs. J._ I always tell him 'Yes,'

For he means well. Ay, and I like the songs.

Have you heard say what they shall read to-night?

_Mrs. S._. Neighbour, I hear 'tis something of the East.

But what, I ask you, is the East to us,

And where d'ye think it lies?

_Mrs. J._ The children know,

At least they say they do; there's nothing deep

Nor nothing strange but they get hold on it.

_Enter Schoolmaster and a dozen children._

_S._ Now ladies, ladies, you must please to sit

More close; the room fills fast, and all these lads

And maidens either have to sing before

The Reading, or else after. By your leave

I'll have them in the front, I want them here.

[_The women make room._

_Enter ploughmen, villagers, servants, and children._

And mark me, boys, if I hear cracking o' nuts,

Or see you flicking acorns and what not

While folks from other parishes observe,

You'll hear on it when you don't look to. Tom

And Jemmy and Roger, sing as loud's ye can,

Sing as the maidens do, are they afraid?

And now I'm stationed handy facing you,

Friends all, I'll drop a word by your good leave.

_Young ploughman._ Do, master, do, we like your words a vast.

Though there be nought to back 'em up, ye see,

As when we were smaller.

_S._ Mark me, then, my lads.

When Lady Laura sang, 'I don't think much,'

Says her fine coachman, 'of your manners here.

We drove eleven miles in the dark, it rained,

And ruts in your cross roads are deep. We're here,

My lady sings, they sit all open-mouthed,

And when she's done they never give one cheer.'

_Old man._ Be folks to clap if they don't like the song?

_S._ Certain, for manners.

_Enter_ VICAR, _wife, various friends with violins and a flute.

They come to a piano, and one begins softly to tune his

violin, while the Vicar speaks_.

_V_. Friends, since there is a place where you must hear

When I stand up to speak, I would not now

If there were any other found to bid

You welcome. Welcome, then; these with me ask

No better than to please, and in good sooth

I ever find you willing to be pleased.

When I demand not more, but when we fain

Would lead you to some knowledge fresh, and ask

Your careful heed, I hear that some of you

Have said, 'What good to know, what good to us?

He puts us all to school, and our school days

Should be at end. Nay, if they needs must teach,

Then let them teach us what shall mend our lot;

The laws are strict on us, the world is hard.'

You friends and neighbours, may I dare to speak?

I know the laws are strict, and the world hard,

For ever will the world help that man up

That is already coming up, and still

And ever help him down that's going down.

Yet say, 'I will take the words out of thy mouth,

O world, being yet more strict with mine own life.

Thou law, to gaze shall not be worth thy while

On whom beyond thy power doth rule himself.'

Yet seek to know, for whoso seek to know

They seek to rise, and best they mend their lot.

Methinks, if Adam and Eve in their garden days

Had scorned the serpent, and obediently

Continued God's good children, He Himself

Had led them to the Tree of Knowledge soon

And bid them eat the fruit thereof, and yet

Not find it apples of death.

_Vicar's wife (aside)._ Now, dearest John,

We're ready. Lucky too! you always go

Above the people's heads.

_Young farmer stands forward. Vicar presenting him._

SONG.

I.

Sparkle of snow and of frost,

Blythe air and the joy of cold,

Their grace and good they have lost,

As print o' her foot by the fold.

Let me back to yon desert sand,

Rose-lipped love--from the fold,

Flower-fair girl--from the fold,

Let me back to the sultry land.

The world is empty of cheer,

Forlorn, forlorn, and forlorn,

As the night-owl's sob of fear,

As Memnon moaning at morn.

For love of thee, my dear,

I have lived a better man,

O my Mary Anne,

My Mary Anne.

II.

Away, away, and away,

To an old palm-land of tombs,

Washed clear of our yesterday

And where never a snowdrop blooms,

Nor wild becks talk as they go

Of tender hope we had known,

Nor mosses of memory grow

All over the wayside stone.

III.

Farewell, farewell, and farewell,

As voice of a lover's sigh

In the wind let yon willow wave

'Farewell, farewell, and farewell.'

The sparkling frost-stars brave

On thy shrouded bosom lie;

Thou art gone apart to dwell,

But I fain would have said good-bye.

For love of thee in thy grave

I have lived a better man,

O my Mary Anne,

My Mary Anne.

_Mrs. Thorpe (aside)._ O hearts! why, what a song!

To think on it, and he a married man!

_Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Bless you, that makes for nothing, nothing at

all,

They take no heed upon the words. His wife,

Look you, as pleased as may be, smiles on him.

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Neighbours, there's one thing beats me. We've enough

O' trouble in the world; I've cried my fill

Many and many a time by my own fire:

Now why, I'll ask you, should it comfort me

And ease my heart when, pitiful and sweet,

One sings of other souls and how they mourned?

A body would have thought that did not know

Songs must be merry, full of feast and mirth.

Or else would all folk flee away from them.

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ 'Tis strange, and I too love the sad ones best.

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Ay, how they clap him!

'Tis as who should say,

Sing! we were pleased; sing us another song;

As if they did not know he loves to sing.

Well may he, not an organ pipe they blow

On Sunday in the church is half so sweet;

But he's a hard man.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Mark me, neighbours all,

Hard though he be--ay, and the mistress hard--

If he do sing 'twill be a sorrowful

Sad tale of sweethearts, that shall make you wish

Your own time would come over again, although

Were partings in 't and tears. Hist! now he sings.

_Young farmer sings again._

'Come hither, come hither.' The broom was in blossom all over yon rise;

There went a wide murmur of brown bees about it with songs from the wood.

'We shall never be younger! O love, let us forth, for the world 'neath our

eyes,

Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and right fair is her youth and

right good.'

Then there fell the great yearning upon me, that never yet went into words;

While lovesome and moansome thereon spake and falter'd the dove to the

dove.

And I came at her calling, 'Inherit, inherit, and sing with the birds;'

I went up to the wood with the child of my heart and the wife of my love.

O pure! O pathetic! Wild hyacinths drank it, the dream light, apace

Not a leaf moved at all 'neath the blue, they hung waiting for messages

kind;

Tall cherry-trees dropped their white blossom that drifted no whit from

its place,

For the south very far out to sea had the lulling low voice of the

wind.

And the child's dancing foot gave us part in the ravishment almost a pain,

An infinite tremor of life, a fond murmur that cried out on time,

Ah short! must all end in the doing and spend itself sweetly in vain,

And the promise be only fulfilment to lean from the height of its prime?

'We shall never be younger;' nay, mock me not, fancy, none call from yon

tree;

They have thrown me the world they went over, went up, and, alas! For

my part

I am left to grow old, and to grieve, and to change; but they change not

with me;

They will never be older, the child of my love, and the wife of my

heart.

_Mrs. J. I_ told you so!

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ That did you, neighbour. Ay,

Partings, said you, and tears: I liked the song.

_Mrs. G_. Who be these coming to the front to sing?

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Why, neighbour, these be sweethearts, so 'tis said,

And there was much ado to make her sing;

She would, and would not; and he wanted her,

And, mayhap, wanted to be seen with her.

'Tis Tomlin's pretty maid, his only one.

_Mrs. G. (aside)._ I did not know the maid, so fair she looks.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ He's a right proper man she has at last;

Walks over many a mile (and counts them nought)

To court her after work hours, that he doth,

Not like her other--why, he'd let his work

Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love,

While he would sit and look, and look and sigh.

Her father sent him to the right-about.

'If love,' said he, 'won't make a man of you,

Why, nothing will! 'Tis mainly that love's for.

The right sort makes,' said he, 'a lad a man;

The wrong sort makes,' said he, 'a man a fool.'

_Vicar presents a young man and a girl._

DUET.

_She_. While he dreams, mine old grand sire,

And yon red logs glow,

Honey, whisper by the fire,

Whisper, honey low.

_He_. Honey, high's yon weary hill,

Stiff's yon weary loam;

Lacks the work o' my goodwill,

Fain I'd take thee home.

O how much longer, and longer, and longer,

An' how much longer shall the waiting last?

Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,

Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past.

_She_. Honey, bide, the time's awry,

Bide awhile, let be.

_He_. Take my wage then, lay it by,

Till 't come back with thee.

The red money, the white money,

Both to thee I bring--

_She_. Bring ye ought beside, honey?

_He_. Honey, ay, the ring.

_Duet_. But how much longer, and longer, and longer,

O how much longer shall the waiting last?

Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,

Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past.

[_Applause._

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ O she's a pretty maid, and sings so small

And high, 'tis like a flute. And she must blush

Till all her face is roses newly blown.

How folks do clap. She knows not where to look.

There now she's off; he standing like a man

To face them.

_Mrs. G. (aside)._ Makes his bow, and after her;

But what's the good of clapping when they're gone?

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Why 'tis a London fashion as I'm told,

And means they'd have 'em back to sing again.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Neighbours, look where her father, red as fire,

Sits pleased and 'shamed, smoothing his Sunday hat;

And Parson bustles out. Clap on, clap on.

Coming? Not she! There comes her sweetheart though.

_Vicar presents the young man again_.

SONG.

I.

Rain clouds flew beyond the fell,

No more did thunders lower,

Patter, patter, on the beck

Dropt a clearing shower.

Eddying floats of creamy foam

Flecked the waters brown,

As we rode up to cross the ford,

Rode up from yonder town.

Waiting on the weather,

She and I together,

Waiting on the weather,

Till the flood went down.

II.

The sun came out, the wet leaf shone,

Dripped the wild wood vine.

Betide me well, betide me woe,

That hour's for ever mine.

With thee Mary, with thee Mary,

Full oft I pace again,

Asleep, awake, up yonder glen,

And hold thy bridle rein.

Waiting on the weather,

Thou and I together,

Waiting on the weather,

Till the flood shall wane.

III.

And who, though hope did come to nought,

Would memory give away?

I lighted down, she leaned full low,

Nor chid that hour's delay.

With thee Mary, with thee Mary,

Methought my life to crown,

But we ride up, but we ride up,

No more from yonder town.

Waiting on the weather,

Thou and I together,

Waiting on the weather,

Till the flood go down.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Well, very well; but what of fiddler Sam?

I ask you, neighbours, if't be not his turn.

An honest man, and ever pays his score;

Born in the parish, old, blind as a bat,

And strangers sing before him; 't is a shame!

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ Ay, but his daughter--

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Why, the maid's a maid

One would not set to guide the chant in church,

But when she sings to earn her father's bread,

The mildest mother's son may cry 'Amen.'

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ They say he plays not always true.

_Mrs. J. (aside)_ What then?

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Here comes my lady. She's too fat by half

For love songs. O! the lace upon her gown,

I wish I had the getting of it up,

'T would be a pretty penny in my pouch.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Be quiet now for manners.

_Vicar presents a lady, who sings_.

I

Dark flocks of wildfowl riding out the storm

Upon a pitching sea,

Beyond grey rollers vex'd that rear and form,

When piping winds urge on their destiny,

To fall back ruined in white continually.

And I at our trysting stone,

Whereto I came down alone,

Was fain o' the wind's wild moan.

O, welcome were wrack and were rain

And beat of the battling main,

For the sake of love's sweet pain,

For the smile in two brown eyes,

For the love in any wise,

To bide though the last day dies;

For a hand on my wet hair,

For a kiss e'en yet I wear,

For--bonny Jock was there.

II.

Pale precipices while the sun lay low

Tinct faintly of the rose,

And mountain islands mirror'd in a flow,

Forgotten of all winds (their manifold

Peaks, reared into the glory and the glow),

Floated in purple and gold.

And I, o'er the rocks alone,

Of a shore all silent grown,

Came down to our trysting stone,

And sighed when the solemn ray

Paled in the wake o' the day.

'Wellaway, wellaway,--

Comfort is not by the shore,

Going the gold that it wore,

Purple and rose are no more,

World and waters are wan,

And night will be here anon,

And--bonny Jock's gone.'

_[Moderate applause, and calls for fiddler Sam_.

_Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Now, neighbours, call again and be not shamed;

Stand by the parish, and the parish folk,

Them that are poor. I told you! here he comes.

Parson looks glum, but brings him and his girl.

_The fiddler Sam plays, and his daughter sings_.

Touch the sweet string. Fly forth, my heart,

Upon the music like a bird;

The silvery notes shall add their part,

And haply yet thou shalt be heard.

Touch the sweet string.

The youngest wren of nine

Dimpled, dark, and merry,

Brown her locks, and her two eyne

Browner than a berry.

When I was not in love

Maidens met I many;

Under sun now walks but one,

Nor others mark I any.

Twin lambs, a mild-eyed ewe,

That would her follow bleating,

A heifer white as snow

I'll give to my sweet sweeting.

Touch the sweet string. If yet too young,

O love of loves, for this my song,

I'll pray thee count it all unsung,

And wait thy leisure, wait it long.

Touch the sweet string.

[_Much applause_.

_Vicar_. You hear them, Sam. You needs must play

again,

Your neighbours ask it.

_Fiddler_. Thank ye, neighbours all,

I have my feelings though I be but poor;

I've tanged the fiddle here this forty year,

And I should know the trick on 't.

_The fiddler plays, and his daughter sings_.

For Exmoor--

For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart

doth cry.

She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall his.

Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow sky.

_(Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters_,

_buy_.)

For Exmoor--

O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh,

'Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and yearling

shy,

Mid the shrouding vapours walk now like ghosts on high.'

(_Buy my cherries, blackheart cherries, lads and lassies, buy_.)

For Exmoor--

Dear my dear, why did ye so? Evil days have I,

Mark no more the antler'd stag, hear the curlew cry.

Milking at my father's gate while he leans anigh.

(_Buy my cherries, whiteheart, blackheart, golden girls, O buy._)

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ I've known him play that Exmoor

song afore.

'Ah me! and I'm from Exmoor. I could wish

To hear 't no more.

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ Neighbours, 't is mighty hot.

Ay, now they throw the window up, that's well,

A body could not breathe.

[_The fiddler and his daughter go away._

_Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ They'll hear no parson's preaching,

no not they!

But innocenter songs, I do allow,

They could not well have sung than these to-night.

That man knows just so well as if he saw

They were not welcome.

_The Vicar stands up, on the point of beginning to read, when the tuning

and twang of the fiddle is heard close outside the open window, and the

daughter sings in a clear cheerful voice. A little tittering is heard

in the room, and the Vicar pauses discomfited_.

I.

O my heart! what a coil is here!

Laurie, why will ye hold me dear?

Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail,

With a wiser lass ye'll sure prevail,

For ye sing like a woodland nightingale.

And there's no sense in it under the sun;

For of three that woo I can take but one,

So what's to be done--what's to be done?

And

There's no sense in it under the sun.

II.

Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign parts

Come home you'll choose among kinder hearts.

Forget, forget, you're too good to hold

A fancy 't were best should faint, grow cold,

And fade like an August marigold;

For of three that woo I can take but one,

And what's to be done--what's to be done?

There's no sense in it under the sun,

And

Of three that woo I can take but one.

III.

Geordie, Geordie, I count you true,

Though language sweet I have none for you.

Nay, but take me home to the churning mill

When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill

Hang over the tufts o' the daffodil.

For what's to be done--what's to be done?

Of three that woo I must e'en take one,

Or there's no sense in it under the sun,

And

What's to be done--what's to be done?

_V_. (_aside_). What's to be done, indeed!

_Wife_ (_aside_). Done! nothing, love.

Either the thing has done itself, or _they_

Must undo. Did they call for fiddler Sam?

Well, now they have him.

[_More tuning heard outside_.

_Mrs. J_. (_aside_). Live and let live's my motto.

_Mrs. T_. So 't is mine.

Who's Sam, that he must fly in Parson's face?

He's had his turn. He never gave these lights,

Cut his best flowers--

_Mrs. S_. (_aside_). He takes no pride in us.

Speak up, good neighbour, get the window shut.

_Mrs. J_. (_rising_). I ask your pardon truly, that I do--

La! but the window--there's a parlous draught;

The window punishes rheumatic folk--

We'd have it shut, sir.

_Others_. Truly, that we would.

_V_. Certainly, certainly, my friends, you shall.

[_The window is shut, and the Reading begins amid marked

attention_.

KISMET.

Into the rock the road is cut full deep,

At its low ledges village children play,

From its high rifts fountains of leafage weep,

And silvery birches sway.

The boldest climbers have its face forsworn,

Sheer as a wall it doth all daring flout;

But benchlike at its base, and weather-worn,

A narrow ledge leans out.

There do they set forth feasts in dishes rude

Wrought of the rush--wild strawberries on the bed

Left into August, apples brown and crude,

Cress from the cold well-head.

Shy gamesome girls, small daring imps of boys,

But gentle, almost silent at their play--

Their fledgling daws, for food, make far more noise

Ranged on the ledge than they.

The children and the purple martins share

(Loveliest of birds) possession of the place;

They veer and dart cream-breasted round the fair

Faces with wild sweet grace.

Fresh haply from Palmyra desolate,

Palmyra pale in light and storyless--

From perching in old Tadmor mate by mate

In the waste wilderness.

These know the world; what do the children know?

They know the woods, their groaning noises weird,

They climb in trees that overhang the slow

Deep mill-stream, loved and feared.

Where shaken water-wheels go creak and clack,

List while a lorn thrush calls and almost speaks;

See willow-wrens with elderberries black

Staining their slender beaks.

They know full well how squirrels spend the day;

They peeped when field-mice stole and stored the seed,

And voles along their under-water way

Donned collars of bright beads.

Still from the deep-cut road they love to mark

Where set, as in a frame, the nearer shapes

Rise out of hill and wood; then long downs dark

As purple bloom on grapes.

But farms whereon the tall wheat musters gold,

High barley whitening, creases in bare hills,

Reed-feathered, castle-like brown churches old,

Nor churning water-mills,

Shall make ought seem so fair as that beyond--

Beyond the down, which draws their fealty;

Blow high, blow low, some hearts do aye respond

The wind is from the sea.

Above the steep-cut steps as they did grow,

The children's cottage homes embowered are seen;

Were this a world unfallen, they scarce could show

More beauteous red and green.

Milk-white and vestal-chaste the hollyhock

Grows tall, clove, sweetgale nightly shed forth spice,

Long woodbines leaning over scent the rock

With airs of Paradise.

Here comforted of pilot stars they lie

In charmèd dreams, but not of wold nor lea.

Behold a ship! her wide yards score the sky;

She sails a steel-blue sea.

As turns the great amassment of the tide,

Drawn of the silver despot to her throne,

So turn the destined souls, so far and wide

The strong deep claims its own.

Still the old tale; these dreaming islanders,

Each with hot Sunderbunds a somewhat owns

That calls, the grandsire's blood within them stirs

Dutch Java guards his bones.

And these were orphan'd when a leak was sprung

Far out from land when all the air was balm;

The shipmen saw their faces as they hung,

And sank in the glassy calm.

These, in an orange-sloop their father plied,

Deck-laden deep she sailed from Cadiz town,

A black squall rose, she turned upon her side,

Drank water and went down.

They too shall sail. High names of alien lands

Are in the dream, great names their fathers knew;

Madras, the white surf rearing on her sands,

E'en they shall breast it too.

See threads of scarlet down fell Roa creep,

When moaning winds rend back her vapourous veil;

Wild Orinoco wedge-like split the deep,

Raging forth passion-pale;

Or a blue berg at sunrise glittering tall,

Great as a town adrift come shining on

With sharp spires, gemlike as the mystical

Clear city of Saint John.

Still the old tale; but they are children yet;

O let their mothers have them while they may!

Soon it shall work, the strange mysterious fret

That mars both toil and play.

The sea will claim its own; and some shall mourn;

They also, they, but yet will surely go;

So surely as the planet to its bourne,

The chamois to his snow.

'Father, dear father, bid us now God-speed;

We cannot choose but sail, it thus befell.'

'Mother, dear mother--' 'Nay, 't is all decreed.

Dear hearts, farewell, farewell!'

DORA.

A waxing moon that, crescent yet,

In all its silver beauty set,

And rose no more in the lonesome night

To shed full-orbed its longed-for light.

Then was it dark; on wold and lea,

In home, in heart, the hours were drear.

Father and mother could no light see,

And the hearts trembled and there was fear.

--So on the mount, Christ's chosen three,

Unware that glory it did shroud,

Feared when they entered into the cloud.

She was the best part of love's fair

Adornment, life's God-given care,

As if He bade them guard His own,

Who should be soon anear His throne.

Dutiful, happy, and who say

When childhood smiles itself away,

'More fair than morn shall prove the day.'

Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest,

How shall be bettering of your best!

That promise heaven alone shall view,

That hope can ne'er with us come true,

That prophecy life hath not skill,

No, nor time leave that it fulfil.

There is but heaven, for childhood never

Can yield the all it meant, for ever.

Or is there earth, must wane to less

What dawned so close by perfectness.

How guileless, sweet, by gift divine,

How beautiful, dear child, was thine--

Spared all their grief of thee bereaven.

Winner, who had not greatly striven,

Hurts of sin shall not thee soil,

Carking care thy beauty spoil.

So early blest, so young forgiven.

Among the meadows fresh to view,

And in the woodland ways she grew,

On either side a hand to hold,

Nor the world's worst of evil knew,

Nor rued its miseries manifold,

Nor made discovery of its cold.

What more, like one with morn content.

Or of the morrow diffident,

Unconscious, beautiful she stood,

Calm, in young stainless maidenhood.

Then, with the last steps childhood trod,

Took up her fifteen years to God.

Farewell, sweet hope, not long to last,

All life is better for thy past.

Farewell till love with sorrow meet,

To learn that tears are obsolete.

SPERANZA.

_Her younger sister, that Speranza hight_.

England puts on her purple, and pale, pale

With too much light, the primrose doth but wait

To meet the hyacinth; then bower and dale

Shall lose her and each fairy woodland mate.

April forgets them, for their utmost sum

Of gift was silent, and the birds are come.

The world is stirring, many voices blend,

The English are at work in field and way;

All the good finches on their wives attend,

And emmets their new towns lay out in clay;

Only the cuckoo-bird only doth say

Her beautiful name, and float at large all day.

Everywhere ring sweet clamours, chirrupping,

Chirping, that comes before the grasshopper;

The wide woods, flurried with the pulse of spring,

Shake out their wrinkled buds with tremor and stir;

Small noises, little cries, the ear receives

Light as a rustling foot on last year's leaves.

All in deep dew the satisfied deep grass

Looking straight upward stars itself with white,

Like ships in heaven full-sailed do long clouds pass

Slowly o'er this great peace, and wide sweet light.

While through moist meads draws down yon rushy mere

Influent waters, sobbing, shining, clear.

Almost is rapture poignant; somewhat ails

The heart and mocks the morning; somewhat sighs,

And those sweet foreigners, the nightingales,

Made restless with their love, pay down its price,

Even the pain; then all the story unfold

Over and over again--yet 't is not told.

The mystery of the world whose name is life

(One of the names of God) all-conquering wends

And works for aye with rest and cold at strife.

Its pedigree goes up to Him and ends.

For it the lucent heavens are clear o'erhead,

And all the meads are made its natal bed.

Dear is the light, and eye-sight ever sweet,

What see they all fair lower things that nurse,

No wonder, and no doubt? Truly their meat,

Their kind, their field, their foes; man's eyes are more;

Sight is man's having of the universe,

His pass to the majestical far shore.

But it is not enough, ah! not enough

To look upon it and be held away,

And to be sure that, while we tread the rough,

Remote, dull paths of this dull world, no ray

Shall pierce to us from the inner soul of things,

Nor voice thrill out from its deep master-strings.

'To show the skies, and tether to the sod!

A daunting gift!' we mourn in our long strife.

And God is more than all our thought of God;

E'en life itself more than our thought of life,

And that is all we know--and it is noon,

Our little day will soon be done--how soon!

O let us to ourselves be dutiful:

We are not satisfied, we have wanted all,

Not alone beauty, but that Beautiful;

A lifted veil, an answering mystical.

Ever men plead, and plain, admire, implore,

'Why gavest Thou so much--and yet--not more?

We are but let to look, and Hope is weighed.'

Yet, say the Indian words of sweet renown,

'The doomèd tree withholdeth not her shade

From him that bears the axe to cut her down;'

Is hope cut down, dead, doomed, all is vain:

The third day dawns, she too has risen again

(For Faith is ours by gift, but Hope by right),

And walks among us whispering as of yore:

'Glory and grace are thrown thee with the light;

Search, if not yet thou touch the mystic shore;

Immanent beauty and good are nigh at hand,

For infants laugh and snowdrops bloom in the land.

Thou shalt have more anon.' What more? in sooth,

The mother of to-morrow is to-day,

And brings forth after her kind. There is no ruth

On the heart's sigh, that 'more' is hidden away,

And man's to-morrow yet shall pine and yearn;

He shall surmise, and he shall not discern,

But list the lark, and want the rapturous cries

And passioning of morning stars that sing

Together; mark the meadow-orchis rise

And think it freckled after an angel's wing;

Absent desire his land, and feel this, one

With the great drawing of the central sun.

But not to all such dower, for there be eyes

Are colour-blind, and souls are spirit-blind.

Those never saw the blush in sunset skies,

Nor the others caught a sense not made of words

As if were spirits about, that sailed the wind

And sank and settled on the boughs like birds.

Yet such for aye divided from us are

As other galaxies that seem no more

Than a little golden millet-seed afar.

Divided; swarming down some flat lee shore,

Then risen, while all the air that takes no word

Tingles, and trembles as with cries not heard.

For they can come no nearer. There is found

No meeting point. We have pierced the lodging-place

Of stars that cluster'd with their peers lie bound,

Embedded thick, sunk in the seas of space,

Fortunate orbs that know not night, for all

Are suns;--but we have never heard that call,

Nor learned it in our world, our citadel

With outworks of a Power about it traced;

Nor why we needs must sin who would do well,

Nor why the want of love, nor why its waste,

Nor how by dying of One should all be sped,

Nor where, O Lord, thou hast laid up our dead.

But Hope is ours by right, and Faith by gift.

Though Time be as a moon upon the wane,

Who walk with Faith far up the azure lift

Oft hear her talk of lights to wax again.

'If man be lost,' she cries, 'in this vast sea

Of being,--lost--he would be lost with Thee

Who for his sake once, as he hears, lost all.

For Thou wilt find him at the end of the days:

Then shall the flocking souls that thicker fall

Than snowflakes on the everlasting ways

Be counted, gathered, claimed.--Will it be long?

Earth has begun already her swan-song.

Who, even that might, would dwell for ever pent

In this fair frame that doth the spirit inhearse,

Nor at the last grow weary and content,

Die, and break forth into the universe,

And yet man would not all things--all--were new.'

Then saith the other, that one robed in blue:

'What if with subtle change God touch their eyes

When he awakes them,--not far off, but here

In a new earth, this: not in any wise

Strange, but more homely sweet, more heavenly dear,

Or if He roll away, as clouds disperse

Somewhat, and lo, that other universe.

O how 't were sweet new waked in some good hour,

Long time to sit on a hillside green and high

There like a honeybee domed in a flower

To feed unneath the azure bell o' the sky,

Feed in the midmost home and fount of light

Sown thick with stars at noonday as by night

To watch the flying faultless ones wheel down,

Alight, and run along some ridged peak,

Their feet adust from orbs of old renown,

Procyon or Mazzaroth, haply;--when they speak

Other-world errands wondrous, all discern

That would be strange, there would be much to learn.

Ay, and it would be sweet to share unblamed

Love's shining truths that tell themselves in tears,

Or to confess and be no more ashamed

The wrongs that none can right through earthly years;

And seldom laugh, because the tenderness

Calm, perfect, would be more than joy--would bless.

I tell you it were sweet to have enough,

And be enough. Among the souls forgiven

In presence of all worlds, without rebuff

To move, and feel the excellent safety leaven

With peace that awe must loss and the grave survive--

But palpitating moons that are alive

Nor shining fogs swept up together afar,

Vast as a thought of God, in the firmament;

No, and to dart as light from star to star

Would not long time man's yearning soul content:

Albeit were no more ships and no more sea,

He would desire his new earth presently.

Leisure to learn it. Peoples would be here;

They would come on in troops, and take at will

The forms, the faces they did use to wear

With life's first splendours--raiment rich with skill

Of broidery, carved adornments, crowns of gold;

Still would be sweet to them the life of old.

Then might be gatherings under golden shade,

Where dust of water drifts from some sheer fall,

Cooling day's ardour. There be utterance made

Of comforted love, dear freedom after thrall,

Large longings of the Seer, through earthly years

An everlasting burden, but no tears.

Egypt's adopted child might tell of lore

They taught him underground in shrines all dim,

And of the live tame reptile gods that wore

Gold anklets on their feet. And after him,

With fairest eyes ere met of mortal ken,

Glorious, forgiven, might speak the mother of men.

Talk of her apples gather'd by the marge

Of lapsing Gihon. 'Thus one spoke, I stood,

I ate.' Or next the mariner-saint enlarge

Right quaintly on his ark of gopher wood

To wandering men through high grass meads that ran

Or sailed the sea Mediterranean.

It might be common--earth afforested

Newly, to follow her great ones to the sun,

When from transcendent aisles of gloom they sped

Some work august (there would be work) now done.

And list, and their high matters strive to scan

The seekers after God, and lovers of man,

Sitting together in amity on a hill,

The Saint of Visions from Greek Patmos come--

Aurelius, lordly, calm-eyed, as of will

Austere, yet having rue on lost, lost Rome,

And with them One who drank a fateful bowl,

And to the unknown God trusted his soul.

The mitred Cranmer pitied even there

(But could it be?) for that false hand which signed

O, all pathetic--no. But it might bear

To soothe him marks of fire--and gladsome kind

The man, as all of joy him well beseemed

Who 'lighted on a certain place and dreamed.'

And fair with the meaning of life their divine brows,

The daughters of well-doing famed in song;

But what! could old-world love for child, for spouse,

For land, content through lapsing eons long?

Oh for a watchword strong to bridge the deep

And satisfy of fulness after sleep.

What know we? Whispers fall, '_And the last first,

And the first last._' The child before the king?

The slave before that man a master erst?

The woman before her lord? Shall glory fling

The rolls aside--time raze out triumphs past?

They sigh, '_And the last first, and the first last._'

Answers that other, 'Lady, sister, friend,

It is enough, for I have worshipped Life;

With Him that is the Life man's life shall blend,

E'en now the sacred heavens do help his strife.

There do they knead his bread and mix his cup,

And all the stars have leave to bear him up.

Yet must he sink and fall away to a sleep,

As did his Lord. This Life his worshipped

Religion, Life. The silence may be deep,

Life listening, watching, waiting by His dead,

Till at the end of days they wake full fain

Because their King, the Life, doth love and reign.

I know the King shall come to that new earth,

And His feet stand again as once they stood,

In His man's eyes will shine Time's end and worth

The chiefest beauty and the chiefest good,

And all shall have the all and in it bide,

And every soul of man be satisfied.

