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diff --git a/30599.txt b/30599.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a473aa0 --- /dev/null +++ b/30599.txt @@ -0,0 +1,20250 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Collected Poems, by Alfred Noyes + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Collected Poems + Volume Two (of 2) + +Author: Alfred Noyes + +Release Date: December 4, 2009 [EBook #30599] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLLECTED POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Josephine Paolucci and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. + + + + + + + +COLLECTED POEMS + +BY + +ALFRED NOYES + + +VOLUME TWO + +NEW YORK +FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY +PUBLISHERS + +COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY +FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY + +COPYRIGHT, 1906, 1907, 1908, BY +THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + +COPYRIGHT, 1909, 1910, 1911, BY +FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY + +COPYRIGHT, 1906, 1909, BY +ALFRED NOYES + +_All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign +languages, including the Scandinavian. All dramatic and acting rights, +both professional and amateur, are reserved. Application for the right +of performing should be made to the publishers._ + +_October, 1913_ + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + +MIST IN THE VALLEY 1 + +A SONG OF THE PLOUGH 4 + +THE BANNER 6 + +RANK AND FILE 6 + +THE SKY-LARK CAGED 11 + +THE LOVERS' FLIGHT 13 + +THE ROCK POOL 16 + +THE ISLAND HAWK 20 + +THE ADMIRAL'S GHOST 26 + +EDINBURGH 29 + +IN A RAILWAY CARRIAGE 30 + +AN EAST-END COFFEE-STALL 32 + +RED OF THE DAWN 33 + +THE DREAM-CHILD'S INVITATION 35 + +THE TRAMP TRANSFIGURED 37 + +ON THE DOWNS 50 + +A MAY-DAY CAROL 52 + +THE CALL OF THE SPRING 53 + +A DEVONSHIRE DITTY 55 + +BACCHUS AND THE PIRATES 56 + +THE NEWSPAPER BOY 64 + +THE TWO WORLDS 66 + +GORSE 68 + +FOR THE EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY OF GEORGE MEREDITH 69 + +IN MEMORY OF SWINBURNE 70 + +ON THE DEATH OF FRANCIS THOMPSON 72 + +IN MEMORY OF MEREDITH 74 + +THE TESTIMONY OF ART 76 + +THE SCHOLARS 76 + +RESURRECTION 77 + +A JAPANESE LOVE-SONG 78 + +THE TWO PAINTERS 79 + +THE ENCHANTED ISLAND 88 + +UNITY 92 + +THE HILL-FLOWER 93 + +ACTAEON 95 + +LUCIFER'S FEAST 101 + +VETERANS 107 + +THE QUEST RENEWED 108 + +THE LIGHTS OF HOME 109 + +'TWEEN THE LIGHTS 110 + +CREATION 113 + +THE PEACEMAKER 115 + +THE SAILOR-KING 117 + +THE FIDDLER'S FAREWELL 118 + +TO A PESSIMIST 119 + +MOUNT IDA 120 + +THE ELECTRIC TRAM 127 + +SHERWOOD 128 + +TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN + + I A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA 274 + + II A COINER OF ANGELS 285 + + III BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON 303 + + IV THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE 322 + + V THE COMPANION OF A MILE 340 + + VI BIG BEN 351 + + VII THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN 361 + + VIII FLOS MERCATORUM 386 + + IX RALEIGH 411 + +A WATCHWORD OF THE FLEET 434 + +NEW WARS FOR OLD 435 + +THE PRAYER FOR PEACE 436 + +THE SWORD OF ENGLAND 438 + +THE DAWN OF PEACE 438 + +THE BRINGERS OF GOOD NEWS 440 + +THE LONELY SHRINE 442 + +TO A FRIEND OF BOYHOOD LOST AT SEA 443 + +OUR LADY OF THE TWILIGHT 444 + +THE HILL-FLOWERS 445 + +THE CAROL OF THE FIR-TREE 447 + +LAVENDER 450 + + + + +COLLECTED POEMS + +THE ENCHANTED ISLAND AND OTHER POEMS + + + + +MIST IN THE VALLEY + + + I + + Mist in the valley, weeping mist + Beset my homeward way. + No gleam of rose or amethyst + Hallowed the parting day; + A shroud, a shroud of awful grey + Wrapped every woodland brow, + And drooped in crumbling disarray + Around each wintry bough. + + + II + + And closer round me now it clung + Until I scarce could see + The stealthy pathway overhung + By silent tree and tree + Which floated in that mystery + As--poised in waveless deeps-- + Branching in worlds below the sea, + The grey sea-forest sleeps. + + + III + + Mist in the valley, mist no less + Within my groping mind! + The stile swam out: a wilderness + Rolled round it, grey and blind. + A yard in front, a yard behind, + So strait my world was grown, + I stooped to win once more some kind + Glimmer of twig or stone. + + + IV + + I crossed and lost the friendly stile + And listened. Never a sound + Came to me. Mile on mile on mile + It seemed the world around + Beneath some infinite sea lay drowned + With all that e'er drew breath; + Whilst I, alone, had strangely found + A moment's life in death. + + + V + + A universe of lifeless grey + Oppressed me overhead. + Below, a yard of clinging clay + With rotting foliage red + Glimmered. The stillness of the dead, + Hark!--was it broken now + By the slow drip of tears that bled + From hidden heart or bough. + + + VI + + Mist in the valley, mist no less + That muffled every cry + Across the soul's grey wilderness + Where faith lay down to die; + Buried beyond all hope was I, + Hope had no meaning there: + A yard above my head the sky + Could only mock at prayer. + + + VII + + E'en as I groped along, the gloom + Suddenly shook at my feet! + O, strangely as from a rending tomb + In resurrection, sweet + Swift wings tumultuously beat + Away! I paused to hark-- + O, birds of thought, too fair, too fleet + To follow across the dark! + + + VIII + + Yet, like a madman's dream, there came + One fair swift flash to me + Of distances, of streets a-flame + With joy and agony, + And further yet, a moon-lit sea + Foaming across its bars, + And further yet, the infinity + Of wheeling suns and stars, + + + IX + + And further yet ... O, mist of suns + I grope amidst your light, + O, further yet, what vast response + From what transcendent height? + Wild wings that burst thro' death's dim night + I can but pause and hark; + For O, ye are too swift, too white, + To follow across the dark! + + + X + + Mist in the valley, yet I saw, + And in my soul I knew + The gleaming City whence I draw + The strength that then I drew, + My misty pathway to pursue + With steady pulse and breath + Through these dim forest-ways of dew + And darkness, life and death. + + + + +A SONG OF THE PLOUGH + + + I + + (_Morning._) + + Idle, comfortless, bare, + The broad bleak acres lie: + The ploughman guides the sharp ploughshare + Steadily nigh. + + The big plough-horses lift + And climb from the marge of the sea, + And the clouds of their breath on the clear wind drift + Over the fallow lea. + + Streaming up with the yoke, + Brown as the sweet-smelling loam, + Thro' a sun-swept smother of sweat and smoke + The two great horses come. + + Up thro' the raw cold morn + They trample and drag and swing; + And my dreams are waving with ungrown corn + In a far-off spring. + + It is my soul lies bare + Between the hills and the sea: + Come, ploughman Life, with thy sharp ploughshare, + And plough the field for me. + + + II + + (_Evening._) + + Over the darkening plain + As the stars regain the sky, + Steals the chime of an unseen rein + Steadily nigh. + + Lost in the deepening red + The sea has forgotten the shore: + The great dark steeds with their muffled tread + Draw near once more. + + To the furrow's end they sweep + Like a sombre wave of the sea, + Lifting its crest to challenge the deep + Hush of Eternity. + + Still for a moment they stand, + Massed on the sun's red death, + A surge of bronze, too great, too grand, + To endure for more than a breath. + + Only the billow and stream + Of muscle and flank and mane + Like darkling mountain-cataracts gleam + Gripped in a Titan's rein. + + Once more from the furrow's end + They wheel to the fallow lea, + And down the muffled slope descend + To the sleeping sea. + + And the fibrous knots of clay, + And the sun-dried clots of earth + Cleave, and the sunset cloaks the grey + Waste and the stony dearth! + + O, broad and dusky and sweet, + The sunset covers the weald; + But my dreams are waving with golden wheat + In a still strange field. + + My soul, my soul lies bare, + Between the hills and the sea; + Come, ploughman Death, with thy sharp ploughshare, + And plough the field for me. + + + + +THE BANNER + + + Who in the gorgeous vanguard of the years + With winged helmet glistens, let him hold + Ere he pluck down this banner, crying "It bears + An old device"; for, though it seem the old, + + It is the new! No rent shroud of the past, + But its transfigured spirit that still shines + Triumphantly before the foremost lines, + Even from the first prophesying the last. + + And whoso dreams to pluck it down shall stand + Bewildered, while the great host thunders by; + And he shall show the rent shroud in his hand + And "Lo, I lead the van!" he still shall cry; + + While leagues away, the spirit-banner shines + Rushing in triumph before the foremost lines. + + + + +RANK AND FILE + + + I + + Drum-taps! Drum-taps! Who is it marching, + Marching past in the night? Ah, hark, + Draw your curtains aside and see + Endless ranks of the stars o'er-arching + Endless ranks of an army marching, + Marching out of the measureless dark, + Marching away to Eternity. + + + II + + See the gleam of the white sad faces + Moving steadily, row on row, + Marching away to their hopeless wars: + Drum-taps, drum-taps, where are they marching? + Terrible, beautiful, human faces, + Common as dirt, but softer than snow, + Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars. + + + III + + Is it the last rank readily, steadily + Swinging away to the unknown doom? + Ere you can think it, the drum-taps beat + Louder, and here they come marching, marching, + Great new level locked ranks of them readily + Steadily swinging out of the gloom + Marching endlessly down the street. + + + IV + + Unregarded imperial regiments + White from the roaring intricate places + Deep in the maw of the world's machine, + Well content, they are marching, marching, + Unregarded imperial regiments, + Ay, and there are those terrible faces + Great world-heroes that might have been. + + + V + + Hints and facets of One--the Eternal, + Faces of grief, compassion and pain, + Faces of hunger, faces of stone, + Faces of love and of labour, marching, + Changing facets of One--the Eternal, + Streaming up thro' the wind and the rain, + All together and each alone. + + + VI + + You that doubt of the world's one Passion, + You for whose science the stars are a-stray, + Hark--to their orderly thunder-tread! + These, in the night, with the stars are marching + One to the end of the world's one Passion! + You that have taken their Master away, + Where have you laid Him, living or dead? + + + VII + + You whose laws have hidden the One Law, + You whose searchings obscure the goal, + You whose systems from chaos begun, + Chance-born, order-less, hark, they are marching, + Hearts and tides and stars to the One Law, + Measured and orderly, rhythmical, whole, + Multitudinous, welded and one. + + + VIII + + Split your threads of the seamless purple, + Round you marches the world-wide host, + Round your skies is the marching sky, + Out in the night there's an army marching, + Clothed with the night's own seamless purple, + Making death for the King their boast, + Marching straight to Eternity. + + + IX + + What do you know of the shot-riddled banners + Royally surging out of the gloom, + You whose denials their souls despise? + Out in the night they are marching, marching! + Treasure your wisdom, and leave them their banners! + Then--when you follow them down to the tomb + Pray for one glimpse of the faith in their eyes. + + + X + + Pray for one gleam of the white sad faces, + Moving steadily, row on row, + Marching away to their hopeless wars, + Doomed to be trodden like dung, but marching, + Terrible, beautiful human faces, + Common as dirt, but softer than snow, + Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars. + + + XI + + What of the end? Will your knowledge escape it? + What of the end of their dumb dark tears? + You who mock at their faith and sing, + Look, for their ragged old banners are marching + Down to the end--will your knowledge escape it?-- + Down to the end of a few brief years! + What should they care for the wisdom you bring. + + + XII + + Count as they pass, their hundreds, thousands, + Millions, marching away to a doom + Younger than London, older that Tyre! + Drum-taps, drum-taps, where are they marching, + Regiments, nations, empires, marching? + Down thro' the jaws of a world-wide tomb, + Doomed or ever they sprang from the mire! + + + XIII + + Doomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden, + Trodden and kneaded as clay in the road, + Father and little one, lover and friend, + Out in the night they are marching, marching, + Doomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden, + Bodies that bowed beneath Christ's own load, + Love that--marched to the self-same end. + + + XIV + + What of the end?--O, not of your glory, + Not of your wealth or your fame that will live + Half as long as this pellet of dust!-- + Out in the night there's an army marching, + Nameless, noteless, empty of glory, + Ready to suffer and die and forgive, + Marching onward in simple trust, + + + XV + + Wearing their poor little toy love-tokens + Under the march of the terrible skies! + Is it a jest for a God to play?-- + Whose is the jest of these millions marching, + Wearing their poor little toy love-tokens, + Waving their voicelessly grand good-byes, + Secretly trying, sometimes, to pray. + + + XVI + + Dare you dream their trust in Eternity + Broken, O you to whom prayers are vain, + You who dream that their God is dead? + Take your answer--these millions marching + Out of Eternity, into Eternity, + These that smiled "We shall meet again," + Even as the life from their loved one fled. + + + XVII + + This is the answer, not of the sages, + Not of the loves that are ready to part, + Ready to find their oblivion sweet! + Out in the night there's an army marching, + Men that have toiled thro' the endless ages, + Men of the pit and the desk and the mart, + Men that remember, the men in the street, + + + XVIII + + These that into the gloom of Eternity + Stream thro' the dream of this lamp-starred town + London, an army of clouds to-night! + These that of old came marching, marching, + Out of the terrible gloom of Eternity, + Bowing their heads at Rameses' frown, + Streaming away thro' Babylon's light; + + + XIX + + These that swept at the sound of the trumpet + Out thro' the night like gonfaloned clouds, + Exiled hosts when the world was Rome, + Tossing their tattered old eagles, marching + Down to sleep till the great last trumpet, + London, Nineveh, rend your shrouds, + Rally the legions and lead them home, + + + XX + + Lead them home with their glorious faces + Moving steadily, row on row + Marching up from the end of wars, + Out of the Valley of Shadows, marching, + Terrible, beautiful, human faces, + Common as dirt, but softer than snow, + Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars, + + + XXI + + Marching out of the endless ages, + Marching out of the dawn of time, + Endless columns of unknown men, + Endless ranks of the stars o'er-arching + Endless ranks of an army marching + Numberless out of the numberless ages, + Men out of every race and clime, + Marching steadily, now as then. + + + + +THE SKY-LARK CAGED + + + I + + Beat, little breast, against the wires. + Strive, little wings and misted eyes + Which one wild gleam of memory fires + Beseeching still the unfettered skies, + Whither at dewy dawn you sprang + Quivering with joy from this dark earth and sang. + + + II + + And still you sing--your narrow cage + Shall set at least your music free! + Its rapturous wings in glorious rage + Mount and are lost in liberty, + While those who caged you creep on earth + Blind prisoners from the hour that gave them birth. + + + III + + Sing! The great City surges round. + Blinded with light, thou canst not know. + Dream! 'Tis the fir-woods' windy sound + Rolling a psalm of praise below. + Sing, o'er the bitter dust and shame, + And touch us with thine own transcendent flame. + + + IV + + Sing, o'er the City dust and slime; + Sing, o'er the squalor and the gold, + The greed that darkens earth with crime, + The spirits that are bought and sold. + O, shower the healing notes like rain, + And lift us to the height of grief again. + + + V + + Sing! The same music swells your breast, + And the wild notes are still as sweet + As when above the fragrant nest + And the wide billowing fields of wheat + You soared and sang the livelong day, + And in the light of heaven dissolved away. + + + VI + + The light of heaven! Is it not here? + One rapture, one ecstatic joy, + One passion, one sublime despair, + One grief which nothing can destroy, + You--though your dying eyes are wet + Remember, 'tis our blunted hearts forget. + + + VII + + Beat, little breast, still beat, still beat, + Strive, misted eyes and tremulous wings; + Swell, little throat, your _Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!