THE BEGINNING.

They tell strange things of the primeval earth,

But things that be are never strange to those

Among them. And we know what it was like,

Many are sure they walked in it; the proof

This, the all gracious, all admired whole

Called life, called world, called thought, was all as one.

Nor yet divided more than that old earth

Among the tribes. Self was not fully come--

Self was asleep, embedded in the whole.

I too dwelt once in a primeval world,

Such as they tell of, all things wonderful;

Voices, ay visions, people grand and tall

Thronged in it, but their talk was overhead

And bore scant meaning, that one wanted not

Whose thought was sight as yet unbound of words,

This kingdom of heaven having entered through

Being a little child.

Such as can see,

Why should they doubt? The childhood of a race.

The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt

Nor fear. Where all is super-natural

The guileless heart doth feed on it, no more

Afraid than angels are of heaven.

Who saith

Another life, the next one shall not have

Another childhood growing gently thus,

Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take

The rich long awful measure of its peace,

Endure the presence sublime.

I saw

Once in that earth primeval, once--a face,

A little face that yet I dream upon.'

'Of this world was it?'

'Not of this world--no,

In the beginning--for methinks it was

In the beginning but an if you ask

How long ago, time was not then, nor date

For marking. It was always long ago,

E'en from the first recalling of it, long

And long ago.

And I could walk, and went,

Led by the hand through a long mead at morn,

Bathed in a ravishing excess of light.

It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven,

Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sun

Gave every blade a bright and a dark side,

Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slipped

To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay.

The wide oaks in their early green stood still

And took delight in it. Brown specks that made

Very sweet noises quivered in the blue;

Then they came down and ran along the brink

Of a long pool, and they were birds.

The pool

Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint,

A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers

And flags blue-green was lying below. This all

Was sight it condescended not to words

Till memory kissed the charmed dream.

The mead

Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair

With dropping roses fell away to it,

A strange sweet place; upon its further side

Some people gently walking took their way

Up to a wood beyond; and also bells

Sang, floated in the air, hummed--what you will.'

'Then it was Sunday?'

'Sunday was not yet;

It was a holiday, for all the days

Were holy. It was not our day of rest

(The earth for all her rolling asks not rest,

For she was never weary).

It was sweet,

Full of dear leisure and perennial peace,

As very old days when life went easily,

Before mankind had lost the wise, the good

Habit of being happy.

For the pool

A beauteous place it was as might be seen,

That led one down to other meads, and had

Clouds and another sky. I thought to go

Deep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope.

Then she who led me reached the brink, her foot

Staying to talk with one who met her there.

Here were fresh marvels, sailing things whose vans

Floated them on above the flowering flags.

We moved a little onward, paused again,

And here there was a break in these, and here

There came the vision; for I stooped to gaze

So far as my small height would let me--gaze

Into that pool to see the fishes dart,

And in a moment from her under hills

Came forth a little child who lived down there,

Looked up at me and smiled. We could not talk,

But looked and loved each other. I a hand

Held out to her, so she to me, but ah,

She would not come. Her home, her little bed,

Was doubtless under that soft shining thing

The water, and she wanted not to run

Among red sorrel spires, and fill her hand

In the dry warmed grass with cowslip buds.

Awhile our feeding hearts all satisfied,

Took in the blue of one another's eyes,

Two dimpled creatures, rose-lipped innocent.

But when we fain had kissed--O! the end came,

For snatched aloft, held in the nurse's arms,

She parting with her lover I was borne

Far from that little child.

And no one knew

She lived down there, but only I; and none

Sought for her, but I yearned for her and left

Part of myself behind, as the lambs leave

Their wool upon a thorn.'

'And was she seen

Never again, nor known for what she was?'

'Never again, for we did leave anon

The pasture and the pool. I know not where

They lie, and sleep a heaven on earth, but know

From thenceforth yearnings for a lost delight;

On certain days I dream about her still.'

IN THE NURSERY.

Where do you go, Bob, when you 're fast asleep?'

'Where? O well, once I went into a deep

Mine, father told of, and a cross man said

He'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread.

I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near.

She said, "You rude boy, Bob, how came you here?"'

'Was it like mother's boudoir?'

'Grander far,

Gold chairs and things--all over diamonds--Ah!'

'You're sure it was the Queen?'

'Of course, a crown

Was on her, and a spangly purple gown.'

'I went to heaven last night.'

'O Lily, no,

How could you?'

'Yes I did, they told me so,

And my best doll, my favourite, with the blue

Frock, Jasmine, I took her to heaven too.'

'What was it like?'

'A kind of--I can't tell--

A sort of orchard place in a long dell,

With trees all over flowers. And there were birds

Who could do talking, say soft pretty words;

They let me stroke them, and I showed it all

To Jasmine. And I heard a blue dove call,

"Child, this is heaven." I was not frightened when

It spoke, I said "Where are the angels then?"'

'Well.'

'So it said, "Look up and you shall see."

There were two angels sitting in the tree,

As tall as mother; they had long gold hair.

They let drop down the fruit they gather'd there

And little angels came for it--so sweet.

Here they were beggar children in the street,

And the dove said they had the prettiest things,

And wore their best frocks every day.'

'And wings,

Had they no wings?'

'O yes, and lined with white

Like swallow wings, so soft--so very light

Fluttering about.'

'Well.'

'Well, I did not stay,

So that was all.'

'They made you go away?'

'I did not go--but--I was gone.'

'I know.'

'But it's a pity, Bob, we never go

Together.'

'Yes, and have no dreams to tell,

But the next day both know it all quite well.'

'And, Bob, if I could dream you came with me

You would be there perhaps.'

'Perhaps--we'll see.'

THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD.

Toll--

Toll.' 'The bell-bird sounding far away,

Hid in a myall grove.' He raised his head,

The bush glowed scarlet in descending day,

A masterless wild country--and he said,

My father ('Toll.') 'Full oft by her to stray,

As if a spirit called, have I been led;

Oft seems she as an echo in my soul

('Toll.') from my native towers by Avon ('Toll').

('Toll.') Oft as in a dream I see full fain

The bell-tower beautiful that I love well,

A seemly cluster with her churches twain.

I hear adown the river faint and swell

And lift upon the air that sound again,

It is, it is--how sweet no tongue can tell,

For all the world-wide breadth of shining foam,

The bells of Evesham chiming "Home, sweet home."

The mind hath mastery thus--it can defy

The sense, and make all one as it DID HEAR--

Nay, I mean more; the wraiths of sound gone by

Rise; they are present 'neath this dome all clear.

ONE, sounds the bird--a pause--then doth supply

Some ghost of chimes the void expectant ear;

Do they ring bells in heaven? The learnedest soul

Shall not resolve me such a question. ('Toll.')

('Toll.') Say I am a boy, and fishing stand

By Avon ('Toll.') on line and rod intent,

How glitters deep in dew the meadow land--

What, dost thou flit, thy ministry all spent,

Not many days we hail such visits bland,

Why steal so soon the rare enravishment?

Ay gone! the soft deceptive echoes roll

Away, and faint into remoteness.' ('Toll.')

While thus he spoke the doom'd sun touched his bed

In scarlet, all the palpitating air

Still loyal waited on. He dipped his head,

Then all was over, and the dark was there;

And northward, lo! a star, one likewise red

But lurid, starts from out her day-long lair,

Her fellows trail behind; she bears her part,

The balefullest star that shines, the Scorpion's heart

Or thus of old men feigned, and then did fear,

Then straight crowd forth the great ones of the sky

In flashing flame at strife to reach more near.

The little children of Infinity,

They next look down as to report them 'Here,'

From deeps all thoughts despair and heights past high,

Speeding, not sped, no rest, no goal, no shore,

Still to rush on till time shall be no more.

'Loved vale of Evesham, 'tis a long farewell,

Not laden orchards nor their April snow

These eyes shall light upon again; the swell

And whisper of thy storied river know,

Nor climb the hill where great old Montfort fell

In a good cause hundreds of years ago;

So fall'n, elect to live till life's ally,

The river of recorded deeds, runs dry.

This land is very well, this air,' saith he,

'Is very well, but we want echoes here.

Man's past to feed the air and move the sea;

Ages of toil make English furrows dear,

Enriched by blood shed for his liberty,

Sacred by love's first sigh and life's last fear,

We come of a good nest, for it shall yearn

Poor birds of passage, but may not return,

Spread younger wings, and beat the winds afar.

There sing more poets in that one small isle

Than all isles else can show--of such you are;

Remote things come to you unsought erewhile,

Near things a long way round as by a star.

Wild dreams!' He laughed, 'A sage right infantile;

With sacred fear behold life's waste deplored,

Undaunted by the leisure of the Lord.

Ay go, the island dream with eyes make good,

Where Freedom rose, a lodestar to your race;

And Hope that leaning on her anchor stood

Did smile it to her feet: a right small place.

Call her a mother, high such motherhood,

Home in her name and duty in her face;

Call her a ship, her wide arms rake the clouds,

And every wind of God pipes in her shrouds.

Ay, all the more go you. But some have cried

"The ship is breaking up;" they watch amazed

While urged toward the rocks by some that guide;

Bad steering, reckless steering, she all dazed

Tempteth her doom; yet this have none denied

Ships men have wrecked and palaces have razed,

But never was it known beneath the sun,

They of such wreckage built a goodlier one.

God help old England an't be thus, nor less

God help the world.' Therewith my mother spake,

'Perhaps He will! by time, by faithlessness,

By the world's want long in the dark awake,

I think He must be almost due: the stress

Of the great tide of life, sharp misery's ache,

In a recluseness of the soul we rue

Far off, but yet--He must be almost due.

God manifest again, the coming King.'

Then said my father, 'I beheld erewhile,

Sitting up dog-like to the sunrising,

The giant doll in ruins by the Nile,

With hints of red that yet to it doth cling,

Fell, battered, and bewigged its cheeks were vile,

A body of evil with its angel fled,

Whom and his fellow fiends men worshipped.

The gods die not, long shrouded on their biers,

Somewhere they live, and live in memory yet;

Were not the Israelites for forty years

Hid from them in the desert to forget--

Did they forget? no more than their lost feres

Sons of to-day with faces southward set,

Who dig for buried lore long ages fled,

And sift for it the sand and search the dead.

Brown Egypt gave not one great poet birth,

But man was better than his gods, with lay

He soothed them restless, and they zoned the earth,

And crossed the sea; there drank immortal praise;

Then from his own best self with glory and worth

And beauty dowered he them for dateless days.

Ever "their sound goes forth" from shore to shore,

When was there known an hour that they lived more.

Because they are beloved and not believed,

Admired not feared, they draw men to their feet;

All once, rejected, nothing now, received

Where once found wanting, now the most complete;

Man knows to-day, though manhood stand achieved,

His cradle-rockers made a rustling sweet;

That king reigns longest which did lose his crown,

Stars that by poets shine are stars gone down.

Still drawn obedient to an unseen hand,

From purer heights comes down the yearning west,

Like to that eagle in the morning land,

That swooping on her predatory quest,

Did from the altar steal a smouldering brand,

The which she bearing home it burned her nest,

And her wide pinions of their plumes bereaven.

Spoiled for glad spiring up the steeps of heaven.

I say the gods live, and that reign abhor,

And will the nations it should dawn? Will they

Who ride upon the perilous edge of war?

Will such as delve for gold in this our day?

Neither the world will, nor the age will, nor

The soul--and what, it cometh now? Nay, nay,

The weighty sphere, unready for release,

Rolls far in front of that o'ermastering peace.

Wait and desire it; life waits not, free there

To good, to evil, thy right perilous--

All shall be fair, and yet it is not fair.

I thank my God He takes th'advantage thus;

He doth not greatly hide, but still declare

Which side He is on and which He loves, to us,

While life impartial aid to both doth lend,

And heed not which the choice nor what the end.

Among the few upright, O to be found,

And ever search the nobler path, my son,

Nor say 'tis sweet to find me common ground

Too high, too good, shall leave the hours alone--

Nay, though but one stood on the height renowned,

Deny not hope or will, to be that one.

Is it the many fall'n shall lift the land,

The race, the age!--Nay, 't is the few that stand.'

While in the lamplight hearkening I sat mute,

Methought 'How soon this fire must needs burn out'

Among the passion flowers and passion fruit

That from the wide verandah hung, misdoubt

Was mine. 'And wherefore made I thus long suit

To leave this old white head? His words devout,

His blessing not to hear who loves me so--

He that is old, right old--I will not go.'

But ere the dawn their counsels wrought with me,

And I went forth; alas that I so went

Under the great gum-forest canopy,

The light on every silken filament

Of every flower, a quivering ecstasy

Of perfect paleness made it; sunbeams sent

Up to the leaves with sword-like flash endued

Each turn of that grey drooping multitude.

I sought to look as in the light of one

Returned. 'Will this be strange to me that day?

Flocks of green parrots clamorous in the sun

Tearing out milky maize--stiff cacti grey

As old men's beards--here stony ranges lone,

Their dust of mighty flocks upon their way

To water, cloudlike on the bush afar,

Like smoke that hangs where old-world cities are.

Is it not made man's last endowment here

To find a beauty in the wilderness;

Feel the lorn moor above his pastures dear,

Mountains that may not house and will not bless

To draw him even to death? He must insphere

His spirit in the open, so doth less

Desire his feres, and more that unvex'd wold

And fine afforested hills, his dower of old.

But shall we lose again that new-found sense

Which sees the earth less for our tillage fair?

Oh, let her speak with her best eloquence

To me, but not her first and her right rare

Can equal what I may not take from hence.

The gems are left: it is not otherwhere

The wild Nepèan cleaves her matchless way,

Nor Sydney harbour shall outdo the day.

Adding to day this--that she lighteth it.'

But I beheld again, and as must be

With a world-record by a spirit writ,

It was more beautiful than memory,

Than hope was more complete.

Tall brigs did sit

Each in her berth the pure flood placidly,

Their topsails drooping 'neath the vast blue dome

Listless, as waiting to be sheeted home.

And the great ships with pulse-like throbbing clear,

Majestical of mien did take their way

Like living creatures from some grander sphere,

That having boarded ours thought good to stay,

Albeit enslaved. They most divided here

From God's great art and all his works in clay,

In that their beauty lacks, though fair it shows

That divine waste of beauty only He bestows.

The day was young, scarce out the harbour lights

That morn I sailed: low sun-rays tremulous

On golden loops sped outward. Yachts in flights

Flutter'd the water air-like clear, while thus

It crept for shade among brown rocky bights

With cassia crowned and palms diaphanous,

And boughs ripe fruitage dropping fitfully,

That on the shining ebb went out to sea.

'Home,' saith the man self-banished, 'my son

Shall now go home.' Therewith he sendeth him

Abroad, and knows it not, but thence is won,

Rescued, the son's true home. His mind doth limn

Beautiful pictures of it, there is none

So dear, a new thought shines erewhile but dim,

'That was my home, a land past all compare,

Life, and the poetry of life, are there.'

But no such thought drew near to me that day;

All the new worlds flock forth to greet the old,

All the young souls bow down to own its sway,

Enamoured of strange richness manifold;

Not to be stored, albeit they seek for aye,

Besieging it for its own life to hold,

E'en as Al Mamoun fain for treasures hid,

Stormed with an host th' inviolate pyramid.

And went back foiled but wise to walled Bagdad.

So I, so all. The treasure sought not found,

But some divine tears found to superadd

Themselves to a long story. The great round

Of yesterdays, their pathos sweet as sad,

Found to be only as to-day, close bound

With us, we hope some good thing yet to know,

But God is not in haste, while the lambs grow

The Shepherd leadeth softly. It is great

The journey, and the flock forgets at last

(Earth ever working to obliterate

The landmarks) when it halted, where it passed;

And words confuse, and time doth ruinate,

And memory fail to hold a theme so vast;

There is request for light, but the flock feeds,

And slowly ever on the Shepherd leads.

'Home,' quoth my father, and a glassy sea

Made for the stars a mirror of its breast,

While southing, pennon-like, in bravery

Of long drawn gold they trembled to their rest.

Strange the first night and morn, when Destiny

Spread out to float on, all the mind oppressed;

Strange on their outer roof to speed forth thus,

And know th' uncouth sea-beasts stared up at us.

But yet more strange the nights of falling rain,

That splashed without--a sea-coal fire within;

Life's old things gone astern, the mind's disdain,

For murmurous London makes soft rhythmic din.

All courtier thoughts that wait on words would fain

Express that sound. The words are not to win

Till poet made, but mighty, yet so mild

Shall be as cooing of a cradle-child.

Sensation like a piercing arrow flies,

Daily out-going thought. This Adamhood,

This weltering river of mankind that hies

Adown the street; it cannot be withstood.

The richest mundane miles not otherwise

Than by a symbol keep possession good,

Mere symbol of division, and they hold

The clear pane sacred, the unminted gold

And wild outpouring of all wealth not less.

Why this? A million strong the multitude,

And safe, far safer than our wilderness

The walls; for them it daunts with right at feud,

Itself declares for law; yet sore the stress

On steeps of life: what power to ban and bless,

Saintly denial, waste inglorious,

Desperate want, and riches fabulous.

Of souls what beautiful embodiment

For some; for some what homely housing writ;

What keen-eyed men who beggared of content

Eat bread well earned as they had stolen it;

What flutterers after joy that forward went,

And left them in the rear unqueened, unfit

For joy, with light that faints in strugglings drear

Of all things good the most awanting here.

Some in the welter of this surging tide

Move like the mystic lamps, the Spirits Seven,

Their burning love runs kindling far and wide,

That fire they needed not to steal from heaven,

'Twas a free gift flung down with them to bide,

And be a comfort for the hearts bereaven,

A warmth, a glow, to make the failing store

And parsimony of emotion more.

What glorious dreams in that find harbourage,

The phantom of a crime stalks this beside,

And those might well have writ on some past page,

In such an hour, of such a year, we--died,

Put out our souls, took the mean way, false wage,

Course cowardly; and if we be denied

The life once loved, we cannot alway rue

The loss; let be: what vails so sore ado.

And faces pass of such as give consent

To live because 'tis not worth while to die;

This never knew the awful tremblement

When some great fear sprang forward suddenly,

Its other name being hope--and there forthwent

As both confronted him a rueful cry

From the heart's core, one urging him to dare,

'Now! now! Leap now.' The other, 'Stand, forbear.'

A nation reared in brick. How shall this be?

Nor by excess of life death overtake.

To die in brick of brick her destiny,

And as the hamadryad eats the snake

His wife, and then the snake his son, so she

Air not enough, 'though everyone doth take

A little,' water scant, a plague of gold,

Light out of date--a multitude born old.

And then a three-day siege might be the end;

E'en now the rays get muddied struggling down

Through heaven's vasty lofts, and still extend

The miles of brick and none forbid, and none

Forbode; a great world-wonder that doth send

High fame abroad, and fear no setting sun,

But helpless she through wealth that flouts the day

And through her little children, even as they.

But forth of London, and all visions dear

To eastern poets of a watered land

Are made the commonplace of nature here,

Sweet rivers always full, and always bland.

Beautiful, beautiful! What runlets clear

Twinkle among the grass. On every hand

Fall in the common talk from lips around

The old names of old towns and famous ground.

It is not likeness only charms the sense,

Not difference only sets the mind aglow,

It is the likeness in the difference,

Familiar language spoken on the snow,

To have the Perfect in the Present tense,

To hear the ploughboy whistling, and to know,

It smacks of the wild bush, that tune--'Tis ours,

And look! the bank is pale with primrose flowers,

What veils of tender mist make soft the lea,

What bloom of air the height; no veils confer

On warring thought or softness or degree

Or rest. Still falling, conquering, strife and stir.

For this religion pays indemnity.

She pays her enemies for conquering her.

And then her friends; while ever, and in vain

Lots for a seamless coat are cast again.

Whose it shall be; unless it shall endow

Thousands of thousands it can fall to none,

But faith and hope are not so simple now,

As in the year of our redemption--One.

The pencil of pure light must disallow

Its name and scattering, many hues put on,

And faith and hope low in the valley feel,

There it is well with them, 'tis very well.

The land is full of vision, voices call.

Can spirits cast a shadow? Ay, I trow

Past is not done, and over is not all,

Opinion dies to live and wanes to grow,

The gossamer of thought doth filmlike fall,

On fallows after dawn make shimmering show,

And with old arrow-heads, her earliest prize,

Mix learning's latest guess and last surmise.

There heard I pipes of fame, saw wrens 'about

That time when kings go forth to battle' dart,

Full valorous atoms pierced with song, and stout

To dare, and down yclad; I shared the smart

Of grievèd cushats, bloom of love, devout

Beyond man's thought of it. Old song my heart

Rejoiced, but O mine own forelders' ways

To look on, and their fashions of past days.

The ponderous craft of arms I craved to see,

Knights, burghers, filtering through those gates ajar,

Their age of serfdom with my spirit free;

We cannot all have wisdom; some there are

Believe a star doth rule their destiny,

And yet they think to overreach the star,

For thought can weld together things apart,

And contraries find meeting in the heart.

In the deep dust at Suez without sound

I saw the Arab children walk at eve,

Their dark untroubled eyes upon the ground,

A part of Time's grave quiet. I receive

Since then a sense, as nature might have found

Love kin to man's that with the past doth grieve;

And lets on waste and dust of ages fall

Her tender silences that mean it all.

We have it of her, with her; it were ill

For men, if thought were widowed of the world,

Or the world beggared of her sons, for still

A crownèd sphere with many gems impearled

She rolls because of them. We lend her will

And she yields love. The past shall not be hurled

In the abhorred limbo while the twain,

Mother and son, hold partnership and reign.

She hangs out omens, and doth burdens dree.

Is she in league with heaven? That knows but One.

For man is not, and yet his work we see

Full of unconscious omen darkly done.

I saw the ring-stone wrought at Avebury

To frame the face of the midwinter sun,

Good luck that hour they thought from him forth smiled

At midwinter the Sun did rise--the Child.

Still would the world divine though man forbore,

And what is beauty but an omen?--what

But life's deep divination cast before,

Omen of coming love? Hard were man's lot,

With love and toil together at his door,

But all-convincing eyes hath beauty got;

His love is beautiful, and he shall sue.

Toil for her sake is sweet, the omen true.

Love, love, and come it must, then life is found

Beforehand that was whole and fronting care,

A torn and broken half in durance bound

That mourns and makes request for its right fair

Remainder, with forlorn eyes cast around

To search for what is lost, that unaware

With not an hour's forebodement makes the day

From henceforth less or more for ever and aye.

Her name--my love's--I knew it not; who says

Of vagrant doubt for such a cause that stirs

His fancy shall not pay arrearages

To all sweet names that might perhaps be hers?

The doubts of love are powers. His heart obeys,

The world is in them, still to love defers,

Will play with him for love, but when 't begins

The play is high, and the world always wins.

For 'tis the maiden's world, and his no more.

Now thus it was: with new found kin flew by

The temperate summer; every wheatfield wore

Its gold, from house to house in ardency

Of heart for what they showed I westward bore--

My mother's land, her native hills drew nigh;

I was--how green, how good old earth can be--

Beholden to that land for teaching me.

And parted from my fellows, and went on

To feel the spiritual sadness spread

Adown long pastoral hollows. And anon

Did words recur in far remoteness said:

'See the deep vale ere dews are dried and gone,

Where my so happy life in peace I led,

And the great shadow of the Beacon lies--

See little Ledbury trending up the rise.

With peakèd houses and high market hall--

An oak each pillar--reared in the old days.

And here was little Ledbury, quaint withal,

The forest felled, her lair and sheltering place

She long time left in age pathetical.

'Great oaks' methought, as I drew near to gaze,

'Were but of small account when these came down,

Drawn rough-hewn in to serve the tree-girt town.

And thus and thus of it will question be

The other side the world.' I paused awhile

To mark. 'The old hall standeth utterly

Without or floor or side, a comely pile,

A house on pillars, and by destiny

Drawn under its deep roof I saw a file

Of children slowly through their way make good,

And lifted up mine eyes--and there--SHE STOOD.

She was so stately that her youthful grace

Drew out, it seemed, my soul unto the air,

Astonished out of breathing by her face

So fain to nest itself in nut-brown hair

Lying loose about her throat. But that old place

Proved sacred, she just fully grown too fair

For such a thought. The dimples that she had!

She was so truly sweet that it was sad.

I was all hers. That moment gave her power--

And whom, nay what she was, I scarce might know,

But felt I had been born for that good hour.

The perfect creature did not move, but so

As if ordained to claim all grace for dower.

She leaned against the pillar, and below

Three almost babes, her care, she watched the while

With downcast lashes and a musing smile.

I had been 'ware without a rustic treat,

Waggons bedecked with greenery stood anigh,

A swarm of children in the cheerful street

With girls to marshal them; but all went by

And none I noted save this only sweet:

Too young her charge more venturous sport to try,

With whirling baubles still they play content,

And softly rose their lisping babblement.

'O what a pause! to be so near, to mark

The locket rise and sink upon her breast;

The shadow of the lashes lieth dark

Upon her cheek. O fleeting time, O rest!

A slant ray finds the gold, and with a spark

And flash it answers, now shall be the best.

Her eyes she raises, sets their light on mine,

They do not flash nor sparkle--no--but shine.'

As I for very hopelessness made bold

Did off my hat ere time there was for thought,

She with a gracious sweetness, calm, not cold,

Acknowledged me, but brought my chance to nought

'This vale of imperfection doth not hold

A lovelier bud among its loveliest wrought!

She turns,' methought 'O do not quite forget

To me remains for ever--that we met.'

And straightway I went forth, I could no less,

Another light unwot of fall'n on me,

And rare elation and high happiness

Some mighty power set hands of mastery

Among my heartstrings, and they did confess

With wild throbs inly sweet, that minstrelsy

A nightingale might dream so rich a strain,

And pine to change her song for sleep again.

The harp thrilled ever: O with what a round

And series of rich pangs fled forth each note

Oracular, that I had found, had found

(Head waters of old Nile held less remote)

Golden Dorado, dearest, most renowned;

But when as 't were a sigh did overfloat,

Shaping 'how long, not long shall this endure,

_Au jour le jour'_ methought, _'Aujour le jour'_.

The minutes of that hour my heart knew well

Were like the fabled pint of golden grain,

Each to be counted, paid for, till one fell,

Grew, shot up to another world amain,

And he who dropped might climb it, there to dwell.

I too, I clomb another world full fain,

But was she there? O what would be the end,

Might she nor there appear, nor I descend?

All graceful as a palm the maiden stood;

Men say the palm of palms in tropic Isles

Doth languish in her deep primeval wood,

And want the voice of man, his home, his smiles,

Nor flourish but in his dear neighborhood;

She too shall want a voice that reconciles,

A smile that charms--how sweet would heaven so please--

To plant her at my door over far seas.

I paced without, nor ever liege in truth

His sovran lady watched with more grave eyes

Of reverence, and she nothing ware forsooth,

Did standing charm the soul with new surprise.

Moving flow on a dimpled dream of youth.

Look! look! a sunbeam on her. Ay, but lies

The shade more sweetly now she passeth through

To join her fellow maids returned anew.

I saw (myself to bide unmarked intent)

Their youthful ease and pretty airs sedate,

They are so good, they are so innocent,

Those Islanders, they learn their part so late,

Of life's demand right careless, dwell content

Till the first love's first kiss shall consecrate

Their future to a world that can but be

By their sweet martyrdom and ministry.

Most happy of God's creatures. Afterward

More than all women married thou wilt be,

E'en to the soul. One glance desired afford,

More than knight's service might'st thou ask of me.

Not any chance is mine, not the best word,

No, nor the salt of life withouten thee.

Must this all end, is my day so soon o'er?

Untroubled violet eyes, look once,--once more.

No, not a glance: the low sun lay and burned,

Now din of drum and cry of fife withal,

Blithe teachers mustering frolic swarms returned,

And new-world ways in that old market hall,

Sweet girls, fair women, how my whole heart yearned

Her to draw near who made my festival.

With others closing round, time speeding on,

How soon she would be gone, she would be gone!

Ay, but I thought to track the rustic wains,

Their goal desired to note, but not anigh,

They creaking down long hop ycrested lanes

'Neath the abiding flush of that north sky.

I ran, my horse I fetched, but fate ordains

Love shall breed laughter when th' unloving spy.

As I drew rein to watch the gathered crowd,

With sudden mirth an old wife laughed aloud.

Her cheeks like winter apples red of hue,

Her glance aside. To whom her speech--to me?

'I know the thing you go about to do--

The lady--' 'What! the lady--' 'Sir,' saith she,

('I thank you kindly, sir), I tell you true

She's gone,' and 'here's a coil' methought 'will be.'

'Gone--where?' ''Tis past my wit forsooth to say

If they went Malvern way or Hereford way.

A carriage took her up--where three roads meet

They needs must pass; you may o'ertake it yet.'

And 'Oyez, Oyez' peals adown the street,

'Lost, lost, a golden heart with pearls beset.'

'I know her, sir?--not I. To help this treat,

Many strange ladies from the country met.'

'O heart beset with pearls! my hope was crost.

Farewell, good dame. Lost! oh my lady lost.'

And 'Oyez, Oyez' following after me

On my great errand to the sundown went.

Lost, lost, and lost, whenas the cross road flee

Up tumbled hills, on each for eyes attent

A carriage creepeth.

'Though in neither she,

I ne'er shall know life's worst impoverishment,

An empty heart. No time, I stake my all,

To right! and chase the rose-red evenfall.

Fly up, good steed, fly on. Take the sharp rise

As't were a plain. A lady sits; but one.

So fast the pace she turns in startled wise,

She sets her gaze on mine and all is done.

"Persian Roxana" might have raised such eyes

When Alexander sought her. Now the sun

Dips, and my day is over; turn and fleet

The world fast flies, again do three roads meet.'

I took the left, and for some cause unknown

Full fraught of hope and joy the way pursued,

Yet chose strong reasons speeding up alone

To fortify me 'gainst a shock more rude.

E'en so the diver carrieth down a stone

In hand, lest he float up before he would,

And end his walk upon the rich sea-floor,

Those pearls he failed to grasp never to look on more.

Then as the low moon heaveth, waxen white,

The carriage, and it turns into a gate.

Within sit three in pale pathetic light.

O surely one of these my love, my fate.

But ere I pass they wind away from sight.

Then cottage casements glimmer. All elate

I cross a green, there yawns with opened latch

A village hostel capped in comely thatch.

'The same world made for all is made for each.

To match a heart's magnificence of hope.

How shall good reason best high action teach

To win of custom, and with home to cope

How warrantably may he hope to win

A star, that wants it? Shall he lie and grope,

No, truly.--I will see her; tell my tale,

See her this once,--and if I fail--I fail.'

Thus with myself I spoke. A rough brick floor

Made the place homely; I would rest me there.

But how to sleep? Forth of the unlocked door

I passed at midnight, lustreless white air

Made strange the hour, that ecstasy not o'er

I moved among the shadows, all my care--

Counted a shadow--her drawn near to bless,

Impassioned out of fear, rapt, motionless.

Now a long pool and water-hens at rest

(As doughty seafolk dusk, at Malabar)

A few pale stars lie trembling on its breast.

Hath the Most High of all His host afar

One most supremely beautiful, one best,

Dearest of all the flock, one favourite star?

His Image given, in part the children know

They love one first and best. It may be so.

Now a long hedge; here dream the woolly folk;

A majesty of silence is about.

Transparent mist rolls off the pool like smoke,

And Time is in his trance and night devout.

Now the still house. O an I knew she woke

I could not look, the sacred moon sheds out

So many blessings on her rooftree low,

Each more pathetic that she nought doth know.

I would not love a little, nor my start

Make with the multitude that love and cease.

He gives too much that giveth half a heart,

Too much for liberty, too much for peace.

Let me the first and best and highest impart,

The whole of it, and heaven the whole increase!

For _that_ were not too much.

(In the moon's wake

How the grass glitters, for her sweetest sake.)

I would toward her walk the silver floors.

Love loathes an average--all extreme things deal

To love--sea-deep and dazzling height for stores.

There are on Fortune's errant foot can steal,

Can guide her blindfold in at their own doors,

Or dance elate upon her slippery wheel.

Courage! there are 'gainst hope can still advance,

Dowered with a sane, a wise extravagance.

A song

To one a dreaming: when the dew

Falls, 'tis a time for rest; and when the bird

Calls, 'tis a time to wake, to wake for you.

A long-waking, aye, waking till a word

Come from her coral mouth to be the true

Sum of all good heart wanted, ear hath heard.

Yet if alas! might love thy dolour be,

Dream, dear heart dear, and do not dream of me.

I sing

To one awakened, when the heart

Cries 'tis a day for thought, and when the soul

Sighs choose thy part, O choose thy part, thy part.

I bring to one belovèd, bring my whole

Store, make in loving, make O make mine art

More. Yet I ask no, ask no wished goal

But this--if loving might thy dolour be,

Wake, O my lady loved, and love not me.

'That which the many win, love's niggard sum,

I will not, if love's all be left behind.

That which I am I cannot unbecome,

My past not unpossess, nor future blind.

Let me all risk, and leave the deep heart dumb

For ever, if that maiden sits enshrined

The saint of one more happy. She is she.

There is none other. Give her then to me.

Or else to be the better for her face

Beholding it no more.' Then all night through

The shadow moves with infinite dark grace.

The light is on her windows, and the dew

Comforts the world and me, till in my place

At moonsetting, when stars flash out to view,

Comes 'neath the cedar boughs a great repose,

The peace of one renouncing, and then a doze.

There was no dream, yet waxed a sense in me

Asleep that patience was the better way,

Appeasement for a want that needs must be,

Grew as the dominant mind forbore its sway,

Till whistling sweet stirred in the cedar tree--

I started--woke--it was the dawn of day.

That was the end. 'Slow solemn growth of light,

Come what come will, remains to me this night.'

It was the end, with dew ordained to melt,

How easily was learned, how all too soon

Not there, not thereabout such maiden dwelt.

What was it promised me so fair a boon?

Heart-hope is not less vain because heart-felt,

Gone forth once more in search of her at noon

Through the sweet country side on hill, on plain,

I sought and sought many long days in vain.

To Malvern next, with feathery woodland hung,

Whereto old Piers the Plowman came to teach,

On her green vasty hills the lay was sung,

He too, it may be, lisping in his speech,

'To make the English sweet upon his tongue.'

How many maidens beautiful, and each

Might him delight, that loved no other fair;

But Malvern blessed not me,--she was not there.

Then to that town, but still my fate the same.

Crowned with old works that her right well beseem,

To gaze upon her field of ancient fame

And muse on the sad thrall's most piteous dream,

By whom a 'shadow like an angel came,'

Crying out on Clarence, its wild eyes agleam,

Accusing echoes here still falter and flee,

'That stabbed me on the field by Tewkesbury.'

It nothing 'vailed that yet I sought and sought,

Part of my very self was left behind,

Till risen in wrath against th' o'ermastering thought,

'Let me be thankful,' quoth the better mind,

Thankful for her, though utterly to nought

She brings my heart's cry, and I live to find

A new self of the old self exigent

In the light of my divining discontent.

The picture of a maiden bidding 'Arise,

I am the Art of God. He shows by me

His great idea, so well as sin-stained eyes

Love aidant can behold it.'

Is this she?

Or is it mine own love for her supplies

The meaning and the power? Howe'er this be,

She is the interpreter by whom most near

Man's soul is drawn to beauty and pureness here.

The sweet idea, invisible hitherto,

Is in her face, unconscious delegate;

That thing she wots not of ordained to do:

But also it shall be her votary's fate,

Through her his early days of ease to eschew,

Struggle with life and prove its weary weight.

All the great storms that rising rend the soul,

Are life in little, imaging the whole.

Ay, so as life is, love is, in their ken

Stars, infant yet, both thought to grasp, to keep,

Then came the morn of passionate splendour, when

So sweet the light, none but for bliss could weep,

And then the strife, the toil; but we are men,

Strong, brave to battle with the stormy deep;

Then fear--and then renunciation--then

Appeals unto the Infinite Pity--and sleep.

But after life the sleep is long. Not so

With love. Love buried lieth not straight, not still,

Love starts, and after lull awakes to know

All the deep things again. And next his will,

That dearest pang is, never to forego.

He would all service, hardship, fret fulfill.

Unhappy love! and I of that great host

Unhappy love who cry, unhappy most.

Because renunciation was so short,

The starved heart so easily awaked;

A dream could do it, a bud, a bird, a thought,

But I betook me with that want which ached

To neighbour lands where strangeness with me wrought.

The old work was so hale, its fitness slaked

Soul-thirst for truth. 'I knew not doubt nor fear,'

Its language, 'war or worship, sure sincere.'

Then where by Art the high did best translate

Life's infinite pathos to the soul, set down

Beauty and mystery, that imperious hate

On its best braveness doth and sainthood frown,

Nay more the MASTER'S manifest pity--'wait,

Behold the palmgrove and the promised crown.

He suffers with thee, for thee.--Lo the Child!

Comfort thy heart; he certainly so smiled.'

Thus love and I wore through the winter time.

Then saw her demon blush Vesuvius try,

Then evil ghosts white from the awful prime,

Thrust up sharp peaks to tear the tender sky.

'No more to do but hear that English chime'

I to a kinsman wrote. He made reply,

'As home I bring my girl and boy full soon,

I pass through Evesham,--meet me there at noon.

'The bells your father loved you needs must hear,

Seek Oxford next with me,' and told the day.

'Upon the bridge I'll meet you. What! how dear

Soever was a dream, shall it bear sway

To mar the waking?'

I set forth, drew near,

Beheld a goodly tower, twin churches grey,

Evesham. The bridge, and noon. I nothing knew

What to my heart that fateful chime would do.

For suddenly the sweet bells overcame

A world unsouled; did all with man endow;

His yearning almost tell that passeth name

And said they were full old, and they were now

And should be; and their sighing upon the same

For our poor sake that pass they did avow,

While on clear Avon flowed like man's short day

The shining river of life lapsing away.

The stroke of noon. The bell-bird! yes and no.

Winds of remembrance swept as over the foam

Of anti-natal shores. At home is it so,

My country folk? Ay, 'neath this pale blue dome,

Many of you in the moss lie low--lie low.

Ah! since I have not HER, give me too, home.

A footstep near! I turned; past likelihood,

Past hope, before me on the bridge--SHE STOOD.

A rosy urchin had her hand; this cried,

'We think you are our cousin--yes, you are;

I said so to Estelle.' The violet-eyed,

'If this be Geoffrey?' asked; and as from far

A doubt came floating up; but she denied

Her thought, yet blushed. O beautiful! my Star!

Then, with the lifting of my hat, each wore

That look which owned to each, 'We have met before.'

Then was the strangest bliss in life made mine;

I saw the almost worshipped--all remote;

The Star so high above that used to shine,

Translated from the void where it did float,

And brought into relation with the fine

Charities earth hath grown. A great joy smote

Me silent, and the child atween us tway,

We watched the lucent river stealing away.

While her deep eyes down on the ripple fell,

Quoth the small imp, '"How fast you go and go,

You Avon. Does it wish to stop, Estelle,

And hear the clock, and see the orchards blow?

_It does not care!_ Not when the old big bell

Makes a great buzzing noise?--Who told you so?"

And then to me, "I like to hear it hum.

Why do you think that father could not come?"

Estelle forgot her violin. And he,

O then he said: "How careless, child, of you;

I must send on for it. 'T would pity be

If that were lost.

I want to learn it too;

And when I'm nine I shall."

Then turning, she

Let her sweet eyes unveil them to my view;

Her stately grace outmatched my dream of old,

But ah! the smile dull memory had not told.

My kinsman next, with care-worn kindly brow.

'Well, father,' quoth the imp, 'we've done our part.

We found him.'

And she, wholly girlish now,

Laid her young hand on his with lovely art

And sweet excuses. O! I made my vow

I would all dare, such life did warm my heart;

We journeyed, all the air with scents of price

Was laden, and the goal was Paradise.

When that the Moors betook them to their sand,

Their domination over in fair Spain,

Each locked, men say, his door in that loved land,

And took the key in hope to come again.

On Moorish walls yet hung, long dust each hand,

The keys, but not the might to use, remain;

Is there such house in some blest land for me?

I can, I will, I do reach down the key.

A country conquered oft, and long before,

Of generations aye ordained to win;

If mine the power, I will unlock the door.

Enter, O light, I bear a sunbeam in.

What, did the crescent wane! Yet man is more,

And love achieves because to heaven akin.

O life! to hear again that wandering bell,

And hear it at thy feet, Estelle, Estelle.

Full oft I want the sacred throated bird,

Over our limitless waste of light which spoke

The spirit of the call my fathers heard,

Saying 'Let us pray,' and old world echoes woke

Ethereal minster bells that still averr'd,

And with their phantom notes th' all silence broke.

'The fanes are far, but whom they shrined is near.

Thy God, the Island God, is here, is here.'

To serve; to serve a thought, and serve apart

To meet; a few short days, a maiden won.

'Ah, sweet, sweet home, I must divide my heart,

Betaking me to countries of the sun.'

'What straight-hung leaves, what rays that twinkle and dart,

Make me to like them.'

'Love, it shall be done,'

'What weird dawn-fire across the wide hill flies.'

'It is the flame-tree's challenge to yon scarlet skies.'

'Hark, hark, O hark! the spirit of a bell!

What would it? ('Toll.') An air-hung sacred call,

Athwart the forest shade it strangely fell'--

'Toll'--'Toll.'

The longed-for voice, but ah, withal

I felt, I knew, it was my father's knell

That touched and could the over-sense enthrall.

Perfect his peace, a whispering pure and deep

As theirs who 'neath his native towers by Avon sleep.

If love and death are ever reconciled,

'T is when the old lie down for the great rest.

We rode across the bush, a sylvan wild

That was an almost world, whose calm oppressed

With audible silence; and great hills inisled

Rose out as from a sea. Consoling, blest

And blessing spoke she, and the reedflower spread,

And tall rock lilies towered above her head.

* * * * *

Sweet is the light aneath our matchless blue,

The shade below yon passion plant that lies,

And very sweet is love, and sweet are you,

My little children dear, with violet eyes,

And sweet about the dawn to hear anew

The sacred monotone of peace arise.

Love, 't is thy welcome from the air-hung bell,

Congratulant and clear, Estelle, Estelle.

LOSS AND WASTE.

Up to far Osteroe and Suderoe

The deep sea-floor lies strewn with Spanish wrecks,

O'er minted gold the fair-haired fishers go,

O'er sunken bravery of high carvèd decks.

In earlier days great Carthage suffered bale

(All her waste works choke under sandy shoals);

And reckless hands tore down the temple veil;

And Omar burned the Alexandrian rolls.

The Old World arts men suffered not to last,

Flung down they trampled lie and sunk from view,

He lets wild forest for these ages past

Grow over the lost cities of the New.

O for a life that shall not be refused

To see the lost things found, and waste things used.

ON A PICTURE.

As a forlorn soul waiting by the Styx

Dimly expectant of lands yet more dim,

Might peer afraid where shadows change and mix

Till the dark ferryman shall come for him.

And past all hope a long ray in his sight,

Fall'n trickling down the steep crag Hades-black

Reveals an upward path to life and light,

Nor any let but he should mount that track.

As with the sudden shock of joy amazed,

He might a motionless sweet moment stand,

So doth that mortal lover, silent, dazed,

For hope had died and loss was near at hand.

'Wilt thou?' his quest. Unready but for 'Nay,'

He stands at fault for joy, she whispering 'Ay.'

THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND.

The doom'd king pacing all night through the windy fallow.

'Let me alone, mine enemy, let me alone,'

Never a Christian bell that dire thick gloom to hallow,

Or guide him, shelterless, succourless, thrust from his own.

Foul spirits riding the wind do flout at him friendless,

The rain and the storm on his head beat ever at will;

His weird is on him to grope in the dark with endless

Weariful feet for a goal that shifteth still.

A sleuth-hound baying! The sleuth-hound bayeth behind him,

His head, he flying and stumbling turns back to the sound,

Whom doth the sleuth-hound follow? What if it find him;

Up! for the scent lieth thick, up from the level ground.

Up, on, he must on, to follow his weird essaying,

Lo you, a flood from the crag cometh raging past,

He falls, he fights in the water, no stop, no staying,

Soon the king's head goes under, the weird is dreed at last.

I.

'Wake, O king, the best star worn

In the crown of night, forlorn

Blinks a fine white point--'t is morn.'

Soft! The queen's voice, fair is she,

'Wake!' He waketh, living, free,

In the chamber of arras lieth he.

Delicate dim shadows yield

Silken curtains over head

All abloom with work of neeld,

Martagon and milleflower spread.

On the wall his golden shield,

Dinted deep in battle field,

When the host o' the Khalif fled.

Gold to gold. Long sunbeams flit

Upward, tremble and break on it.

'Ay, 't is over, all things writ

Of my sleep shall end awake,

Now is joy, and all its bane

The dark shadow of after pain.'

Then the queen saith, 'Nay, but break

Unto me for dear love's sake

This thy matter. Thou hast been

In great bitterness I ween

All the night-time.' But 'My queen,

Life, love, lady, rest content,

Ill dreams fly, the night is spent,

Good day draweth on. Lament

'Vaileth not,--yea peace,' quoth he;

'Sith this thing no better may be,

Best were held 'twixt thee and me.'

Then the fair queen, 'Even so

As thou wilt, O king, but know

Mickle nights have wrought thee woe,

Yet the last was troubled sore

Above all that went before.'

Quoth the king, 'No more, no more.'

Then he riseth, pale of blee,

As one spent, and utterly

Master'd of dark destiny.

II.

Comes a day for glory famed

Tidings brought the enemy shamed,

Fallen; now is peace proclaimed.

And a swarm of bells on high

Make their sweet din scale the sky,

'Hail! hail! hail!' the people cry

To the king his queen beside,

And the knights in armour ride

After until eventide.

III.

All things great may life afford,

Praise, power, love, high pomp, fair gaud,

Till the banquet be toward

Hath this king. Then day takes flight,

Sinketh sun and fadeth light,

Late he coucheth--Night; 't is night.

_The proud king heading the host on his red roan charger._

Dust. On a thicket of spears glares the Syrian sun,

The Saracens swarm to the onset, larger aye larger

Loom their fierce cohorts, they shout as the day were won.

Brown faces fronting the steel-bright armour, and ever

The crash o' the combat runs on with a mighty cry,

Fell tumult; trampling and carnage--then fails endeavour,

O shame upon shame--the Christians falter and fly.

The foe upon them, the foe afore and behind them,

The king borne back in the mêlée; all, all is vain;

They fly with death at their heels, fierce sun-rays blind them,

Riderless steeds affrighted, tread down their ranks amain.

Disgrace, dishonour, no rally, ah no retrieving,

The scorn of scorns shall his name and his nation brand,

'T is a sword that smites from the rear, his helmet cleaving,

That hurls him to earth, to his death on the desert sand.

Ever they fly, the cravens, and ever reviling

Flies after. Athirst, ashamèd, he yieldeth his breath,

While one looks down from his charger; and calm slow smiling,

Curleth his lip. 'T is the Khalif. And this is death.

IV.

'Wake, yon purple peaks arise,

Jagged, bare, through saffron skies;

Now is heard a twittering sweet,

For the mother-martins meet,

Where wet ivies, dew-besprent,

Glisten on the battlement.

Now the lark at heaven's gold gate

Aiming, sweetly chides on fate

That his brown wings wearied were

When he, sure, was almost there.

Now the valley mist doth break,

Shifting sparkles edge the lake,

Love, Lord, Master, wake, O wake!'

V.

Ay, he wakes,--and dull of cheer,

Though this queen be very dear,

Though a respite come with day

From th' abhorrèd flight and fray,

E'en though life be not the cost,

Nay, nor crown nor honour lost;

For in his soul abideth fear

Worse than of the Khalif's spear,

Smiting when perforce in flight

He was borne,--for that was night,

That his weird. But now 't is day,

'And good sooth I know not--nay,

Know not how this thing could be.

Never, more it seemeth me

Than when left the weird to dree,

I am I. And it was I

Felt or ever they turned to fly,

How, like wind, a tremor ran,

The right hand of every man

Shaking. Ay, all banners shook,

And the red all cheeks forsook,

Mine as theirs. Since this was I,

Who my soul shall certify

When again I face the foe

Manful courage shall not go.

Ay, it is not thrust o' a spear,

Scorn of infidel eyes austere,

But mine own fear--is to fear.'

VI.

After sleep thus sore bestead,

Beaten about and buffeted,

Featly fares the morning spent

In high sport and tournament.

VII.

Served within his sumptuous tent,

Looks the king in quiet wise,

Till this fair queen yield the prize

To the bravest; but when day

Falleth to the west away,

Unto her i' the silent hour,

While she sits in her rose-bower.

Come, 'O love, full oft,' quoth she,

'I at dawn have prayèd thee

Thou would'st tell o' the weird to me,

Sith I might some counsel find

Of my wit or in my mind

Thee to better.' 'Ay, e'en so,

But the telling shall let thee know,'

Quoth the king, 'is neither scope

For sweet counsel nor fair hope,

Nor is found for respite room,

Till the uttermost crack of doom.

VIII.

Then the queen saith, 'Woman's wit

No man asketh aid of it,

Not wild hyssop on a wall

Is of less account; or small

Glossy gnats that flit i' the sun

Less worth weighing--light so light!

Yet when all's said--ay, all done,

Love, I love thee! By love's might

I will counsel thee aright,

Or would share the weird to-night.'

Then he answer'd 'Have thy way.

Know 't is two years gone and a day

Since I, walking lone and late,

Pondered sore mine ill estate;

Open murmurers, foes concealed,

Famines dire i' the marches round,

Neighbour kings unfriendly found,

Ay, and treacherous plots revealed

Where I trusted. I bid stay

All my knights at the high crossway,

And did down the forest fare

To bethink me, and despair.

'Ah! thou gilded toy a throne,

If one mounts to thee alone,

Quoth I, mourning while I went,

Haply he may drop content

As a lark wing-weary down

To the level, and his crown

Leave for another man to don;

Throne, thy gold steps raised upon.

But for me--O as for me

What is named I would not dree,

Earn, or conquer, or forego

For the barring of overthrow.'

IX.

'Aloud I spake, but verily

Never an answer looked should be.

But it came to pass from shade

Pacing to an open glade,

Which the oaks a mighty wall

Fence about, methought a call

Sounded, then a pale thin mist

Rose, a pillar, and fronted me,

Rose and took a form I wist,

And it wore a hood on 'ts head,

And a long white garment spread,

And I saw the eyes thereof.

X.

Then my plumèd cap I doff,

Stooping. 'T is the white-witch. 'Hail,'

Quoth the witch, 'thou shalt prevail

An thou wilt; I swear to thee

All thy days shall glorious shine,

Great and rich, ay, fair and fine,

So what followeth rest my fee,

So thou'lt give thy sleep to me.'

XI.

While she spake my heart did leap.

Waking is man's life, and sleep--

What is sleep?--a little death

Coming after, and methought

Life is mine and death is nought

Till it come,--so day is mine

I will risk the sleep to shine

In the waking.

And she saith,

In a soft voice clear and low,

'Give thy plumèd cap also

For a token.'

'Didst thou give?'

Quoth the queen; and 'As I live

He makes answer 'none can tell.

I did will my sleep to sell,

And in token held to her

That she askèd. And it fell

To the grass. I saw no stir

In her hand or in her face,

And no going; but the place

Only for an evening mist

Was made empty. There it lay,

That same plumèd cap, alway

On the grasses--but I wist

Well, it must be let to lie,

And I left it. Now the tale

Ends, th' events do testify

Of her truth. The days go by

Better and better; nought doth ail

In the land, right happy and hale

Dwell the seely folk; but sleep

Brings a reckoning; then forth creep

Dreaded creatures, worms of might.

Crested with my plumèd cap

Loll about my neck all night,

Bite me in the side, and lap

My heart's blood. Then oft the weird

Drives me, where amazed, afeard,

I do safe on a river strand

Mark one sinking hard at hand

While fierce sleuth-hounds that me track

Fly upon me, bear me back,

Fling me away, and he for lack

Of man's aid in piteous wise

Goeth under, drowns and dies.

XII.

'O sweet wife, I suffer sore--

O methinks aye more and more

Dull my day, my courage numb,

Shadows from the night to come.

But no counsel, hope, nor aid

Is to give; a crown being made

Power and rule, yea all good things

Yet to hang on this same weird

I must dree it, ever that brings

Chastening from the white-witch feared.

O that dreams mote me forsake,

Would that man could alway wake.'

XIII.

Now good sooth doth counsel fail,

Ah this queen is pale, so pale.

'Love,' she sigheth, 'thou didst not well

Listening to the white-witch fell,

Leaving her doth thee advance

Thy plumèd cap of maintenance.'

XIV.

'She is white, as white snow flake,'

Quoth the king; 'a man shall make

Bargains with her and not sin.'

'Ay,' she saith, 'but an he win,

Let him look the right be done

Else the rue shall be his own.

XV.

No more words. The stars are bright,

For the feast high halls be dight

Late he coucheth. Night--'t is night.

_The dead king lying in state in the Minster holy._

Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his feet,

A crown and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly,

And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold palms meet.

Two days dead. Is he dead? Nay, nay--but is he living?

The weary monks have ended their chantings manifold,

The great door swings behind them, night winds entrance giving,

The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he so cold.

Neither to move nor to moan, though sunk and though swallow'd

In earth he shall soon be trodden hard and no more seen.

Soft you the door again! Was it a footstep followed,

Falter'd, and yet drew near him?--Malva, Malva the queen!

One hand o' the dead king liveth (e'en so him seemeth)

On the purple robe, on the ermine that folds his breast

Cold, very cold. Yet e'en at that pass esteemeth

The king, it were sweet if she kissed the place of its rest.

Laid her warm face on his bosom, a fair wife grievèd

For the lord and love of her youth, and bewailed him sore;

Laid her warm face on the bosom of her bereavèd

Soon to go under, never to look on her more.

His candles guide her with pomp funereal flaring,

Out of the gulfy dark to the bier whereon he lies.

Cometh this queen i' the night for grief or for daring,

Out o' the dark to the light with large affrighted eyes?

The pale queen speaks in the Presence with fear upon her,

'Where is the ring I gave to thee, where is my ring?

I vowed--'t was an evil vow--by love, and by honour,

Come life or come death to be thine, thou poor dead king.'

The pale queen's honour! A low laugh scathing and sereing--

A mumbling as made by the dead in the tombs ye wot.

Braveth the dead this queen? 'Hear it, whoso hath hearing,

I vowed by my love, cold king, but I loved thee not.'

Honour! An echo in aisles and the solemn portals,

Low sinketh this queen by the bier with its freight forlorn;

Yet kneeling, 'Hear me!' she crieth, 'you just immortals,

You saints bear witness I vowed and am not forsworn.

I vowed in my youth, fool-king, when the golden fetter

Thy love that bound me and bann'd me full weary I wore,

But all poor men of thy menai I held them better,

All stalwart knights of thy train unto me were more.

Twenty years I have lived on earth and two beside thee,

Thirty years thou didst live on earth, and two on the throne:

Let it suffice there be none of thy rights denied thee,

Though I dare thy presence--I--come for my ring alone.'

She risen shuddereth, peering, afraid to linger

Behold her ring, it shineth! 'Now yield to me, thou dead,

For this do I dare the touch of thy stark stiff finger.'

The queen hath drawn her ring from his hand, the queen hath fled.

'O woman fearing sore, to whom my man's heart cleavèd,

The faith enwrought with love and life hath mocks for its meed'--

The dead king lying in state, of his past bereavèd,

Twice dead. Ay, this is death. Now dieth the king indeed.

XVI.

'Wake, the seely gnomes do fly,

Drenched across yon rainy sky,

With the vex'd moon-mother'd elves,

And the clouds do weep themselves

Into morning.

All night long

Hath thy weird thee sore opprest;

Wake, I have found within my breast

Counsel.' Ah, the weird was strong,

But the time is told. Release

Openeth on him when his eyes

Lift them in dull desolate wise,

And behold he is at peace.

Ay, but silent. Of all done

And all suffer'd in the night,

Of all ills that do him spite

She shall never know that one.

Then he heareth accents bland,

Seeth the queen's ring on his hand,

And he riseth calmed withal.

XVII.

Rain and wind on the palace wall

Beat and bluster, sob and moan,

When at noon he musing lone,

Comes the queen anigh his seat,

And she kneeleth at his feet.

XVIII.

Quoth the queen, 'My love, my lord,

Take thy wife and take thy sword,

We must forth in the stormy weather,

Thou and I to the witch together.

Thus I rede thee counsel deep,

Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep,

Turning so man's wholesome life

From its meaning. Thine intent

None shall hold for innocent.

Thou dost take thy good things first,

Then thou art cast into the worst;

First the glory, then the strife.

Nay, but first thy trouble dree,

So thy peace shall sweeter be.

First to work and then to rest,

Is the way for our humanity,

Ay, she sayeth that loves thee best,

We must forth and from this strife

Buy the best part of man's life;

Best and worst thou holdest still

Subject to a witch's will.

Thus I rede thee counsel deep,

Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep;

Take the crown from off thy head,

Give it the white-witch instead,

If in that she say thee nay,

Get the night,--and give the day.'

XIX.

Then the king (amazèd, mild,

As one reasoning with a child

All his speech): 'My wife! my fair!

And his hand on her brown hair

Trembles; 'Lady, dost indeed

Weigh the meaning of thy rede?

Would'st thou dare the dropping away

Of allegiance, should our sway

And sweet splendour and renown

All be risked? (methinks a crown

Doth become thee marvellous well).

We ourself are, truth to tell,

Kingly both of wont and kind,

Suits not such the craven mind.'

'Yet this weird thou can'st not dree.'

Quoth the queen, 'And live;' then he,

'I must die and leave the fair

Unborn, long-desired heir

To his rightful heritage.'

XX.

But this queen arisen doth high

Her two hands uplifting, sigh

'God forbid.' And he to assuage

Her keen sorrow, for his part

Searcheth, nor can find in his heart

Words. And weeping she will rest

Her sweet cheek upon his breast,

Whispering, 'Dost thou verily

Know thou art to blame? Ah me,

Come,' and yet beseecheth she,

'Ah me, come.'

For good for ill,

Whom man loveth hath her will.

Court and castle left behind,

Stolen forth in the rain and wind,

Soon they are deep in the forest, fain

The white-witch to raise again;

Down and deep where flat o'erhead

Layer on layer do cedars spread,

Down where lordly maples strain,

Wrestling with the storm amain.

XXI.

Wide-wing'd eagles struck on high

Headlong fall'n break through, and lie

With their prey in piteous wise,

And no film on their dead eyes.

Matted branches grind and crash,

Into darkness dives the flash,

Stabs, a dread gold dirk of fire,

Loads the lift with splinters dire.

Then a pause i' the deadly feud--

And a sick cowed quietude.

XXII.

Soh! A pillar misty and grey,

'T is the white-witch in the way.

Shall man deal with her and gain?

I trow not. Albeit the twain

Costly gear and gems and gold

Freely offer, she will hold

Sleep and token for the pay

She did get for greatening day.

XXIII.

'Or the night shall rest my fee

Or the day shall nought of me,'

Quoth the witch. 'An't thee beseem,

Sell thy kingdom for a dream.'

XXIV.

'Now what will be let it be!'

Quoth the queen; 'but choose the right.'

And the white-witch scorns at her,

Stately standing in their sight.

Then without or sound or stir

She is not. For offering meet

Lieth the token at their feet,

Which they, weary and sore bestead

In the storm, lift up, full fain

Ere the waning light hath fled

Those high towers they left to gain.

XXV.

Deep among tree roots astray

Here a torrent tears its way,

There a cedar split aloft

Lies head downward. Now the oft

Muttering thunder, now the wind

Wakens. How the path to find?

How the turning? Deep ay deep,

Far ay far. She needs must weep,

This fair woman, lost, astray

In the forest; nought to say.

Yet the sick thoughts come and go,

'I, 't was I would have it so.'

XXVI.

Shelter at the last, a roof

Wrought of ling (in their behoof,

Foresters, that drive the deer).

What, and must they couch them here?

Ay, and ere the twilight fall

Gather forest berries small

And nuts down beaten for a meal.

XXVII.

Now the shy wood-wonners steal

Nearer, bright-eyed furry things,

Winking owls on silent wings

Glance, and float away. The light

In the wake o' the storm takes flight,

Day departeth: night--'t is night.

The crown'd king musing at morn by a clear sweet river.

Palms on the slope o' the valley, and no winds blow;

Birds blameless, dove-eyed, mystical talk deliver,

Oracles haply. The language he doth not know.

Bare, blue, are yon peakèd hills for a rampart lying,

As dusty gold is the light in the palms o'erhead,

'What is the name o' the land? and this calm sweet sighing,

If it be echo, where first was it caught and spread?

I might--I might be at rest in some field Elysian,

If this be asphodel set in the herbage fair,

I know not how I should wonder, so sweet the vision,

So clear and silent the water, the field, the air.

Love, are you by me! Malva, what think you this meaneth?

Love, do you see the fine folk as they move over there?