_ + Thro' which such deathless memory rings: + Better to break your heart and die, + Than, like your gaolers, to forget your sky. + + + + +THE LOVERS' FLIGHT + + + I + + Come, the dusk is lit with flowers! + Quietly take this guiding hand: + Little breath to waste is ours + On the road to lovers' land. + Time is in his dungeon-keep! + Ah, not thither, lest he hear, + Starting from his old grey sleep, + Rosy feet upon the stair. + + + II + + Ah, not thither, lest he heed + Ere we reach the rusty door! + Nay, the stairways only lead + Back to his dark world once more: + There's a merrier way we know + Leading to a lovelier night-- + See, your casement all a-glow + Diamonding the wonder-light. + + + III + + Fling the flowery lattice wide, + Let the silken ladder down, + Swiftly to the garden glide + Glimmering in your long white gown, + Rosy from your pillow, sweet, + Come, unsandalled and divine; + Let the blossoms stain your feet + And the stars behold them shine. + + + IV + + Swift, our pawing palfreys wait, + And the page--Dan Cupid--frets, + Holding at the garden gate + Reins that chime like castanets, + Bits a-foam with fairy flakes + Flung from seas whence Venus rose: + Come, for Father Time awakes + And the star of morning glows. + + + V + + Swift--one satin foot shall sway + Half a heart-beat in my hand, + Swing to stirrup and swift away + Down the road to lovers' land: + Ride--the moon is dusky gold, + Ride--our hearts are young and warm, + Ride--the hour is growing old, + And the next may break the charm. + + + VI + + Swift, ere we that thought the song + Full--for others--of the truth, + We that smiled, contented, strong, + Dowered with endless wealth of youth, + Find that like a summer cloud + Youth indeed has crept away, + Find the robe a clinging shroud + And the hair be-sprent with grey. + + + VII + + Ride--we'll leave it all behind, + All the turmoil and the tears, + All the mad vindictive blind + Yelping of the heartless years! + Ride--the ringing world's in chase, + Yet we've slipped old Father Time, + By the love-light in your face + And the jingle of this rhyme. + + + VIII + + Ride--for still the hunt is loud! + Ride--our steeds can hold their own! + Yours, a satin sea-wave, proud, + Queen, to be your living throne, + Glittering with the foam and fire + Churned from seas whence Venus rose, + Tow'rds the gates of our desire + Gloriously burning flows. + + + IX + + He, with streaming flanks a-smoke, + Needs no spur of blood-stained steel: + Only that soft thudding stroke + Once, o' the little satin heel, + Drives his mighty heart, your slave, + Bridled with these bells of rhyme, + Onward, like a crested wave + Thundering out of hail of Time. + + + X + + On, till from a rosy spark + Fairy-small as gleams your hand, + Broadening as we cleave the dark, + Dawn the gates of lovers' land, + Nearing, sweet, till breast and brow + Lifted through the purple night + Catch the deepening glory now + And your eyes the wonder-light. + + + XI + + E'en as tow'rd your face I lean + Swooping nigh the gates of bliss, + I the king and you the queen + Crown each other with a kiss. + Riding, soaring like a song + Burn we tow'rds the heaven above, + You the sweet and I the strong + And in both the fire of love. + + + XII + + Ride--though now the distant chase + Knows that we have slipped old Time, + Lift the love-light of your face, + Shake the bridle of this rhyme, + See, the flowers of night and day + Streaming past on either hand, + Ride into the eternal May, + Ride into the lovers' land. + + + + +THE ROCK POOL + + + I + + Bright as a fallen fragment of the sky, + Mid shell-encrusted rocks the sea-pool shone, + Glassing the sunset-clouds in its clear heart, + A small enchanted world enwalled apart + In diamond mystery, + Content with its own dreams, its own strict zone + Of urchin woods, its fairy bights and bars, + Its daisy-disked anemones and rose-feathered stars. + + + II + + Forsaken for awhile by that deep roar + Which works in storm and calm the eternal will, + Drags down the cliffs, bids the great hills go by + And shepherds their multitudinous pageantry,-- + Here, on this ebb-tide shore + A jewelled bath of beauty, sparkling still, + The little sea-pool smiled away the sea, + And slept on its own plane of bright tranquillity. + + + III + + A self-sufficing soul, a pool in trance, + Un-stirred by all the spirit-winds that blow + From o'er the gulfs of change, content, ere yet + On its own crags, which rough peaked limpets fret + The last rich colours glance, + Content to mirror the sea-bird's wings of snow, + Or feel in some small creek, ere sunset fails, + A tiny Nautilus hoist its lovely purple sails; + + + IV + + And, furrowing into pearl that rosy bar, + Sail its own soul from fairy fringe to fringe, + Lured by the twinkling prey 'twas born to reach + In its own pool, by many an elfin beach + Of jewels, adventuring far + Through the last mirrored cloud and sunset-tinge + And past the rainbow-dripping cave where lies + The dark green pirate-crab at watch with beaded eyes, + + + V + + Or fringed Medusa floats like light in light, + Medusa, with the loveliest of all fays + Pent in its irised bubble of jellied sheen, + Trailing long ferns of moonlight, shot with green + And crimson rays and white, + Waving ethereal tendrils, ghostly sprays, + Daring the deep, dissolving in the sun, + The vanishing point of life, the light whence life begun. + + + VI + + Poised between me, light, time, eternity, + So tinged with all, that in its delicate brain + Kindling it as a lamp with her bright wings + Day-long, night-long, young Ariel sits and sings + Echoing the lucid sea, + Listening it echo her own unearthly strain, + Watching through lucid walls the world's rich tide, + One light, one substance with her own, rise and subside. + + + VII + + And over soft brown woods, limpid, serene, + Puffing its fans the Nautilus went its way, + And from a hundred salt and weedy shelves + Peered little horned faces of sea-elves: + The prawn darted, half-seen, + Thro' watery sunlight, like a pale green ray, + And all around, from soft green waving bowers, + Creatures like fruit out-crept from fluted shells like flowers. + + + VIII + + And, over all, that glowing mirror spread + The splendour of its heaven-reflecting gleams, + A level wealth of tints, calm as the sky + That broods above our own mortality: + The temporal seas had fled, + And ah, what hopes, what fears, what mystic dreams + Could ruffle it now from any deeper deep? + Content in its own bounds it slept a changeless sleep. + + + IX + + Suddenly, from that heaven beyond belief, + Suddenly, from that world beyond its ken, + Dashing great billows o'er its rosy bars, + Shivering its dreams into a thousand stars, + Flooding each sun-dried reef + With waves of colour, (as once, for mortal men + Bethesda's angel) with blue eyes, wide and wild, + Naked into the pool there stepped a little child. + + + X + + Her red-gold hair against the far green sea + Blew thickly out: her slender golden form + Shone dark against the richly waning West + As with one hand she splashed her glistening breast, + Then waded up to her knee + And frothed the whole pool into a fairy storm!... + So, stooping through our skies, of old, there came + Angels that once could set this world's dark pool a-flame, + + + XI + + From which the seas of faith have ebbed away, + Leaving the lonely shore too bright, too bare, + While mirrored softly in the smooth wet sand + A deeper sunset sees its blooms expand + But all too phantom-fair, + Between the dark brown rocks and sparkling spray + Where the low ripples pleaded, shrank and sighed, + And tossed a moment's rainbow heavenward ere they died. + + + XII + + Stoop, starry souls, incline to this dark coast, + Where all too long, too faithlessly, we dream. + Stoop to the world's dark pool, its crags and scars, + Its yellow sands, its rosy harbour-bars, + And soft green wastes that gleam + But with some glorious drifting god-like ghost + Of cloud, some vaguely passionate crimson stain: + Rend the blue waves of heaven, shatter our sleep again! + + + + +THE ISLAND HAWK + +(A SONG FOR THE FIRST LAUNCHING OF HIS MAJESTY'S AERIAL NAVY) + + + I + + _Chorus_-- + _Ships have swept with my conquering name + Over the waves of war, + Swept thro' the Spaniards' thunder and flame + To the splendour of Trafalgar: + On the blistered decks of their great renown, + In the wind of my storm-beat wings, + Hawkins and Hawke went sailing down + To the harbour of deep-sea kings! + By the storm-beat wings of the hawk, the hawk, + Bent beak and pitiless breast, + They clove their way thro' the red sea-fray: + Who wakens me now to the quest?_ + + + II + + Hushed are the whimpering winds on the hill, + Dumb is the shrinking plain, + And the songs that enchanted the woods are still + As I shoot to the skies again! + Does the blood grow black on my fierce bent beak, + Does the down still cling to my claw? + Who brightened these eyes for the prey they seek? + Life, I follow thy law! + _For I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk! + Who knoweth my pitiless breast? + Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way? + Flee--flee--for I quest, I quest._ + + + III + + As I glide and glide with my peering head, + Or swerve at a puff of smoke, + Who watcheth my wings on the wind outspread, + Here--gone--with an instant stroke? + Who toucheth the glory of life I feel + As I buffet this great glad gale, + Spire and spire to the cloud-world, wheel, + Loosen my wings and sail? + _For I am the hawk, the island hawk, + Who knoweth my pitiless breast? + Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way? + Flee--flee--for I quest, I quest._ + + + IV + + Had they given me "Cloud-cuckoo-city" to guard + Between mankind and the sky, + Tho' the dew might shine on an April sward, + Iris had ne'er passed by! + Swift as her beautiful wings might be + From the rosy Olympian hill, + Had Epops entrusted the gates to me + Earth were his kingdom still. + _For I am the hawk, the archer, the hawk! + Who knoweth my pitiless breast? + Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way? + Flee--flee--for I quest, I quest._ + + + V + + My mate in the nest on the high bright tree + Blazing with dawn and dew, + She knoweth the gleam of the world and the glee + As I drop like a bolt from the blue; + She knoweth the fire of the level flight + As I skim, close, close to the ground, + With the long grass lashing my breast and the bright + Dew-drops flashing around. + _She watcheth the hawk, the hawk, the hawk, + (O, the red-blotched eggs in the nest!) + Watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way; + Flee--flee--for I quest, I quest._ + + + VI + + She builded her nest on the high bright wold, + She was taught in a world afar, + The lore that is only an April old + Yet old as the evening star; + Life of a far off ancient day + In an hour unhooded her eyes; + In the time of the budding of one green spray + She was wise as the stars are wise. + _Brown flower of the tree of the hawk, the hawk, + On the old elm's burgeoning breast, + She watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way; + Flee--flee--for I quest, I quest._ + + + VII + + Spirit and sap of the sweet swift Spring, + Fire of our island soul, + Burn in her breast and pulse in her wing + While the endless ages roll; + Avatar--she--of the perilous pride + That plundered the golden West, + Her glance is a sword, but it sweeps too wide + For a rumour to trouble her rest. + _She goeth her glorious way, the hawk, + She nurseth her brood alone; + She will not swoop for an owlet's whoop, + She hath calls and cries of her own._ + + + VIII + + There was never a dale in our isle so deep + That her wide wings were not free + To soar to the sovran heights and keep + Sight of the rolling sea: + Is it there, is it here in the rolling skies, + The realm of her future fame? + Look once, look once in her glittering eyes, + Ye shall find her the same, the same. + _Up to the sides with the hawk, the hawk, + As it was in the days of old! + Ye shall sail once more, ye shall soar, ye shall soar + To the new-found realms of gold._ + + + IX + + She hath ridden on white Arabian steeds + Thro' the ringing English dells, + For the joy of a great queen, hunting in state, + To the music of golden bells; + A queen's fair fingers have drawn the hood + And tossed her aloft in the blue, + A white hand eager for needless blood; + I hunt for the needs of two. + _Yet I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk! + Who knoweth my pitiless breast? + Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way? + Flee--flee--for I quest, I quest._ + + + X + + Who fashioned her wide and splendid eyes + That have stared in the eyes of kings? + With a silken twist she was looped to their wrist: + She has clawed at their jewelled rings! + Who flung her first thro' the crimson dawn + To pluck him a prey from the skies, + When the love-light shone upon lake and lawn + In the valleys of Paradise? + _Who fashioned the hawk, the hawk, the hawk, + Bent beak and pitiless breast? + Who watcheth him sway in the wild wind's way? + Flee--flee--for I quest, I quest._ + + + XI + + Is there ever a song in all the world + Shall say how the quest began + With the beak and the wings that have made us kings + And cruel--almost--as man? + The wild wind whimpers across the heath + Where the sad little tufts of blue + And the red-stained grey little feathers of death + Flutter! _Who fashioned us? Who? + Who fashioned the scimitar wings of the hawk, + Bent beak and arrowy breast? + Who watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way? + Flee--flee--for I quest, I quest._ + + + XII + + Linnet and woodpecker, red-cap and jay, + Shriek that a doom shall fall + One day, one day, on my pitiless way + From the sky that is over us all; + But the great blue hawk of the heavens above + Fashioned the world for his prey,-- + King and queen and hawk and dove, + We shall meet in his clutch that day; + _Shall I not welcome him, I, the hawk? + Yea, cry, as they shrink from his claw, + Cry, as I die, to the unknown sky, + Life, I follow thy law!_ + + + XIII + + _Chorus--_ + _Ships have swept with my conquering name ..._ + Over the world and beyond, + Hark! Bellerophon, Marlborough, Thunderer, + Condor, respond!-- + _On the blistered decks of their dread renown, + In the rush of my storm-beat wings, + Hawkins and Hawke went sailing down + To the glory of deep-sea kings! + By the storm-beat wings of the hawk, the hawk, + Bent beak and pitiless breast, + They clove their way thro' the red sea-fray! + Who wakens me now to the quest._ + + + + +THE ADMIRAL'S GHOST + + + I tell you a tale to-night + Which a seaman told to me, + With eyes that gleamed in the lanthorn light + And a voice as low as the sea. + + You could almost hear the stars + Twinkling up in the sky, + And the old wind woke and moaned in the spars, + And the same old waves went by, + + Singing the same old song + As ages and ages ago, + While he froze my blood in that deep-sea night + With the things that he seemed to know. + + A bare foot pattered on deck; + Ropes creaked; then--all grew still, + And he pointed his finger straight in my face + And growled, as a sea-dog will. + + "Do' ee know who Nelson was? + That pore little shrivelled form + With the patch on his eye and the pinned-up sleeve + And a soul like a North Sea storm? + + "Ask of the Devonshire men! + They know, and they'll tell you true; + He wasn't the pore little chawed-up chap + That Hardy thought he knew. + + "He wasn't the man you think! + His patch was a dern disguise! + For he knew that they'd find him out, d'you see, + If they looked him in both his eyes. + + "He was twice as big as he seemed; + But his clothes were cunningly made. + He'd both of his hairy arms all right! + The sleeve was a trick of the trade. + + "You've heard of sperrits, no doubt; + Well, there's more in the matter than that! + But he wasn't the patch and he wasn't the sleeve, + And he wasn't the laced cocked-hat. + + "_Nelson was just--a Ghost!_ + You may laugh! But the Devonshire men + They knew that he'd come when England called, + And they know that he'll come again. + + "I'll tell you the way it was + (For none of the landsmen know), + And to tell it you right, you must go a-starn + Two hundred years or so. + + * * * * + + "The waves were lapping and slapping + The same as they are to-day; + And Drake lay dying aboard his ship + In Nombre Dios Bay. + + "The scent of the foreign flowers + Came floating all around; + 'But I'd give my soul for the smell o' the pitch,' + Says he, 'in Plymouth Sound.' + + "'What shall I do,' he says, + 'When the guns begin to roar, + An' England wants me, and me not there + To shatter 'er foes once more?' + + "(You've heard what he said, maybe, + But I'll mark you the p'ints again; + For I want you to box your compass right + And get my story plain.) + + "'You must take my drum,' he says, + 'To the old sea-wall at home; + And if ever you strike that drum,' he says, + 'Why, strike me blind, I'll come! + + "'If England needs me, dead + Or living, I'll rise that day! + I'll rise from the darkness under the sea + Ten thousand miles away.' + + "That's what he said; and he died, + An' his pirates, listenin' roun', + With their crimson doublets and jewelled swords + That flashed as the sun went down, + + "They sewed him up in his shroud + With a round-shot top and toe, + To sink him under the salt sharp sea + Where all good seamen go. + + "They lowered him down in the deep, + And there in the sunset light + They boomed a broadside over his grave, + As meanin' to say 'Good-night.' + + "They sailed away in the dark + To the dear little isle they knew; + And they hung his drum by the old sea-wall + The same as he told them to. + + * * * * + + "Two hundred years went by, + And the guns began to roar, + And England was fighting hard for her life, + As ever she fought of yore. + + "'It's only my dead that count,' + She said, as she says to-day; + 'It isn't the ships and it isn't the guns + 'Ull sweep Trafalgar's Bay.' + + "D'you guess who Nelson was? + You may laugh, but it's true as true! + There was more in that pore little chawed-up chap + Than ever his best friend knew. + + "The foe was creepin' close, + In the dark, to our white-cliffed isle; + They were ready to leap at England's throat, + When--O, you may smile, you may smile; + + "But--ask of the Devonshire men; + For they heard in the dead of night + The roll of a drum, and they saw _him_ pass + On a ship all shining white. + + "He stretched out his dead cold face + And he sailed in the grand old way! + The fishes had taken an eye and his arm, + But he swept Trafalgar's Bay. + + "Nelson--was Francis Drake! + O, what matters the uniform, + Or the patch on your eye or your pinned-up sleeve, + If your soul's like a North Sea storm?" + + + + +EDINBURGH + + + I + + City of mist and rain and blown grey spaces, + Dashed with wild wet colour and gleam of tears, + Dreaming in Holyrood halls of the passionate faces + Lifted to one Queen's face that has conquered the years, + Are not the halls of thy memory haunted places? + Cometh there not as a moon (where the blood-rust sears + Floors a-flutter of old with silks and laces), + Gliding, a ghostly Queen, thro' a mist of tears? + + + II + + Proudly here, with a loftier pinnacled splendour, + Throned in his northern Athens, what spells remain + Still on the marble lips of the Wizard, and render + Silent the gazer on glory without a stain! + Here and here, do we whisper, with hearts more tender, + Tusitala wandered thro' mist and rain; + Rainbow-eyed and frail and gallant and slender, + Dreaming of pirate-isles in a jewelled main. + + + III + + Up the Canongate climbeth, cleft asunder + Raggedly here, with a glimpse of the distant sea + Flashed through a crumbling alley, a glimpse of wonder, + Nay, for the City is throned on Eternity! + Hark! from the soaring castle a cannon's thunder + Closeth an hour for the world and an aeon for me, + Gazing at last from the martial heights whereunder + Deathless memories roll to an ageless sea. + + + + +IN A RAILWAY CARRIAGE + + + Three long isles of sunset-cloud, + Poised in an ocean of gold, + Floated away in the west + As the long train southward rolled; + + And through the gleam and shade of the panes, + While meadow and wood went by, + Across the streaming earth + We watched the steadfast sky. + + Dark before the westward window, + Heavy and bloated, rolled + The face of a drunken woman + Nodding against the gold; + + Dark before the infinite glory, + With bleared and leering eyes, + It stupidly lurched and nodded + Against the tender skies. + + _What had ye done to her, masters of men, + That her head be bowed down thus-- + Thus for your golden vespers, + And deepening angelus?_ + + Dark, besotted, malignant, vacant, + Slobbering, wrinkled, old, + Weary and wickedly smiling, + She nodded against the gold. + + Pitiful, loathsome, maudlin, lonely, + Her moist, inhuman eyes + Blinked at the flies on the window, + And could not see the skies. + + As a beast that turns and returns to a mirror + And will not see its face, + Her eyes rejected the sunset, + Her soul lay dead in its place, + + Dead in the furrows and folds of her flesh + As a corpse lies lapped in the shroud; + Silently floated beside her + The isles of sunset-cloud. + + _What had ye done to her, years upon years, + That her head should be bowed down thus-- + Thus for your golden vespers, + And deepening angelus?_ + + Her nails were blackened and split with labour, + Her back was heavily bowed; + Silently floated beside her + The isles of sunset-cloud. + + Over their tapering streaks of lilac, + In breathless depths afar, + Bright as the tear of an angel + Glittered a lonely star. + + While the hills and the streams of the world went past us, + And the long train roared and rolled + Southward, and dusk was falling, + She nodded against the gold. + + + + +AN EAST-END COFFEE-STALL + + + Down the dark alley a ring of orange light + Glows. God, what leprous tatters of distress, + Droppings of misery, rags of Thy loneliness + Quiver and heave like vermin, out of the night! + + Like crippled rats, creeping out of the gloom, + O Life, for one of thy terrible moments there, + Lit by the little flickering yellow flare, + Faces that mock at life and death and doom, + + Faces that long, long since have known the worst, + Faces of women that have seen the child + Waste in their arms, and strangely, terribly, smiled + When the dark nipple of death has eased its thirst; + + Faces of men that once, though long ago, + Saw the faint light of hope, though far away,-- + Hope that, at end of some tremendous day, + They yet might reach some life where tears could flow; + + Faces of our humanity, ravaged, white, + Wrenched with old love, old hate, older despair, + Steal out of vile filth-dropping dens to stare + On that wild monstrance of a naphtha light. + + They crowd before the stall's bright altar rail, + Grotesque, and sacred, for that light's brief span, + And all the shuddering darkness cries, "All hail, + Daughters and Sons of Man!" + + See, see, once more, though all their souls be dead, + They hold it up, triumphantly hold it up, + They feel, they warm their hands upon the Cup; + Their crapulous hands, their claw-like hands break Bread! + + See, with lean faces rapturously a-glow + For a brief while they dream and munch and drink; + Then, one by one, once more, silently slink + Back, back into the gulfing mist. They go, + + One by one, out of the ring of light! + They creep, like crippled rats, into the gloom, + Into the fogs of life and death and doom, + Into the night, the immeasurable night. + + + + +RED OF THE DAWN + + + I + + The Dawn peered in with blood-shot eyes + Pressed close against the cracked old pane. + The garret slept: the slow sad rain + Had ceased: grey fogs obscured the skies; + But Dawn peered in with haggard eyes. + + + II + + All as last night? The three-legged chair, + The bare walls and the tattered bed, + All!--but for those wild flakes of red + (And Dawn, perhaps, had splashed them there!) + Round the bare walls, the bed, the chair. + + + III + + 'Twas here, last night, when winds were loud, + A ragged singing-girl, she came + Out of the tavern's glare and shame, + With some few pence--for she was proud-- + Came home to sleep, when winds were loud. + + + IV + + And she sleeps well; for she was tired! + That huddled shape beneath the sheet + With knees up-drawn, no wind or sleet + Can wake her now! Sleep she desired; + And she sleeps well, for she was tired. + + + V + + And there was one that followed her + With some unhappy curse called "love": + Last night, though winds beat loud above, + She shrank! Hark, on the creaking stair, + What stealthy footstep followed her? + + + VI + + But now the Curse, it seemed, had gone! + The small tin-box, wherein she hid + Old childish treasures, had burst its lid. + Dawn kissed her doll's cracked face. It shone + Red-smeared, but laughing--_the Curse is gone_. + + + VII + + So she sleeps well: she does not move; + And on the wall, the chair, the bed, + Is it the Dawn that splashes red, + High as the text where _God is Love_ + Hangs o'er her head? She does not move. + + + VIII + + The clock dictates its old refrain: + All else is quiet; or, far away, + Shaking the world with new-born day, + There thunders past some mighty train: + The clock dictates its old refrain. + + + IX + + The Dawn peers in with blood-shot eyes: + The crust, the broken cup are there! + She does not rise yet to prepare + Her scanty meal. God does not rise + And pluck the blood-stained sheet from her; + But Dawn peers in with haggard eyes. + + + + +THE DREAM-CHILD'S INVITATION + + + I + + _Once upon a time!_--Ah, now the light is burning dimly. + Peterkin is here again: he wants another tale! + Don't you hear him whispering--_The wind is in the chimley, + The ottoman's a treasure-ship, we'll all set sail?_ + + + II + + All set sail? No, the wind is very loud to-night: + The darkness on the waters is much deeper than of yore. + Yet I wonder--hark, he whispers--if the little streets are still as bright + In old Japan, in old Japan, that happy haunted shore. + + + III + + I wonder--hush, he whispers--if perhaps the world will wake again + When Christmas brings the stories back from where the skies are blue, + Where clouds are scattering diamonds down on every cottage window-pane, + And every boy's a fairy prince, and every tale is true. + + + IV + + There the sword Excalibur is thrust into the dragon's throat, + Evil there is evil, black is black, and white is white: + There the child triumphant hurls the villain spluttering into the moat; + There the captured princess only waits the peerless knight. + + + V + + Fairyland is gleaming there beyond the Sherwood Forest trees, + There the City of the Clouds has anchored on the plain + All her misty vistas and slumber-rosy palaces + (_Shall we not, ah, shall we not, wander there again?_) + + + VI + + "Happy ever after" there, the lights of home a welcome fling + Softly thro' the darkness as the star that shone of old, + Softly over Bethlehem and o'er the little cradled King + Whom the sages worshipped with their frankincense and gold. + + + VII + + _Once upon a time_--perhaps a hundred thousand years ago-- + Whisper to me, Peterkin, I have forgotten when! + Once upon a time there was a way, a way we used to know + For stealing off at twilight from the weary ways of men. + + + VIII + + Whisper it, O whisper it--the way, the way is all I need! + All the heart and will are here and all the deep desire! + _Once upon a time_--ah, now the light is drawing near indeed, + I see the fairy faces flush to roses round the fire. + + + IX + + _Once upon a time_--the little lips are on my cheek again, + Little fairy fingers clasped and clinging draw me nigh, + Dreams, no more than dreams, but they unloose the weary prisoner's chain + And lead him from his dungeon! "What's a thousand years?" they cry. + + + X + + A thousand years, a thousand years, a little drifting dream ago, + All of us were hunting with a band of merry men, + The skies were blue, the boughs were green, the clouds were crisping + isles of snow ... + ... So Robin blew his bugle, and the Now became the Then. + + + + +THE TRAMP TRANSFIGURED + +(AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF A CORN-FLOWER MILLIONAIRE) + + + I + + All the way to Fairyland across the thyme and heather, + Round a little bank of fern that rustled on the sky, + Me and stick and bundle, sir, we jogged along together,-- + (Changeable the weather? Well--it ain't all pie!) + Just about the sunset--Won't you listen to my story?-- + Look at me! I'm only rags and tatters to your eye! + Sir, that blooming sunset crowned this battered hat with glory! + Me that was a crawling worm became a butterfly-- + (Ain't it hot and dry? + Thank you, sir, thank you, sir!) a blooming butterfly. + + + II + + Well, it happened this way! I was lying loose and lazy, + Just as, of a Sunday, you yourself might think no shame, + Puffing little clouds of smoke, and picking at a daisy, + Dreaming of your dinner, p'raps, or wishful for the same: + Suddenly, around that ferny bank there slowly waddled-- + Slowly as the finger of a clock her shadow came-- + Slowly as a tortoise down that winding path she toddled, + Leaning on a crooked staff, a poor old crooked dame, + Limping, but not lame, + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, a poor old crooked dame. + + + III + + Slowly did I say, sir? Well, you've heard that funny fable + Consekint the tortoise and the race it give an 'are? + This was curiouser than that! At first I wasn't able + Quite to size the memory up that bristled thro' my hair: + Suddenly, I'd got it, with a nasty shivery feeling, + While she walked and walked and yet was not a bit more near,-- + Sir, it was the tread-mill earth beneath her feet a-wheeling + Faster than her feet could trot to heaven or anywhere, + Earth's revolvin' stair + Wheeling, while my wayside clump was kind of anchored there. + + + IV + + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, and just a little nearer, + Inch and 'arf an inch she went, but never gained a yard: + Quiet as a fox I lay; I didn't wish to scare 'er, + Watching thro' the ferns, and thinking "What a rum old card!" + Both her wrinkled tortoise eyes with yellow resin oozing, + Both her poor old bony hands were red and seamed and scarred! + Lord, I felt as if myself was in a public boozing, + While my own old woman went about and scrubbed and charred! + Lord, it seemed so hard! + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, she never gained a yard. + + + V + + Yus, and there in front of her--I hadn't seen it rightly-- + Lurked that little finger-post to point another road, + Just a tiny path of poppies twisting infi-nite-ly + Through the whispering seas of wheat, a scarlet thread that showed + White with ox-eye daisies here and there and chalky cobbles, + Blue with waving corn-flowers: far and far away it glowed, + Winding into heaven, I thinks; but, Lord, the way she hobbles, + Lord, she'll never reach it, for she bears too great a load; + Yus, and then I knowed, + If she did, she couldn't, for the board was marked _No Road_. + + + VI + + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, I couldn't wait no longer! + Up I gets and bows polite and pleasant as a toff-- + "Arternoon," I says, "I'm glad your boots are going stronger; + Only thing I'm dreading is your feet 'ull both come off." + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, she didn't stop to answer, + "Arternoon," she says, and sort o' chokes a little cough, + "I must get to Piddinghoe to-morrow if I can, sir!" + "Demme, my good woman! Haw! Don't think I mean to loff," + Says I, like a toff, + "Where d'you mean to sleep to-night? God made this grass for go'ff." + + + VII + + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, and smilingly she eyed me + (Dreadful the low cunning of these creechars, don't you think?) + "That's all right! The weather's bright. Them bushes there 'ull hide me. + Don't the gorse smell nice?" I felt my derned old eyelids blink! + "Supper? I've a crust of bread, a big one, and a bottle," + (Just as I expected! Ah, these creechars always drink!) + "Sugar and water and half a pinch of tea to rinse my throttle, + Then I'll curl up cosy!"--"If you're cotched it means the clink!" + --"Yus, but don't you think + If a star should see me, God 'ull tell that star to wink?" + + + VIII + + "Now, look here," I says, "I don't know what your blooming age is!" + "Three-score years and five," she says, "that's five more years to go + _Tick, tack, tick tack_, before I gets my wages!" + "Wages all be damned," I says, "there's one thing that I know-- + Gals that stay out late o' nights are sure to meet wi' sorrow. + Speaking as a toff," I says, "it isn't _comme il faut_! + Tell me why you want to get to Piddinghoe to-morrow."-- + "That was where my son worked, twenty years ago!"-- + "Twenty years ago? + Never wrote? May still be there? Remember you?... Just so!" + + + IX + + Yus, it was a drama; but she weren't my long-lost parent! + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, she trotted all the while, + Never getting forrarder, and not the least aware on't, + Though I stood beside her with a sort of silly smile + Stock-still! _Tick, tack_! This blooming world's a bubble: + There I stood and stared at it, mile on flowery mile, + Chasing o' the sunset,--"Gals are sure to meet wi' trouble + Staying out o' nights," I says, once more, and tries to smile, + "Come, that ain't your style, + Here's a shilling, mother, for to-day I've made my pile!" + + + X + + Yus, a dozen coppers, all my capital, it fled, sir, + Representin' twelve bokays that cost me nothink each, + Twelve bokays o' corn-flowers blue that grew beside my bed, sir, + That same day, at sunrise, when the sky was like a peach: + Easy as a poet's dreams they blossomed round my head, sir, + All I had to do was just to lift my hand and reach: + So, upon the roaring waves I cast my blooming bread, sir, + Bread I'd earned with nose-gays on the bare-foot Brighton beach, + Nose-gays _and_ a speech, + All about the bright blue eyes they matched on Brighton beach. + + + XI + + Still, you've only got to hear the bankers on the budget, + Then you'll know the giving game is hardly "high finance"; + Which no more it wasn't for that poor old dame to trudge it, + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, on such a devil's dance: + Crumbs, it took me quite aback to see her stop so humble, + Casting up into my face a sort of shiny glance, + _Bless you, bless you_, that was what I thought I heard her mumble; + Lord, a prayer for poor old Bill, a rummy sort of chance! + Crumbs, that shiny glance + Kinder made me king of all the sky from here to France. + + + XII + + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, but now she toddled faster: + Soon she'd reach the little twisted by-way through the wheat. + "Look 'ee here," I says, "young woman, don't you court disaster! + Peepin' through yon poppies there's a cottage trim and neat + White as chalk and sweet as turf: wot price a bed for sorrow, + Sprigs of lavender between the pillow and the sheet?" + "No," she says, "I've got to get to Piddinghoe to-morrow! + P'raps they'd tell the work'us! And I've lashings here to eat: + Don't the gorse smell sweet?"... + Well, I turned and left her plodding on beside the wheat. + + + XIII + + Every cent I'd given her like a hero in a story; + Yet, alone with leagues of wheat I seemed to grow aware + Solomon himself, arrayed in all his golden glory, + Couldn't vie with Me, the corn-flower king, the millionaire! + How to cash those bright blue cheques that night? My trouser pockets + Jingled sudden! Six more pennies, crept from James knew where! + Crumbs! I hurried back with eyes just bulging from their sockets, + Pushed 'em in the old dame's fist and listened for the prayer, + Shamming not to care, + Bill--the blarsted chicken-thief, the corn-flower millionaire. + + + XIV + + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, and faster yet she clattered! + Ay, she'd almost gained a yard! I left her once again. + Feeling very warm inside and sort of 'ighly flattered, + On I plodded, all alone, with hay-stacks in my brain. + Suddenly, with _chink--chink--chink_, the old sweet jingle + Startled me! 'TWAS THRUPPENCE MORE! Three coppers round and plain! + Lord, temptation struck me and I felt my gullet tingle. + Then--I hurried back, beside them seas of golden grain: + No, I can't explain; + There I thrust 'em in her fist, and left her once again. + + + XV + + Tinkle-chink! THREE HA'PENCE! If the vulgar fractions followed, + Big fleas have little fleas! It flashed upon me there,-- + Like the snakes of Pharaoh which the snakes of Moses swallowed + All the world was playing at the tortoise and the hare: + Half the smallest atom is--my soul was getting tipsy-- + Heaven is one big circle and the centre's everywhere, + Yus, and that old woman was an angel and a gipsy, + Yus, and Bill, the chicken-thief, the corn-flower millionaire, + Shamming not to care, + What was he? A seraph on the misty rainbow-stair! + + + XVI + + Don't you make no doubt of it! The deeper that you look, sir, + All your ancient poets tell you just the same as me,-- + What about old Ovid and his most indecent book, sir, + Morphosizing females into flower and star and tree? + What about old Proteus and his 'ighly curious 'abits, + Mixing of his old grey beard into the old grey sea? + What about old Darwin and the hat that brought forth rabbits, + Mud and slime that growed into the pomp of Ninevey? + What if there should be + One great Power beneath it all, one God in you and me? + + + XVII + + Anyway, it seemed to me I'd struck the world's pump-handle! + "Back with that three ha'pence, Bill," I mutters, "or you're lost." + Back I hurries thro' the dusk where, shining like a candle, + Pale before the sunset stood that fairy finger-post. + _Sir, she wasn't there!