Are they immortals? Look you a wingèd one leaneth

Down from yon pine to the river of us unaware.

All unaware; and the country is full of voices,

Mild strangers passing: they reck not of me nor of thee.

List! about and around us wondrous sweet noises,

Laughter of little children and maids that dreaming be.

Love, I can see their dreams.' A dim smile flitteth

Over her lips, and they move as in peace supreme,

And a small thing, silky haired, beside her sitteth,

'O this is thy dream atween us--this is thy dream.'

Was it then truly his dream with her dream that blended?

'Speak, dear child dear,' quoth the queen, 'and mine own little son.'

'Father,' the small thing murmurs; then all is ended,

He starts from that passion of peace--ay, the dream is done.

XXVIII.

'I have been in a good land,'

Quoth the king: 'O sweet sleep bland,

Blessed! I am grown to more,

Now the doing of right hath moved

Me to love of right, and proved

If one doth it, he shall be

Twice the man he was before.

Verily and verily,

Thou fair woman, thou didst well;

I look back and scarce may tell

Those false days of tinsel sheen,

Flattery, feasting, that have been.

Shows of life that were but shows,

How they held me; being I ween

Like sand-pictures thin, that rose

Quivering, when our thirsty bands

Marched i' the hot Egyptian lands;

Shade of palms on a thick green plot,

Pools of water that was not,

Mocking us and melting away.

XXIX.

I have been a witch's prey,

Art mine enemy now by day,

Thou fell Fear? There comes an end

To the day; thou canst not wend

After me where I shall fare,

My foredoomèd peace to share.

And awake with a better heart,

I shall meet thee and take my part

O' the dull world's dull spite; with thine

Hard will I strive for me and mine.'

XXX.

A page and a palfrey pacing nigh,

Malva the queen awakes. A sigh--

One amazèd moment--'Ay,

We remember yesterday,

Let us to the palace straight:

What! do all my ladies wait--

Is no zeal to find me? What!

No knights forth to meet the king;

Due observance, is it forgot?'

XXXI.

'Lady,' quoth the page, 'I bring

Evil news. Sir king, I say,

My good lord of yesterday,

Evil news,' This king saith low,

'Yesterday, and yesterday,

The queen's yesterday we know,

Tell us thine.' 'Sir king,' saith he,

Hear. Thy castle in the night

Was surprised, and men thy flight

Learned but then; thine enemy

Of old days, our new king, reigns;

And sith thou wert not at pains

To forbid it, hear also,

Marvelling whereto this should grow

How thy knights at break of morn

Have a new allegiance sworn,

And the men-at-arms rejoice,

And the people give their voice

For the conqueror. I, Sir king,

Rest thine only friend. I bring

Means of flight; now therefore fly,

A great price is on thy head.

Cast her jewel'd mantle by,

Mount thy queen i' the selle and hie

(Sith disguise ye need, and bread)

Down yon pleachèd track, down, down,

Till a tower shall on thee frown;

Him that holds it show this ring:

So farewell, my lord the king.'

XXXII.

Had one marked that palfrey led

To the tower, he sooth had said,

These are royal folk and rare--

Jewels in her plaited hair

Shine not clearer than her eyes,

And her lord in goodly wise

With his plumèd cap in 's hand

Moves in the measure of command.

XXXIII.

Had one marked where stole forth two

From the friendly tower anew,

'Common folk' he sooth had said,

Making for the mountain track.

Common, common, man and maid,

Clad in russet, and of kind

Meet for russet. On his back

A wallet bears the stalwart hind;

She, all shy, in rustic grace

Steps beside her man apace,

And wild roses match her face.

XXXIV.

Whither speed they? Where are toss'd

Like sea foam the dwarfed pines

At the jagged sharp inclines;

To the country of the frost

Up the mountains to be lost,

Lost. No better now may be,

Lost where mighty hollows thrust

'Twixt the fierce teeth of the world,

Fill themselves with crimson dust

When the tumbling sun down hurl'd

Stares among them drearily,

As a' wondering at the lone

Gulfs that weird gaunt company

Fenceth in. Lost there unknown,

Lineage, nation, name, and throne.

XXXV.

Lo, in a crevice choked with ling

And fir, this man, not now the king,

This Sigismund, hath made a fire,

And by his wife in the dark night

He leans at watch, her guard and squire.

His wide eyes stare out for the light

Weary. He needs must chide on fate,

And she is asleep. 'Poor brooding mate,

What! wilt thou on the mountain crest

Slippery and cold scoop thy first nest?

Or must I clear some uncouth cave

That laired the mother wolf, and save--

Spearing her cubs--the grey pelt fine

To be a bed for thee and thine?

It is my doing. Ay,' quoth he,

'Mine; but who dares to pity thee

Shall pity, not for loss of all,

But that thou wert my wife perdie,

E'en wife unto a witch's thrall,--

A man beholden to the cold

Cloud for a covering, he being sold

And hunted for reward of gold.

XXXVI.

But who shall chronicle the ways

Of common folk--the nights and days

Spent with rough goatherds on their snows,

Of travellers come whence no man knows,

Then gone aloft on some sharp height

In the dumb peace and the great light

Amid brown eagles and wild roes?

XXXVII.

'Tis the whole world whereon they lie,

The rocky pastures hung on high

Shelve off upon an empty sky.

But they creep near the edge, look down--

Great heaven! another world afloat,

Moored as in seas of air; remote

As their own childhood; swooning away

Into a tenderer sweeter day,

Innocent, sunny. 'O for wings!

There lie the lands of other kings--

I Sigismund, my sometime crown

Forfeit; forgotten of renown

My wars, my rule; I fain would go

Down to yon peace obscure.'

Even so;

Down to the country of the thyme,

Where young kids dance, and a soft chime

Of sheepbells tinkles; then at last

Down to a country of hollows, cast

Up at the mountains full of trees,

Down to fruit orchards and wide leas.

XXXVIII.

With name unsaid and fame unsunned

He walks that was King Sigismund.

With palmers holy and pilgrims brown,

New from the East, with friar and clown,

He mingles in a wallèd town,

And in the mart where men him scan

He passes for a merchant man.

For from his vest, where by good hap

He thrust it, he his plumèd cap

Hath drawn and plucked the gems away,

And up and down he makes essay

To sell them; they are all his wares

And wealth. He is a man of cares,

A man of toil; no roof hath he

To shelter her full soon to be

The mother of his dispossessed

Desirèd heir.

XXXIX.

Few words are best.

He, once King Sigismund, saith few,

But makes good diligence and true.

Soon with the gold he gather'd so,

A little homestead lone and low

He buyeth: a field, a copse, with these

A melon patch and mulberry trees.

And is the man content? Nay, morn

Is toilsome, oft is noon forlorn,

Though right be done and life be won,

Yet hot is weeding in the sun,

Yea scythe to wield and axe to swing,

Are hard on sinews of a king.

XL.

And Malva, must she toil? E'en so.

Full patiently she takes her part,

All, all so new. But her deep heart

Forebodes more change than shall be shown

Betwixt a settle and a throne.

And lost in musing she will go

About the winding of her silk,

About the skimming her goat's milk,

About the kneading of her bread,

And water drawn from her well-head.

XLI.

Then come the long nights dark and still,

Then come the leaves and cover the sill,

Then come the swift flocks of the stare,

Then comes the snow--then comes the heir.

XLII.

If he be glad, if he be sad,

How should one question when the hand

Is full, the heart. That life he had,

While leisure was aside may stand,

Till he shall overtake the task

Of every day, then let him ask

(If he remember--if he will),

'When I could sit me down and muse,

And match my good against mine ill,

And weigh advantage dulled by use

At nothing, was it better with me?'

But Sigismund! It cannot be

But that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh,

A dreamer on a day gone by

The king is come.

XLIII.

His vassals two

Serve with all homage deep and due.

He is contented, he doth find

Belike the kingdom much to his mind.

And when the long months of his long

Reign are two years, and like a song

From some far sweeter world, a call

From the king's mouth for fealty,

Buds soon to blossom in language fall,

They listen and find not any plea

Left, for fine chiding at destiny.

XLIV.

Sigismund hath ricked the hay,

He sitteth at close o' a sultry day

Under his mulberry boughs at ease.

'Hey for the world, and the world is wide,

The world is mine, and the world is--these

Beautiful Malva leans at his side,

And the small babbler talks at his knees.

XLV.

Riseth a waft as of summer air,

Floating upon it what moveth there?

Faint as the light of stars and wan

As snow at night when the moon is gone,

It is the white-witch risen once more.

XLVI.

The white-witch that tempted of yore

So utterly doth substance lack,

You may breathe her nearer and breathe her back.

Soft her eyes, her speech full clear:

'Hail, thou Sigismund my fere,

Bargain with me yea or nay.

NAY, I go to my true place,

And no more thou seest my face.

YEA, the good be all thine own,

For now will I advance thy day,

And yet will leave the night alone.

XLVII.

Sigismund makes answer 'NAY.

Though the Highest heaped on me

Trouble, yet the same should be

Welcomer than weal from thee.

Nay;--for ever and ever Nay.'

O, the white-witch floats away.

Look you, look! A still pure smile

Blossoms on her mouth the while,

White wings peakèd high behind,

Bear her;--no, the wafting wind,

For they move not,--floats her back,

Floats her up. They scarce may track

Her swift rising, shot on high

Like a ray from the western sky,

Or a lark from some grey wold

Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold.

XLVIII.

Then these two long silence hold,

And the lisping babe doth say

'White white bird, it flew away.'

And they marvel at these things,

For her ghostly visitings

Turn to them another face.

Haply she was sent, a friend

Trying them, and to good end

For their better weal and grace;

One more wonder let to be

In the might and mystery

Of the world, where verily

And good sooth a man may wend

All his life, and no more view

Than the one right next to do.

XLIX.

So, the welcome dusk is here,

Sweet is even, rest is dear;

Mountain heads have lost the light,

Soon they couch them. Night--'t is night.

Sigismund dreaming delightsomely after his haying.

('Sleep of the labouring man,' quoth King David, 'is sweet.')

'Sigismund, Sigismund'--'Who is this calling and saying

"Sigismund, Sigismund," O blessed night do not fleet.

Is it not dark--ay, methinks it is dark, I would slumber,

O I would rest till the swallow shall chirp 'neath mine eaves.'

'Sigismund, Sigismund,' multitudes now without number

Calling, the noise is as dropping of rain upon leaves.

'Ay,' quoth he dreaming, 'say on, for I, Sigismund, hear ye.'

'Sigismund, Sigismund, all the knights weary full sore.

Come back, King Sigismund, come, they shall love thee and fear thee,

The people cry out O come back to us, reign evermore.

The new king is dead, and we will not his son, no nor brother,

Come with thy queen, is she busy yet, kneading of cakes?

Sigismund, show us the boy, is he safe, and his mother,

Sigismund?'--dreaming he falls into laughter and wakes.

L.

And men say this dream came true,

For he walking in the dew

Turned aside while yet was red

On the highest mountain head,

Looking how the wheat he set

Flourished. And the knights him met

And him prayed 'Come again,

Sigismund our king, and reign.'

But at first--at first they tell

How it liked not Malva well;

She must leave her belted bees

And the kids that she did rear.

When she thought on it full dear

Seemed her home. It did not please

Sigismund that he must go

From the wheat that he did sow;

When he thought on it his mind

Was not that should any bind

Into sheaves that wheat but he,

Only he; and yet they went,

And it may be were content.

And they won a nation's heart;

Very well they played their part.

They ruled with sceptre and diadem,

And their children after them.

THE MAID-MARTYR.

Only you'd have me speak.

Whether to speak

Or whether to be silent is all one;

Whether to sleep and in my dreaming front

Her small scared face forlorn; whether to wake

And muse upon her small soft feet that paced

The hated, hard, inhospitable stone--

I say all's one. But you would have me speak,

And change one sorrow for the other. Ay,

Right reverend father, comfortable father,

Old, long in thrall, and wearied of the cell,

So will I here--here staring through the grate,

Whence, sheer beneath us lying the little town,

Her street appears a riband up the rise;

Where 't is right steep for carts, behold two ruts

Worn in the flat, smooth, stone.

That side I stood;

My head was down. At first I did but see

Her coming feet; they gleamed through my hot tears

As she walked barefoot up yon short steep hill.

Then I dared all, gazed on her face, the maid

Martyr and utterly, utterly broke my heart.

Her face, O! it was wonderful to me,

There was not in it what I look'd for--no,

I never saw a maid go to her death,

How should I dream that face and the dumb soul?

Her arms and head were bare, seemly she walked

All in her smock so modest as she might;

Upon her shoulders hung a painted cape

For horrible adornment, flames of fire

Portrayed upon it, and mocking demon heads.

Her eyes--she did not see me--opened wide,

Blue-black, gazed right before her, yet they marked

Nothing; and her two hands uplift as praying,

She yet prayed not, wept not, sighed not. O father,

She was past that, soft, tender, hunted thing;

But, as it seemed, confused from time to time,

She would half-turn her or to left or right

To follow other streets, doubting her way.

Then their base pikes they basely thrust at her,

And, like one dazed, obedient to her guides

She came; I knew not if 't was present to her

That death was her near goal; she was so lost,

And set apart from any power to think.

But her mouth pouted as one brooding, father,

Over a lifetime of forlorn fear. No,

Scarce was it fear; so looks a timid child

(Not more affrighted; ah! but not so pale)

That has been scolded or has lost its way.

Mother and father--father and mother kind,

She was alone, where were you hidden? Alone,

And I that loved her more, or feared death less,

Rushed to her side, but quickly was flung back,

And cast behind o' the pikemen following her

Into a yelling and a cursing crowd.

That bristled thick with monks and hooded friars;

Moreover, women with their cheeks ablaze,

Who swarmèd after up the narrowing street.

Pitiful heaven! I knew she did not hear

In that last hour the cursing, nor the foul

Words; she had never heard like words, sweet soul,

In her life blameless; even at that pass,

That dreadful pass, I felt it had been worse,

Though nought I longed for as for death, to know

She did. She saw not 'neath their hoods those eyes

Soft, glittering, with a lust for cruelty;

Secret delight, that so great cruelty,

All in the sacred name of Holy Church,

Their meed to look on it should be anon.

Speak! O, I tell you this thing passeth word!

From roofs and oriels high, women looked down;

Men, maidens, children, and a fierce white sun

Smote blinding splinters from all spears aslant.

Lo! next a stand, so please you, certain priests

(May God forgive men sinning at their ease),

Whose duty 't was to look upon this thing,

Being mindful of thick pungent smoke to come,

Had caused a stand to rise hard by the stake,

Upon its windward side.

My life! my love!

She utter'd one sharp cry of mortal dread

While they did chain her. This thing passeth words,

Albeit told out for ever in my soul.

As the torch touched, thick volumes of black reek

Rolled out and raised the wind, and instantly

Long films of flaxen hair floated aloft,

Settled alow, in drifts upon the crowd.

The vile were merciful; heaped high, my dear,

Thou didst not suffer long. O! it was soon,

Soon over, and I knew not any more,

Till grovelling on the ground, beating my head,

I heard myself, and scarcely knew 't was I,

At Holy Church railing with fierce mad words,

Crying and craving for a stake, for me.

While fast the folk, as ever, such a work

Being over, fled, and shrieked 'A heretic!

More heretics; yon ashes smoking still.'

And up and almost over me came on

A robed--ecclesiastic--with his train

(I choose the words lest that they do some wrong)

Call him a robed ecclesiastic proud.

And I lying helpless, with my bruised face

Beat on his garnished shoon. But he stepped back,

Spurned me full roughly with them, called the pikes,

Delivering orders, 'Take the bruised wretch.

He raves. Fool! thou'lt hear more of this anon.

Bestow him there.' He pointed to a door.

With that some threw a cloth upon my face

Because it bled. I knew they carried me

Within his home, and I was satisfied;

Willing my death. Was it an abbey door?

Was 't entrance to a palace? or a house

Of priests? I say not, nor if abbot he,

Bishop or other dignity; enough

That he so spake. 'Take in the bruised wretch.'

And I was borne far up a turret stair

Into a peakèd chamber taking form

O' the roof, and on a pallet bed they left

Me miserable. Yet I knew forsooth,

Left in my pain, that evil things were said

Of that same tower; men thence had disappeared,

Suspect of heresy had disappeared,

Deliver'd up, 't was whisper'd, tried and burned.

So be it methought, I would not live, not I.

But none did question me. A beldame old,

Kind, heedless of my sayings, tended me.

I raved at Holy Church and she was deaf,

And at whose tower detained me, she was dumb.

So had I food and water, rest and calm.

Then on the third day I rose up and sat

On the side of my low bed right melancholy,

All that high force of passion overpast,

I sick with dolourous thought and weak through tears

Spite of myself came to myself again

(For I had slept), and since I could not die

Looked through the window three parts overgrown

With leafage on the loftiest ivy ropes,

And saw at foot o' the rise another tower

In roof whereof a grating, dreary bare.

Lifetimes gone by, long, slow, dim, desolate,

I knew even there had been my lost love's cell.

So musing on the man that with his foot

Spurned me, the robed ecclesiastic stern,

'Would he had haled me straight to prison' methought,

'So made an end at once.'

My sufferings rose

Like billows closing over, beating down;

Made heavier far because of a stray, strange,

Sweet hope that mocked me at the last.

'T was thus,

I came from Oxford secretly, the news

Terrible of her danger smiting me,--

She was so young, and ever had been bred

With whom 't was made a peril now to name.

There had been worship in the night; some stole

To a mean chapel deep in woods, and heard

Preaching, and prayed. She, my betrothed, was there.

Father and mother, mother and father kind,

So young, so innocent, had ye no ruth,

No fear, that ye did bring her to her doom?

I know the chiefest Evil One himself

Sanded that floor. Their footsteps marking it

Betrayed them. How all came to pass let be.

Parted, in hiding some, other in thrall,

Father and mother, mother and father kind,

It may be yet ye know not this--not all.

I in the daytime lying perdue looked up

At the castle keep impregnable,--no foot

How rash so e'er might hope to scale it. Night

Descending, come I near, perplexedness,

Contempt of danger, to the door o' the keep

Drawing me. There a short stone bench I found,

And bitterly weeping sat and leaned my head

Against the hopeless hated massiveness

Of that detested hold. A lifting moon

Had made encroachment on the dark, but deep

Was shadow where I leaned. Within a while

I was aware, but saw no shape, of one

Who stood beside me, a dark shadow tall.

I cared not, disavowal mattered nought

Of grief to one so out of love with life.

But after pause I felt a hand let down

That rested kindly, firmly, a man's hand,

Upon my shoulder; there was cheer in it.

And presently a voice clear, whispering, low,

With pitifulness that faltered, spoke to me.

Was I, it asked, true son of Mother Church?

Coldly I answer'd 'Ay;' then blessed words

That danced into mine ears more excellent

Music than wedding bells had been were said,

With certitude that I might see my maid,

My dear one. He would give a paper, he

The man beside me. 'Do thy best endeavour,

Dear youth. Thy maiden being a right sweet child

Surely will hearken to thee; an she do,

And will recant, fair faultless heretic,

Whose knowledge is but scant of matters high

Which hard men spake on with her, hard men forced

From her mouth innocent, then shall she come

Before me; have good cheer, all may be well.

But an she will not she must burn, no power--

Not Solomon the Great on 's ivory throne

With all his wisdom could find out a way,

Nor I nor any to save her, she must burn.

Now hast thou till day dawn. The Mother of God

Speed thee.' A twisted scroll he gave; himself

Knocked at the door behind, and he was gone,

A darker pillar of darkness in the dark.

Straightway one opened and I gave the scroll.

He read, then thrust it in his lanthorn flame

Till it was ashes; 'Follow' and no more

Whisper'd, went up the giddy spiring way,

I after, till we reached the topmost door.

Then took a key, opened, and crying 'Delia,

Delia my sweetheart, I am come, I am come,'

I darted forward and he locked us in.

Two figures; one rose up and ran to me

Along the ladder of moonlight on the floor,

Fell on my neck. Long time we kissed and wept.

But for that other, while she stood appeased

For cruel parting past, locked in mine arms,

I had been glad, expecting a good end.

The cramped pale fellow prisoner; 'Courage' cried.

Then Delia lifting her fair face, the moon

Did show me its incomparable calms.

Her effluent thought needed no word of mine,

It whelmed my soul as in a sea of tears.

The warm enchantment leaning on my breast

Breathed as in air remote, and I was left

To infinite detachment, even with hers

To take cold kisses from the lips of doom,

Look in those eyes and disinherit hope

From that high place late won.

Then murmuring low

That other spake of Him on the cross, and soft

As broken-hearted mourning of the dove,

She 'One deep calleth to another' sighed.

'The heart of Christ mourns to my heart, "Endure.

There was a day when to the wilderness

My great forerunner from his thrall sent forth

Sad messengers, demanding _Art thou He_?

Think'st thou I knew no pang in that strange hour?

How could I hold the power, and want the will

Or want the love? That pang was his--and mine.

He said not, Save me an thou be the Son,

But only _Art thou He_? In my great way

It was not writ,--legions of Angels mine,

There was one Angel, one ordain'd to unlock

At my behest the doomed deadly door.

I could not tell him, tell not thee, why." Lord,

We know not why, but would not have Thee grieve,

Think not so deeply on 't; make us endure

For thy blest sake, hearing thy sweet voice mourn

"I will go forth, thy desolations meet,

And with my desolations solace them.

I will not break thy bonds but I am bound,

With thee."'

I feared. That speech deep furrows cut

In my afflicted soul. I whisper'd low,

'Thou wilt not heed her words, my golden girl.'

But Delia said not ought; only her hand

Laid on my cheek and on the other leaned

Her own. O there was comfort, father,

In love and nearness, e'en at the crack of doom.

Then spake I, and that other said no more,

For I appealed to God and to his Christ.

Unto the strait-barred window led my dear;

No table, bed, nor plenishing; no place

They had for rest: maugre two narrow chairs

By day, by night they sat thereon upright.

One drew I to the opening; on it set

My Delia, kneeled; upon its arm laid mine,

And prayed to God and prayed of her.

Father,

If you should ask e'en now, 'And art thou glad

Of what befell?' I could not say it, father,

I should be glad; therefore God make me glad,

Since we shall die to-morrow!

Think not sin,

O holy, harmless reverend man, to fear.

'T will be soon over. Now I know thou fear'st

Also for me, lest I be lost; but aye

Strong comfortable hope doth wrap me round,

A token of acceptance. I am cast

From Holy Church, and not received of thine;

But the great Advocate who knoweth all,

He whispers with me.

O my Delia wept

When I did plead; 'I have much feared to die,'

Answering. (The moonlight on her blue-black eyes

Fell; shining tears upon their lashes hung;

Fair showed the dimple that I loved; so young,

So very young.) 'But they did question me

Straitly, and make me many times to swear,

To swear of all alas, that I believed.

Truly, unless my soul I would have bound

With false oaths--difficult, innumerous, strong,

Way was not left me to get free.

But now,'

Said she, I am happy; I have seen the place

Where I am going.

I will tell it you,

Love, Hubert. Do not weep; they said to me

That you would come, and it would not be long.

Thus was it, being sad and full of fear,

I was crying in the night; and prayed to God

And said, "I have not learned high things;" and said

To the Saviour, "Do not be displeased with me,

I am not crying to get back and dwell

With my good mother and my father fond,

Nor even with my love, Hubert--my love,

Hubert; but I am crying because I fear

Mine answers were not rightly given--so hard

Those questions. If I did not understand,

Wilt thou forgive me?" And the moon went down

While I did pray, and looking on the floor,

Behold a little diamond lying there,

So small it might have dropped from out a ring.

I could but look! The diamond waxed--it grew--

It was a diamond yet, and shot out rays,

And in the midst of it a rose-red point;

It waxed till I might see the rose-red point

Was a little Angel 'mid those oval rays,

With a face sweet as the first kiss, O love,

You gave me, and it meant that self-same thing.

Now was it tall as I, among the rays

Standing; I touched not. Through the window drawn,

This barred and narrow window,--but I know

Nothing of how, we passed, and seemed to walk

Upon the air, till on the roof we sat.

It spoke. The sweet mouth did not move, but all

The Angel spoke in strange words full and old,

It was my Angel sent to comfort me

With a message, and the message, "I might come,

And myself see if He forgave me." Then

Deliver'd he admonition, "Afterwards

I must return and die." But I being dazed,

Confused with love and joy that He so far

Did condescend, "Ay, Eminence," replied,

"Is the way great?" I knew not what I said.

The Angel then, "I know not far nor near,

But all the stars of God this side it shine."

And I forgetful wholly for this thing

My soul did pant in--a rapture and a pain,

So great as they would melt it quite away

To a vanishing like mist when sultry rays

Shot from the daystar reckon with it--I

Said in my simpleness, "But is there time?

For in three days I am to burn, and O

I would fain see that he forgiveth first.

Pray you make haste." "I know not haste," he said;

"I was not fashioned to be thrall of time.

What is it?" And I marvelled, saw outlying,

Shaped like a shield and of dimensions like

An oval in the sky beyond all stars,

And trembled with foreknowledge. We were bound

To that same golden holy hollow. I

Misdoubted how to go, but we were gone.

I set off wingless, walking empty air

Beside him. In a moment we were caught

Among thick swarms of lost ones, evil, fell

Of might, only a little less than gods,

And strong enough to tear the earth to shreds,

Set shoulders to the sun and rend it out

O' its place. Their wings did brush across my face,

Yet felt I nought; the place was vaster far

Than all this wholesome pastoral windy world.

Through it we spinning, pierced to its far brink,

Saw menacing frowns and we were forth again.

Time has no instant for the reckoning ought

So sudden; 't was as if a lightning flash

Threw us within it, and a swifter flash,

We riding harmless down its swordlike edge,

Shot us fast forth to empty nothingness.

All my soul trembled, and my body it seemed

Pleaded than such a sight rather to faint

To the last silence, and the eery grave

Inhabit, and the slow solemnities

Of dying faced, content me with my shroud.

And yet was lying athwart the morning star

That shone in front, that holy hollow; yet

It loomed, as hung atilt towards the world,

That in her time of sleep appeared to look

Up to it, into it.

We, though I wept,

Fearing and longing, knowing not how to go,

My heart gone first, both mine eyes dedicate

To its all-hallowed sweet desirèd gold,

We on the empty limitless abyss

Walked slowly. It was far;

And I feared much,

For lo! when I looked down deep under me

The little earth was such a little thing,

How in the vasty dark find her again?

The crescent moon a moorèd boat hard by,

Did wait on her and touch her ragged rims

With a small gift of silver.

Love! my life!

Hubert, while I yet wept, O we were there.

A menai of Angels first, a swarm of stars

Took us among them (all alive with stars

Shining and shouting each to each that place),

The feathered multitude did lie so thick

We walked upon them, walked on outspread wings,

And the great gates were standing open.

Love!

The country is not what you think; but oh!

When you have seen it nothing else contents.

The voice, the vision was not what you think--

But oh! it was all. It was the meaning of life,

Excellent consummation of desires

For ever, let into the heart with pain

Most sweet. That smile did take the feeding soul

Deeper and deeper into heaven. The sward

(For I had bowed my face on it) I found

Grew in my spirit's longed for native land--

At last I was at home.'

And here she paused:

I must needs weep. I have not been in heaven,

Therefore she could not tell me what she heard,

Therefore she might not tell me what she saw,

Only I understood that One drew near

Who said to her she should e'en come, 'Because,'

Said He, 'My Father loves Me. I will ask

He send, a guiding Angel for My sake,

Since the dark way is long, and rough, and hard,

So that I shall not lose whom I love--thee.'

Other words wonderful of things not known,

When she had uttered, I gave hope away,

Cried out, and took her in despairing arms,

Asking no more. Then while the comfortless

Dawn till night fainted grew, alas! a key

That with abhorrèd jarring probed the door.

We kissed, we looked, unlocked our arms. She sighed

'Remember,' 'Ay, I will remember. What?'

'To come to me.' Then I, thrust roughly forth--

I, bereft, dumb, forlorn, unremedied

My hurt for ever, stumbled blindly down,

And the great door was shut behind and chained.

The weird pathetic scarlet of day dawning,

More kin to death of night than birth of morn,

Peered o'er yon hill bristling with spires of pine.

I heard the crying of the men condemned,

Men racked, that should be martyr'd presently,

And my great grief met theirs with might; I held

All our poor earth's despairs in my poor breast,

The choking reek, the faggots were all mine.

Ay, and the partings they were all mine--mine.

Father, it will be very good methinks

To die so, to die soon. It doth appease

The soul in misery for its fellows, when

There is no help, to suffer even as they.

Father, when I had lost her, when I sat

After my sickness on the pallet bed,

My forehead dropp'd into my hand, behold

Some one beside me. A man's hand let down

With that same action kind, compassionate,

Upon my shoulder. And I took the hand

Between mine own, laying my face thereon.

I knew this man for him who spoke with me,

Letting me see my Delia. I looked up.

Lo! lo! the robed ecclesiastic proud,

He and this other one. Tell you his name?

Am I a fiend? No, he was good to me,

Almost he placed his life in my hand.

Father,

He with good pitying words long talked to me,

'Did I not strive to save her?' 'Ay,' quoth I.

'But sith it would not be, I also claim

Death, burning; let me therefore die--let me.

I am wicked, would be heretic, but, faith,

I know not how, and Holy Church I hate.

She is no mother of mine, she slew my love.'

What answer? 'Peace, peace, thou art hard on me.

Favour I forfeit with the Mother of God,

Lose rank among the saints, foresee my soul

Drenched in the unmitigated flame, and take

My payment in the lives snatched at all risk

From battling in it here. O, an thou turn

And tear from me, lost to that other world

My heart's reward in this, I am twice lost;

Now have I doubly failed.'

Father, I know

The Church would rail, hound forth, disgrace, try, burn,

Make his proud name, discover'd, infamy,

Tread underfoot his ashes, curse his soul.

But God is greater than the Church. I hope

He shall not, for that he loved men, lose God.

I hope to hear it said 'Thy sins are all

Forgiven; come in, thou hast done well.'

For me

My chronicle comes down to its last page.

'Is not life sweet?' quoth he, and comforted

My sick heart with good words, 'duty' and 'home.'

Then took me at moonsetting down the stair

To the dark deserted midway of the street,

Gave me a purse of money, and his hand

Laid on my shoulder, holding me with words

A father might have said, bad me God speed,

So pushed me from him, turned, and he was gone.

There was a Pleiad lost; where is she now?

None knoweth,--O she reigns, it is my creed,

Otherwhere dedicate to making day.

The God of Gods, He doubtless looked to that

Who wasteth never ought He fashionèd.

I have no vision, but where vision fails

Faith cheers, and truly, truly there is need,

The god of this world being so unkind.

O love! My girl for ever to the world

Wanting. Lost, not that any one should find,

But wasted for the sake of waste, and lost

For love of man's undoing, of man's tears,

By envy of the evil one; I mourn

For thee, my golden girl, I mourn, I mourn.

He set me free. And it befell anon

That I must imitate him. Then 't befell

That on the holy Book I read, and all,

The mediating Mother and her Babe,

God and the Church, and man and life and death,

And the dark gulfs of bitter purging flame,

Did take on alteration. Like a ship

Cast from her moorings, drifting from her port,

Not bound to any land, not sure of land,

My dull'd soul lost her reckoning on that sea

She sailed, and yet the voyage was nigh done.

This God was not the God I had known; this Christ

Was other. O, a gentler God, a Christ--

By a mother and a Father infinite--

In distance each from each made kin to me.

Blest Sufferer on the rood; but yet, I say

Other. Far gentler, and I cannot tell,

Father, if you, or she, my golden girl,

Or I, or any aright those mysteries read.

I cannot fathom them. There is not time,

So quickly men condemned me to this cell.

I quarrell'd not so much with Holy Church

For that she taught, as that my love she burned.

I die because I hid her enemies,

And read the Book.

But O, forgiving God,

I do elect to trust thee. I have thought,

What! are there set between us and the sun

Millions of miles, and did He like a tent

Rear up yon vasty sky? Is heaven less wide?

And dwells He there, but for His wingèd host,

Almost alone? Truly I think not so;

He has had trouble enough with this poor world

To make Him as an earthly father would,

Love it and value it more.

He did not give

So much to have us with Him, and yet fail.

And now He knows I would believe e'en so

As pleaseth Him, an there was time to learn

Or certitude of heart; but time fails, time.

He knoweth also 't were a piteous thing

Not to be sure of my love's welfare--not

To see her happy and good in that new home.

Most piteous. I could all forego but this.

O let me see her, Lord.

What, also I!

White ashes and a waft of vapour--I

To flutter on before the winds. No, no.

And yet for ever ay--my flesh shall hiss

And I shall hear 't. Dreadful, unbearable!

Is it to-morrow?

Ay, indeed, indeed,

To-morrow. But my moods are as great waves

That rise and break and thunder down on me,

And then fall'n back sink low.

I have waked long

And cannot hold my thoughts upon th' event;

They slip, they wander forth.

How the dusk grows.

This is the last moonrising we shall see.

Methought till morn to pray, and cannot pray.

Where is mine Advocate? let Him say all

And more was in my mind to say this night,

Because to-morrow--Ah! no more of that,

The tale is told. Father, I fain would sleep.

Truly my soul is silent unto God.

A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST.

I.

Laura, my Laura! 'Yes, mother!' 'I want you, Laura; come down.'

'What is it, mother--what, dearest? O your loved face how it pales!

You tremble, alas and alas--you heard bad news from the town?'

'Only one short half hour to tell it. My poor courage fails--

II.

Laura.' 'Where's Ronald?--O anything else but Ronald!' 'No, no,

Not Ronald, if all beside, my Laura, disaster and tears;

But you, it is yours to send them away, for you they will go,

One short half hour, and must it decide, it must for the years.

III.

Laura, you think of your father sometimes?' 'Sometimes!' 'Ah, but how?'

'I think--that we need not think, sweet mother--the time is not yet,

He is as the wraith of a wraith, and a far off shadow now--

--But if you have heard he is dead?' 'Not that?' 'Then let me forget.'

IV.

'The sun is off the south window, draw back the curtain, my child.'

'But tell it, mother.' 'Answer you first what it is that you see.'

'The lambs on the mountain slope, and the crevice with blue ice piled.'

'Nearer.'--'But, mother!' 'Nearer!' 'My heifer she's lowing to me.'

V.

'Nearer.' 'Nothing, sweet mother, O yes, for one sits in the bower.

Black the clusters hang out from the vine about his snow-white head,

And the scarlet leaves, where my Ronald leaned.' 'Only one half hour--

Laura'--'O mother, my mother dear, all known though nothing said.

VI.

O it breaks my heart, the face dejected that looks not on us,

A beautiful face--I remember now, though long I forgot.'

'Ay and I loved it. I love him to-day, and to see him thus!

Saying "I go if she bids it, for work her woe--I will not."

VII.

There! weep not, wring not your hands, but think, think with your heart

and soul.'

'Was he innocent, mother? If he was, I, sure had been told,

'He said so.' 'Ah, but they do.' 'And I hope--and long was his dole,

And all for the signing a name (if indeed he signed) for gold.'

VIII.

'To find us again, in the far far West, where hid, we were free--

But if he was innocent--O my heart, it is riven in two,

If he goes how hard upon him--or stays--how harder on me,

For O my Ronald, my Ronald, my dear,--my best what of you!'

IX.

'Peace; think, my Laura--I say he will go there, weep not so sore.

And the time is come, Ronald knows nothing, your father will go,

As the shadow fades from its place will he, and be seen no more.'

'There 'll be time to think to-morrow, and after, but to-day, no.

X.

I'm going down the garden, mother.' 'Laura!' 'I've dried my tears.'

'O how will this end!' 'I know not the end, I can but begin.'

'But what will you say?' 'Not "welcome, father," though long were those

years,

But I'll say to him, "O my poor father, we wait you, come in."

LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE.

I.

'And you brought him home.' 'I did, ay Ronald, it rested with me.'

'Love!' 'Yes.' 'I would fain you were not so calm.' 'I cannot weep. No.'

'What is he like, your poor father?' 'He is--like--this fallen tree

Prone at our feet, by the still lake taking on rose from the glow,

II.

Now scarlet, O look! overcoming the blue both lake and sky,

While the waterfalls waver like smoke, then leap in and are not.

And shining snow-points of high sierras cast down, there they lie.'

'O Laura--I cannot bear it. Laura! as if I forgot.'

III.

'No, you remember, and I remember that evening--like this

When we come forth from the gloomy Canyon, lo, a sinking sun.

And, Ronald, you gave to me your troth ring, I gave my troth kiss.'

'Give me another, I say that this makes no difference, none.

IV.

It hurts me keenly. It hurts to the soul that you thought it could.'

'I never thought so, my Ronald, my love, never thought you base.'

No, but I look for a nobler nobleness, loss understood,

Accepted, and not that common truth which can hold through disgrace.

V.

O! we remember, and how ere that noon through deeps of the lake

We floating looked down and the boat's shadow followed on rocks below,

So clear the water. O all pathetic as if for love's sake

Our life that is but a fleeting shadow 't would under us show.

VI.

O we remember forget-me-not pale, and white columbine

You wreathed for my hair; because we remember this cannot be.

Ah! here is your ring--see, I draw it off--it must not be mine,

Put it on, love, if but for the moment and listen to me.

VII.

I look for the best, I look for the most, I look for the all

From you, it consoles this misery of mine, there is you to trust.

O if you can weep, let us weep together, tears may well fall

For that lost sunsetting and what it promised,--they may, they must.

VIII.

Do you say nothing, mine own belovèd, you know what I mean,

And whom.--To her pride and her love from YOU shall such blow be dealt...

...Silence uprisen, is like a presence, it comes us between...

As once there was darkness, now is there silence that may be felt.

IX.

Ronald, your mother, so gentle, so pure, and you are her best,

'T is she whom I think of, her quiet sweetness, her gracious way.

'How could she bear it?'--'Laura!' 'Yes, Ronald.' 'Let that matter rest.

You might give your name to my father's child?' 'My father's name. Ay,

X.

Who died before it was soiled.' 'You mutter.' 'Why, love, are you here?'

'Because my mother fled forth to the West, her trouble to hide,

And I was so small, the lone pine forest, and tier upon tier,

Far off Mexican snowy sierras pushed England aside.'

XI.

'And why am I here?' 'But what did you mutter?' 'O pardon, sweet.

Why came I here and--my mother?' In truth then I cannot tell.'

'Yet you drew my ring from your finger--see--I kneel at your feet.'

'Put it on. 'T was for no fault of mine.' 'Love! I knew that full well.'

XII.

'And yet there be faults that long repented, are aye to deplore,

Wear my ring, Laura, at least till I choose some words I can say,

If indeed any word need be said.' 'No! wait, Ronald, no more;

What! is there respite? Give me a moment to think "nay" or "ay."

XIII.

I know not, but feel there is. O pardon me, pardon me,--peace.

For nought is to say, and the dawn of hope is a solemn thing,

Let us have silence. Take me back, Ronald, full sweet is release.'

'Laura! but give me my troth kiss again.' 'And give me my ring.'

THE WHITE MOON WASTETH.

The white moon wasteth,

And cold morn hasteth

Athwart the snow,

The red east burneth

And the tide turneth,

And thou must go.

Think not, sad rover,

Their story all over

Who come from far--

Once, in the ages

Won goodly wages

Led by a star.

Once, for all duly

Guidance doth truly

Shine as of old,

Opens for me and thee

Once, opportunity

Her gates of gold.

Enter, thy star is out,

Traverse nor faint nor doubt

Earth's antres wild,

Thou shalt find good and rest

As found the Magi blest

That divine Child.

AN ARROW-SLIT.

I clomb full high the belfry tower

Up to yon arrow-slit, up and away,

I said 'let me look on my heart's fair flower

In the wallèd garden where she doth play.'

My care she knoweth not, no nor the cause,

White rose, red rose about her hung,

And I aloft with the doves and the daws.

They coo and call to their callow young.

Sing, 'O an she were a white rosebud fair

Dropt, and in danger from passing feet,

'T is I would render her service tender,

Upraised on my bosom with reverence meet.'

Playing at the ball, my dearest of all,

When she grows older how will it be,

I dwell far away from her thoughts to-day

That heed not, need not, or mine or me.

Sing, 'O an my love were a fledgeling dove

That flutters forlorn o' her shallow nest,

'T is I would render her service tender,

And carry her, carry her on my breast.'

WENDOVER.

Uplifted and lone, set apart with our love

On the crest of a soft swelling down

Cloud shadows that meet on the grass at our feet

Sail on above Wendover town.

Wendover town takes the smile of the sun

As if yearning and strife were no more,

From her red roofs float high neither plaint neither sigh,

All the weight of the world is our own.

Would that life were more kind and that souls might have peace

As the wide mead from storm and from bale,

We bring up our own care, but how sweet over there

And how strange is their calm in the vale.

As if trouble at noon had achieved a deep sleep,

Lapped and lulled from the weariful fret,

Or shot down out of day, had a hint dropt away

As if grief might attain to forget.

Not if we two indeed had gone over the bourne

And were safe on the hills of the blest,

Not more strange they might show to us drawn from below,

Come up from long dolour to rest.

But the peace of that vale would be thine love and mine,

And sweeter the air than of yore,

And this life we have led as a dream that is fled

Might appear to our thought evermore.

'Was it life, was it life?' we might say ''twas scarce life,'

'Was it love? 'twas scarce love,' looking down,

'Yet we mind a sweet ray of the red sun one day

Low lying on Wendover town.

THE LOVER PLEADS.

I.

When I had guineas many a one

Nought else I lackèd 'neath the sun,

I had two eyes the bluest seen,

A perfect shape, a gracious mien,

I had a voice might charm the bale

From a two days widowed nightingale,

And if you ask how this I know

I had a love who told me so.

The lover pleads, the maid hearkeneth,

Her foot turns, his day darkeneth.

Love unkind, O can it be

'T was your foot false did turn from me.

II.

The gear is gone, the red gold spent,

Favour and beauty with them went,

Eyes take the veil, their shining done,

Not fair to him is fair to none,

Sweet as a bee's bag 'twas to taste

His praise. O honey run to waste,

He loved not! spoiled is all my way

In the spoiling of that yesterday.

The shadows wax, the low light alters,

Gold west fades, and false heart falters.

The pity of it!--Love's a rover,

The last word said, and all over.

SONG IN THREE PARTS.

I.

The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather,

'O most sweet wear;

Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me,

Four am I fair,'

Quoth the brown bee

'In thy white wear

Four thou art fair.

A mystery

Of honeyed snow

In scented air

The bee lines flow

Straight unto thee.

Great boon and bliss

All pure I wis,

And sweet to grow

Ay, so to give

That many live.

Now as for me,

I,' quoth the bee,

'Have not to give,

Through long hours sunny

Gathering I live:

Aye debonair

Sailing sweet air

After my fare,

Bee-bread and honey.

In thy deep coombe,

O thou white broom,

Where no leaves shake,

Brake,

Bent nor clover,

I a glad rover,

Thy calms partake,

While winds of might

From height to height

Go bodily over.

Till slanteth light,

And up the rise

Thy shadow lies,

A shadow of white,

A beauty-lender

Pathetic, tender.

Short is thy day?

Answer with 'Nay,'

Longer the hours

That wear thy flowers

Than all dull, cold

Years manifold

That gift withhold.

A long liver,

O honey-giver,

Thou by all showing

Art made, bestowing,

I envy not

Thy greater lot,

Nor thy white wear.

But, as for me,

I,' quoth the bee,

'Never am fair.'

II.

The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brooding

Deeply and long,

'Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas! all's over,

O lost my song.'

One in the tree,

'Hush now! Let be:

The song at ending

Left my long tending

Over alsò.

Let be, let us go

Across the wan sea.

The little ones care not,

And I fare not

Amiss with thee.

Thou hast sung all,

This hast thou had.

Love, be not sad;

It shall befall

Assuredly,

When the bush buddeth

And the bank studdeth--

Where grass is sweet

And damps do fleet,

Her delicate beds

With daisy heads

That the Stars Seven

Leaned down from heaven

Shall sparkling mark

In the warm dark

Thy most dear strain

Which ringeth aye true--

Piercing vale, croft

Lifted aloft

Dropt even as dew

With a sweet quest

To her on the nest

When damps we love

Fall from above.

"Art thou asleep?

Answer me, answer me,

Night is so deep

Thy right fair form

I cannot see;

Answer me, answer me,

Are the eggs warm?

Is't well with thee?"

Ay, this shall be

Assuredly.

Ay, thou full fain

In the soft rain

Shalt sing again.'

III.

A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken,

Her good days o'er;

'Seven sweet years of my life did I live belovèd,

Seven--no more.'

Then Echo woke--and spoke

'No more--no more,'

And a wave broke

On the sad shore

When Echo said

'No more,'

Nought else made reply,

Nor land, nor loch, nor sky

Did any comfort try,

But the wave spread

Echo's faint tone

Alone,

All down the desolate shore,

'No more--no more.'

'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM.'

Out of the melancholy that is made

Of ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs,

Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed,

A note in new love-pipings on the bough,

Grieving with grief till all the full-fed air

And shaken milky corn doth wot of it,

The pity of it trembling in the talk

Of the beforetime merrymaking brook--

Out of that melancholy will the soul,

In proof that life is not forsaken quite

Of the old trick and glamour which made glad;

Be cheated some good day and not perceive

How sorrow ebbing out is gone from view,

How tired trouble fall'n for once on sleep,

How keen self-mockery that youth's eager dream

Interpreted to mean so much is found

To mean and give so little--frets no more,

Floating apart as on a cloud--O then

Not e'en so much as murmuring 'Let this end,'

She will, no longer weighted, find escape,

Lift up herself as if on wings and flit

Back to the morning time.

'O once with me

It was all one, such joy I had at heart,

As I heard sing the morning star, or God

Did hold me with an Everlasting Hand,

And dip me in the day.

O once with me,'

Reflecting ''twas enough to live, to look

Wonder and love. Now let that come again.

Rise!' And ariseth first a tanglement

Of flowering bushes, peonies pale that drop

Upon a mossy lawn, rich iris spikes,

Bee-borage, mealy-stemmed auricula,

Brown wallflower, and the sweetbriar ever sweet,

Her pink buds pouting from their green.

To these

Add thick espaliers where the bullfinch came

To strew much budding wealth, and was not chid.

Then add wide pear trees on the warmèd wall,

The old red wall one cannot see beyond.

That is the garden.

In the wall a door

Green, blistered with the sun. You open it,

And lo! a sunny waste of tumbled hills

And a glad silence, and an open calm.

Infinite leisure, and a slope where rills

Dance down delightedly, in every crease,

And lambs stoop drinking and the finches dip,

Then shining waves upon a lonely beach.

That is the world.

An all-sufficient world,

And as it seems an undiscovered world,

So very few the folk that come to look.

Yet one has heard of towns; but they are far

The world is undiscovered, and the child

Is undiscovered that with stealthy joy

Goes gathering like a bee who in dark cells

Hideth sweet food to live on in the cold.

What matters to the child, it matters not

More than it mattered to the moons of Mars,

That they for ages undiscovered went

Marked not of man, attendant on their king.

A shallow line of sand curved to the cliff,

There dwelt the fisherfolk, and there inland

Some scattered cottagers in thrift and calm,

Their talk full oft was of old days,--for here

Was once a fosse, and by this rock-hewn path

Our wild fore-elders as 't is said would come

To gather jetsam from some Viking wreck,

Like a sea-beast wide breasted (her snake head

Reared up as staring while she rocked ashore)

That split, and all her ribs were on their fires

The red whereof at their wives' throats made bright

Gold gauds which from the weed they picked ere yet

The tide had turned.

'Many,' methought, 'and rich

They must have been, so long their chronicle.

Perhaps the world was fuller then of folk,

For ships at sea are few that near us now.'

Yet sometimes when the clouds were torn to rags,

Flying black before a gale, we saw one rock

In the offing, and the mariner folk would cry,

'Look how she labours; those aboard may hear

Her timbers creak e'en as she'd break her heart.'

'Twas then the grey gulls blown ashore would light

In flocks, and pace the lawn with flat cold feet.

And so the world was sweet, and it was strange,

Sweet as a bee-kiss to the crocus flower,

Surprising, fresh, direct, but ever one.

The laughter of glad music did not yet

In its echo yearn, as hinting ought beyond,

Nor pathos tremble at the edge of bliss

Like a moon halo in a watery sky,

Nor the sweet pain alike of love and fear

In a world not comprehended touch the heart--

The poetry of life was not yet born.

'T was a thing hidden yet that there be days

When some are known to feel 'God is about,'

As if that morn more than another morn

Virtue flowed forth from Him, the rolling world

Swam in a soothèd calm made resonant

And vital, swam as in the lap of God

Come down; until she slept and had a dream

(Because it was too much to bear awake),

That all the air shook with the might of Him

And whispered how she was the favourite world

That day, and bade her drink His essence in.

'Tis on such days that seers prophesy

And poets sing, and many who are wise

Find out for man's wellbeing hidden things

Whereof the hint came in that Presence known

Yet unknown. But a seer--what is he?

A poet is a name of long ago.

Men love the largeness of the field--the wild

Quiet that soothes the moor. In other days

They loved the shadow of the city wall,

In its stone ramparts read their poetry,

Safety and state, gold, and the arts of peace,

Law-giving, leisure, knowledge, all were there

This to excuse a child's allegiance and

A spirit's recurrence to the older way.

Orphan'd, with aged guardians kind and true,

Things came to pass not told before to me.

Thus, we did journey once when eve was near.

Through carriage windows I beheld the moors,

Then, churches, hamlets cresting of low hills.

The way was long, at last I, fall'n asleep,

Awoke to hear a rattling 'neath the wheels

And see the lamps alight. This was the town.

Then a wide inn received us, and full soon

Came supper, kisses, bed.

The lamp without

Shone in; the door was shut, and I alone.

An ecstasy of exultation took

My soul, for there were voices heard and steps,

I was among so many,--none of them

Knew I was come!

I rose, with small bare feet,

Across the carpet stole, a white-robed child,

And through the window peered. Behold the town.

There had been rain, the pavement glistened yet

In a soft lamplight down the narrow street;

The church was nigh at hand, a clear-toned clock

Chimed slowly, open shops across the way

Showed store of fruit, and store of bread,--and one

Many caged birds. About were customers,

I saw them bargain, and a rich high voice

Was heard,--a woman sang, her little babe

Slept 'neath her shawl, and by her side a boy

Added wild notes and sweet to hers.

Some passed

Who gave her money. It was far from me

To pity her, she was a part of that

Admirèd town. E'en so within the shop

A rosy girl, it may be ten years old,

Quaint, grave. She helped her mother, deftly weighed

The purple plums, black mulberries rich and ripe

For boyish customers, and counted pence

And dropped them in an apron that she wore.

Methought a queen had ne'er so grand a lot,

She knew it, she looked up at me, and smiled.

But yet the song went on, and in a while

The meaning came; the town was not enough

To satisfy that singer, for a sigh

With her wild music came. What wanted she?

Whate'er she wanted wanted all. O how

'T was poignant, her rich voice; not like a bird's.

Could she not dwell content and let them be,

That they might take their pleasure in the town,

For--no, she was not poor, witness the pence.

I saw her boy and that small saleswoman;

He wary, she with grave persuasive air,

Till he came forth with filberts in his cap,

And joined his mother, happy, triumphing.

This was the town; and if you ask what else,

I say good sooth that it was poetry

Because it was the all, and something more,--

It was the life of man, it was the world

That made addition to the watching heart,

First conscious its own beating, first aware

How, beating it kept time with all the race;

Nay, 't was a consciousness far down and dim

Of a Great Father watching too.

But lo! the rich lamenting voice again;

She sang not for herself; it was a song

For me, for I had seen the town and knew,

Yearning I knew the town was not enough.

What more? To-day looks back on yesterday,

Life's yesterday, the waiting time, the dawn,

And reads a meaning into it, unknown

When it was with us.

It is always so.

But when as ofttimes I remember me

Of the warm wind that moved the beggar's hair,

Of the wet pavement, and the lamps alit,

I know it was not pity that made yearn

My heart for her, and that same dimpled boy

How grand methought to be abroad so late.

And barefoot dabble in the shining wet;

How fine to peer as other urchins did

At those pent huddled doves they let not rest;

No, it was almost envy. Ay, how sweet

The clash of bells; they rang to boast that far

That cheerful street was from the cold sea-fog,

From dark ploughed field and narrow lonesome lane.

How sweet to hear the hum of voices kind,

To see the coach come up with din of horn.

Quick tramp of horses, mark the passers-by

Greet one another, and go on.

But now

They closed the shops, the wild clear voice was still,

The beggars moved away--where was their home.

The coach which came from out dull darksome fells

Into the light; passed to the dark again

Like some old comet which knows well her way,

Whirled to the sun that as her fateful loop

She turns, forebodes the destined silences.

Yes, it was gone; the clattering coach was gone,

And those it bore I pitied even to tears,

Because they must go forth, nor see the lights,

Nor hear the chiming bells.

In after days,

Remembering of the childish envy and

The childish pity, it has cheered my heart

To think e'en now pity and envy both

It may be are misplaced, or needed not.

Heaven may look down in pity on some soul

Half envied, or some wholly pitied smile,

For that it hath to wait as it were an hour

To see the lights that go not out by night,

To walk the golden street and hear a song;

Other-world poetry that is the all

And something more.

NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE.

White as white butterflies that each one dons

Her face their wide white wings to shade withal,

Many moon-daisies throng the water-spring.

While couched in rising barley titlarks call,

And bees alit upon their martagons

Do hang a-murmuring, a-murmuring.

They chide, it may be, alien tribes that flew

And rifled their best blossom, counted on

And dreamed on in the hive ere dangerous dew

That clogs bee-wings had dried; but when outshone

Long shafts of gold (made all for them) of power

To charm it away, those thieves had sucked the flower.

Now must they go; a-murmuring they go,

And little thrushes twitter in the nest;

The world is made for them, and even so

The clouds are; they have seen no stars, the breast

Of their soft mother hid them all the night,

Till her mate came to her in red dawn-light.

Eggs scribbled over with strange writing, signs,

Prophecies, and their meaning (for you see

The yolk within) is life, 'neath yonder bines

Lie among sedges; on a hawthorn tree

The slender-lord and master perched hard by,

Scolds at all comers if they step too nigh.

And our small river makes encompassment

Of half the mead and holm: yon lime-trees grow

All heeling over to it, diligent

To cast green doubles of themselves below,

But shafts of sunshine reach its shallow floor

And warm the yellow sand it ripples o'er.

Ripples and ripples to a pool it made

Turning. The cows are there, one creamy white--

She should be painted with no touch of shade

If any list to limn her--she the light

Above, about her, treads out circles wide,

And sparkling water flashes from her side.

The clouds have all retired to so great height

As earth could have no dealing with them more,

As they were lost, for all her drawing and might,

And must be left behind; but down the shore

Lie lovelier clouds in ranks of lace-work frail,

Wild parsley with a myriad florets pale,

Another milky-way, more intricate

And multitudinous, with every star

Perfect. Long changeful sunbeams undulate

Amid the stems where sparklike creatures are

That hover and hum for gladness, then the last

Tree rears her graceful head, the shade is passed.

And idle fish in warm wellbeing lie

Each with his shadow under, while at ease

As clouds that keep their shape the darting fry

Turn and are gone in company; o'er these

Strangers to them, strangers to us, from holes

Scooped in the bank peer out shy water-voles.

Here, take for life and fly with innocent feet

The brown-eyed fawns, from moving shadows clear;

There, down the lane with multitudinous bleat

Plaining on shepherd lads a flock draws near;

A mild lamenting fills the morning air,

'Why to yon upland fold must we needs fare?'

These might be fabulous creatures every one,

And this their world might be some other sphere

We had but heard of, for all said or done

To know of them,--of what this many a year

They may have thought of man, or of his sway,

Or even if they have a God and pray,

The sweetest river bank can never more

Home to its source tempt back the lapsed stream,

Nor memory reach the ante-natal shore,

Nor one awake behold a sleeper's dream,

Not easier 't were that unbridged chasm to walk,

And share the strange lore of their wordless talk.

Like to a poet voice, remote from ken,

That unregarded sings and undesired,

Like to a star unnamed by lips of men,

That faints at dawn in saffron light retired,

Like to an echo in some desert deep

From age to age unwakened from its sleep--

So falls unmarked that other world's great song,

And lapsing wastes without interpreter.

Slave world! not man's to raise, yet man's to wrong,

He cannot to a loftier place prefer,

But he can,--all its earlier rights forgot,

Reign reckless if its nations rue their lot.

If they can sin or feel life's wear and fret,

An men had loved them better, it may be

We had discovered. But who e'er did yet,

After the sage saints in their clemency,

Ponder in hope they had a heaven to win,

Or make a prayer with a dove's name therein.

As grave Augustine pleading in his day,

'Have pity, Lord, upon the unfledged bird,

Lest such as pass do trample it in the way,

Not marking, or not minding; give the word,

O bid an angel in the nest again

To place it, lest the mother's love be vain.

And let it live, Lord God, till it can fly.'

This man dwelt yearning, fain to guess, to spell

The parable; all work of God Most High

Took to his man's heart. Surely this was well;

To love is more than to be loved, by leave

Of Heaven, to give is more than to receive.

He made it so that said it. As for us

Strange is their case toward us, for they give

And we receive. Made martyrs ever thus

In deed but not in will, for us they live,

For us they die, we quench their little day,

Remaining blameless, and they pass away.

The world is better served than it is ruled,

And not alone of them, for ever

Ruleth the man, the woman serveth fooled

Full oft of love, not knowing his yoke is sore.

Life's greatest Son nought from life's measure swerved,

He was among us 'as a man that served.'

Have they another life, and was it won

In the sore travail of another death,

Which loosed the manacles from our race undone

And plucked the pang from dying? If this breath

Be not their all, reproach no more debarred,

'O unkind lords, you made our bondage hard'

May be their plaint when we shall meet again

And make our peace with them; the sea of life

Find flowing, full, nor ought or lost or vain.

Shall the vague hint whereof all thought is rife,

The sweet pathetic guess indeed come true,

And things restored reach that great residue?

Shall we behold fair flights of phantom doves,

Shall furred creatures couch in moly flowers,

Swan souls the rivers oar with their world-loves,

In difference welcome as these souls of ours?

Yet soul of man from soul of man far more

May differ, even as thought did heretofore

That ranged and varied on th' undying gleam:

From a pure breath of God aspiring, high,

Serving and reigning, to the tender dream,

The winged Psyche and her butterfly--

From thrones and powers, to--fresh from death alarms

Child spirits entering in an angel's arms.

Why must we think, begun in paradise,

That their long line, cut off with severance fell,

Shall end in nothingness--the sacrifice

Of their long service in a passing knell?

Could man be wholly blest if not to say

'Forgive'--nor make amends for ever and aye?

Waste, waste on earth, and waste of God afar.

Celestial flotsam, blazing spars on high,

Drifts in the meteor month from some wrecked star,

Strew oft th' unwrinkled ocean of the sky,

And pass no more accounted of than be

Long dulses limp that stripe a mundane sea.

The sun his kingdom fills with light, but all

Save where it strikes some planet and her moons

Across cold chartless gulfs ordained to fall,

Void antres, reckoneth no man's nights or noons,

But feeling forth as for some outmost shore,

Faints in the blank of doom, and is no more.

God scattereth His abundance as forgot,

And what then doth he gather? If we know,

'Tis that One told us it was life. 'For not

A sparrow,' quoth he, uttering long ago

The strangest words that e'er took earthly sound,

'Without your Father falleth to the ground.'

PERDITA.

_I go beyond the commandment_.' So be it. Then mine be the blame,

The loss, the lack, the yearning, till life's last sand be run,--

I go beyond the commandment, yet honour stands fast with her claim,

And what I have rued I shall rue; for what I have done--I have done.

Hush, hush! for what of the future; you cannot the base exalt,

There is no bridging a chasm over, that yawns with so sheer incline;

I will not any sweet daughter's cheek should pale for this mother's fault,

Nor son take leave to lower his life a-thinking on mine.

'_ Will I tell you all?_' So! this, e'en this, will I do for your great

love's sake;

Think what it costs. '_Then let there be silence--silence you'll count

consent._'

No, and no, and for ever no: rather to cross and to break,

And to lower your passion I speak--that other it was I meant.

That other I meant (but I know not how) to speak of, nor April days,

Nor a man's sweet voice that pleaded--O (but I promised this)--

He never talked of marriage, never; I grant him that praise;

And he bent his stately head, and I lost, and he won with a kiss.

He led me away--O, how poignant sweet the nightingale's note that noon--

I beheld, and each crisped spire of grass to him for my sake was fair,

And warm winds flattered my soul blowing straight from the soul of June,

And a lovely lie was spread on the fields, but the blue was bare.

When I looked up, he said: 'Love, fair love! O rather look in these eyes

With thine far sweeter than eyes of Eve when she stepped the valley

unshod'--

For ONE might be looking through it, he thought, and he would not in any

wise

I should mark it open, limitless, empty, bare 'neath the gaze of God.