_ I'd struck the place where all roads crost, + All the roads in all the world. + She couldn't yet have trotted + Even to the ... Hist! a stealthy step behind? A ghost? + _Swish_! A flying noose had caught me round the neck! Garotted! + Back I staggered, clutching at the moonbeams, yus, almost + Throttled! Sir, I boast + Bill is tough, but ... when it comes to throttling by a ghost! + + * * * * + + + XVIII + + Winged like a butterfly, tall and slender + Out It steps with the rope on its arm. + "Crumbs," I says, "all right! I surrender! + When have I crossed you or done you harm? + _Ef_ you're a sperrit," I says, "O, crikey, + _Ef_ you're a sperrit, get hence, vamoose!" + Sweet as music, she spoke--"I'm Psyche!"-- + Choking me still with her silken noose. + + + XIX + + Straight at the word from the ferns and blossoms + Fretting the moon-rise over the downs, + Little blue wings and little white bosoms, + Little white faces with golden crowns + Peeped, and the colours came twinkling round me, + Laughed, and the turf grew purple with thyme, + Danced, and the sweet crushed scents nigh drowned me, + Sang, and the hare-bells rang in chime. + + + XX + + All around me, gliding and gleaming, + Fair as a fallen sunset-sky, + Butterfly wings came drifting, dreaming, + Clouds of the little folk clustered nigh, + Little white hands like pearls uplifted + Cords of silk in shimmering skeins, + Cast them about me and dreamily drifted + Winding me round with their soft warm chains. + + + XXI + + Round and round me they dizzily floated, + Binding me faster with every turn: + Crumbs, my pals would have grinned and gloated + Watching me over that fringe of fern, + Bill, with his battered old hat outstanding + Black as a foam-swept rock to the moon, + Bill, like a rainbow of silks expanding + Into a beautiful big cocoon,-- + + + XXII + + Big as a cloud, though his hat still crowned him, + Yus, and his old boots bulged below: + Seas of colour went shimmering round him, + Dancing, glimmering, glancing a-glow! + Bill knew well what them elves were at, sir,-- + Ain't you an en-to-mol-o-gist? + Well, despite of his old black hat, sir, + Bill was _becoming--a chrysalist_. + + * * * * + + + XXIII + + Muffled, smothered in a sea of emerald and opal, + Down a dazzling gulf of dreams I sank and sank away, + Wound about with twenty thousand yards of silken rope, all + Shimmering into crimson, glimmering into grey, + Drowsing, waking, living, dying, just as you regards it, + Buried in a sunset-cloud, or cloud of breaking day, + 'Cording as from East or West yourself might look towards it, + Losing, gaining, lost in darkness, ragged, grimy, gay, + 'And-cuffed, not to say + Gagged, but both my shoulders budding, sprouting white as May. + + + XXIV + + Sprouting like the milky buds o' hawthorn in the night-time, + Pouting like the snowy buds o' roses in July, + Spreading in my chrysalist and waiting for the right time, + When--I thought--they'd bust to wings and Bill would rise and fly, + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, as if it came in answer, + Sweeping o'er my head again the tide o' dreams went by,-- + _I must get to Piddinghoe to-morrow if I can, sir,_ + _Tick, tack_, a crackle in my chrysalist, a cry! + Then the warm blue sky + Bust the shell, and out crept Bill--a blooming butterfly! + + * * * * + + + XXV + + Blue as a corn-flower, blazed the zenith: the deepening East like a + scarlet poppy + Burned while, dazzled with golden bloom, white clouds like daisies, + green seas like wheat, + Gripping the sign-post, first, I climbs, to sun my wings, which were + wrinkled and floppy, + Spreading 'em white o'er the words _No Road_, and hanging fast by + my six black feet. + + + XXVI + + Still on my head was the battered old beaver, but through it my clubbed + antennae slanted, + ("Feelers" yourself would probably call 'em) my battered old boots were + hardly seen + Under the golden fluff of the tail! It was Bill, sir, Bill, though + highly enchanted, + Spreading his beautiful snow-white pinions, tipped with orange, and + veined with green. + + + XXVII + + Yus, old Bill was an Orange-tip, a spirit in glory, a blooming Psyche! + New, it was new from East to West this rummy old world that I dreamed + I knew, + How can I tell you the things that I saw with my--what shall _I_ call 'em? + --"feelers?"--O, crikey, + "FEELERS?" You know how the man born blind described such colours as + scarlet or blue. + + + XXVIII + + "Scarlet," he says, "is the sound of a trumpet, blue is a flute," + for he hasn't a notion! + No, nor nobody living on earth can tell it him plain, if he + hasn't the sight! + That's how it stands with ragged old Bill, a-drift and a-dream on + a measureless ocean, + Gifted wi' fifteen new-born senses, and seeing you blind to their + new strange light. + + + XXIX + + How can I tell you? Sir, you must wait, till you die like Bill, ere + you understand it! + Only--I saw--the same as a bee that strikes to his hive ten leagues away-- + Straight as a die, while I winked and blinked on that sun-warmed wood and my + wings expanded + (Whistler drawings that men call wings)--I saw--and I flew--that's all + I can say. + + + XXX + + Flew over leagues of whispering wonder, fairy forests and flowery palaces, + Love-lorn casements, delicate kingdoms, beautiful flaming thoughts + of--Him; + Feasts of a million blue-mailed angels lifting their honey-and-wine-brimmed + chalices, + Throned upon clouds--(which you'd call white clover) down to the + world's most rosiest rim. + + + XXXI + + New and new and new and new, the white o' the cliffs and the wind + in the heather, + Yus, and the sea-gulls flying like flakes of the sea that flashed + to the new-born day, + Song, song, song, song, quivering up in the wild blue weather, + Thousands of seraphim singing together, and me just flying + and--_knowing my way_. + + + XXXII + + Straight as a die to Piddinghoe's dolphin, and there I drops in a + cottage garden, + There, on a sun-warmed window-sill, I winks and peeps, for the + window was wide! + Crumbs, he was there and fast in her arms and a-begging his poor + old mother's pardon, + There with his lips on her old grey hair, and her head on his breast + while she laughed and cried,-- + + + XXXIII + + "_One and nine-pence that old tramp gave me, or else I should never have + reached you, sonny, + Never, and you just leaving the village to-day and meaning to + cross the sea, + One and nine-pence he gave me, I paid for the farmer's lift with + half o' the money! + Here's the ten-pence halfpenny, sonny, 'twill pay for our little + 'ouse-warming tea._" + + * * * * + + + XXXIV + + _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, out into the garden + Toddles that old Fairy with his arm about her--so, + Cuddling of her still, and still a-begging of her pardon, + While she says "I wish the corn-flower king could only know! + Bless him, bless him, once again," she says and softly gazes + Up to heaven, a-smiling in her mutch as white as snow, + All among her gilly-flowers and stocks and double daisies, + Mignonette, forget-me-not,... _Twenty years ago_, + All a rosy glow, + _This is how it was_, she said, _Twenty years ago_. + + * * * * + + + XXXV + + Once again I seemed to wake, the vision it had fled, sir, + There I lay upon the downs: the sky was like a peach; + Yus, with twelve bokays of corn-flowers blue beside my bed, sir, + More than usual 'andsome, so they'd bring me two-pence each. + Easy as a poet's dreams they blossomed round my head, sir, + All I had to do was just to lift my hand and reach, + Tie 'em with a bit of string, and earn my blooming bread, sir, + Selling little nose-gays on the bare-foot Brighton beach, + Nose-gays _and_ a speech, + All about the bright blue eyes they matched on Brighton beach. + + + XXXVI + + Overhead the singing lark and underfoot the heather, + Far and blue in front of us the unplumbed sky, + Me and stick and bundle, O, we jogs along together, + (Changeable the weather? Well, it ain't all pie!) + Weather's like a woman, sir, and if she wants to quarrel, + If her eyes begin to flash and hair begins to fly, + You've to wait a little, then--the story has a moral-- + Ain't the sunny kisses all the sweeter by and bye?-- + (Crumbs, it's 'ot and dry! + Thank you, sir! Thank you, sir!) the sweeter by and bye. + + + XXXVII + + So the world's my sweetheart and I sort of want to squeeze 'er. + Toffs 'ull get no chance of heaven, take 'em in the lump! + Never laid in hay-fields when the dawn came over-sea, sir? + Guess it's true that story 'bout the needle and the hump! + Never crept into a stack because the wind was blowing, + Hollered out a nest and closed the door-way with a clump, + Laid and heard the whisper of the silence, growing, growing, + Watched a thousand wheeling stars and wondered if they'd bump? + What I say would stump + Joshua! But I've done it, sir. Don't think I'm off my chump. + + + XXXVIII + + If you try and lay, sir, with your face turned up to wonder, + Up to twenty million miles of stars that roll like one, + Right across to God knows where, and you just huddled under + Like a little beetle with no business of his own, + There you'd hear--like growing grass--a funny silent sound, sir, + Mixed with curious crackles in a steady undertone, + Just the sound of twenty billion stars a-going round, sir, + Yus, and you beneath 'em like a wise old ant, alone, + Ant upon a stone, + Waving of his antlers, on the Sussex downs, alone. + + + + +ON THE DOWNS + + + Wide-eyed our childhood roamed the world + Knee-deep in blowing grass, + And watched the white clouds crisply curled + Above the mountain-pass, + And lay among the purple thyme + And from its fragrance caught + Strange hints from some elusive clime + Beyond the bounds of thought. + + Glimpses of fair forgotten things + Beyond the gates of birth, + Half-caught from far off ancient springs + In heaven, and half of earth; + And coloured like a fairy-tale + And whispering evermore + Half memories from the half-fenced pale + Of lives we lived before. + + Here, weary of the roaring town + A-while may I return + And while the west wind roams the down + Lie still, lie still and learn: + Here are green leagues of murmuring wheat + With blue skies overhead, + And, all around, the winds are sweet + With May-bloom, white and red. + + And, to and fro, the bee still hums + His low unchanging song, + And the same rustling whisper comes + As through the ages long: + Through all the thousands of the years + That same sweet rumour flows, + With dreaming skies and gleaming tears + And kisses and the rose. + + Once more the children throng the lanes, + Themselves like flowers, to weave + Their garlands and their daisy-chains + And listen and believe + The tale of _Once-upon-a-time_, + And hear the _Long-ago_ + And _Happy-ever-after_ chime + Because it must be so. + + And by those thousands of the years + It is, though scarce we see, + Dazed with the rainbows of our tears, + Their steadfast unity, + It is, or life's disjointed schemes, + These stones, these ferns unfurled + With such deep care--a madman's dreams + Were wisdom to this world! + + Dust into dust! Lie still and learn, + Hear how the ages sing + The solemn joy of our return + To that which makes the Spring: + Even as we came, with childhood's trust, + Wide-eyed we go, to Thee + Who holdest In Thy sacred dust + The heavenly Springs to be. + + + + +A MAY-DAY CAROL + + + What is the loveliest light that Spring + Rosily parting her robe of grey + Girdled with leaflet green, can fling + Over the fields where her white feet stray? + What is the merriest promise of May + Flung o'er the dew-drenched April flowers? + Tell me, you on the pear-tree spray-- + _Carol of birds between the showers_. + + What can life at its lightest bring + Better than this on its brightest day? + How should we fetter the white-throat's wing + Wild with joy of its woodland way? + Sweet, should love for an hour delay, + Swift, while the primrose-time is ours! + What is the lover's royallest lay?-- + _Carol of birds between the showers_. + + What is the murmur of bees a-swing? + What is the laugh of a child at play? + What is the song that the angels sing? + (Where were the tune could the sweet notes stay + Longer than this, to kiss and betray?) + Nay, on the blue sky's topmost towers, + What is the song of the seraphim? Say-- + _Carol of birds between the showers._ + + Thread the stars on a silver string, + (So did they sing in Bethlehem's bowers!) + Mirth for a little one, grief for a king, + _Carol of birds between the showers_. + + + + +THE CALL OF THE SPRING + + + Come, choose your road and away, my lad, + Come, choose your road and away! + We'll out of the town by the road's bright crown + As it dips to the dazzling day. + It's a long white road for the weary; + But it rolls through the heart of the May. + + Though many a road would merrily ring + To the tramp of your marching feet, + All roads are one from the day that's done, + And the miles are swift and sweet, + And the graves of your friends are the mile-stones + To the land where all roads meet. + + But the call that you hear this day, my lad, + Is the Spring's old bugle of mirth + When the year's green fire in a soul's desire + Is brought like a rose to the birth; + And knights ride out to adventure + As the flowers break out of the earth. + + Over the sweet-smelling mountain-passes + The clouds lie brightly curled; + The wild-flowers cling to the crags and swing + With cataract-dews impearled; + And the way, the way that you choose this day + Is the way to the end of the world. + + It rolls from the golden long ago + To the land that we ne'er shall find; + And it's uphill here, but it's downhill there, + For the road is wise and kind, + And all rough places and cheerless faces + Will soon be left behind. + + Come, choose your road and away, away, + We'll follow the gipsy sun, + For it's soon, too soon to the end of the day, + And the day is well begun; + And the road rolls on through the heart of the May, + And there's never a May but one. + + There's a fir-wood here, and a dog-rose there, + And a note of the mating dove; + And a glimpse, maybe, of the warm blue sea, + And the warm white clouds above; + And warm to your breast in a tenderer nest + Your sweetheart's little glove. + + There's not much better to win, my lad, + There's not much better to win! + You have lived, you have loved, you have fought, you have proved + The worth of folly and sin; + So now come out of the City's rout, + Come out of the dust and the din. + + Come out,--a bundle and stick is all + You'll need to carry along, + If your heart can carry a kindly word, + And your lips can carry a song; + You may leave the lave to the keep o' the grave, + If your lips can carry a song! + + _Come, choose your road and away, my lad, + Come, choose your road and away! + We'll out of the town by the road's bright crown, + As it dips to the sapphire day! + All roads may meet at the world's end, + But, hey for the heart of the May! + Come, choose your road and away, dear lad, + Come choose your road and away._ + + + + +A DEVONSHIRE DITTY + + + I + + In a leafy lane of Devon + There's a cottage that I know, + Then a garden--then, a grey old crumbling wall, + And the wall's the wall of heaven + (Where I hardly care to go) + And there isn't any fiery sword at all. + + + II + + But I never went to heaven. + There was right good reason why, + For they sent a shining angel to me there, + An angel, down in Devon, + (Clad in muslin by the bye) + With the halo of the sunshine on her hair. + + + III + + Ah, whate'er the darkness covers, + And whate'er we sing or say, + Would you climb the wall of heaven an hour too soon + If you knew a place for lovers + Where the apple-blossoms stray + Out of heaven to sway and whisper to the moon? + + + IV + + When we die--we'll think of Devon + Where the garden's all aglow + With the flowers that stray across the grey old wall: + Then we'll climb it, out of heaven, + From the other side, you know, + Straggle over it from heaven + With the apple-blossom snow, + Tumble back again to Devon + Laugh and love as long ago, + Where there isn't any fiery sword at all. + + + + +BACCHUS AND THE PIRATES + + + Half a hundred terrible pig-tails, pirates famous in song and story, + Hoisting the old black flag once more, in a palmy harbour of Caribbee, + "Farewell" we waved to our brown-skinned lasses, and chorussing out to + the billows of glory, + Billows a-glitter with rum and gold, we followed the sunset over the sea. + + _While earth goes round, let rum go round, + Our capstan song we sung: + Half a hundred broad-sheet pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Sea-roads plated with pieces of eight that rolled to a heaven by rum + made mellow, + Heaved and coloured our barque's black nose where the Lascar sang + to a twinkling star, + And the tangled bow-sprit plunged and dipped its point in the west's + wild red and yellow, + Till the curved white moon crept out astern like a naked knife + from a blue cymar. + + _While earth goes round, let rum go round, + Our capstan song we sung: + Half a hundred terrible pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Half a hundred tarry pig-tails, Teach, the chewer of glass, had taught us, + Taught us to balance the plank ye walk, your little plank-bridge + to Kingdom Come: + Half a score had sailed with Flint, and a dozen or so the devil + had brought us + Back from the pit where Blackbeard lay, in Beelzebub's bosom, + a-screech for rum. + + _While earth goes round, let rum go round, + Our capstan song we sung: + Half a hundred piping pirates + When the world was young!