Ah me! I was happy--yes, I was; 't is fit you should know it all,

While love was warm and tender and yearning, the rough winds troubled

me not;

I heard them moan without in the forest; heard the chill rains fall--

But I thought my place was sheltered with him--I forgot, I forgot.

After came news of a wife; I think he was glad I should know.

To stay my pleading, 'take me to church and give me my ring';

'You should have spoken before,' he had sighed, when I prayed him so,

For his heart was sick for himself and me, and this bitter thing.

But my dream was over me still,--I was half beguiled,

And he in his kindness left me seldom, O seldom, alone,

And yet love waxed cold, and I saw the face of my little child,

And then at the last I knew what I was, and what I had done.

'YOU _will give me the name of wife_. YOU _will give me a ring_.'--O

peace!

You are not let to ruin your life because I ruined mine;

You will go to your people at home. There will be rest and release;

The bitter now will be sweet full soon--ay, and denial divine.

But spare me the ending. I did not wait to be quite cast away;

I left him asleep, and the bare sun rising shone red on my gown.

There was dust in the lane, I remember; prints of feet in it lay,

And honeysuckle trailed in the path that led on to the down.

I was going nowhere--I wandered up, then turned and dared to look back,

Where low in the valley he careless and quiet--quiet and careless slept.

'_Did I love him yet?_' I loved him. Ay, my heart on the upland track

Cried to him, sighed to him out by the wheat, as I walked, and I wept.

I knew of another alas, one that had been in my place,

Her little ones, she forsaken, were almost in need;

I went to her, and carried my babe, then all in my satins and lace

I sank at the step of her desolate door, a mourner indeed.

I cried, ''T is the way of the world, would I had never been born!'

'Ay, 't is the way of the world, but have you no sense to see

For all the way of the world,' she answers and laughs me to scorn,

'The world is made the world that it is by fools like you, like me.'

Right hard upon me, hard on herself, and cold as the cold stone,

But she took me in; and while I lay sick I knew I was lost,

Lost with the man I loved, or lost without him, making my moan

Blighted and rent of the bitter frost, wrecked, tempest tossed, lost,

lost!

How am I fallen:--we that might make of the world what we would,

Some of us sink in deep waters. Ah! '_you would raise me again?'_

No true heart,--you cannot, you cannot, and all in my soul that is good

Cries out against such a wrong. Let be, your quest is for ever in vain.

For I feel with another heart, I think with another mind,

I have worsened life, I have wronged the world, I have lowered the light;

But as for him, his words and his ways were after his kind,

He did but spoil where he could, and waste where he might.

For he was let to do it; I let him and left his soul

To walk mid the ruins he made of home in remembrance of love's despairs,

Despairs that harden the hearts of men and shadow their heads with dole,

And woman's fault, though never on earth, may be healed,--but what of

theirs.

'T was fit you should hear it all--What, tears? they comfort me; now you

will go,

Nor wrong your life for the nought you call 'a pair of beautiful eyes,'

_'I will not say I love you.'_ Truly I will not, no.

_'Will, I pity you?'_ Ay, but the pang will be short, you shall wake and be

wise.

_'Shall we meet?_ We shall meet on the other side, but not before.

I shall be pure and fair, I shall hear the sound of THE NAME,

And see the form of His face. You too will walk on that shore,

In the garden of the Lord God, where neither is sorrow nor shame.

Farewell, I shall bide alone, for God took my one white lamb,

I work for such as she was, and I will the while I last,

But there's no beginning again, ever I am what I am,

And nothing, nothing, nothing, can do away with the past.

SERIOUS POEMS,

AND

SONGS AND POEMS

OF

LOVE AND CHILDHOOD.

LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING.

_(First of a Series.)_

A PARSON'S LETTER TO A YOUNG POET.

They said "Too late, too late, the work is done;

Great Homer sang of glory and strong men

And that fair Greek whose fault all these long

years

Wins no forgetfulness nor ever can;

For yet cold eyes upon her frailty bend,

For yet the world waits in the victor's tent

Daily, and sees an old man honourable,

His white head bowed, surprise to passionate tears

Awestruck Achilles; sighing, 'I have endured,

The like whereof no soul hath yet endured,

To kiss the hand of him that slew my son.'"

They said: "We, rich by him, are rich by more;

One Aeschylus found watchfires on a hill

That lit Old Night's three daughters to their work;

When the forlorn Fate leaned to their red light

And sat a-spinning, to her feet he came

And marked her till she span off all her thread.

"O, it is late, good sooth, to cry for more:

The work once done, well done," they said, "forbear!

A Tuscan afterward discovered steps

Over the line of life in its mid-way;

He climbed the wall of Heaven, beheld his love

Safe at her singing, and he left his foes

In a vale of shadow weltering, unassoiled

Immortal sufferers henceforth in both worlds.

"Who may inherit next or who shall match

The Swan of Avon and go float with him

Down the long river of life aneath a sun

Not veiled, and high at noon?--the river of life

That as it ran reflected all its lapse

And rippling on the plumage of his breast?

"Thou hast them, heed them, for thy poets now,

Albeit of tongue full sweet and majesty

Like even to theirs, are fallen on evil days,

Are wronged by thee of life, wronged of the world.

Look back they must and show thee thy fair past,

Or, choosing thy to-day, they may but chant

As they behold.

"The mother-glowworm broods

Upon her young, fast-folded in the egg

And long before they come to life they shine--

The mother-age broods on her shining thought

That liveth, but whose life is hid. He comes

Her poet son, and lo you, he can see

The shining, and he takes it to his breast

And fashions for it wings that it may fly

And show its sweet light in the dusky world.

"Mother, O Mother of our dusk to-day,

What hast thou lived for bards to sing of thee?

Lapsed water cannot flow above its source;

'_The kid must browse_,'" they said, "'_where she is tied_.'"

Son of to-day, rise up, and answer them.

What! wilt thou let thy mother sit ashamed

And crownless?--Set the crown on her fair head:

She waited for thy birth, she cries to thee

"Thou art the man." He that hath ears to hear,

To him the mother cries "Thou art the man."

She murmurs, for thy mother's voice is low--

"Methought the men of war were even as gods

The old men of the ages. Now mine eyes

Retrieve the truth from ruined city walls

That buried it; from carved and curious homes

Full of rich garments and all goodly spoil,

Where having burned, battered, and wasted them,

They flung it. Give us, give us better gods

Than these that drink with blood upon their hands,

For I repent me that I worshipped them.

O that there might be yet a going up!

O to forget--and to begin again!"

Is not thy mother's rede at one with theirs

Who cry "The work is done"? What though to thee,

Thee only, should the utterance shape itself

"O to forget, and to begin again,"

Only of thee be heard as that keen cry

Rending its way from some distracted heart

That yields it and so breaks? Yet list the cry

Begin for her again, and learn to sing;

But first, in all thy learning learn to be.

Is life a field? then plough it up--re-sow

With worthier seed--Is life a ship? O heed

The southing of thy stars--Is life a breath?

Breathe deeper, draw life up from hour to hour,

Aye, from the deepest deep in thy deep soul.

It may be God's first work is but to breathe

And fill the abysm with drifts of shining air

That slowly, slowly curdle into worlds.

A little space is measured out to us

Of His long leisure; breathe and grow therein,

For life, alas! is short, and "_When we die_

_It is not for a little while_."

They said,

"The work is done," and is it therefore done?

Speak rather to thy mother thus: "All-fair,

Lady of ages, beautiful To-day

And sorrowful To-day, thy children set

The crown of sorrow on their heads, their loss

Is like to be the loss of all: we hear

Lamenting, as of some that mourn in vain

Loss of high leadership, but where is he

That shall be great enough to lead thee now?

Where is thy Poet? thou hast wanted him.

Where? Thou hast wakened as a child in the night

And found thyself alone. The stars have set,

There is great darkness, and the dark is void

Of music. Who shall set thy life afresh

And sing thee thy new songs? Whom wilt thou love

And lean on to break silence worthily--

Discern the beauty in thy goings--feel

The glory of thy yearning,--thy self-scorn

Matter to dim oblivion with a smile--

Own thy great want, that knew not its great name?

O who shall make to thee mighty amends

For thy lost childhood, joining two in one,

Thyself and Him? Behold Him, He is near:

God is thy Poet now.

"A King sang once

Long years ago 'My soul is athirst for God,

Yea for the living God'--thy thirst and his

Are one. It is thy Poet whom thy hands

Grope for, not knowing. Life is not enough,

Nor love, nor learning,--Death is not enough

Even to them, happy, who forecast new life;

But give us now and satisfy us now,

Give us now, now, to live in the life of God,

Give us now, now, to be at one with Him."

Would I had words--I have not words for her,

Only for thee; and thus I tell them out:

For every man the world is made afresh;

To God both it and he are young. There are

Who call upon Him night, and morn, and night

"Where is the kingdom? Give it us to-day.

We would be here with God, not there with God.

Make Thine abode with us, great Wayfarer,

And let our souls sink deeper into Thee"--

There are who send but yearnings forth, in quest

They know not why, of good they know not what.

The unknown life, and strange its stirring is.

The babe knows nought of life, yet clothed in it

And yearning only for its mother's breast

Feeds thus the unheeded thing--and as for thee,

That life thou hast is hidden from thine eyes,

And when it yearns, thou, knowing not for what,

Wouldst fain appease it with one grand, deep joy,

One draught of passionate peace--but wilt thou know

The other name of joy, the better name

Of peace? It is thy Father's name. Thy life

Yearns to its Source. The spirit thirsts for God,

Even the living God.

But "No," thou sayest,

"My heart is all in ruins with pain, my feet

Tread a dry desert where there is no way

Nor water. I look back, and deep through time

The old words come but faintly up the track

Trod by the sons of men. The man He sent,

The Prince of life, methinks I could have loved

If I had looked once in His deep man's eyes.

But long ago He died, and long ago

Is gone."

He is not dead, He cannot go.

Men's faith at first was like a mastering stream,

Like Jordan "the descender" leaping down

Pure from his snow; and warmed of tropic heat

Hiding himself in verdure: then at last

In a Dead Sea absorbed, as faith of doubt.

But yet the snow lies thick on Hermon's breast

And daily at his source the stream is born.

Go up--go mark the whiteness of the snow--Thy

faith is not thy Saviour, not thy God,

Though faith waste fruitless down a desert old.

The living God is new, and He is near.

What need to look behind thee and to sigh?

When God left speaking He went on before

To draw men after, following up and on;

And thy heart fails because thy feet are slow;

Thou think'st of Him as one that will not wait,

A Father and not wait!--He waited long

For us, and yet perchance He thinks not long

And will not count the time. There are no dates

In His fine leisure.

Speak then as a son:

"Father, I come to satisfy Thy love

With mine, for I had held Thee as remote,

The background of the stars--Time's yesterday--

Illimitable Absence. Now my heart

Communes, methinks, with somewhat teaching me

Thou art the Great To-day. God, is it so?

Then for all love that WAS, I thank Thee, God,

It is and yet shall hide. And I have part

In all, for in Thine image I was made,

To Thee my spirit yearns, as Thou to mine.

If aught be stamped of Thy Divine on me,

And man be God-like, God is like to man.

"Dear and dread Lord, I have not found it hard

To fear Thee, though Thy love in visible form

Bled 'neath a thorny crown--but since indeed,

For kindred's sake and likeness, Thou dost thirst

To draw men nigh, and make them one with Thee,

My soul shall answer 'Thou art what I want:

I am athirst for God, the living God.'"

Then straightway flashes up athwart the words:

"And if I be a son I am very far

From my great Father's house; I am not clean.

I have not always willed it should be so,

And the gold of life is rusted with my tears."

It is enough. He never said to men,

"Seek ye My face in vain." And have they sought--

Beautiful children, well-beloved sons,

Opening wide eyes to ache among the moons

All night, and sighing because star multitudes

Fainted away as to a glittering haze,

And sparkled here and there like silver wings,

Confounding them with nameless, numberless,

Unbearable, fine flocks? It is not well

For them, for thee. Hast thou gone forth so far

To the unimaginable steeps on high

Trembling and seeking God? Yet now come home,

Cry, cry to Him: "I cannot search Thee out,

But Thou and I must meet. O come, come down,

Come." And that cry shall have the mastery.

Ay, He shall come in truth to visit thee,

And thou shalt mourn to Him, "Unclean, unclean,"

But never more "I will to have it so."

From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love

To long for, pureness to desire, a mount

Of consecration it were good to scale.

Look you, it is to-day as at the first.

When Adam first was 'ware his new-made eyes

And opened them, behold the light! And breath

Of God was misting yet about his mouth,

Whereof they had made his soul. Then he looked forth

And was a part of light; also he saw

Beautiful life, and it could move. But Eve--Eve

was the child of midnight and of sleep.

Lo, in the dark God led her to his side;

It may be in the dark she heard him breathe

Before God woke him. And she knew not light,

Nor life but as a voice that left his lips,

A warmth that clasped her; but the stars were out,

And she with wide child-eyes gazed up at them.

Haply she thought that always it was night;

Haply he, whispering to her in that reach

Of beauteous darkness, gave her unworn heart

A rumour of the dawn, and wakened it

To a trembling, and a wonder, and a want

Kin to his own; and as he longed to gaze

On his new fate, the gracious mystery

His wife, she may have longed, and felt not why,

After the light that never she had known.

So doth each age walk in the light beheld,

Nor think on light, if it be light or no;

Then comes the night to it, and in the night

Eve.

The God-given, the most beautiful

Eve. And she is not seen for darkness' sake;

Yet, when she makes her gracious presence felt,

The age perceives how dark it is, and fain,

Fain would have daylight, fain would see her well,

A beauty half revealed, a helpmeet sent

To draw the soul away from valley clods;

Made from itself, yet now a better self--

Soul in the soulless, arrow tipped with fire

Let down into a careless breast; a pang

Sweeter than healing that cries out with it

For light all light, and is beheld at length--

The morning dawns.

Were not we born to light?

Ay, and we saw the men and women as saints

Walk in a garden. All our thoughts were fair;

Our simple hearts, as dovecotes full of doves,

Made home and nest for them. They fluttered forth.

And flocks of them flew white about the world.

And dreams were like to ships that floated us

Far out on silent floods, apart from earth,

From life--so far that we could see their lights

In heaven--and hear the everlasting tide,

All dappled with that fair reflected gold,

Wash up against the city wall, and sob

At the dark bows of vessels that drew on

Heavily freighted with departed souls

To whom did spirits sing; but on that song

Might none, albeit the meaning was right plain,

Impose the harsh captivity of words.

Afterward waking, sweet was early air,

Full excellent was morning: whether deep

The snow lay keenly white, and shrouds of hail

Blurred the grey breaker on a long foreshore,

And swarming plover ran, and wild white mews

And sea-pies printed with a thousand feet

The fallen whiteness, making shrill the storm;

Or whether, soothed of sunshine, throbbed and hummed

The mill atween its bowering maple trees,

And churned the leaping beck that reared, and urged

A diamond-dripping wheel.

The happy find

Equality of beauty everywhere

To feed on. All of shade and sheen is theirs,

All the strange fashions and the fair wise ways

Of lives beneath man's own. He breathes delight

Whose soul is fresh, whose feet are wet with dew

And the melted mist of morning, when at watch

Sunk deep in fern he marks the stealthy roe,

Silent as sleep or shadow, cross the glade,

Or dart athwart his view as August stars

Shoot and are out--while gracefully pace on

The wild-eyed harts to their traditional tree

To clear the velvet from their budded horns.

There is no want, both God and life are kind;

It is enough to hear, it is enough

To see; the pale wide barley-field they love,

And its weird beauty, and the pale wide moon

That lowering seems to lurk between the sheaves.

So in the rustic hamlet at high noon

The white owl sailing drowsed and deaf with sleep

To hide her head in turrets browned of moss

That is the rust of time. Ay so the pinks

And mountain grass marked on a sharp sea-cliff

While far below the northern diver feeds;

She having ended settling while she sits,

As vessels water-logged that sink at sea

And quietly into the deep go down.

It is enough to wake, it is enough

To sleep:--With God and time he leaves the rest.

But on a day death on the doorstep sits

Waiting, or like a veilèd woman walks

Dogging his footsteps, or athwart his path

The splendid passion-flower love unfolds

Buds full of sorrow, not ordained to know

Appeasement through the answer of a sigh,

The kiss of pity with denial given,

The crown and blossom of accomplishment.

Or haply comes the snake with subtlety,

And tempts him with an apple to know all.

So,--Shut the gate; the story tells itself

Over and over; Eden must be lost

If after it be won. He stands at fault,

Not knowing at all how this should be--he feels

The great bare barrenness o' the outside world.

He thinks on Time and what it has to say;

He thinks on God, but God has changed His hand,

Sitting afar. And as the moon draws on

To cover the day-king in his eclipse,

And thin the last fine sickle of light, till all

Be gone, so fares it with his darkened soul.

The dark, but not Orion sparkling there

With his best stars; the dark, but not yet Eve.

And now the wellsprings of sweet natural joy

Lie, as the Genie sealed of Solomon,

Fast prisoned in his heart; he hath not learned

The spell whereby to loose and set them forth,

And all the glad delights that boyhood loved

Smell at Oblivion's poppy, and lie still.

Ah! they must sleep--"The mill can grind no more

With water that hath passed." Let it run on.

For he hath caught a whisper in the night;

This old inheritance in darkness given,

The world, is widened, warmed, it is alive,

Comes to his beating heart and bids it wake,

Opens the door to youth, and bids it forth,

Exultant for expansion and release,

And bent to satisfy the mighty wish,

Comfort and satisfy the mighty wish,

Life of his life, the soul's immortal child

That is to him as Eve.

He cannot win,

Nor earn, nor see, nor hear, nor comprehend,

With all the watch, tender, impetuous,

That wastes him, this, whereof no less he feels

Infinite things; but yet the night is full

Of air-beats and of heart-beats for her sake.

Eve the aspirer, give her what she wants,

Or wherefore was he born?

O he was born

To wish--then turn away:--to wish again

And half forget his wish for earthlier joy;

He draws the net to land that brings red gold;

His dreams among the meshes tangled lie,

And learning hath him at her feet;--and love,

The sea-born creature fresh from her sea foam,

Touches the ruddiest veins in his young heart,

Makes it to sob in him and sigh in him,

Restless, repelled, dying, alive and keen,

Fainting away for the remorseless ALL

Gone by, gone up, or sweetly gone before,

But never in his arms. Then pity comes,

Knocks at his breast, it may be, and comes in,

Makes a wide wound that haply will not heal,

But bleeds for poverty, and crime, and pain,

Till for the dear kin's sake he grandly dares

Or wastes him, with a wise improvidence;

But who can stir the weighty world; or who

Can drink a sea of tears?

O love, and life,

O world, and can it be that this is all?

Leave him to tread expectance underfoot;

Let him alone to tame down his great hope

Before it breaks his heart: "Give me my share

That I foresaw, my place, my draught of life.

This that I bear, what is it?--me no less

It binds, I cannot disenslave my soul."

There is but halting for the wearied foot.

The better way is hidden; faith hath failed--

One stronger far than reason mastered her.

It is not reason makes faith hard, but life.

The husks of his dead creed, downtrod and dry,

Are powerless now as some dishonoured spell,

Some aged Pythia in her priestly clothes,

Some widow'd witch divining by the dead.

Or if he keep one shrine undesecrate

And go to it from time to time with tears,

What lies there? A dead Christ enswathed and cold,

A Christ that did not rise. The linen cloth

Is wrapped about His head, He lies embalmed

With myrrh and spices in His sepulchre,

The love of God that daily dies;--to them

That trust it the One Life, the all that lives.

O mother Eve, who wert beguiled of old,

Thy blood is in thy children, thou art yet

Their fate and copy; with thy milk they drew

The immortal want of morning; but thy day

Dawned and was over, and thy children know

Contentment never, nor continuance long.

For even thus it is with them: the day

Waxeth, to wane anon, and a long night

Leaves the dark heart unsatisfied with stars.

A soul in want and restless and bereft

To whom all life hath lied, shall it too lie?

Saying, "I yield Thee thanks, most mighty God,

Thou hast been pleased to make me thus and thus.

I do submit me to Thy sovereign will

That I full oft should hunger and not have,

And vainly yearn after the perfect good,

Gladness and peace"?

No, rather dare think thus:

"Ere chaos first had being, earth, or time,

My Likeness was apparent in high heaven,

Divine and manlike, and his dwelling place

Was the bosom of the Father. By His hands

Were the worlds made and filled with diverse growths

And ordered lives. Then afterward they said,

Taking strange counsel, as if he who worked

Hitherto should not henceforth work alone,

'Let us make man;' and God did look upon

That Divine Word which was the form of God,

And it became a thought before the event.

There they foresaw my face, foreheard my speech,

God-like, God-loved, God-loving, God-derived.

"And I was in a garden, and I fell

Through envy of God's evil son, but Love

Would not be robbed of me for ever--Love

For my sake passed into humanity,

And there for my first Father won me home.

How should I rest then? I have NOT gone home;

I feed on husks, and they given grudgingly,

While my great Father--Father--O my God,

What shall I do?"

Ay, I will dare think thus:

"I cannot rest because He doth not rest

In whom I have my being. THIS is GOD--

My soul is conscious of His wondrous wish,

And my heart's hunger doth but answer His

Whose thought has met with mine.

"I have not all;

He moves me thus to take of Him what lacks.

My want is God's desire to give,--He yearns

To add Himself to life and so for aye

Make it enough."

A thought by night, a wish

After the morning, and behold it dawns

Pathetic in a still solemnity,

And mighty words are said for him once more,

"Let there be light." Great heaven and earth have heard,

And God comes down to him, and Christ doth rise.

THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN.

There are who give themselves to work for men,--

To raise the lost, to gather orphaned babes

And teach them, pitying of their mean estate,

To feel for misery, and to look on crime

With ruth, till they forget that they themselves

Are of the race, themselves among the crowd

Under the sentence and outside the gate,

And of the family and in the doom.

Cold is the world; they feel how cold it is,

And wish that they could warm it. Hard is life

For some. They would that they could soften it;

And, in the doing of their work, they sigh

As if it was their choice and not their lot;

And, in the raising of their prayer to God,

They crave his kindness for the world he made,

Till they, at last, forget that he, not they,

Is the true lover of man.

* * * * *

Now, in an ancient town, that had sunk low,--

Trade having drifted from it, while there stayed

Too many, that it erst had fed, behind,--

There walked a curate once, at early day.

It was the summer-time; but summer air

Came never, in its sweetness, down that dark

And crowded alley,--never reached the door

Whereat he stopped,--the sordid, shattered door.

He paused, and, looking right and left, beheld

Dirt and decay, the lowering tenements

That leaned toward each other; broken panes

Bulging with rags, and grim with old neglect;

And reeking hills of formless refuse, heaped

To fade and fester in a stagnant air.

But he thought nothing of it: he had learned

To take all wretchedness for granted,--he,

Reared in a stainless home, and radiant yet

With the clear hues of healthful English youth,

Had learned to kneel by beds forlorn, and stoop

Under foul lintels. He could touch, with hand

Unshrinking, fevered fingers; he could hear

The language of the lost, in haunt and den,--

So dismal, that the coldest passer-by

Must needs be sorry for them, and, albeit

They cursed, would dare to speak no harder words

Than these,--"God help them!"

Ay! a learned man

The curate in all woes that plague mankind,--

Too learned, for he was but young. His heart

Had yearned till it was overstrained, and now

He--plunged into a narrow slough unblest,

Had struggled with its deadly waters, till

His own head had gone under, and he took

Small joy in work he could not look to aid

Its cleansing.

Yet, by one right tender tie,

Hope held him yet. The fathers coarse and dull,

Vile mothers hard, and boys and girls profane,

His soul drew back from. He had worked for them,--

Work without joy: but, in his heart of hearts,

He loved the little children; and whene'er

He heard their prattle innocent, and heard

Their tender voices lisping sacred words

That he had taught them,--in the cleanly calm

Of decent school, by decent matron held,--

Then would he say, "I shall have pleasure yet,

In these."

But now, when he pushed back that door

And mounted up a flight of ruined stairs,

He said not that. He said, "Oh! once I thought

The little children would make bright for me

The crown they wear who have won many souls

For righteousness; but oh, this evil place!

Hard lines it gives them, cold and dirt abhorred,--

Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love,

And blows instead of care.

"And so they die,

The little children that I love,--they die,--They

turn their wistful faces to the wall,

And slip away to God."

With that, his hand

He laid upon a latch and lifted it,

Looked in full quietly, and entered straight.

What saw he there? He saw a three-years child,

That lay a-dying on a wisp of straw

Swept up into a corner. O'er its brow

The damps of death were gathering: all alone,

Uncared for, save that by its side was set

A cup, it waited. And the eyes had ceased

To look on things at hand. He thought they gazed

In wistful wonder, or some faint surmise

Of coming change,--as though they saw the gate

Of that fair land that seems to most of us

Very far off.

When he beheld the look,

He said, "I knew, I knew how this would be!

Another! Ay, and but for drunken blows

And dull forgetfulness of infant need,

This little one had lived." And thereupon

The misery of it wrought upon him so,

That, unaware, he wept. Oh! then it was

That, in the bending of his manly head,

It came between the child and that whereon

He gazed, and, when the curate glanced again,

Those dying eyes, drawn back to earth once more,

Looked up into his own, and smiled.

He drew

More near, and kneeled beside the small frail thing,

Because the lips were moving; and it raised

Its baby hand, and stroked away his tears,

And whispered, "Master! master!" and so died.

Now, in that town there was an ancient church,

A minster of old days which these had turned

To parish uses: there the curate served.

It stood within a quiet swarded Close,

Sunny and still, and, though it was not far

From those dark courts where poor humanity

Struggled and swarmed, it seemed to wear its own

Still atmosphere about it, and to hold

That old-world calm within its precincts pure

And that grave rest which modern life foregoes.

When the sad curate, rising from his knees,

Looked from the dead to heaven,--as, unaware,

Men do when they would track departed life,--He

heard the deep tone of the minster-bell

Sounding for service, and he turned away

So heavy at heart, that, when he left behind

That dismal habitation, and came out

In the clear sunshine of the minster-yard,

He never marked it. Up the aisle he moved,

With his own gloom about him; then came forth,

And read before the folk grand words and calm,--Words

full of hope; but into his dull heart

Hope came not. As one talketh in a dream,

And doth not mark the sense of his own words,

He read; and, as one walketh in a dream,

He after walked toward the vestment-room,

And never marked the way he went by,--no,

Nor the gray verger that before him stood,

The great church-keys depending from his hand,

Ready to follow him out and lock the door.

At length, aroused to present things, but not

Content to break the sequence of his thought,

Nor ready for the working day that held

Its busy course without, he said, "Good friend,

Leave me the keys: I would remain a while."

And, when the verger gave, he moved with him

Toward the door distraught, then shut him out,

And locked himself within the church alone.

The minster-church was like a great brown cave,

Fluted and fine with pillars, and all dim

With glorious gloom; but, as the curate turned,

Suddenly shone the sun,--and roof and walls,

Also the clustering shafts from end to end,

Were thickly sown all over, as it were,

With seedling rainbows. And it went and came

And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up

Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings

And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim,

And dropped upon the curate as he passed,

And covered his white raiment and his hair.

Then did look down upon him from their place,

High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests,

And grand old monarchs in their flowered gowns

And capes of miniver; and therewithal

(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun

Smote with his burning splendor all the pile,

And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes,

A sombre glory as of rusted gold,

Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green,

That made the floor a beauty and delight,

Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough

To have been wafted there the day they dropt

On the flower-beds in heaven.

The curate passed

Adown the long south aisle, and did not think

Upon this beauty, nor that he himself--

Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair

With all the majesty that noble work

And stainless manners give--did add his part

To make it fairer.

In among the knights

That lay with hands uplifted, by the lute

And palm of many a saint,--'neath capitals

Whereon our fathers had been bold to carve

With earthly tools their ancient childlike dream

Concerning heavenly fruit and living bowers,

And glad full-throated birds that sing up there

Among the branches of the tree of life--

Through all the ordered forest of the shafts,

Shooting on high to enter into light,

That swam aloft,--he took his silent way,

And in the southern transept sat him down,

Covered his face, and thought.

He said, "No pain,

No passion, and no aching, heart o' mine,

Doth stir within thee. Oh! I would there did:

Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost

I know not what. I see the heavens as lead:

They tend no whither. Ah! the world is bared

Of her enchantment now: she is but earth

And water. And, though much hath passed away,

There may be more to go. I may forget

The joy and fear that have been: there may live

No more for me the fervency of hope

Nor the arrest of wonder.

"Once I said,

'Content will wait on work, though work appear

Unfruitful.' Now I say, 'Where is the good?

What is the good? A lamp when it is lit

Must needs give light; but I am like a man

Holding his lamp in some deserted place

Where no foot passeth. Must I trim my lamp,

And ever painfully toil to keep it bright,

When use for it is none? I must; I will.

Though God withhold my wages, I must work,

And watch the bringing of my work to nought,--

Weed in the vineyard through the heat o' the day,

And, overtasked, behold the weedy place

Grow ranker yet in spite of me.

"Oh! yet

My meditated words are trodden down

Like a little wayside grass. Castaway shells,

Lifted and tossed aside by a plunging wave,

Have no more force against it than have I

Against the sweeping, weltering wave of life,

That, lifting and dislodging me, drives on,

And notes not mine endeavor."

Afterward,

He added more words like to these; to wit,

That it was hard to see the world so sad:

He would that it were happier. It was hard

To see the blameless overborne; and hard

To know that God, who loves the world, should yet

Let it lie down in sorrow, when a smile

From him would make it laugh and sing,--a word

From him transform it to a heaven. He said,

Moreover, "When will this be done? My life

Hath not yet reached the noon, and I am tired;

And oh! it may be that, uncomforted

By foolish hope of doing good and vain

Conceit of being useful, I may live,

And it may be my duty to go on

Working for years and years, for years and years."

But, while the words were uttered, in his heart

There dawned a vague alarm. He was aware

That somewhat touched him, and he lifted up

His face. "I am alone," the curate said,--

"I think I am alone. What is it, then?

I am ashamed! My raiment is not clean.

My lips,--I am afraid they are not clean.

My heart is darkened and unclean. Ah me,

To be a man, and yet to tremble so!

Strange, strange!"

And there was sitting at his feet--

He could not see it plainly--at his feet

A very little child. And, while the blood

Drave to his heart, he set his eye on it,

Gazing, and, lo! the loveliness from heaven

Took clearer form and color. He beheld

The strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth,--

The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss,

And perfect in possession. So it spoke,

"My master!" but he answered not a word;

And it went on: "I had a name, a name.

He knew my name; but here they can forget."

The curate answered: "Nay, I know thee well.

I love thee. Wherefore art thou come?" It said,

"They sent me;" and he faltered, "Fold thy hand,

O most dear little one! for on it gleams

A gem that is so bright I cannot look

Thereon." It said, "When I did leave this world,

That was a tear. But that was long ago;

For I have lived among the happy folk,

You wot of, ages, ages." Then said he,

"Do they forget us, while beneath the palms

They take their infinite leisure?" And, with eyes

That seemed to muse upon him, looking up

In peace the little child made answer, "Nay;"

And murmured, in the language that he loved,

"How is it that his hair is not yet white;

For I and all the others have been long

Waiting for him to come."

"And was it long?"

The curate answered, pondering. "Time being done,

Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense,

In our to-come, of infinite extension?"

Then said the child, "In heaven we children talk

Of the great matters, and our lips are wise;

But here I can but talk with thee in words

That here I knew." And therewithal, arisen,

It said, "I pray you take me in your arms."

Then, being afraid but willing, so he did;

And partly drew about the radiant child,

For better covering its dread purity,

The foldings of his gown. And he beheld

Its beauty, and the tremulous woven light

That hung upon its hair; withal, the robe,

"Whiter than fuller of this world can white,"

That clothed its immortality. And so

The trembling came again, and he was dumb,

Repenting his uncleanness: and he lift

His eyes, and all the holy place was full

Of living things; and some were faint and dim,

As if they bore an intermittent life,

Waxing and waning; and they had no form,

But drifted on like slowly trailèd clouds,

Or moving spots of darkness, with an eye

Apiece. And some, in guise of evil birds,

Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks,

And some were men-like, but their heads hung down;

And he said, "O my God! let me find grace

Not to behold their faces, for I know

They must be wicked and right terrible."

But while he prayed, lo! whispers; and there moved

Two shadows on the wall. He could not see

The forms of them that cast them: he could see

Only the shadows as of two that sat

Upon the floor, where, clad in women's weeds,

They lisped together. And he shuddered much:

There was a rustling near him, and he feared

Lest they should touch him, and he feel their touch.

"It is not great," quoth one, "the work achieved.

We do, and we delight to do, our best:

But that is little; for, my dear," quoth she,

"This tower and town have been infested long

With angels."--"Ay," the other made reply,

"I had a little evil-one, of late,

That I picked up as it was crawling out

O' the pit, and took and cherished in my breast.

It would divine for me, and oft would moan,

'Pray thee, no churches,' and it spake of this.

But I was harried once,--thou know'st by whom,--

And fled in here; and, when he followed me,

I crouching by this pillar, he let down

His hand,--being all too proud to send his eyes

In its wake,--and, plucking forth my tender imp,

Flung it behind him. It went yelping forth;

And, as for me, I never saw it more.

Much is against us,--very much: the times

Are hard." She paused: her fellow took the word,

Plaining on such as preach and them that plead.

"Even such as haunt the yawning mouths of hell,"

Quoth she, "and pluck them back that run thereto."

Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on him

The utterance of his name. "There is no soul

That I loathe more, and oftener curse. Woe's me,

That cursing should be vain! Ay, he will go

Gather the sucking children, that are yet

Too young for us, and watch and shelter them.

Till the strong Angels--pitiless and stern,

But to them loving ever--sweep them in,

By armsful, to the unapproachable fold.

"We strew his path with gold: it will not lie.

'Deal softly with him,' was the master's word.

We brought him all delights: his angel came

And stood between them and his eyes. They spend

Much pains upon him,--keep him poor and low

And unbeloved; and thus he gives his mind

To fill the fateful, the impregnable

Child-fold, and sow on earth the seed of stars.

"Oh! hard is serving against love,--the love

Of the Unspeakable; for if we soil

The souls He openeth out a washing-place;

And if we grudge, and snatch away the bread,

Then will He save by poverty, and gain

By early giving up of blameless life;

And if we shed out gold, He even will save

In spite of gold,--of twice-refinèd gold."

With that the curate set his daunted eyes

To look upon the shadows of the fiends.

He was made sure they could not see the child

That nestled in his arms; he also knew

They were unconscious that his mortal ears

Had new intelligence, which gave their speech

Possible entrance through his garb of clay.

He was afraid, yet awful gladness reached

His soul: the testimony of the lost

Upbraided him; but while he trembled yet,

The heavenly child had lifted up its head

And left his arms, and on the marble floor

Stood beckoning.

And, its touch withdrawn, the place

Was silent, empty; all that swarming tribe

Of evil ones concealed behind the veil,

And shut into their separate world, were closed

From his observance. He arose, and paced

After the little child,--as half in fear

That it would leave him,--till they reached a door;

And then said he,--but much distraught he spoke,

Laying his hand across the lock,--"This door

Shuts in the stairs whereby men mount the tower.

Wouldst thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven?"

It answered, "I will mount them." Then said he,

"And I will follow."--"So thou shalt do well,"

The radiant thing replied, and it went up,

And he, amazed, went after; for the stairs,

Otherwhile dark, were lightened by the rays

Shed out of raiment woven in high heaven,

And hair whereon had smiled the light of God.

With that, they, pacing on, came out at last

Into a dim, weird place,--a chamber formed

Betwixt the roofs: for you shall know that all

The vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine,

Was covered with the dust of ages, laid

Thick with those chips of stone which they had left

Who wrought it; but a high-pitched roof was reared

Above it, and the western gable pierced

With three long narrow lights. Great tie-beams loomed

Across, and many daws frequented there,

The starling and the sparrow littered it

With straw, and peeped from many a shady nook;

And there was lifting up of wings, and there

Was hasty exit when the curate came.

But sitting on a beam and moving not

For him, he saw two fair gray turtle-doves

Bowing their heads, and cooing; and the child

Put forth a hand to touch his own, but straight

He, startled, drew it back, because, forsooth,

A stirring fancy smote him, and he thought

That language trembled on their innocent tongues,

And floated forth in speech that man could hear.

Then said the child, "Yet touch, my master dear."

And he let down his hand, and touched again;

And so it was. "But if they had their way,"

One turtle cooed, "how should this world go on?"

Then he looked well upon them, as he stood

Upright before them. They were feathered doves,

And sitting close together; and their eyes

Were rounded with the rim that marks their kind.

Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam,--

No phantoms they; and soon the fellow-dove

Made answer, "Nay they count themselves so wise,

There is no task they shall be set to do

But they will ask God why. What mean they so?

The glory is not in the task, but in

The doing it for Him. What should he think,

Brother, this man that must, forsooth, be set

Such noble work, and suffered to behold

Its fruit, if he knew more of us and ours?"

With that the other leaned, as if attent:

"I am not perfect, brother, in his thought."

The mystic bird replied. "Brother, he saith,

'But it is nought: the work is overhard.'

Whose fault is that? God sets not overwork.

He saith the world is sorrowful, and he

Is therefore sorrowful. He cannot set

The crooked straight;--but who demands of him,

O brother, that he should? What! thinks he, then,

His work is God's advantage, and his will

More bent to aid the world than its dread Lord's?

Nay, yet there live amongst us legions fair,

Millions on millions, who could do right well

What he must fail in; and 'twas whispered me,

That chiefly for himself the task is given,--

His little daily task." With that he paused.

Then said the other, preening its fair wing,

"Men have discovered all God's islands now,

And given them names; whereof they are as proud,

And deem themselves as great, as if their hands

Had made them. Strange is man, and strange his pride.

Now, as for us, it matters not to learn

What and from whence we be: How should we tell?

Our world is undiscovered in these skies,

Our names not whispered. Yet, for us and ours,

What joy it is,--permission to come down,

Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their God,

To guide, but to their goal the winged fowls,

His lovely lower-fashioned lives to help

To take their forms by legions, fly, and draw

With us the sweet, obedient, flocking things

That ever hear our message reverently,

And follow us far. How should they know their way,

Forsooth, alone? Men say they fly alone;

Yet some have set on record, and averred,

That they, among the flocks, had duly marked

A leader."

Then his fellow made reply:

"They might divine the Maker's heart. Come forth,

Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide their wings,

For Him that loveth them."

With that, the child

Withdrew his hand, and all their speech was done.

He moved toward them, but they fluttered forth

And fled into the sunshine.

"I would fain,"

Said he, "have heard some more. And wilt thou go?"

He added to the child, for this had turned.

"Ay," quoth he, gently, "to the beggar's place;

For I would see the beggar in the porch."

So they went down together to the door,

Which, when the curate opened, lo! without

The beggar sat; and he saluted him:

"Good morrow, master." "Wherefore art thou here?"

The curate asked: "it is not service time,

And none will enter now to give thee alms."

Then said the beggar, "I have hope at heart

That I shall go to my poor house no more."

"Art thou so sick that thou dost think to die?"

The curate said. With that the beggar laughed,

And under his dim eyelids gathered tears,

And he was all a-tremble with a strange

And moving exaltation. "Ay," quoth he,

And set his face toward high heaven: "I think

The blessing that I wait on must be near."

Then said the curate, "God be good to thee."

And, straight, the little child put forth his hand,

And touched him. "Master, master, hush!

You should not, master, speak so carelessly

In this great presence."

But the touch so wrought,

That, lo! the dazzled curate staggered back,

For dread effulgence from the beggar's eyes

Smote him, and from the crippled limbs shot forth

Terrible lights, as pure long blades of fire.

"Withdraw thy touch! withdraw thy touch!" he cried,

"Or else shall I be blinded." Then the child

Stood back from him; and he sat down apart,

Recovering of his manhood: and he heard

The beggar and the child discourse of things

Dreadful for glory, till his spirits came

Anew; and, when the beggar looked on him,

He said, "If I offend not, pray you tell

Who and what are you--I behold a face

Marred with old age, sickness, and poverty,--

A cripple with a staff, who long hath sat

Begging, and ofttimes moaning, in the porch,

For pain and for the wind's inclemency.

What are you?" Then the beggar made reply,

"I was a delegate, a living power;

My work was bliss, for seeds were in my hand

To plant a new-made world. O happy work!

It grew and blossomed; but my dwelling-place

Was far remote from heaven. I have not seen;

I knew no wish to enter there. But lo!

There went forth rumors, running out like rays,

How some, that were of power like even to mine,

Had made request to come and find a place

Within its walls. And these were satisfied

With promises, and sent to this far world

To take the weeds of your mortality,

And minister, and suffer grief and pain,

And die like men. Then were they gathered in.

They saw a face, and were accounted kin

To Whom thou knowest, for he is kin to men.

"Then I did wait; and oft, at work, I sang,

'To minister! oh, joy, to minister!'

And, it being known, a message came to me:

'Whether is best, thou forest-planter wise,

To minister to others, or that they

Should minister to thee?' Then, on my face

Low lying, I made answer: 'It is best,

Most High, to minister;' and thus came back

The answer,--'Choose not for thyself the best:

Go down, and, lo! my poor shall minister,

Out of their poverty, to thee; shall learn

Compassion by thy frailty; and shall oft

Turn back, when speeding home from work, to help

Thee, weak and crippled, home. My little ones,

Thou shalt importune for their slender mite,

And pray, and move them that they give it up

For love of Me.'"

The curate answered him,

"Art thou content, O great one from afar!

If I may ask, and not offend?" He said,

"I am. Behold! I stand not all alone,

That I should think to do a perfect work.

I may not wish to give; for I have heard

'Tis best for me that I receive. For me,

God is the only giver, and His gift

Is one." With that, the little child sighed out,

"O master! master! I am out of heaven

Since noonday, and I hear them calling me.

If you be ready, great one, let us go:--

Hark! hark! they call."

Then did the beggar lift

His face to heaven, and utter forth a cry

As of the pangs of death, and every tree

Moved as if shaken by a sudden wind.

He cried again, and there came forth a hand

From some invisible form, which, being laid

A little moment on the curate's eyes,

It dazzled him with light that brake from it,

So that he saw no more.

"What shall I do?"

The curate murmured, when he came again

To himself and looked about him. "This is strange!

My thoughts are all astray; and yet, methinks,

A weight is taken from my heart. Lo! lo!

There lieth at my feet, frail, white, and dead,

The sometime beggar. He is happy now.

There was a child; but he is gone, and he

Is also happy. I am glad to think

I am not bound to make the wrong go right;

But only to discover, and to do

With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints."

With that, he did compose, with reverent care,

The dead; continuing, "I will trust in Him,

THAT HE CAN HOLD HIS OWN; and I will take

His will, above the work He sendeth me,

To be my chiefest good."

Then went he forth,

"I shall die early," thinking: "I am warned,

By this fair vision, that I have not long

To live." Yet he lived on to good old age;--

Ay, he lives yet, and he is working still.

* * * * *

It may be there are many in like case:

They give themselves, and are in misery

Because the gift is small, and doth not make

The world by so much better as they fain

Would have it. 'Tis a fault; but, as for us,

Let us not blame them. Maybe, 'tis a fault

More kindly looked on by The Majesty

Than our best virtues are. Why, what are we?

What have we given, and what have we desired

To give, the world?

There must be something wrong

Look to it: let us mend our ways. Farewell.

THE SHEPHERD LADY.

I.

Who pipes upon the long green hill,

Where meadow grass is deep?

The white lamb bleats but followeth on--

Follow the clean white sheep.

The dear white lady in yon high tower,

She hearkeneth in her sleep.

All in long grass the piper stands,

Goodly and grave is he;

Outside the tower, at dawn of day,

The notes of his pipe ring free.

A thought from his heart doth reach to hers:

"Come down, O lady! to me."

She lifts her head, she dons her gown:

Ah! the lady is fair;

She ties the girdle on her waist,

And binds her flaxen hair,

And down she stealeth, down and down,

Down the turret stair.

Behold him! With the flock he wons

Along yon grassy lea.

"My shepherd lord, my shepherd love,

What wilt thou, then, with me?

My heart is gone out of my breast,

And followeth on to thee."

II.

"The white lambs feed in tender grass:

With them and thee to bide,

How good it were," she saith at noon;

"Albeit the meads are wide.

Oh! well is me," she saith when day

Draws on to eventide.

Hark! hark! the shepherd's voice. Oh, sweet!

Her tears drop down like rain.

"Take now this crook, my chosen, my fere,

And tend the flock full fain;

Feed them, O lady, and lose not one,

Till I shall come again."

Right soft her speech: "My will is thine,

And my reward thy grace!"

Gone are his footsteps over the hill,

Withdrawn his goodly face;

The mournful dusk begins to gather,

The daylight wanes apace.

III.

On sunny slopes, ah! long the lady

Feedeth her flock at noon;

She leads it down to drink at eve

Where the small rivulets croon.

All night her locks are wet with dew,

Her eyes outwatch the moon.

Beyond the hills her voice is heard,

She sings when light doth wane:

"My longing heart is full of love,

Nor shall my watch be vain.

My shepherd lord. I see him not,

But he will come again."

POEMS

WRITTEN ON THE DEATHS OF THREE LOVELY CHILDREN

WHO WERE TAKEN FROM THEIR PARENTS WITHIN A MONTH

OF ONE ANOTHER.

HENRY,

AGED EIGHT YEARS.

Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter--woodland hollows thickly strewing,

Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win,

While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuing

All without and all within!

All within! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round their dwelling

Did not load your father's spirit with those deep and burdened sighs;--

Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's bosom swelling,

Fast as tears that dim her eyes.

Life is fraught with many changes, checked with sorrow and mutation,

But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before to know:--

I behold them--father, mother--as they seem to contemplation,

Only three short weeks ago!

Saddened for the morrow's parting--up the stairs at midnight stealing--

As with cautious foot we glided past the children's open door,--

"Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled forms at last revealing,

"Kiss them in their sleep once more."

You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids scarcely closing,

Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded arms entwined:--

And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in their reposing

By the movements of the mind!

And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping treasures numbered,

Whispering fondly--"He is dreaming"--as you turned upon your bed--

And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as you slumbered,

With his hand upon your head!

Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? No! he never

Heard afar the summons uttered--"Come up hither"--Never knew

How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever,

And for ever in their view.

Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by us,

Shrouding wings--majestic beings--hidden by this earthly veil--

Such as we have called on, saying, "Praise the Lord, O Ananias,

Azarias and Misael!"

But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned Spirits taught him,

To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him to their will?

While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams they may have brought

him,

When at midnight all was still?

Father! Mother! must you leave him on his bed, but not to slumber?

Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but not to pray?

When you count your children over, must you tell a different number,

Since that happier yesterday?

Father! Mother! weep if need be, since this is a "time" for weeping,

Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued down--

Coldly sounds the admonition, "Why lament? in better keeping

Rests the child than in your own."

"Truth indeed! but, oh! compassion! Have you sought to scan my sorrow?"

(Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that common tale)

"Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrow

Even a tone that might avail?

"Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection?

Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine?

Surely no! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection

Of the care that burdens mine!"

When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your thoughts shall wander,

Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries,

Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponder

From its place upon your knees--

With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder,

Of itself the heart shall question, "Art Thou then no longer here?

Is it so, my little Henry? Are we set so far asunder

Who were wont to be so near?"

While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened shades are meeting,

To itself the heart shall answer, "He shall come to me no more:

I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet voice entreating

For admission at my door."

But upon _your_ fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are dwelling,

Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features know;

Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad hearts to be telling,

"Daylight breaketh, let me go!"

Daylight breaketh, little Henry; in its beams your soul awaketh--

What though night should close around us, dim and dreary to the view--

Though _our_ souls should walk in darkness, far away that morning breaketh

Into endless day for you!

SAMUEL,

AGED NINE YEARS.

They have left you, little Henry, but they have not left you lonely--

Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might not separate dwell.

Fain to seek you in the mansions far away--One lingered only

To bid those behind farewell!

Gentle Boy!--His childlike nature in most guileless form was moulded,

And it may be that his spirit woke in glory unaware,

Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still meekly folded,

Having said his evening prayer.

Or--if conscious of that summons--"Speak, O Lord, Thy servant heareth"--

As one said, whose name they gave him, might his willing answer be,

"Here am I"--like him replying--"At Thy gates my soul appeareth,

For behold Thou calledst me!"

A deep silence--utter silence, on his earthly home descendeth:--

Reading, playing, sleeping, waking--he is gone, and few remain!

"O the loss!"--they utter, weeping--every voice its echo lendeth--

"O the loss!"--But, O the gain!

On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed an early landing,

Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall of guilt control--

Lest that "wickedness should alter the yet simple understanding,

Or deceit beguile his soul!"

"Lay not up on earth thy treasure"--they have read that sentence duly,

Moth and rust shall fret thy riches--earthly good hath swift decay--

"Even so," each heart replieth--"As for me, my riches truly

Make them wings and flee away!"

"O my riches!--O my children!--dearest part of life and being,

Treasures looked to for the solace of this life's declining years,--

Were our voices cold to hearing--or our faces cold to seeing,

That ye left us to our tears?"

"We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some merry laughter,

And the hush of two sweet voices--(healing sounds for spirits bruised!)

Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the pathway following after,

Of two names no longer used!"

Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and childish fashion--

Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your calm and asking eyes--

Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad compassion,

Mild regret or dim surprise!

There are two tall trees above you, by the high east window growing,

Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence deep, serene;

Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes towards you flowing

Echo--with a pause between!

And that pause?--a voice shall fill it--tones that blessed you daily,

nightly,

Well beloved, but not sufficing, Sleepers, to awake you now,

Though so near he stand, that shadows from your trees may tremble lightly

On his book and on his brow!

Sleep then ever! Neither singing of sweet birds shall break your slumber,

Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, nor drift of snow,

Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tranquil bosoms cumber

With one care for things below!

It is something, the assurance, that _you_ ne'er shall feel like sorrow,

Weep no past and dread no future--know not sighing, feel not pain--

Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to-morrow--

"Clouds returning after rain!"

No, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each soul awaketh:

"What though clouds," they sigh, "be gathered dark and stormy to the

view,

Though the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet behold it breaketh

Into endless day for you!"

KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS.

(ASLEEP IN THE DAYTIME.)

All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth,

And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair;

They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one who sleepeth

With a sunbeam on her hair.

Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth,

And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak;

Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleameth

On the sainted brow and cheek.

There is silence! They who watch her, speak no word of grief or wailing,

In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and cannot cease,

Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, and hope be

failing,

They, like Aaron, "hold their peace."

While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long slow pauses soundeth;

Long they hearken--father--mother--love has nothing more to say:

Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where love aboundeth

Tolls the heavy bell this day.

Still in silence to its tolling they count over all her meetness

To lie near their hearts and soothe them in all sorrows and all fears;

Her short life lies spread before them, but they cannot tell her

sweetness,

Easily as tell her years.

Only daughter--Ah! how fondly Thought around that lost name lingers,

Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep and droop her head,

She shall mourn her baby-sempstress, with those imitative fingers,

Drawing out her aimless thread.

In your father's Future cometh many a sad uncheered to-morrow,

But in sleep shall three fair faces heavenly-calm towards him lean--

Like a threefold cord shall draw him through the weariness of sorrow,

Nearer to the things unseen.

With the closing of your eyelids close the dreams of expectation,

And so ends the fairest chapter in the records of their way:

Therefore--O thou God most holy--God of rest and consolation,

Be Thou near to them this day!

Be Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed of infant brothers,

Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall bless them on their

knees;

And shall think how coldly falleth the white moonlight on the others,

In their bed beneath the trees.

Be Thou near, when they, they _only_, bear those faces in remembrance,

And the number of their children strangers ask them with a smile;

And when other childlike faces touch them by the strong resemblance

To those turned to them erewhile.

Be Thou near, each chastened Spirit for its course and conflict nerving,

Let Thy voice say, "Father--mother--lo! thy treasures live above!

Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumbered over much with serving

At the shrine of human love."

Let them sleep! In course of ages e'en the Holy House shall crumble,

And the broad and stately steeple one day bend to its decline,

And high arches, ancient arches bowed and decked in clothing humble,

Creeping moss shall round them twine.

Ancient arches, old and hoary, sunny beams shall glimmer through them,

And invest them with a beauty we would fain they should not share,

And the moonlight slanting down them, the white moonlight shall imbue them

With a sadness dim and fair.

Then the soft green moss shall wrap you, and the world shall all forget

you,

Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall pass you by;

Generations come and vanish: but it shall not grieve nor fret you,

That they sin, or that they sigh.

And the world, grown old in sinning, shall deny her first beginning,

And think scorn of words which whisper how that all must pass away;

Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vain tradition,

And a dream, the reckoning day!

Till His blast, a blast of terror, shall awake in shame and sadness

Faithless millions to a vision of the failing earth and skies,

And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout of joy and gladness,

Call the dead in Christ to rise!

Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear from their transgression,

Father--mother--you shall meet them fairer than they were before,

And have joy with the Redeemèd, joy ear hath not heard heart dreamèd,

Ay for ever--evermore!

THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL).

Marvels of sleep, grown cold!

Who hath not longed to fold

With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss,

Those cherub forms that lie,

With none to watch them nigh,

Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss?

What! they are left alone

All night with graven stone,

Pillars and arches that above them meet;

While through those windows high

The journeying stars can spy,

And dim blue moonbeams drop on their uncovered feet?

O cold! yet look again,

There is a wandering vein

Traced in the hand where those white snowdrops lie.

Let her rapt dreamy smile

The wondering heart beguile,

That almost thinks to hear a calm contented sigh.

What silence dwells between

Those severed lips serene!

The rapture of sweet waiting breathes and grows.

What trance-like peace is shed

On her reclining head,

And e'en on listless feet what languor of repose!

Angels of joy and love

Lean softly from above

And whisper to her sweet and marvellous things;

Tell of the golden gate

That opened wide doth wait,

And shadow her dim sleep with their celestial wings.

Hearing of that blest shore

She thinks on earth no more,

Contented to forego this wintry land.

She has nor thought nor care

But to rest calmly there,

And hold the snowdrops pale that blossom in her hand.

But on the other face

Broodeth a mournful grace,

This had foreboding thoughts beyond her years,

While sinking thus to sleep

She saw her mother weep,

And could not lift her hand to dry those heart-sick tears.

Could not--but failing lay,

Sighed her young life away.

And let her arm drop down in listless rest,

Too weary on that bed

To turn her dying head,

Or fold the little sister nearer to her breast.

Yet this is faintly told

On features fair and cold,

A look of calm surprise, of mild regret,

As if with life oppressed

She turned her to her rest,

But felt her mother's love and looked not to forget.

How wistfully they close,

Sweet eyes, to their repose!

How quietly declines the placid brow!

The young lips seem to say,

"I have wept much to-day,

And felt some bitter pains, but they are over now."

Sleep! there are left below

Many who pine to go,

Many who lay it to their chastened souls,

That gloomy days draw nigh,

And they are blest who die,

For this green world grows worse the longer that she rolls.

And as for me I know

A little of her woe,

Her yearning want doth in my soul abide,

And sighs of them that weep,

"O put us soon to sleep,

For when we wake--with Thee--we shall be satisfied."

HYMNS.

THE MEASURELESS GULFS OF AIR ARE FULL OF THEE.

"_In Him we live, and move, and have our being._"

The measureless gulfs of air are full of Thee:

Thou Art, and therefore hang the stars; they wait,

And swim, and shine in God who bade them be,

And hold their sundering voids inviolate.

A God concern'd (veil'd in pure light) to bless,

With sweet revealing of His love, the soul;

Toward things piteous, full of piteousness;

The Cause, the Life, and the continuing Whole.

He is more present to all things He made

Than anything unto itself can be;

Full-foliaged boughs of Eden could not shade

Afford, since God was also 'neath the tree.

Thou knowest me altogether; I knew not

Thy likeness till Thou mad'st it manifest.

There is no world but is Thy heaven; no spot

Remote; Creation leans upon Thy breast.

Thou art beyond all stars, yet in my heart

Wonderful whisperings hold Thy creature dumb;

I need no search afar; to me Thou art

Father, Redeemer, and Renewer--come.

THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT OF HEAVEN.

"_And fell on his neck, and kissed him._"

Thou wert far off, and in the sight of heaven

Dead. And thy Father would not this should be;

And now thou livest, it is all forgiven;

Think on it, O my soul, He kissèd thee!

What now are gold and gear? thou canst afford

To cast them from thee at His sacred call,

As Mary, when she met her living Lord,

The burial spice she had prepared let fall.

O! what is death to life? One dead could well

Afford to waste his shroud, if he might wake;

Thou canst afford to waste the world, and sell

Thy footing in it, for the new world's sake.

What is the world? it is a waiting place,

Where men put on their robes for that above.

What is the new world? 'tis a Father's face

Beholden of His sons--the face of love.

THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE.

"_The time of the singing of birds is come._"

Thick orchards, all in white,

Stand 'neath blue voids of light,

And birds among the branches blithely sing,

For they have all they know;

There is no more, but so,

All perfectness of living, fair delight of spring.

Only the cushat dove

Makes answer as for love

To the deep yearning of man's yearning breast;

And mourneth, to his thought,

As in her notes were wrought

Fulfill'd in her sweet having, sense of his unrest.

Not with possession, not

With fairest earthly lot,

Cometh the peace assured, his spirit's quest;

With much it looks before,

With most it yearns for more;

And 'this is not our rest,' and 'this is not our rest.'

Give Thou us more. We look

For more. The heart that took

All spring-time for itself were empty still;

Its yearning is not spent

Nor silenced in content,

Till He that all things filleth doth it sweetly fill.

Give us Thyself. The May

Dureth so short a day;

Youth and the spring are over all too soon;

Content us while they last,

Console us for them past,

Thou with whom bides for ever life, and love, and noon.

SWEET ARE HIS WAYS WHO RULES ABOVE.

"_Though I take the wings of the morning_."

Sweet are His ways who rules above,

He gives from wrath a sheltering place;

But covert none is found from grace,

Man shall not hide himself from love.

What though I take to me the wide

Wings of the morning and forth fly,

Faster He goes, whoso care on high

Shepherds the stars and doth them guide.

What though the tents foregone, I roam

Till day wax dim lamenting me;

He wills that I shall sleep to see

The great gold stairs to His sweet home.

What though the press I pass before,

And climb the branch, He lifts his face;

I am not secret from His grace

Lost in the leafy sycamore.

What though denied with murmuring deep

I shame my Lord,--it shall not be;

For He will turn and look on me,

Then must I think thereon and weep.

The nether depth, the heights above,

Nor alleys pleach'd of Paradise,

Nor Herod's judgment-halls suffice:

Man shall not hide himself from love.

O NIGHT OF NIGHTS!

"_Let us now go even unto Bethlehem_."

O Night of nights! O night

Desired of man so long!

The ancient heavens fled forth in light

To sing thee thy new song;

And shooting down the steep,

To shepherd folk of old,

An angel, while they watch'd their sheep,

Set foot beside the fold.

Lo! while as like to die

Of that keen light he shed,

They look'd on his pure majesty,

Amazed, and sore bestead;

Lo! while with words of cheer

He bade their trembling cease,

The flocks of God swept sweetly near,

And sang to them of peace.

All on the hillside grass

That fulgent radiance fell,

So close those innocents did pass,

Their words were heard right well;

Among the sheep, their wings

Some folding, walk'd the sod

An order'd throng of shining things,

White, with the smile of God.

The waits of heaven to hear,

Oh! what it must have been!

Think, Christian people, think, and fear

For cold hearts, for unclean;

Think how the times go by,

How love and longing fail,

Think how we live and how we die,

As this were but a tale.

O tender tale of old,

Live in thy dear renown;

God's smile was in the dark, behold

That way His hosts came down;

Light up, great God, Thy Word,

Make the blest meaning strong,

As if our ears, indeed, had heard

The glory of their song.

It was so far away,

But Thou could'st make it near,

And all its living might display

And cry to it, "Be here,"

Here, in th' unresting town,

As once remote to them,

Who heard it when the heavens came down,

On pastoral Bethlehem.

It was so long ago,

But God can make it _now_,

And as with that sweet overflow,

Our empty hearts endow;

Take, Lord, those words outworn,

O! make them new for aye,

Speak--"Unto you a child is born,"

To-day--to-day--to-day.

DEAR IS THE LOST WIFE TO A LONE MAN'S HEART.

"_I have loved thee with an everlasting love_."

Dear is the lost wife to a lone man's heart,

When in a dream he meets her at his door,

And, waked for joy, doth know she dwells apart,

All unresponsive on a silent shore;

Dearer, yea, more desired art thou--for thee

My divine heart yearns by the jasper sea.

More than the mother's for her sucking child;

She wants, with emptied arms and love untold,

Her most dear little one that on her smiled

And went; but more, I want Mine own. Behold,

I long for My redeem'd, where safe with Me

Twelve manner of fruits grow on th' immortal tree;

The tree of life that I won back for men,

And planted in the city of My God.

Lift up thy head, I love thee; wherefore, then,

Liest thou so long on thy memorial sod

Sleeping for sorrow? Rise, for dawn doth break--

I love thee, and I cry to thee "Awake."