_ + + There was Captain Hook (of whom ye have heard--so called from his terrible + cold steel twister, + His own right hand having gone to a shark with a taste for skippers + on pirate-trips), + There was Silver himself, with his cruel crutch, and the blind man Pew, + with a phiz like a blister, + Gouged and white and dreadfully dried in the reek of a thousand + burning ships. + + _While earth goes round, let rum go round, + Our capstan song we sung: + Half a hundred cut-throat pirates + When the world was young!_ + + With our silver buckles and French cocked hats and our skirted coats + (they were growing greener, + But green and gold look well when spliced! We'd trimmed 'em up + wi' some fine fresh lace) + Bravely over the seas we danced to the horn-pipe tune of a concertina, + Cutlasses jetting beneath our skirts and cambric handkerchiefs + all in place. + + _While earth goes round, let rum go round, + Our capstan song we sung: + Half a hundred elegant pirates + When the world was young!_ + + And our black prow grated, one golden noon, on the happiest isle of + the Happy Islands, + An isle of Paradise, fair as a gem, on the sparkling breast of the + wine-dark deep, + An isle of blossom and yellow sand, and enchanted vines on the purple + highlands, + Wi' grapes like melons, nay clustering suns, a-sprawl over cliffs in + their noonday sleep. + + _While earth goes round let rum go round, + Our capstan song we sung: + Half a hundred dream-struck pirates + When the world was young!_ + + And lo! on the soft warm edge of the sand, where the sea like wine + in a golden noggin + Creamed, and the rainbow-bubbles clung to his flame-red hair, + a white youth lay, + Sleeping; and now, as his drowsy grip relaxed, the cup that he + squeezed his grog in + Slipped from his hand and its purple dregs were mixed with the flames + and flakes of spray. + + _While earth goes round, let rum go round, + Our capstan song we sung: + Half a hundred diffident pirates + When the world was young!_ + + And we suddenly saw (had we seen them before? They were coloured like + sand or the pelt on his shoulders) + His head was pillowed on two great leopards, whose breathing rose + and sank with his own; + Now a pirate is bold, but the vision was rum and would _call_ for rum + in the best of beholders, + And it seemed we had seen Him before, in a dream, with that flame-red + hair and that vine-leaf crown. + + _And the earth went round, and the rum went round, + And softlier now we sung: + Half a hundred awe-struck pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Now Timothy Hook (of whom ye have heard, with his talon of steel) + our doughty skipper, + A man that, in youth being brought up pious, had many a book on + his cabin-shelf, + Suddenly caught at a comrade's hand with the tearing claws of his + cold steel flipper + And cried, "Great Thunder and Brimstone, boys, I've hit it at last! + _'Tis Bacchus himself._" + + _And the earth went round, and the rum went round, + And never a word we sung: + Half a hundred tottering pirates + When the world was young!_ + + He flung his French cocked hat i' the foam (though its lace was the best + of his wearing apparel): + We stared at him--Bacchus! The sea reeled round like a wine-vat + splashing with purple dreams, + And the sunset-skies were dashed with blood of the grape as the sun + like a new-staved barrel + Flooded the tumbling West with wine and spattered the clouds with + crimson gleams. + + _And the earth went round, and our heads went round, + And never a word we sung: + Half a hundred staggering pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Down to the ship for a fishing-net our crafty Hook sent Silver leaping; + Back he came on his pounding crutch, for all the world like a kangaroo; + And we caught the net and up to the Sleeper on hands and knees we all + went creeping, + Flung it across him and staked it down! 'Twas the best of our dreams + and the dream was true. + + _And the earth went round, and the rum went round, + And loudly now we sung: + Half a hundred jubilant pirates + When the world was young!_ + + We had caught our god, and we got him aboard ere he woke (he was more + than a little heavy); + Glittering, beautiful, flushed he lay in the lurching bows of + the old black barque, + As the sunset died and the white moon dawned, and we saw on the island + a star-bright bevy + Of naked Bacchanals stealing to watch through the whispering vines in + the purple dark! + + _While earth goes round, let rum go round, + Our capstan song we sung: + Half a hundred innocent pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Beautiful under the sailing moon, in the tangled net, with the leopards + beside him, + Snared like a wild young red-lipped merman, wilful, petulant, + flushed he lay; + While Silver and Hook in their big sea-boots and their boat-cloaks + guarded and gleefully eyed him, + Thinking what Bacchus might do for a seaman, like standing him drinks, + as a man might say. + + _While earth goes round, let rum go round, + We sailed away and sung: + Half a hundred fanciful pirates + When the world was young!_ + + All the grog that ever was heard of, gods, was it stowed in our + sure possession? + O, the pictures that broached the skies and poured their colours + across our dreams! + O, the thoughts that tapped the sunset, and rolled like a great + torchlight procession + Down our throats in a glory of glories, a roaring splendour + of golden streams! + + _And the earth went round, and the stars went round, + As we hauled the sheets and sung: + Half a hundred infinite pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Beautiful, white, at the break of day, He woke and, the net in a + smoke dissolving, + He rose like a flame, with his yellow-eyed pards and his + flame-red hair like a windy dawn, + And the crew kept back, respectful like, till the leopards advanced + with their eyes revolving, + Then up the rigging went Silver and Hook, and the rest of us followed + with case-knives drawn. + + _While earth goes round, let rum go round, + Our cross-tree song we sung: + Half a hundred terrified pirates + When the world was young!_ + + And "Take me home to my happy island!" he says. "Not I," sings Hook, + "by thunder; + We'll take you home to a happier isle, our palmy harbour of Caribbee!" + "You won't!" says Bacchus, and quick as a dream the planks of the deck just + heaved asunder, + And a mighty Vine came straggling up that grew from the depths of + the wine-dark sea. + + _And the sea went round, and the skies went round, + As our cross-tree song we sung: + Half a hundred horrified pirates + When the world was young!_ + + We were anchored fast as an oak on land, and the branches clutched and + the tendrils quickened, + And bound us writhing like snakes to the spars! Ay, we hacked with our + knives at the boughs in vain, + And Bacchus laughed loud on the decks below, as ever the tough sprays + tightened and thickened, + And the blazing hours went by, and we gaped with thirst and our ribs + were racked with pain + + _And the skies went round, and the sea swam round, + And we knew not what we sung: + Half a hundred lunatic pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Bunch upon bunch of sunlike grapes, as we writhed and struggled and raved + and strangled, + Bunch upon bunch of gold and purple daubed its bloom on our baked + black lips. + Clustering grapes, O, bigger than pumpkins, just out of reach they + bobbed and dangled + Over the vine-entangled sails of that most dumbfounded of pirate ships! + + _And the sun went round, and the moon came round, + And mocked us where we hung: + Half a hundred maniac pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Over the waters the white moon winked its bruised old eye at our + bowery prison, + When suddenly we were aware of a light such as never a moon + or a ship's lamp throws, + And a shallop of pearl, like a Nautilus shell, came shimmering up + as by magic arisen, + With sails: of silk and a glory around it that turned the sea + to a rippling rose. + + _And our heads went round, and the stars went round, + At the song that cruiser sung: + Half a hundred goggle-eyed pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Half a hundred rose-white Bacchanals hauled the ropes of that rosy cruiser! + Over the seas they came and laid their little white hands on the old + black barque; + And Bacchus he ups and he steps aboard: "Hi, stop!" cries Hook, + "you frantic old boozer! + Belay, below there, don't you go and leave poor pirates to + die in the dark!" + + _And the moon went round, and the stars went round, + As they all pushed off and sung: + Half a hundred ribbonless Bacchanals + When the world was young!_ + + Over the seas they went and Bacchus he stands, with his yellow-eyed + leopards beside him, + High on the poop of rose and pearl, and kisses his hand to us, + pleasant as pie! + While the Bacchanals danced to their tambourines, and the vine-leaves + flew, and Hook just eyed him + Once, as a man that was brought up pious, and scornfully hollers, + "_Well, you ain't shy!_" + + _For all around him, vine-leaf crowned, + The wild white Bacchanals flung! + Nor it wasn't a sight for respectable pirates + When the world was young!_ + + All around that rainbow-Nautilus rippled the bloom of a thousand roses, + Nay, but the sparkle of fairy sea-nymphs breasting a fairy-like + sea of wine, + Swimming around it in murmuring thousands, with white arms tossing; + till--all that _we_ knows is + The light went out, and the night was dark, and the grapes had + burst and their juice was--brine! + + _And the vines that bound our bodies round + Were plain wet ropes that clung, + Squeezing the light out o' fifty pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Over the seas in the pomp of dawn a king's ship came with her proud + flag flying. + Cloud upon cloud we watched her tower with her belts and her crowded + zones of sail; + And an A.B. perched in a white crow's nest, with a brass-rimmed + spy-glass quietly spying, + As we swallowed the lumps in our choking throats and uttered + our last faint feeble hail! + + _And our heads went round as the ship went round, + And we thought how coves had swung: + All for playing at broad-sheet pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Half a hundred trembling corsairs, all cut loose, but a trifle giddy, + We lands on their trim white decks at last and the bo'sun he whistles us + good hot grog, + And we tries to confess, but there wasn't a soul from the Admiral's + self to the gold-laced middy + But says, "They're delirious still, poor chaps," and the Cap'n he + enters the fact in his log, + + _That his boat's crew found us nearly drowned + In a barrel without a bung-- + Half a hundred suffering sea-cooks + When the world was young!_ + + So we sailed by Execution Dock, where the swinging pirates haughty + and scornful + Rattled their chains, and on Margate beach we came like a school-treat + safe to land; + And one of us took to religion at once; and the rest of the crew, tho' + their hearts were mournful, + Capered about as Christy Minstrels, while Hook conducted the big + brass band. + + _And the sun went round, and the moon went round, + And, O, 'twas a thought that stung! + There was none to believe we were broad-sheet pirates + When the world was young!_ + + Ah, yet (if ye stand me a noggin of rum) shall the old Blue Dolphin echo + the story! + We'll hoist the white cross-bones again in our palmy harbour of Caribbee! + We'll wave farewell to our brown-skinned lasses and, chorussing out to the + billows of glory, + Billows a-glitter with rum and gold, we'll follow the sunset over the sea! + + _While earth goes round, let rum go round! + O, sing it as we sung! + Half a hundred terrible pirates + When the world was young!_ + + + + +THE NEWSPAPER BOY + + + I + + Elf of the City, a lean little hollow-eyed boy + Ragged and tattered, but lithe as a slip of the Spring, + Under the lamp-light he runs with a reckless joy + Shouting a murderer's doom or the death of a King. + + Out of the darkness he leaps like a wild strange hint, + Herald of tragedy, comedy, crime and despair, + Waving a poster that hurls you, in fierce black print + One word _Mystery_, under the lamp's white glare. + + + II + + Elf of the night of the City he darts with his crew + Out of a vaporous furnace of colour that wreathes + Magical letters a-flicker from crimson to blue + High overhead. All round him the mad world seethes. + Hansoms, like cantering beetles, with diamond eyes + Run through the moons of it; busses in yellow and red + Hoot; and St. Paul's is a bubble afloat in the skies, + Watching the pale moths flit and the dark death's head. + + + III + + Painted and powdered they shimmer and rustle and stream + Westward, the night moths, masks of the Magdalen! See, + Puck of the revels, he leaps through the sinister dream + Waving his elfin evangel of _Mystery_, + Puck of the bubble or dome of their scoffing or trust, + Puck of the fairy-like tower with the clock in its face, + Puck of an Empire that whirls on a pellet of dust + Bearing his elfin device thro' the splendours of space. + + + IV + + _Mystery_--is it the scribble of doom on the dark, + Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin, again? + _Mystery_--is it a scrap of remembrance, a spark + Burning still in the fog of a blind world's brain? + Elf of the gossamer tangles of shadow and light, + Wild electrical webs and the battle that rolls + League upon perishing league thro' the ravenous night, + Breaker on perishing breaker of human souls. + + + V + + Soaked in the colours, a flake of the flying spray + Flung over wreckage and yeast of the murderous town, + Onward he flaunts it, innocent, vicious and gay, + Prophet of prayers that are stifled and loves that drown, + Urchin and sprat of the City that roars like a sea + Surging around him in hunger and splendour and shame, + Cruelty, luxury, madness, he leaps in his glee + Out of the mazes of mist and the vistas of flame. + + + VI + + Ragged and tattered he scurries away in the gloom: + Over the thundering traffic a moment his cry + Mystery! Mystery!--reckless of death and doom + Rings; and the great wheels roll and the world goes by. + Lost, is it lost, that hollow-eyed flash of the light?-- + Poor little face flying by with the word that saves, + Pale little mouth of the mask of the measureless night, + Shrilling the heart of it, lost like the foam on its waves! + + + + +THE TWO WORLDS + + + This outer world is but the pictured scroll + Of worlds within the soul, + A coloured chart, a blazoned missal-book + Whereon who rightly look + May spell the splendours with their mortal eyes + And steer to Paradise. + + O, well for him that knows and early knows + In his own soul the rose + Secretly burgeons, of this earthly flower + The heavenly paramour: + And all these fairy dreams of green-wood fern, + These waves that break and yearn, + Shadows and hieroglyphs, hills, clouds and seas, + Faces and flowers and trees, + Terrestrial picture-parables, relate + Each to its heavenly mate. + + O, well for him that finds in sky and sea + This two-fold mystery, + And loses not (as painfully he spells + The fine-spun syllables) + The cadences, the burning inner gleam, + The poet's heavenly dream. + + Well for the poet if this earthly chart + Be printed in his heart, + When to his world of spirit woods and seas + With eager face he flees + And treads the untrodden fields of unknown flowers + And threads the angelic bowers, + And hears that unheard nightingale whose moan + Trembles within his own, + And lovers murmuring in the leafy lanes + Of his own joys and pains. + + For though he voyages further than the flight + Of earthly day and night, + Traversing to the sky's remotest ends + A world that he transcends, + Safe, he shall hear the hidden breakers roar + Against the mystic shore; + Shall roam the yellow sands where sirens bare + Their breasts and wind their hair; + Shall with their perfumed tresses blind his eyes, + And still possess the skies. + + He, where the deep unearthly jungles are, + Beneath his Eastern star + Shall pass the tawny lion in his den + And cross the quaking fen. + He learnt his path (and treads it undefiled) + When, as a little child, + He bent his head with long and loving looks + O'er earthly picture-books. + His earthly love nestles against his side, + His young celestial guide. + + + + +GORSE + + + Between my face and the warm blue sky + The crisp white clouds go sailing by, + And the only sound is the sound of your breathing, + The song of a bird and the sea's long sigh. + + Here, on the downs, as a tale re-told + The sprays of the gorse are a-blaze with gold, + As of old, on the sea-washed hills of my boyhood, + Breathing the same sweet scent as of old. + + Under a ragged golden spray + The great sea sparkles far away, + Beautiful, bright, as my heart remembers + Many a dazzle of waves in May. + + Long ago as I watched them shine + Under the boughs of fir and pine, + Here I watch them to-day and wonder, + Here, with my love's hand warm in mine. + + The soft wings pass that we used to chase, + Dreams that I dreamed had left not a trace, + The same, the same, with the bars of crimson + The green-veined white, with its floating grace, + + The same to the least bright fleck on their wings! + And I close my eyes, and a lost bird sings, + And a far sea sighs, and the old sweet fragrance + Wraps me round with the dear dead springs, + + Wraps me round with the springs to be + When lovers that think not of you or me + Laugh, but our eyes will be closed in darkness, + Closed to the sky and the gorse and the sea, + + And the same great glory of ragged gold + Once more, once more, as a tale re-told + Shall whisper their hearts with the same sweet fragrance + And their warm hands cling, as of old, as of old. + + Dead and un-born, the same blue skies + Cover us! Love, as I read your eyes, + Do I not know whose love enfolds us, + As we fold the past in our memories, + + Past, present, future, the old and the new? + From the depths of the grave a cry breaks through + And trembles, a sky-lark blind in the azure, + The depths of the all-enfolding blue. + + O, resurrection of folded years + Deep in our hearts, with your smiles and tears, + Dead and un-born shall not He remember + Who folds our cry in His heart, and hears. + + + + +FOR THE EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY OF GEORGE MEREDITH + + + A health, a ringing health, unto the king + Of all our hearts to-day! But what proud song + Should follow on the thought, nor do him wrong? + Except the sea were harp, each mirthful string + The lovely lightning of the nights of Spring, + And Dawn the lonely listener, glad and grave + With colours of the sea-shell and the wave + In brightening eye and cheek, there is none to sing! + + Drink to him, as men upon an Alpine peak + Brim one immortal cup of crimson wine, + And into it drop one pure cold crust of snow, + Then hold it up, too rapturously to speak + And drink--to the mountains, line on glittering line, + Surging away into the sunset-glow. + + + + +IN MEMORY OF SWINBURNE + + + I + + April from shore to shore, from sea to sea, + April in heaven and on the springing spray + Buoyant with birds that sing to welcome May + And April in those eyes that mourn for thee: + "This is my singing month; my hawthorn tree + Burgeons once more," we seemed to hear thee say, + "This is my singing month: my fingers stray + Over the lute. What shall the music be?" + + And April answered with too great a song + For mortal lips to sing or hearts to hear, + Heard only of that high invisible throng + For whom thy song makes April all the year! + "My singing month, what bringest thou?" Her breath + Swooned with all music, and she answered--"Death." + + + II + + Ah, but on earth,--"can'st thou, too, die," + Low she whispers, "lover of mine?" + April, queen over earth and sky + Whispers, her trembling lashes shine: + "Wings of the sea, good-bye, good-bye, + Down to the dim sea-line." + + Home to the heart of thine old-world lover, + Home to thy "fair green-girdled" sea! + There shall thy soul with the sea-birds hover, + Free of the deep as their wings are free; + Free, for the grave-flowers only cover + This, the dark cage of thee. + + Thee, the storm-bird, nightingale-souled, + Brother of Sappho, the seas reclaim! + Age upon age have the great waves rolled + Mad with her music, exultant, aflame; + Thee, thee too, shall their glory enfold, + Lit with thy snow-winged fame. + + Back, thro' the years, fleets the sea-bird's wing: + _Sappho, of old time, once_,--ah, hark! + So did he love her of old and sing! + Listen, he flies to her, back thro' the dark! + _Sappho, of old time, once_.... Yea, Spring + Calls him home to her, hark! + + _Sappho, long since, in the years far sped, + Sappho, I loved thee!_ Did I not seem + Fosterling only of earth? I have fled, + Fled to thee, sister. Time is a dream! + Shelley is here with us! Death lies dead! + Ah, how the bright waves gleam. + + Wide was the cage-door, idly swinging; + April touched me and whispered "Come." + Out and away to the great deep winging, + Sister, I flashed to thee over the foam, + Out to the sea of Eternity, singing + "Mother, thy child comes home." + + * * * * + + Ah, but how shall we welcome May + Here where the wing of song droops low, + Here by the last green swinging spray + Brushed by the sea-bird's wings of snow, + We that gazed on his glorious way + Out where the great winds blow? + + _Here upon earth--"can'st thou, too, die, + Lover of life and lover of mine?" + April, conquering earth and sky + Whispers, her trembling lashes shine: + "Wings of the sea, good-bye, good-bye, + Down to the dim sea-line."_ + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF FRANCIS THOMPSON + + + I + + How grandly glow the bays + Purpureally enwound + With those rich thorns, the brows + How infinitely crowned + That now thro' Death's dark house + Have passed with royal gaze: + Purpureally enwound + How grandly glow the bays. + + + II + + Sweet, sweet and three-fold sweet, + Pulsing with three-fold pain, + Where the lark fails of flight + Soared the celestial strain; + Beyond the sapphire height + Flew the gold-winged feet, + Beautiful, pierced with pain, + Sweet, sweet and three-fold sweet; + + + III + + And where _Is not_ and _Is_ + Are wed in one sweet Name, + And the world's rootless vine + With dew of stars a-flame + Laughs, from those deep divine + Impossibilities, + Our reason all to shame-- + _This cannot be, but is;_ + + + IV + + Into the Vast, the Deep + Beyond all mortal sight, + The Nothingness that conceived + The worlds of day and night, + The Nothingness that heaved + Pure sides in virgin sleep, + Brought out of Darkness, light; + And man from out the Deep. + + + V + + Into that Mystery + Let not thine hand be thrust: + Nothingness is a world + Thy science well may trust ... + But lo, a leaf unfurled, + Nay, a cry mocking thee + From the first grain of dust-- + _I am, yet cannot be!_ + + + VI + + Adventuring un-afraid + Into that last deep shrine, + Must not the child-heart see + Its deepest symbol shine, + The world's Birth-mystery, + Whereto the suns are shade? + Lo, the white breast divine-- + The holy Mother-maid! + + + VII + + How miss that Sacrifice, + That cross of Yea and Nay, + That paradox of heaven + Whose palms point either way, + Through each a nail being driven + That the arms out-span the skies + And our earth-dust this day + Out-sweeten Paradise. + + VIII + + We part the seamless robe, + Our wisdom would divide + The raiment of the King, + Our spear is in His side, + Even while the angels sing + Around our perishing globe, + And Death re-knits in pride + The seamless purple robe. + + * * * * + + + IX + + _How grandly glow the bays + Purpureally enwound + With those rich thorns, the brows + How infinitely crowned + That now thro' Death's dark house + Have passed with royal gaze: + Purpureally enwound + How grandly glow the bays._ + + + + +IN MEMORY OF MEREDITH + + + I + + High on the mountains, who stands proudly, clad with the light of May, + Rich as the dawn, deep-hearted as night, diamond-bright as day, + Who, while the slopes of the beautiful valley throb with our muffled tread + Who, with the hill-flowers wound in her tresses, welcomes our + deathless dead? + + + II + + Is it not she whom he sought so long thro' the high lawns dewy and sweet, + Up thro' the crags and the glittering snows faint-flushed with her + rosy feet, + Is it not she--the queen of our night--crowned by the unseen sun, + Artemis, she that can see the light, when light upon earth is none? + + + III + + Huntress, queen of the dark of the world (no darker at night than noon) + Beauty immortal and undefiled, the Eternal sun's white moon, + Only by thee and thy silver shafts for a flash can our hearts discern, + Pierced to the quick, the love, the love that still thro' the dark + doth yearn. + + + IV + + What to his soul were the hill-flowers, what the gold at the break of day + Shot thro' the red-stemmed firs to the lake where the swimmer + clove his way, + What were the quivering harmonies showered from the heaven-tossed heart + of the lark, + Artemis, Huntress, what were these but thy keen shafts cleaving the dark? + + + V + + Frost of the hedge-row, flash of the jasmine, sparkle of dew on the leaf, + Seas lit wide by the summer lightning, shafts from thy diamond sheaf, + Deeply they pierced him, deeply he loved thee, now has he found thy soul, + Artemis, thine, in this bridal peal, where we hear but the death-bell toll. + + + + +THE TESTIMONY OF ART + + + As earth, sad earth, thrusts many a gloomy cape + Into the sea's bright colour and living glee, + So do we strive to embay that mystery + Which earthly hands must ever let escape; + The Word we seek for is the golden shape + That shall enshrine the Soul we cannot see, + A temporal chalice of Eternity + Purple with beating blood of the hallowed grape. + + Once was it wine and sacramental bread + Whereby we knew the power that through Him smiled + When, in one still small utterance, He hurled + The Eternities beneath His feet and said + With lips, O meek as any little child, + _Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world._ + + + + +THE SCHOLARS + + + Where is the scholar whose clear mind can hold + The floral text of one sweet April mead?-- + The flowing lines, which few can spell indeed + Though most will note the scarlet and the gold + Around the flourishing capitals grandly scrolled; + But ah, the subtle cadences that need + The lover's heart, the lover's heart to read, + And ah, the songs unsung, the tales untold. + + Poor fools-capped scholars--grammar keeps us close, + The primers thrall us, and our eyes grow dim: + When will old Master Science hear the call, + Bid us run free with life in every limb + To breathe the poems and hear the last red rose + Gossiping over God's grey garden-wall? + + + + +RESURRECTION + + + Once more I hear the everlasting sea + Breathing beneath the mountain's fragrant breast, + _Come unto Me, come unto Me, + And I will give you rest._ + + We have destroyed the Temple and in three days + He hath rebuilt it--all things are made new: + And hark what wild throats pour His praise + Beneath the boundless blue. + + We plucked down all His altars, cried aloud + And gashed ourselves for little gods of clay! + Yon floating cloud was but a cloud, + The May no more than May. + + We plucked down all His altars, left not one + Save where, perchance (and ah, the joy was fleet), + We laid our garlands in the sun + At the white Sea-born's feet. + + We plucked down all His altars, not to make + The small praise greater, but the great praise less, + We sealed all fountains where the soul could slake + Its thirst and weariness. + + "Love" was too small, too human to be found + In that transcendent source whence love was born: + We talked of "forces": heaven was crowned + With philosophic thorn. + + "Your God is in your image," we cried, but O, + 'Twas only man's own deepest heart ye gave, + Knowing that He transcended all ye know, + While we--we dug His grave. + + Denied Him even the crown on our own brow, + E'en these poor symbols of His loftier reign, + Levelled His Temple with the dust, and now + He is risen, He is risen again, + + Risen, like this resurrection of the year, + This grand ascension of the choral spring, + Which those harp-crowded heavens bend to hear + And meet upon the wing. + + "He is dead," we cried, and even amid that gloom + The wintry veil was rent! The new-born day + Showed us the Angel seated in the tomb + And the stone rolled away. + + It is the hour! We challenge heaven above + Now, to deny our slight ephemeral breath + Joy, anguish, and that everlasting love + Which triumphs over death. + + + + +A JAPANESE LOVE-SONG + + + I + + The young moon is white, + But the willows are blue: + Your small lips are red, + But the great clouds are grey: + The waves are so many + That whisper to you; + But my love is only + One flight of spray. + + + II + + The bright drops are many, + The dark wave is one: + The dark wave subsides, + And the bright sea remains! + And wherever, O singing + Maid, you may run, + You are one with the world + For all your pains. + + + III + + Though the great skies are dark, + And your small feet are white, + Though your wide eyes are blue + And the closed poppies red, + Tho' the kisses are many + That colour the night, + They are linked like pearls + On one golden thread. + + + IV + + Were the grey clouds not made + For the red of your mouth; + The ages for flight + Of the butterfly years; + The sweet of the peach + For the pale lips of drouth, + The sunlight of smiles + For the shadow of tears? + + + V + + Love, Love is the thread + That has pierced them with bliss! + All their hues are but notes + In one world-wide tune: + Lips, willows, and waves, + We are one as we kiss, + And your face and the flowers + Faint away in the moon. + + + +THE TWO PAINTERS + +(A TALE OF OLD JAPAN.) + + + I + + Yoichi Tenko, the painter, + Dwelt by the purple sea, + Painting the peacock islands + Under his willow-tree: + Also in temples he painted + Dragons of old Japan, + With a child to look at the pictures-- + Little O Kimi San. + + Kimi, the child of his brother, + Bright as the moon in May, + White as a lotus lily, + Pink as a plum-tree spray, + Linking her soft arm round him + Sang to his heart for an hour, + Kissed him with ripples of laughter + And lips of the cherry flower. + + Child of the old pearl-fisher + Lost in his junk at sea, + Kimi was loved of Tenko + As his own child might be, + Yoichi Tenko the painter, + Wrinkled and grey and old, + Teacher of many disciples + That paid for his dreams with gold. + + + II + + Peonies, peonies crowned the May! + Clad in blue and white array + Came Sawara to the school + Under the silvery willow-tree, + All to learn of Tenko! + Riding on a milk-white mule, + Young and poor and proud was he, + Lissom as a cherry spray + (Peonies, peonies, crowned the day!) + And he rode the golden way + To the school of Tenko. + + Swift to learn, beneath his hand + Soon he watched his wonderland + Growing cloud by magic cloud, + Under the silvery willow-tree + In the school of Tenko: + Kimi watched him, young and proud, + Painting by the purple sea, + Lying on the golden sand + Watched his golden wings expand! + (None but Love will understand + All she hid from Tenko.) + + He could paint her tree and flower, + Sea and spray and wizard's tower, + With one stroke, now hard, now soft, + Under the silvery willow-tree + In the school of Tenko: + He could fling a bird aloft, + Splash a dragon in the sea, + Crown a princess in her bower, + With one stroke of magic power; + And she watched him, hour by hour, + In the school of Tenko. + + Yoichi Tenko, wondering, scanned + All the work of that young hand, + Gazed his kakemonos o'er, + Under the silvery willow-tree + In the school of Tenko: + "I can teach you nothing more, + Thought or craft or mystery; + Let your golden wings expand, + They will shadow half the land, + All the world's at your command, + Come no more to Tenko." + + _Lying on the golden sand, + Kimi watched his wings expand; + Wept.--He could not understand + Why she wept, said Tenko._ + + + III + + So, in her blue kimono, + Pale as the sickle moon + Glimmered thro' soft plum-branches + Blue in the dusk of June, + Stole she, willing and waning, + Frightened and unafraid,-- + "Take me with you, Sawara, + Over the sea," she said. + + Small and sadly beseeching, + Under the willow-tree, + Glimmered her face like a foam-flake + Drifting over the sea: + Pale as a drifting blossom, + Lifted her face to his eyes: + Slowly he gathered and held her + Under the drifting skies. + + Poor little face cast backward, + Better to see his own, + Earth and heaven went past them + Drifting: they two, alone + Stood, immortal. He whispered-- + "Nothing can part us two!" + Backward her sad little face went + Drifting, and dreamed it true. + + "Others are happy," she murmured, + "Maidens and men I have seen; + You are my king, Sawara, + O, let me be your queen! + If I am all too lowly," + Sadly she strove to smile, + "Let me follow your footsteps, + Your slave for a little while." + + Surely, he thought, I have painted + Nothing so fair as this + Moonlit almond blossom + Sweet to fold and kiss, + Brow that is filled with music, + Shell of a faery sea, + Eyes like the holy violets + Brimmed with dew for me. + + "Wait for Sawara," he whispered, + "Does not his whole heart yearn + Now to his moon-bright maiden? + Wait, for he will return + Rich as the wave on the moon's path + Rushing to claim his bride!" + So they plighted their promise, + And the ebbing sea-wave sighed. + + + IV + + Moon and flower and butterfly, + Earth and heaven went drifting by, + Three long years while Kimi dreamed + Under the silvery willow-tree + In the school of Tenko, + Steadfast while the whole world streamed + Past her tow'rds Eternity; + Steadfast till with one great cry, + Ringing to the gods on high, + Golden wings should blind the sky + And bring him back to Tenko. + + Three long years and nought to say + "Sweet, I come the golden way, + Riding royally to the school + Under the silvery willow-tree + Claim my bride of Tenko; + Silver bells on a milk-white mule, + Rose-red sails on an emerald sea!" ... + Kimi sometimes went to pray + In the temple nigh the bay, + Dreamed all night and gazed all day + Over the sea from Tenko. + + Far away his growing fame + Lit the clouds. No message came + From the sky, whereon she gazed + Under the silvery willow-tree + Far away from Tenko! + Small white hands in the temple raised + Pleaded with the Mystery,-- + "Stick of incense in the flame, + Though my love forget my name, + Help him, bless him, all the same, + And ... bring him back to Tenko!" + + _Rose-white temple nigh the bay, + Hush! for Kimi comes to pray, + Dream all night and gaze all day + Over the sea from Tenko._ + + + V + + So, when the rich young merchant + Showed him his bags of gold, + Yoichi Tenko, the painter, + Gave him her hand to hold, + Said: "You shall wed him, O Kimi." + Softly he lied and smiled-- + "_Yea, for Sawara is wedded! + Let him not mock you, child._" + + Dumbly she turned and left them, + Never a word or cry + Broke from her lips' grey petals + Under the drifting sky: + Down to the spray and the rainbows, + Where she had watched him of old + Painting the rose-red islands, + Painting the sand's wet gold, + + Down to their dreams of the sunset, + Frail as a flower's white ghost, + Lonely and lost she wandered + Down to the darkening coast; + Lost in the drifting midnight, + Weeping, desolate, blind. + Many went out to seek her: + Never a heart could find. + + Yoichi Tenko, the painter, + Plucked from his willow-tree + Two big paper lanterns + And ran to the brink of the sea; + Over his head he held them, + Crying, and only heard, + Somewhere, out in the darkness, + The cry of a wandering bird. + + + VI + + Peonies, peonies thronged the May + When in royal-rich array + Came Sawara to the school + Under the silvery willow-tree-- + To the school of Tenko! + Silver bells on a milk-white mule, + Rose-red sails on an emerald sea! + Over the bloom of the cherry spray, + Peonies, peonies dimmed the day; + And he rode the royal way + Back to Yoichi Tenko. + + Yoichi Tenko, half afraid, + Whispered, "Wed some other maid; + Kimi left me all alone + Under the silvery willow-tree, + Left me," whispered Tenko, + "Kimi had a heart of stone!"