Serve,--woman whom I love, ere noon be high,

Ere the long shadow lengthen at thy feet.

Work,--I have many poor, O man, that cry,

My little ones do languish in the street.

Love,--'tis a time for love, since I love thee.

Live,--'tis a time to live. Man, live in Me.

WEEPING AND WAILING NEEDS MUST BE.

"_Blessed are ye that weep now_."

Weeping and wailing needs must be

When Love His name shall disavow,

When christen'd men His wrath shall dree,

Who mercy scorn'd in this their day;

But what? He turns not yet away,

Not yet--not now.

Let me not, waken'd after sleep,

Behold a Judge with lowering brow,

The world must weep, and I must weep

Those sins that nail'd Thee on the tree,

Lord Jesu, of Thy clemency.

Let it be NOW.

Let us have weeping NOW for sin,

And not us only; let Thy tears

Avail the tears of many to win;

Weep with us, Jesu, kind art Thou;

We that have sinn'd many long years,

Let us weep NOW;

And then, waked up, behold Thy face,

Who did forgive us. See Thy brow--

Beautiful--learn Thy love and grace.

Then wilt Thou wipe away our tears,

And comfort in th' all-hallow'd spheres,

Them that weep now.

JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD.

"_Art Thou He that should come?_"

Jesus, the Lamb of God, gone forth to heal and bless.

Calm lie the desert pools in a fair wilderness;

Wind-shaken moves the reed, so moves His voice the soul,

Sick folk surprised of joy, wax when they hear it, whole.

Calm all His mastering might, calm smiles the desert waste;

Peace, peace, He shall not cry, nay, He shall not make haste;

Heaven gazes, hell beneath moved for Him, moans and stirs--

Lo, John lies fast in prison, sick for his messengers.

John, the forerunner, John, the desert's tameless son,

Cast into loathèd thrall, his use and mission done;

John from his darkness sends a cry, but not a plea;

Not, "Hast Thou felt my need?" but only, "Art Thou He?"

Unspoken pines his hope, grown weak in lingering dole;

None know what pang that hour might pierce the Healer's soul;

Silence that faints to Him--but must e'en so be vain;

A word--the fetters fall--He will that word restrain.

Jesus, the Father's son, bound in a mighty plan,

Retired full oft in God, show'd not His mind to man;

Nor their great matters high His human lips confess;

He will His wonders work, and not make plain, but bless.

The bournes of His wide way kept secret from all thought,

Enring'd the outmost waste that evil power had wrought;

His measure none can take, His strife we are not shown,

Nor if He gathered then more sheaves than earth hath grown.

"John, from the Christ of God, an answer for all time,"

The proof of Sonship given in characters sublime;

Sad hope will He make firm, and fainting faith restore,

But yet with mortal eyes will see His face no more.

He bow'd His sacred head to exigence austere,

Unknown to us and dark, first piercings of the spear:

And to each martyr since 'tis even as if He said,

"Verily I am He--I live, and I was dead.

"The All-wise found a way--a dark way--dread, unknown;

I chose it, will'd it Mine, seal'd for My feet alone;

Thou canst not therein walk, yet thou hast part in Me,

I will not break thy bonds, but I am bound with thee.

"With thee and for thee bound, with thee and for thee given,

A mystery seal'd from hell, and wonder'd at in heaven;

I send thee rest at heart to love, and still believe;

But not for thee--nor Me--is found from death reprieve."

THOU HAST BEEN ALWAY GOOD TO ME.

"_He doeth all things well._"

Thou hast been alway good to me and mine

Since our first father by transgression fell.

Through all Thy sorest judgments love doth shine--

Lord, of a truth, Thou doest all things well.

Thou didst the food of immortality

Compass with flame, lest he thereto should win.

But what? his doom, yet eating of that tree,

Had been immortal life of shame and sin!

I would not last immortal in such wise;

Desirèd death, not life, is now my song.

Through death shall I go back to Paradise,

And sin no more--Sweet death, tarry not long!

One did prevail that closèd gate to unseal,

Where yet th' immortalizing tree doth grow;

He shall there meet us, and once more reveal

The fruit of life, where crime is not, nor woe.

THOU THAT SLEEPEST NOT AFRAID.

"_Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ

shall give thee light_."

Thou that sleepest not afraid,

Men and angels thee upbraid;

Rise, cry, cry to God aloud,

Ere the swift hours weave thy shroud:

O, for Jesus' sake,

Wake!

Thee full ill doth it beseem

Through the dark to drowse and dream;

In the dead-time of the night

Here is One can give thee light:

O, for Jesus' sake,

Wake!

The year passeth--it and all

God shall take and shall let fall

Soon, into the whelming sea

Of His wide eternity:

O, for Jesus' sake,

Wake!

Noiseless as the flakes of snow

The last moments falter and go;

The time-angel sent this way

Sweeps them like a drift away:

O, for Jesus' sake,

Wake!

Loved and watch'd of heaven, for whom

The crowned Saviour there makes room,

Sleeper, hark! He calls thee, rise,

Lift thy head, and raise thine eyes!

Now, for Jesus' sake,

Wake!

NOW WINTER PAST, THE WHITE-THORN BOWER.

"_Thy gentleness hath made me great_."

Now winter past, the white-thorn bower

Breaks forth and buds down all the glen;

Now spreads the leaf and grows the flower:

So grows the life of God, in men.

Oh, my child-God, most gentle King,

To me Thy waxing glory show;

Wake in my heart as wakes the spring,

Grow as the leaf and lily grow.

I was a child, when Thou a child

Didst make Thyself again to me;

And holy, harmless, undefiled,

Play'd at Thy mother Mary's knee.

Thou gav'st Thy pure example so,

The copy in my childish breast

Was a child's copy. I did know

God, made in childhood manifest.

Now I am grown, and Thou art grown

The God-man, strong to love, to will,

Who was alone, yet not alone,

Held in His Father's presence still.

Now do I know Thee for my cure,

My peace, the Absolver for me set;

Thy goings pass through deeps obscure,

But Thou with me art gentle yet.

Long-suffering Lord, to man reveal'd

As One that e'en the child doth wait,

Thy full salvation is my shield,

Thy gentleness hath made me great.

SUCH AS HAVE NOT GOLD TO BRING THEE.

"_Ye also, as lively stones, are built up a spiritual house_."

Such as have not gold to bring Thee,

They bring thanks--Thy grateful sons;

Such as have no song to sing Thee,

Live Thee praise--Thy silent ones.

Such as have their unknown dwelling,

Secret from Thy children here,

Known of Thee, will Thee be telling

How Thy ways with them are dear.

None the place ordained refuseth,

They are one, and they are all

Living stones, the Builder chooseth

For the courses of His wall.

Now Thy work by us fulfilling,

Build us in Thy house divine;

Each one cries, "I, Lord, am willing,

Whatsoever place be mine."

Some, of every eye beholden,

Hewn to fitness for the height,

By Thy hand to beauty moulden,

Show Thy workmanship in light.

Other, Thou dost bless with station

Dark, and of the foot downtrod,

Sink them deep in the foundation--

Buried, hid with Christ in God.

A MORN OF GUILT, AN HOUR OF DOOM.

"_There was darkness_."

A Morn of guilt, an hour of doom--

Shocks and tremblings dread;

All the city sunk in gloom--

Thick darkness overhead.

An awful Sufferer straight and stark;

Mocking voices fell;

Tremblings--tremblings in the dark,

In heaven, and earth, and hell.

Groping, stumbling up the way,

They pass, whom Christ forgave;

They know not what they do--they say,

"Himself He cannot save.

On His head behold the crown

That alien hands did weave;

Let Him come down, let Him come down,

And we will believe!"

Fearsome dreams, a rending veil,

Cloven rocks down hurl'd;

God's love itself doth seem to fail

The Saviour of the world.

Dying thieves do curse and wail,

Either side is scorn;

Lo! He hangs while some cry "Hail!"

Of heaven and earth forlorn.

Still o'er His passion darkness lowers,

He nears the deathly goal;

But He shall see in His last hours

Of the travail of His soul;

Lo, a cry!--the firstfruits given

On the accursèd tree--

"Dying Love of God in heaven,

Lord, remember me!"

By His sacrifice, foreknown

Long ages ere that day,

And by God's sparing of His own

Our debt of death to pay;

By the Comforter's consent,

With ardent flames bestow'd,

In this dear race when Jesus went

To make His mean abode--

By the pangs God look'd not on,

And the world dared not see;

By all redeeming wonders won

Through that dread mystery;--

Lord, receive once more the sigh

From the accursèd tree--

"Sacred Love of God most high,

O remember me!"

MARY OF MAGDALA.

"_While it was yet dark_."

Mary of Magdala, when the moon had set,

Forth to the garden that was with night dews wet,

Fared in the dark--woe-wan and bent was she,

'Neath many pounds' weight of fragrant spicery.

Mary of Magdala, in her misery,

"Who shall roll the stone up from yon door?" quoth she;

And trembling down the steep she went, and wept sore,

Because her dearest Lord was, alas! no more.

Her burden she let fall, lo! the stone was gone;

Light was there within, out to the dark it shone;

With an angel's face the dread tomb was bright,

The which she beholding fell for sore affright.

Mary of Magdala, in her misery,

Heard the white vision speak, and did straightway flee;

And an idle tale seem'd the wild words she said,

And nought her heart received--nought was comforted.

"Nay," quoth the men He loved, when they came to see,

"Our eyes beheld His death, the Saint of Galilee;

Who have borne Him hence truly we cannot say;"

Secretly in fear, they turn'd and went their way.

Mary of Magdala, in her misery,

Follow'd to the tomb, and wept full bitterly,

Linger'd in the dark, where first the Lord was laid;

The white one spake again, she was no more afraid.

In a moment--dawn! solemn, and sweet, and clear,

Kneeling, yet she weeps, and some one stands anear;

Asketh of her grief--she, all her thoughts are dim,

"If thou hast borne Him hence, tell me," doth answer Him.

"Mary," He saith, no more, shades of night have fled

Under dewy leaves, behold Him!--death is dead;

"Mary," and "O my Master," sorrow speeds away,

Sunbeams touch His feet this earliest Easter day.

After the pains of death, in a place unknown,

Trembling, of visions haunted, and all alone,

I too shall want Thee, Jesus, my hope, my trust,

Fall'n low, and all unclothed, even of my poor dust.

I, too, shall hear Thee speak, Jesus, my life divine;

And call me by my name, Lord, for I am Thine;

Thou wilt stand and wait, I shall so look and SEE,

In the garden of God, I SHALL look up--on THEE.

WOULD I, TO SAVE MY DEAR CHILD?

"_Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself._"

Would I, to save my dear child dutiful,

Dare the white breakers on a storm-rent shore?

Ay, truly, Thou all good, all beautiful,

Truly I would,--then truly Thou would'st more.

Would I for my poor son, who desolate

After long sinning, sued without my door

For pardon, open it? Ay, fortunate

To hear such prayer, I would,--Lord, Thou would'st more.

Would I for e'en the stranger's weariness

And want divide, albeit 'twere scant, my store?

Ay, and mine enemy, sick, shelterless,

Dying, I would attend,--O, Lord, Thou more.

In dust and ashes my long infamy

Of unbelief I rue. My love before

Thy love I set: my heart's discovery,

Is sweet,--whate'er I would, Thou wouldest more.

I was Thy shelterless, sick enemy,

And Thou didst die for me, yet heretofore

I have fear'd; now learn I love's supremacy,--

Whate'er is known of love, Thou lovest more.

AT ONE AGAIN.

I. NOONDAY.

Two angry men--in heat they sever,

And one goes home by a harvest field:--

"Hope's nought," quoth he, "and vain endeavor;

I said and say it, I will not yield!

"As for this wrong, no art can mend it,

The bond is shiver'd that held us twain;

Old friends we be, but law must end it,

Whether for loss or whether for gain.

"Yon stream is small--full slow its wending;

But winning is sweet, but right is fine;

And shoal of trout, or willowy bending--

Though Law be costly--I'll prove them mine.

"His strawberry cow slipped loose her tether,

And trod the best of my barley down;

His little lasses at play together

Pluck'd the poppies my boys had grown.

"What then?--Why naught! _She_ lack'd of reason;

And _they_--my little ones match them well:--

But _this_--Nay all things have their season,

And 'tis my season to curb and quell."

II. SUNSET.

So saith he, when noontide fervors flout him,

So thinks, when the West is amber and red,

When he smells the hop-vines sweet about him,

And the clouds are rosy overhead.

While slender and tall the hop-poles going

Straight to the West in their leafy lines,

Portion it out into chambers, glowing,

And bask in red day as the sun declines.

Between the leaves in his latticed arbor

He sees the sky, as they flutter and turn,

While moor'd like boats in a golden harbor

The fleets of feathery cloudlets burn.

Withdrawn in shadow, he thinketh over

Harsh thoughts, the fruit-laden trees among,

Till pheasants call their young to cover,

And cushats coo them a nursery song.

And flocks of ducks forsake their sedges,

Wending home to the wide barn-door,

And loaded wains between the hedges

Slowly creep to his threshing floor--

Slowly creep. And his tired senses,

Float him over the magic stream,

To a world where Fancy recompenses

Vengeful thoughts, with a troubled dream!

III. THE DREAM.

What's this? a wood--What's that? one calleth,

Calleth and cryeth in mortal dread--

He hears men strive--then somewhat falleth!--

"Help me, neighbor--I'm hard bestead."

The dream is strong--the voice he knoweth--

But when he would run, his feet are fast,

And death lies beyond, and no man goeth

To help, and he says the time is past.

His feet are held, and he shakes all over,--

Nay--they are free--he has found the place--

Green boughs are gather'd--what is't they cover?--

"I pray you, look on the dead man's face;

"You that stand by," he saith, and cowers--

"Man, or Angel, to guard the dead

With shadowy spear, and a brow that lowers,

And wing-points reared in the gloom o'erhead.--

"I dare not look. He wronged me never.

Men say we differ'd; they speak amiss:

This man and I were neighbors ever--

I would have ventured my life for his.

"But fast my feet were--fast with tangles--

Ay! words--but they were not sharp, I trow,

Though parish feuds and vestry wrangles--

O pitiful sight--I see thee now!--

"If we fell out, 'twas but foul weather,

After long shining! O bitter cup,--

What--dead?--why, man, we play'd together--

Art dead--ere a friend can make it up?"

IV. THE WAKING.

Over his head the chafer hummeth,

Under his feet shut daisies bend:

Waken, man! the enemy cometh,

Thy neighbor, counted so long a friend.

He cannot waken--and firm, and steady,

The enemy comes with lowering brow;

He looks for war, his heart is ready,

His thoughts are bitter--he will not bow.

He fronts the seat,--the dream is flinging

A spell that his footsteps may not break,--

But one in the garden of hops is singing--

The dreamer hears it, and starts awake.

V. A SONG.

Walking apart, she thinks none listen;

And now she carols, and now she stops;

And the evening star begins to glisten

Atween the lines of blossoming hops.

Sweetest Mercy, your mother taught you

All uses and cares that to maids belong;

Apt scholar to read and to sew she thought you--

She did not teach you that tender song--

"The lady sang in her charmèd bower,

Sheltered and safe under roses blown--

'_Storm cannot touch me, hail, nor shower,

Where all alone I sit, all alone.

"My bower! The fair Fay twined it round me,

Care nor trouble can pierce it through;

But once a sigh from the warm world found me

Between two leaves that were bent with dew.

"And day to night, and night to morrow,

Though soft as slumber the long hours wore,

I looked for my dower of love, of sorrow--

Is there no more--no more--no more?_'

"Give her the sun-sweet light, and duly

To walk in shadow, nor chide her part;

Give her the rose, and truly, truly--

To wear its thorn with a patient heart--

"Misty as dreams the moonbeam lyeth

Chequered and faint on her charmèd floor;

The lady singeth, the lady sigheth--

'_Is there no more_--no more--no more!_'"

VI. LOVERS.

A crash of boughs!--one through them breaking!

Mercy is startled, and fain would fly,

But e'en as she turns, her steps o'ertaking,

He pleads with her--"Mercy, it is but I!"

"Mercy!" he touches her hand unbidden--

"The air is balmy, I pray you stay--

Mercy?" Her downcast eyes are hidden,

And never a word she has to say.

Till closer drawn, her prison'd fingers

He takes to his lips with a yearning strong;

And she murmurs low, that late she lingers,

Her mother will want her, and think her long.

"Good mother is she, then honor duly

The lightest wish in her heart that stirs;

But there is a bond yet dearer truly,

And there is a love that passeth hers.

"Mercy, Mercy!" Her heart attendeth--

Love's birthday blush on her brow lies sweet;

She turns her face when his own he bendeth,

And the lips of the youth and the maiden meet.

VII. FATHERS.

Move through the bowering hops, O lovers,--

Wander down to the golden West,--

But two stand mute in the shade that covers

Your love and youth from their souls opprest.

A little shame on their spirits stealing,--

A little pride that is loth to sue,--

A little struggle with soften'd feeling,--

And a world of fatherly care for you.

One says: "To this same running water,

May be, Neighbor, your claim is best."

And one--"Your son has kissed my daughter:

Let the matters between us--rest."

SONNETS.

FANCY.

O fancy, if thou flyest, come back anon,

Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word,

And fragrant as the feathers of that bird,

Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon.

I ask thee not to work, or sigh--play on,

From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred;

The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred,

And waved memorial grass of Marathon.

Play, but be gentle, not as on that day

I saw thee running down the rims of doom

With stars thou hadst been stealing--while they lay

Smothered in light and blue--clasped to thy breast;

Bring rather to me in the firelit room

A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest.

COMPENSATION.

One launched a ship, but she was wrecked at sea;

He built a bridge, but floods have borne it down;

He meant much good, none came: strange destiny,

His corn lies sunk, his bridge bears none to town,

Yet good he had not meant became his crown;

For once at work, when even as nature free,

From thought of good he was, or of renown,

God took the work for good and let good be.

So wakened with a trembling after sleep,

Dread Mona Roa yields her fateful store;

All gleaming hot the scarlet rivers creep,

And fanned of great-leaved palms slip to the shore,

Then stolen to unplumbed wastes of that far deep,

Lay the foundations for one island more.

LOOKING DOWN.

Mountains of sorrow, I have heard your moans,

And the moving of your pines; but we sit high

On your green shoulders, nearer stoops the sky,

And pure airs visit us from all the zones.

Sweet world beneath, too happy far to sigh,

Dost thou look thus beheld from heavenly thrones?

No; not for all the love that counts thy stones,

While sleepy with great light the valleys lie.

Strange, rapturous peace! its sunshine doth enfold

My heart; I have escaped to the days divine,

It seemeth as bygone ages back had rolled,

And all the eldest past was now, was mine;

Nay, even as if Melchizedec of old

Might here come forth to us with bread and wine.

WORK.

Like coral insects multitudinous

The minutes are whereof our life is made.

They build it up as in the deep's blue shade

It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus

For both there is an end. The populous

Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid

Life's debt of work are spent; the work is laid

Before our feet that shall come after us.

We may not stay to watch if it will speed,

The bard if on some luter's string his song

Live sweetly yet; the hero if his star

Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly meed,

Else have we none more than the sea-born throng

Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar.

WISHING.

When I reflect how little I have done,

And add to that how little I have seen,

Then furthermore how little I have won

Of joy, or good, how little known, or been:

I long for other life more full, more keen,

And yearn to change with such as well have run--

Yet reason mocks me--nay, the soul, I ween,

Granted her choice would dare to change with none;

No,--not to feel, as Blondel when his lay

Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it--

No,--not to do, as Eustace on the day

He left fair Calais to her weeping lit--

No,--not to be, Columbus, waked from sleep

When his new world rose from the charmèd deep.

TO ----.

Strange was the doom of Heracles, whose shade

Had dwelling in dim Hades the unblest,

While yet his form and presence sat a guest

With the old immortals when the feast was made.

Thine like, thus differs; form and presence laid

In this dim chamber of enforcèd rest,

It is the unseen "shade" which, risen, hath pressed

Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed.

My soul admires to hear thee speak; thy thought

Falls from a high place like an August star,

Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings--

When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar--

Down he steep slope of a long sunbeam brought,

He stirs the wheat with the steerage of his wings.

ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE.

A cottager leaned whispering by her hives,

Telling the bees some news, as they lit down,

And entered one by one their waxen town.

Larks passioning hung o'er their brooding wives,

And all the sunny hills where heather thrives

Lay satisfied with peace. A stately crown

Of trees enringed the upper headland brown,

And reedy pools, wherein the moor-hen dives,

Glittered and gleamed.

A resting-place for light,

They that were bred here love it; but they say,

"We shall not have it long; in three years' time

A hundred pits will cast out fires by night,

Down yon still glen their smoke shall trail its way,

And the white ash lie thick in lieu of rime."

AN ANCIENT CHESS KING.

Haply some Rajah first in the ages gone

Amid his languid ladies fingered thee,

While a black nightingale, sun-swart as he,

Sang his one wife, love's passionate oraison;

Haply thou may'st have pleased Old Prester John

Among his pastures, when full royally

He sat in tent, grave shepherds at his knee,

While lamps of balsam winked and glimmered on.

What doest thou here? Thy masters are all dead;

My heart is full of ruth and yearning pain

At sight of thee; O king that hast a crown

Outlasting theirs, and tell'st of greatness fled

Through cloud-hung nights of unabated rain

And murmurs of the dark majestic town.

COMFORT IN THE NIGHT.

She thought by heaven's high wall that she did stray

Till she beheld the everlasting gate:

And she climbed up to it to long, and wait,

Feel with her hands (for it was night), and lay

Her lips to it with kisses; thus to pray

That it might open to her desolate.

And lo! it trembled, lo! her passionate

Crying prevailed. A little little way

It opened: there fell out a thread of light,

And she saw wingèd wonders move within;

Also she heard sweet talking as they meant

To comfort her. They said, "Who comes to-night

Shall one day certainly an entrance win;"

Then the gate closed and she awoke content.

THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS.

Though all great deeds were proved but fables fine,

Though earth's old story could be told anew,

Though the sweet fashions loved of them that sue

Were empty as the ruined Delphian shrine--

Though God did never man, in words benign,

With sense of His great Fatherhood endue,

Though life immortal were a dream untrue,

And He that promised it were not divine--

Though soul, though spirit were not, and all hope

Reaching beyond the bourne, melted away;

Though virtue had no goal and good no scope,

But both were doomed to end with this our clay--

Though all these were not,--to the ungraced heir

Would this remain,--to live, as though they were.

A SNOW MOUNTAIN.

Can I make white enough my thought for thee,

Or wash my words in light? Thou hast no mate

To sit aloft in the silence silently

And twin those matchless heights undesecrate.

Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shelter, he

Stood, with his old white head, surprised at fate;

Alone as Galileo, when, set free,

Before the stars he mused disconsolate.

Ay, and remote, as the dead lords of song,

Great masters who have made us what we are,

For thou and they have taught us how to long

And feel a sacred want of the fair and far:

Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire--

Our only greatness is that we aspire.

SLEEP.

(A WOMAN SPEAKS.)

O sleep, we are beholden to thee, sleep,

Thou bearest angels to us in the night,

Saints out of heaven with palms. Seen by thy light

Sorrow is some old tale that goeth not deep;

Love is a pouting child. Once I did sweep

Through space with thee, and lo, a dazzling sight--

Stars! They came on, I felt their drawing and might;

And some had dark companions. Once (I weep

When I remember that) we sailed the tide,

And found fair isles, where no isles used to bide,

And met there my lost love, who said to me,

_That 'twas a long mistake: he had not died_.

Sleep, in the world to come how strange 'twill be

Never to want, never to wish for thee!

PROMISING.

(A MAN SPEAKS.)

Once, a new world, the sunswart marinere,

Columbus, promised, and was sore withstood,

Ungraced, unhelped, unheard for many a year;

But let at last to make his promise good.

Promised and promising I go, most dear,

To better my dull heart with love's sweet feud,

My life with its most reverent hope and fear,

And my religion, with fair gratitude.

O we must part; the stars for me contend,

And all the winds that blow on all the seas.

Through wonderful waste places I must wend,

And with a promise my sad soul appease.

Promise then, promise much of far-off bliss;

But--ah, for present joy, give me one kiss.

LOVE.

Who veileth love should first have vanquished fate.

She folded up the dream in her deep heart,

Her fair full lips were silent on that smart,

Thick fringèd eyes did on the grasses wait.

What good? one eloquent blush, but one, and straight

The meaning of a life was known; for art

Is often foiled in playing nature's part,

And time holds nothing long inviolate.

Earth's buried seed springs up--slowly, or fast:

The ring came home, that one in ages past

Flung to the keeping of unfathomed seas:

And golden apples on the mystic trees

Were sought and found, and borne away at last,

Though watched of the divine Hesperides.

FAILURE.

We are much bound to them that do succeed;

But, in a more pathetic sense, are bound

To such as fail. They all our loss expound;

They comfort us for work that will not speed,

And life--itself a failure.

Ay, his deed,

Sweetest in story, who the dusk profound

Of Hades flooded with entrancing sound,

Music's own tears, was failure. Doth it read

Therefore the worse? Ah, no! so much, to dare,

He fronts the regnant Darkness on its throne.--

So much to do; impetuous even there,

He pours out love's disconsolate sweet moan--

He wins; but few for that his deed recall:

Its power is in the look which costs him all.

A BIRTHDAY WALK.

(WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY.)

"_The days of our life are threescore years and ten_."

A birthday:--and a day that rose

With much of hope, with meaning rife--

A thoughtful day from dawn to close:

The middle day of human life.

In sloping fields on narrow plains,

The sheep were feeding on their knees

As we went through the winding lanes,

Strewed with red buds of alder-trees.

So warm the day--its influence lent

To flagging thought a stronger wing;

So utterly was winter spent,

So sudden was the birth of spring.

Wild crocus flowers in copse and hedge--

In sunlight, clustering thick below,

Sighed for the firwood's shaded ledge,

Where sparkled yet a line of snow.

And crowded snowdrops faintly hung

Their fair heads lower for the heat,

While in still air all branches flung

Their shadowy doubles at our feet.

And through the hedge the sunbeams crept,

Dropped through the maple and the birch;

And lost in airy distance slept

On the broad tower of Tamworth Church.

Then, lingering on the downward way,

A little space we resting stood,

To watch the golden haze that lay

Adown that river by the wood.

A distance vague, the bloom of sleep

The constant sun had lent the scene,

A veiling charm on dingles deep

Lay soft those pastoral hills between.

There are some days that die not out,

Nor alter by reflection's power,

Whose converse calm, whose words devout,

For ever rest, the spirit's dower.

And they are days when drops a veil--

A mist upon the distance past;

And while we say to peace--"All hail!"

We hope that always it shall last.

Times when the troubles of the heart

Are hushed--as winds were hushed that day--

And budding hopes begin to start,

Like those green hedgerows on our way:

When all within and all around

Like hues on that sweet landscape blend,

And Nature's hand has made to sound

The heartstrings that her touch attend:

When there are rays within, like those

That streamed through maple and through birch,

And rested in such calm repose

On the broad tower of Tamworth Church.

NOT IN VAIN I WAITED.

She was but a child, a child,

And I a man grown;

Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild,

And, I thought, my own.

What could I do? The long grass groweth,

The long wave floweth with a murmur on:

The why and the wherefore of it all who knoweth?

Ere I thought to lose her she was grown--and gone.

This day or that day in warm spring weather.

The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its tether.

"But if the world wound thee," I said, "come back to me,

Down in the dell wishing--wishing, wishing for thee."

The dews hang on the white may,

Like a ghost it stands,

All in the dusk before day

That folds the dim lands:

Dark fell the skies when once belated,

Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun;

But wake, heart, and sing, for not in vain I waited.

O clear, O solemn dawning, lo, the maid is won!

Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and clover,

Lest the bride wet her feet while she walks over;

Shine to-day, sunbeams, and make all fair to see:

Down the dell she's coming--coming, coming with me.

A GLEANING SONG.

"Whither away, thou little eyeless rover?

(Kind Roger's true)

Whither away across yon bents and clover,

Wet, wet with dew?"

"Roger here, Roger there--

Roger--O, he sighed,

Yet let me glean among the wheat,

Nor sit kind Roger's bride."

"What wilt thou do when all the gleaning's ended,

What wilt thou do?

The cold will come, and fog and frost-work blended

(Kind Roger's true)."

"Sleet and rain, cloud and storm,

When they cease to frown

I'll bind me primrose bunches sweet,

And cry them up the town."

"What if at last thy careless heart awaking

This day thou rue?"

"I'll cry my flowers, and think for all its breaking,

Kind Roger's true;

Roger here, Roger there,

O, my true love sighed,

Sigh once, once more, I'll stay my feet

And rest kind Roger's bride."

WITH A DIAMOND.

While Time a grim old lion gnawing lay,

And mumbled with his teeth yon regal tomb,

Like some immortal tear undimmed for aye,

This gem was dropped among the dust of doom.

Dropped, haply, by a sad, forgotten queen,

A tear to outlast name, and fame, and tongue:

Her other tears, and ours, all tears terrene,

For great new griefs to be hereafter sung.

Take it,--a goddess might have wept such tears,

Or Dame Electra changed into a star,

That waxed so dim because her children's years

In leaguered Troy were bitter through long war.

Not till the end to end grow dull or waste,--

Ah, what a little while the light we share!

Hand after hand shall yet with this be graced,

Signing the Will that leaves it to an heir.

MARRIED LOVERS.

Come away, the clouds are high,

Put the flashing needles by.

Many days are not to spare,

Or to waste, my fairest fair!

All is ready. Come to-day,

For the nightingale her lay,

When she findeth that the whole

Of her love, and all her soul,

Cannot forth of her sweet throat,

Sobs the while she draws her breath,

And the bravery of her note

In a few days altereth.

Come, ere she despond, and see

In a silent ecstasy

Chestnuts heave for hours and hours

All the glory of their flowers

To the melting blue above,

That broods over them like love.

Leave the garden walls, where blow

Apple-blossoms pink, and low

Ordered beds of tulips fine.

Seek the blossoms made divine

With a scent that is their soul.

These are soulless. Bring the white

Of thy gown to bathe in light

Walls for narrow hearts. The whole

Earth is found, and air and sea,

Not too wide for thee and me.

Not too wide, and yet thy face

Gives the meaning of all space;

And thine eyes, with starbeams fraught,

Hold the measure of all thought;

For of them my soul besought,

And was shown a glimpse of thine--

A veiled vestal, with divine

Solace, in sweet love's despair,

For that life is brief as fair.

Who hath most, he yearneth most,

Sure, as seldom heretofore,

Somewhere of the gracious more.

Deepest joy the least shall boast,