-- + "Kimi, Kimi? Who is she? + Kimi? Ah--the child that played + Round the willow-tree. She prayed + Often; and, whate'er I said, + She believed it, Tenko." + + He had come to paint anew + Those dim isles of rose and blue, + For a palace far away, + Under the silvery willow-tree-- + So he said to Tenko; + And he painted, day by day, + Golden visions of the sea. + No, he had not come to woo; + Yet, had Kimi proven true, + Doubtless he had loved her too, + Hardly less than Tenko. + + Since the thought was in his head, + He would make his choice and wed; + And a lovely maid he chose + Under the silvery willow-tree. + "Fairer far," said Tenko. + "Kimi had a twisted nose, + And a foot too small, for me, + And her face was dull as lead!" + "Nay, a flower, be it white or red, + _Is_ a flower," Sawara said! + "So it is," said Tenko. + + + VII + + Great Sawara, the painter, + Sought, on a day of days, + One of the peacock islands + Out in the sunset haze: + Rose-red sails on the water + Carried him quickly nigh; + There would he paint him a wonder + Worthy of Hokusai. + + Lo, as he leapt o'er the creaming + Roses of faery foam, + Out of the green-lipped caverns + Under the isle's blue dome, + White as a drifting snow-flake, + White as the moon's white flame, + White as a ghost from the darkness, + Little O Kimi came. + + "Long I have waited, Sawara, + Here in our sunset isle, + Sawara, Sawara, Sawara, + Look on me once, and smile; + Face I have watched so long for, + Hands I have longed to hold, + Sawara, Sawara, Sawara, + Why is your heart so cold?" + + Surely, he thought, I have painted + Nothing so fair as this + Moonlit almond blossom + Sweet to fold and kiss.... + "Kimi," he said, "I am wedded! + Hush, for it could not be!" + "Kiss me one kiss," she whispered, + "Me also, even me." + + Small and terribly drifting + Backward, her sad white face + Lifted up to Sawara + Once, in that lonely place, + White as a drifting blossom + Under his wondering eyes, + Slowly he gathered and held her + Under the drifting skies. + + "Others are happy," she whispered, + "Maidens and men I have seen: + Be happy, be happy, Sawara! + The other--shall be--your queen! + Kiss me one kiss for parting." + Trembling she lifted her head, + Then like a broken blossom + It fell on his arm. She was dead. + + + VIII + + Much impressed, Sawara straight + (Though the hour was growing late) + Made a sketch of Kimi lying + By the lonely, sighing sea, + Brought it back to Tenko. + Tenko looked it over crying + (Under the silvery willow-tree). + "You have burst the golden gate! + You have conquered Time and Fate! + Hokusai is not so great! + This is Art," said Tenko! + + + +THE ENCHANTED ISLAND + + + I + + I remember-- + a breath, a breath + Blown thro' the rosy gates of birth, + A morning freshness not of the earth + But cool and strange and lovely as death + In Paradise, in Paradise, + When, all to suffer the old sweet pain + Closing his immortal eyes + Wonder-wild an angel lies + With wings of rainbow-tinctured grain + Withering till--ah, wonder-wild, + Here on the dawning earth again + He wakes, a little child. + + + II + + I remember-- + a gleam, a gleam + Of sparkling waves and warm blue sky + Far away and long ago, + Or ever I knew that youth could die; + And out of the dawn, the dawn, the dawn, + Into the unknown life we sailed + As out of sleep into a dream, + And, as with elfin cables drawn + In dusk of purple over the glowing + Wrinkled measureless emerald sea, + The light cloud shadows larger far + Than the sweet shapes which drew them on, + Elfin exquisite shadows flowing + Between us and the morning star + Chased us all a summer's day, + And our sail like a dew-lit blossom shone + Till, over a rainbow haze of spray + That arched a reef of surf like snow + --Far away and long ago-- + We saw the sky-line rosily engrailed + With tufted peaks above a smooth lagoon + Which growing, growing, growing as we sailed + Curved all around them like a crescent moon; + And then we saw the purple-shadowed creeks, + The feathery palms, the gleaming golden streaks + Of sand, and nearer yet, like jewels of fire + Streaming between the boughs, or floating higher + Like tiny sunset-clouds in noon-day skies, + The birds of Paradise. + + + III + + The island floated in the air, + Its image floated in the sea: + Which was the shadow? Both were fair: + Like sister souls they seemed to be; + And one was dreaming and asleep, + And one bent down from Paradise + To kiss with radiance in the deep + The darkling lips and eyes. + + And, mingling softly in their dreams, + That holy kiss of sea and sky + Transfused the shadows and the gleams + Of Time and of Eternity: + The dusky face looked up and gave + To heaven its golden shadowed calm; + The face of light fulfilled the wave + With blissful wings and fans of palm. + + Above, the tufted rosy peaks + That melted in the warm blue skies, + Below, the purple-shadowed creeks + That glassed the birds of Paradise-- + A bridal knot, it hung in heaven; + And, all around, the still lagoon + From bloom of dawn to blush of even + Curved like a crescent moon. + + And there we wandered evermore + Thro' boyhood's everlasting years, + Listening the murmur of the shore + As one that lifts a shell and hears + The murmur of forgotten seas + Around some lost Broceliande, + The sigh of sweet Eternities + That turn the world to fairy-land, + + That turned our isle to a single pearl + Glowing in measureless waves of wine! + Above, below, the clouds would curl, + Above, below, the stars would shine + In sky and sea. We hung in heaven! + Time and space were but elfin-sweet + Rock-bound pools for the dawn and even + To wade with their rosy feet. + + Our pirate cavern faced the West: + We closed its door with screens of palm, + While some went out to seek the nest + Wherein the Phoenix, breathing balm, + Burns and dies to live for ever + (How should we dream we lived to die?) + And some would fish in the purple river + That thro' the hills brought down the sky. + + And some would dive in the lagoon + Like sunbeams, and all round our isle + Swim thro' the lovely crescent moon, + Glimpsing, for breathless mile on mile, + The wild sea-woods that bloomed below, + The rainbow fish, the coral cave + Where vanishing swift as melting snow + A mermaid's arm would wave. + + Then dashing shoreward thro' the spray + On sun-lit sands they cast them down, + Or in the white sea-daisies lay + With sun-stained bodies rosy-brown, + Content to watch the foam-bows flee + Across the shelving reefs and bars, + With wild eyes gazing out to sea + Like happy haunted stars. + + + IV + + And O, the wild sea-maiden + Drifting through the starlit air, + With white arms blossom-laden + And the sea-scents in her hair: + Sometimes we heard her singing + The midnight forest through, + Or saw a soft hand flinging + Blossoms drenched with starry dew + Into the dreaming purple cave; + And, sometimes, far and far away + Beheld across the glooming wave + Beyond the dark lagoon, + Beyond the silvery foaming bar, + The black bright rock whereon she lay + Like a honey-coloured star + Singing to the breathless moon, + Singing in the silent night + Till the stars for sheer delight + Closed their eyes, and drowsy birds + In the midmost forest spray + Took their heads from out their wings, + Thinking--it is Ariel sings + And we must catch the witching words + And sing them o'er by day. + + + V + + And then, there came a breath, a breath + Cool and strange and dark as death, + A stealing shadow, not of the earth + But fresh and wonder-wild as birth. + I know not when the hour began + That changed the child's heart in the man, + Or when the colours began to wane, + But all our roseate island lay + Stricken, as when an angel dies + With wings of rainbow-tinctured grain + Withering, and his radiant eyes + Closing. Pitiless walls of grey + Gathered around us, a growing tomb + From which it seemed not death or doom + Could roll the stone away. + + + VI + + Yet--I remember-- + a gleam, a gleam, + (Or ever I dreamed that youth could die!) + Of sparkling waves and warm blue sky + As out of sleep into a dream, + Wonder-wild for the old sweet pain, + We sailed into that unknown sea + Through the gates of Eternity. + + Peacefully close your mortal eyes + For ye shall wake to it again + In Paradise, in Paradise. + + + + +UNITY + + + I + + Heart of my heart, the world is young; + Love lies hidden in every rose! + Every song that the skylark sung + Once, we thought, must come to a close: + Now we know the spirit of song, + Song that is merged in the chant of the whole, + Hand in hand as we wander along, + What should we doubt of the years that roll? + + + II + + Heart of my heart, we cannot die! + Love triumphant in flower and tree, + Every life that laughs at the sky + Tells us nothing can cease to be: + One, we are one with a song to-day, + One with the clover that scents the wold, + One with the Unknown, far away, + One with the stars, when earth grows old. + + + III + + Heart of my heart, we are one with the wind, + One with the clouds that are whirled o'er the lea, + One in many, O broken and blind, + One as the waves are at one with the sea! + Ay! when life seems scattered apart, + Darkens, ends as a tale that is told, + One, we are one, O heart of my heart, + One, still one, while the world grows old. + + + + +THE HILL-FLOWER + + + _It is my faith that every flower + Enjoys the air it breathes_-- + So was it sung one golden hour + Among the woodbine wreaths; + And yet, though wet with living dew, + The song seemed far more sweet than true. + + Blind creatures of the sun and air + I dreamed it but a dream + That, like Narcissus, would confer + With self in every stream, + And to the leaves and boughs impart + The tremors of a human heart. + + To-day a golden pinion stirred + The world's Bethesda pool, + And I believed the song I heard + Nor put my heart to school; + And through the rainbows of the dream + I saw the gates of Eden gleam. + + The rain had ceased. The great hills rolled + In silence to the deep: + The gorse in waves of green and gold + Perfumed their lonely sleep; + And, at my feet, one elfin flower + Drooped, blind with glories of the shower. + + I stooped--a giant from the sky-- + Above its piteous shield, + And, suddenly, the dream went by, + And there--was heaven revealed! + I stooped to pluck it; but my hand + Paused, mid-way, o'er its fairyland. + + Not of mine own was that strange voice, + "Pluck--tear a star from heaven!" + Mine only was the awful choice + To scoff and be forgiven + Or hear the very grass I trod + Whispering the gentle thoughts of God. + + I know not if the hill-flower's place + Beneath that mighty sky, + Its lonely and aspiring grace, + Its beauty born to die, + Touched me, I know it seemed to be + Cherished by all Eternity. + + Man, doomed to crush at every stride + A hundred lives like this + Which by their weakness were allied, + If by naught else, to his, + Can only for a flash discern + What passion through the whole doth yearn. + + Not into words can I distil + The pity or the pain + Which hallowing all that lonely hill + Cried out "Refrain, refrain," + Then breathed from earth and sky and sea, + "Herein you did it unto Me." + + Somewhile that hill was heaven's own breast, + The flower its joy and grief, + Hugged close and fostered and caressed + In every brief bright leaf: + And, ere I went thro' sun and dew, + I leant and gently touched it, too. + + + + +ACTAEON + + "Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed + And bound his forehead with Proserpine's hair." + + --BROWNING (_Pauline_) + + + I + + _Light of beauty, O, "perfect in whiteness," + Softly suffused thro' the world's dark shrouds, + Kindling them all as they pass by thy brightness,-- + Hills, men, cities,--a pageant of clouds, + Thou to whom Life and Time surrender + All earth's forms as to heaven's deep care, + Who shall pierce to thy naked splendour, + Bind his brows with thy hair?_ + + + II + + Swift thro' the sprays when Spring grew bolder + Young Actaeon swept to the chase! + Golden the fawn-skin, back from the shoulder + Flowing, set free the limbs' lithe grace, + Muscles of satin that rippled like sunny + Streams--a hunter, a young athlete, + Scattering dews and crushing out honey + Under his sandalled feet. + + + III + + Sunset softened the crags of the mountain, + Silence melted the hunter's heart, + Only the sob of a falling fountain + Pulsed in a deep ravine apart: + All the forest seemed waiting breathless, + Eager to whisper the dying day + Some rich word that should utter the deathless + Secret of youth and May. + + + IV + + Down, as to May thro' the flowers that attend her, + Slowly, on tip-toe, down the ravine + Fair as the sun-god, poising a slender + Spear like a moon-shaft silver and green, + Stole he! Ah, did the oak-wood ponder + Youth's glad dream in its heart of gloom? + Dryad or fawn was it started yonder? + Ah, what whisper of doom? + + + V + + Gold, thro' the ferns as he gazed and listened, + Shone the soul of the wood's deep dream, + One bright glade and a pool that glistened + Full in the face of the sun's last gleam,-- + Gold in the heart of a violet dingle! + Young Actaeon, beware! beware! + Who shall track, while the pulses tingle, + Spring to her woodland lair? + + + VI + + See, at his feet, what mystical quiver, + Maiden's girdle and robe of snow, + Tossed aside by the green glen-river + Ere she bathed in the pool below? + All the fragrance of April meets him + Full in the face with its young sweet breath; + Yet, as he steals to the glade, there greets him-- + Hush, what whisper of death? + + + VII + + Lo, in the violets, lazily dreaming, + Young Diana, the huntress, lies: + One white side thro' the violets gleaming + Heaves and sinks with her golden sighs, + One white breast like a diamond crownet + Couched in a velvet casket glows, + One white arm, tho' the violets drown it, + Thrills their purple with rose. + + + VIII + + Buried in fragrance, the half-moon flashes, + Beautiful, clouded, from head to heel: + One white foot in the warm wave plashes, + Violets tremble and half reveal, + Half conceal, as they kiss, the slender + Slope and curve of her sleeping limbs: + Violets bury one half the splendour + Still, as thro' heaven, she swims. + + + IX + + Cold as the white rose waking at daybreak + Lifts the light of her lovely face, + Poised on an arm she watches the spray break + Over the slim white ankle's grace, + Watches the wave that sleeplessly tosses + Kissing the pure foot's pink sea-shells, + Watches the long-leaved heaven-dark mosses + Drowning their star-bright bells. + + + X + + Swift as the Spring where the South has brightened + Earth with bloom in one passionate night, + Swift as the violet heavens had lightened + Swift to perfection, blinding, white, + Dian arose: and Actaeon saw her, + Only he since the world began! + Only in dreams could Endymion draw her + Down to the heart of man. + + + XI + + Fair as the dawn upon Himalaya + Anger flashed from her cheek's pure rose, + Alpine peaks at the passage of Maia + Flushed not fair as her breasts' white snows. + Ah, fair form of the heaven's completeness, + Who shall sing thee or who shall say + Whence that "high perfection of sweetness," + Perfect to save or slay? + + + XII + + _Perfect in beauty, beauty the portal + Here on earth to the world's deep shrine, + Beauty hidden in all things mortal, + Who shall mingle his eyes with thine? + Thou, to whom Life and Death surrender + All earth's forms as to heaven's deep care, + Who shall pierce to thy naked splendour, + Bind his brows with thy hair?_ + + + XIII + + _Beauty, perfect in blinding whiteness, + Softly suffused thro' the world's dark shrouds, + Kindling them all as they pass by her brightness,-- + Hills, men, cities,--a pageant of clouds, + She, the unchanging, shepherds their changes, + Bids them mingle and form and flow, + Flowers and flocks and the great hill-ranges + Follow her cry and go._ + + + XIV + + Swift as the sweet June lightning flashes, + Down she stoops to the purpling pool, + Sudden and swift her white hand dashes + Rainbow mists in his eyes! "Ah, fool! + Hunter," she cries to the young Actaeon, + "Change to the hunted, rise and fly, + Swift ere the wild pack utter its paean, + Swift for thy hounds draw nigh!" + + + XV + + Lo, as he trembles, the greenwood branches + Dusk his brows with their antlered pride! + Lo, as a stag thrown back on its haunches + Quivers, with velvet nostrils wide, + Lo, he changes! The soft fur darkens + Down to the fetlock's lifted fear!-- + Hounds are baying!--he snuffs and hearkens, + "Fly, for the stag is here!" + + + XVI + + Swift as he leapt thro' the ferns, Actaeon, + Young Actaeon, the lordly stag, + Full and mellow the deep-mouthed paean + Swelled behind him from crag to crag: + Well he remembered that sweet throat leading, + Wild with terror he raced and strained, + On thro' the darkness, thorn-swept, bleeding: + Ever they gained and gained! + + + XVII + + Death, like a darkling huntsman holloed-- + Swift, Actaeon!--desire and shame + Leading the pack of the passions followed. + Red jaws frothing with white-hot flame, + Volleying out of the glen, they leapt up, + Snapped and fell short of the foam-flecked thighs ... + Inch by terrible inch they crept up, + Shadows with blood-shot eyes. + + + XVIII + + Still with his great heart bursting asunder + Still thro' the night he struggled and bled; + Suddenly round him the pack's low thunder + Surged, the hounds that his own hand fed + Fastened in his throat, with red jaws drinking + Deep!--for a moment his antlered pride + Soared o'er their passionate seas, then, sinking, + Fell for the fangs to divide. + + + XIX + + _Light of beauty, O, perfect in whiteness, + Softly suffused thro' the years' dark veils, + Kindling them all as they pass by her brightness, + Filling our hearts with her old-world tales, + She, the unchanging, shepherds their changes, + Bids them mingle and form and flow, + Flowers and flocks and the great hill-ranges + Follow her cry and go._ + + + XX + + Still, in the violets, lazily dreaming + Young Diana, the huntress, lies: + One white side thro' the violets gleaming + Heaves and sinks with her golden sighs; + One white breast like a diamond crownet + Couched in a velvet casket glows, + One white arm, tho' the violets drown it, + Thrills their purple with rose. + + + + +LUCIFER'S FEAST + +(A EUROPEAN NIGHTMARE.) + + + To celebrate the ascent of man, one gorgeous night + Lucifer gave a feast. + Its world-bewildering light + Danced in Belshazzar's tomb, and the old kings dead and gone + Felt their dust creep to jewels in crumbling Babylon. + + Two nations were His guests--the top and flower of Time, + The fore-front of an age which now had learned to climb + The slopes where Newton knelt, the heights that Shakespeare trod, + The mountains whence Beethoven rolled the voice of God. + + Lucifer's feasting-lamps were like the morning stars, + But at the board-head shone the blood-red lamp of Mars. + + League upon glittering league, white front and flabby face + Bent o'er the groaning board. Twelve brave men droned the grace; + But with instinctive tact, in courtesy to their Host, + Omitted God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, + And to the God of Battles raised their humble prayers. + Then, then, like thunder, all the guests drew up their chairs. + By each a drinking-cup, yellow, almost, as gold. + (_The blue eye-sockets gave the thumbs a good firm hold_) + Adorned the flowery board. Could even brave men shrink? + + Why if the cups _were_ skulls, they had red wine to drink! + And had not each a napkin, white and peaked and proud, + Waiting to wipe his mouth? A napkin? Nay, a shroud! + This was a giant's feast, on hell's imperial scale. + The blades glistened. + + The shrouds--O, in one snowy gale, + The pink hands fluttered them out, and spread them on their knees. + Who knew what gouts might drop, what filthy flakes of grease, + Now that o'er every shoulder, through the coiling steam, + Inhuman faces peered, with wolfish eyes a-gleam, + And grey-faced vampire Lusts that whinneyed in each ear + Hints of the hideous courses? + + None may name them here? + None? And we may not see! The distant cauldrons cloak + The lava-coloured plains with clouds of umber smoke. + Nay, by that shrapnel-light, by those wild shooting stars + That rip the clouds away with fiercer fire than Mars, + They are painted sharp as death. If these can eat and drink + Chatter and laugh and rattle their knives, why should we shrink + From empty names? We know those ghastly gleams are true: + Why should Christ cry again--_They know not what they do?_ + They, heirs of all the ages, sons of Shakespeare's land, + They, brothers of Beethoven, smiling, cultured, bland, + Whisper with sidling heads to ghouls with bloody lips. + + Each takes upon his plate a small round thing that drips + And quivers, a child's heart. + + Miles on miles + The glittering table bends o'er that first course, and smiles; + For, through the wreaths of smoke, the grey Lusts bear aloft + The second course, on leaden chargers, large and soft, + Bodies of women, steaming in an opal mist, + Red-branded here and there where vampire-teeth have kissed. + + But white as pig's flesh, newly killed, and cleanly dressed, + A lemon in each mouth and roses round each breast, + Emblems to show how deeply, sweetly satisfied, + The breasts, the lips, can sleep, whose children fought and died + For--what? For country? God, once more Thy shrapnel-light! + + Let those dark slaughter-houses burst upon our sight, + These kitchens are too clean, too near the tiring room! + Let Thy white shrapnel rend those filthier veils of gloom, + Rip the last fogs away and strip the foul thing bare! + One lightning-picture--see--yon bayonet-bristling square + Mown down, mown down, mown down, wild swathes of crimson wheat, + The white-eyed charge, the blast, the terrible retreat, + The blood-greased wheels of cannon thundering into line + O'er that red writhe of pain, rent groin and shattered spine, + The moaning faceless face that kissed its child last night, + The raw pulp of the heart that beat for love's delight, + The heap of twisting bodies, clotted and congealed + In one red huddle of anguish on the loathsome field, + The seas of obscene slaughter spewing their blood-red yeast, + Multitudes pouring out their entrails for the feast, + Knowing not why, but dying, they think, for some high cause, + Dying for "hearth and home," their flags, their creeds, their laws. + Ask of the Bulls and Bears, ask if they understand + How both great grappling armies bleed for their own land; + For in that faith they die! These hoodwinked thousands die + Simply as heroes, gulled by hell's profoundest lie. + Who keeps the slaughter-house? Not these, not these who gain + Nought but the sergeant's shilling and the homeless pain! + Who pulls the ropes? Not these, who buy their crust of bread + With the salt sweat of labour! These but bury their dead + Then sweat again for food! + + Christ, is the hour not come, + To send forth one great voice and strike this dark hell dumb, + A voice to out-crash the cannon, one united cry + To sweep these wild-beast standards down that stain the sky, + + To hurl these Lions and Bears and Eagles to their doom, + One voice, one heart, one soul, one fire that shall consume + The last red reeking shreds that flicker against the blast + And purge the Augean stalls we call "our glorious past"! + One voice from dawn and sunset, one almighty voice, + Full-throated as the sea--ye sons o' the earth, rejoice! + Beneath the all-loving sky, confederate kings ye stand, + Fling open wide the gates o' the world-wide Fatherland. + + * * * * + + Poor fools, we dare not dream it! We that pule and whine + Of art and science, we, whose great souls leave no shrine + Unshattered, we that climb the Sinai Shakespeare trod, + The Olivets where Beethoven walked and talked with God, + We that have weighed the stars and reined the lightning, we + That stare thro' heaven and plant our footsteps in the sea, + We whose great souls have risen so far above the creeds + That we can jest at Christ and leave Him where He bleeds, + A legend of the dark, a tale so false or true + That howsoe'er we jest at Him, the jest sounds new. + (Our weariest dinner-tables never tire of that! + Let the clown sport with Christ, never the jest falls flat!) + Poor fools, we dare not dream a dream so strange, so great, + As on this ball of dust to found one "world-wide state," + To float one common flag above our little lands, + And ere our little sun grows cold to clasp our hands + In friendship for a moment! + + * * * * + + Hark, the violins + Are swooning through the mist. The great blue band begins, + Playing, in dainty scorn, a hymn we used to know, + How long was it, ten thousand thousand years ago? + + _There is a green hill far away + Beside a City wall!_-- + And O, the music swung a-stray + With a solemn dying fall; + For it was a pleasant jest to play + Hymns in the Devil's Hall. + + And yet, and yet, if aught be true, + This dream we left behind, + This childish Christ, be-mocked anew + To please the men of mind, + Yet hung so far beyond the flight + Of our most lofty thought + That--Lucifer laughed _at_ us that night. + Not _with_ us, as he ought. + + Beneath the blood-red lamp of Mars, + Cloaked with a scarlet cloud + He gazed along the line of stars + Above the guzzling crowd: + Sinister, thunder-scarred, he raised + His great world-wandering eyes, + And on some distant vision gazed + Beyond our cloudy skies. + + "_Poor bats_," he sneered, "_their jungle-dark + Civilisation's noon! + Poor wolves, that hunt in packs and bark + Beneath the grinning moon; + Poor fools, that cast the cross away, + Before they break the sword; + Poor sots, who take the night for day; + Have mercy on me, Lord._ + + "_Beyond their wisdom's deepest skies + I see Thee hanging yet, + The love still hungering in Thine eyes, + Thy plaited crown still wet! + Thine arms outstretched to fold them all + Beneath Thy sheltering breast; + But--since they will not hear Thy call, + Lord, I forbear to jest._ + + "_Lord, I forbear! The day I fell + I fell at least thro' pride! + Rather than these should share my hell + Take me, thou Crucified! + O, let me share Thy cross of grief, + And let me work Thy will, + As morning star, or dying thief. + Thy fallen angel still._ + + "_Lord, I forbear! For Thee, at least, + In pain so like to mine, + The mighty meaning of their feast + Is plain as bread and wine: + O, smile once more, far off, alone! + Since these nor hear nor see, + From my deep hell, so like Thine own, + Lord Christ, I pity Thee._" + + Yet once again, he thought, they shall be fully tried, + If they be devils or fools too light for hell's deep pride. + + The champ of teeth was over, and the reeking room + Gaped for the speeches now. Across the sulphurous fume + Lucifer gave a sign. The guests stood thundering up! + "Gentlemen, charge your glasses!" + Every yellow cup + Frothed with the crimson blood. They brandished them on high! + "Gentlemen, drink to those who fight and know not why!" + + And in the bubbling blood each nose was buried deep. + "Gentlemen, drink to those who sowed that we might reap! + Drink to the pomp, pride, circumstance, of glorious war, + The grand self-sacrifice that made us what we are! + And drink to the peace-lovers who believe that peace + Is War, red, bloody War; for War can never cease + Unless we drain the veins of peace to fatten WAR! + Gentlemen, drink to the brains that made us what we are! + Drink to self-sacrifice that helps us all to shake + The world with tramp of armies. Germany, awake! + England, awake! Shakespeare's, Beethoven's Fatherland, + Are you not both aware, do you not understand, + Self-sacrifice is competition? It is the law + Of Life, and so, though both of you are wholly right, + Self-sacrifice requires that both of you should fight." + And "Hoch! hoch! hoch!" they cried; and "Hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!" + + This raised the gorge of Lucifer. With one deep "Bah," + Above those croaking toads he towered like Gabriel; + + Then straightway left the table and went home to hell. + + + +VETERANS + +(WRITTEN FOR THE RELIEF FUND OF THE CRIMEAN VETERANS.) + + + I + + When the last charge sounds + And the battle thunders o'er the plain, + Thunders o'er the trenches where the red streams flow, + Will it not be well with us, + Veterans, veterans, + If, beneath your torn old flag, we burst upon the foe? + + + II + + When the last post sounds + And the night is on the battle-field, + Night and rest at last from all the tumult of our wars, + Will it not be well with us, + Veterans, veterans, + If, with duty done like yours, we lie beneath the stars? + + + III + + When the great reveille sounds + For the terrible last Sabaoth, + All the legions of the dead shall hear the trumpet ring! + Will it not be well with us, + Veterans, veterans, + If, beneath your torn old flag, we rise to meet our King? + + + + +THE QUEST RENEWED + + + It is too soon, too soon, though time be brief, + Quite to forswear thy quest, + O Light, whose farewell dyes the falling leaf, + Fades thro' the fading west. + + Thou'rt flown too soon! I stretch my hands out still, + O, Light of Life, to Thee, + Who leav'st an Olivet in each far blue hill, + A sorrow on every sea. + + It is too soon, here while the loud world roars + For wealth and power and fame, + Too soon quite to forget those other shores + Afar, from whence I came; + + Too soon even to forget the first dear dream + Dreamed far away, when tears could freely flow; + And life seemed infinite, as that sky's great gleam + Deepened, to which I go; + + Too soon even to forget the fluttering fire + And those old books beside the friendly hearth, + When time seemed endless as my own desire, + And angels walked our earth; + + Too soon quite to forget amid the throng + What once the silent hills, the sounding beach + Taught me--where singing was the prize of song, + And heaven within my reach. + + It is too soon amid the cynic sneers, + The sophist smiles, the greedy mouths and hands, + Quite to forget the light of those dead years + And my lost mountain-lands; + + Too soon to lose that everlasting hope + (For so it seemed) of youth in love's pure reign, + Though while I linger on this darkening slope + Nought seems quite worth the pain. + + It is too soon for me to break that trust, + O, Light of Light, flown far past sun and moon, + Burn back thro' this dark panoply of dust; + Or let me follow--soon. + + + + +THE LIGHTS OF HOME + + + Pilot, how far from home?-- + Not far, not far to-night, + A flight of spray, a sea-bird's flight, + A flight of tossing foam, + And then the lights of home!-- + + And, yet again, how far? + And seems the way so brief? + Those lights beyond the roaring reef + Were lights of moon and star, + Far, far, none knows how far! + + Pilot, how far from home?-- + The great stars pass away + Before Him as a flight of spray, + Moons as a flight of foam! + I see the lights of home. + + + + +NEW POEMS + + +'TWEEN THE LIGHTS + + "The Nine men's morrice is filled up with mud ... + From our debate, from our dissension." + + --SHAKESPEARE + + + I + + Fairies, come back! We have not seen + Your dusky foot-prints on the green + This many a year. No frolic now + Shakes the dew from the hawthorn-bough. + Never a man and never a maid + Spies you in the blue-bell shade; + Yet, where the nine men's morrice stood, + Our spades are clearing out the mud. + + _Chorus._--_Come, little irised heralds, fling + Earth's Eden-gates apart, and sing + The bright eyes and the cordial hand + Of brotherhood thro' all our land._ + + + II + + Fairies, come back! Our pomp of gold, + Our blazing noon, grows grey and old; + The scornful glittering ages wane: + Forgive, forget, come back again. + This is our England's Hallowe'en! + Come, trip it, trip it o'er the green, + Trip it, amidst the roaring mart, + In the still meadows of the heart. + + _Come, little irised heralds, fling + Earth's Eden-gates apart, and sing + The bright eyes and the cordial hand + Of brotherhood thro' all our land._ + + + III + + Fairies, come back! Once more the gleams + Of your lost Eden haunt our dreams, + Where Evil, at the touch of Good, + Withers in the Enchanted Wood: + Fairies, come back! Drive gaunt Despair + And Famine to their ghoulish lair! + Tap at each heart's bright window-pane + Thro' merry England once again. + + _Come, little irised heralds, fling + Earth's Eden-gates apart, and sing + The bright eyes and the cordial hand + Of brotherhood thro' all our land._ + + + IV + + Fairies, come back! And, if you bring + That long-expected song to sing, + Ciss needs not, ere she welcomes you, + To find a sixpence in her shoe! + If, of the mud he clears away, + Tom bears the ignoble stain to-day, + Come back, and he will not forget + The heavens that yearn beyond us yet. + + _Come, little irised heralds, fling + Earth's Eden-gates apart, and sing + The bright eyes and the cordial hand + Of brotherhood thro' all our land._ + + + V + + Yet, if for this you will not come, + Your friends, the children, call you home, + Fairies, they wear no May-day crowns, + Your playmates in those grim black towns + Look, fairies, how they peak and pine, + How hungrily their great eyes shine! + From fevered alley and foetid lane + Plead the thin arms--_Come back again!_ + + _Come, little irised heralds, fling + Earth's Eden-gates apart, and sing + The bright eyes and the cordial hand + Of brotherhood thro' all our land._ + + + VI + + We have named the stars and weighed the moon, + Counted our gains and ... lost the boon, + If _this_ be the end of all our lore-- + To draw the blind and close the door! + O, lift the latch, slip in between + The things which we have heard and seen, + Slip thro' the fringes of the blind + Into the souls of all mankind. + + _Come, little irised heralds, fling + Earth's Eden-gates apart, and sing + The bright eyes and the cordial hand + Of brotherhood thro' all our land._ + + + VII + + Fairies, come back! Our wisdom dies + Beneath your deeper, starrier skies! + We have reined the lightning, probed the flower: + Bless, as of old, our twilight hour! + Bring dreams, and let the dreams be true, + Bring hope that makes each heart anew, + Bring love that knits all hearts in one; + Then--sing of heaven and bring the sun! + + _Come, little irised heralds, fling + Earth's Eden-gates apart, and sing + The bright eyes and the cordial hand + Of brotherhood thro' all our land._ + + + + +CREATION + + + In the beginning, there was nought + But heaven, one Majesty of Light, + Beyond all speech, beyond all thought, + Beyond all depth, beyond all height, + Consummate heaven, the first and last, + Enfolding in its perfect prime + No future rushing to the past, + But one rapt Now, that knew not Space or Time. + + Formless it was, being gold on gold, + And void--but with that complete Life + Where music could no wings unfold + Till lo, God smote the strings of strife! + "Myself unto Myself am Throne, + Myself unto Myself am Thrall + I that am All am all alone," + He said, "Yea, I have nothing, having all." + + And, gathering round His mount of bliss + The angel-squadrons of His will, + He said, "One battle yet there is + To win, one vision to fulfil! + Since heaven where'er I gaze expands, + And power that knows no strife or cry, + Weakness shall bind and pierce My hands + And make a world for Me wherein to die. + + "All might, all vastness and all glory + Being Mine, I must descend and make + Out of My heart a song, a story + Of little hearts that burn and break; + Out of My passion without end + I will make little azure seas, + And into small sad fields descend + And make green grass, white daisies, rustling trees." + + Then shrank His angels, knowing He thrust + His arms out East and West and gave + For every little dream of dust + Part of His life as to a grave! + "_Enough, O Father, for Thy words + Have pierced Thy hands!_" But, low and sweet, + He said "Sunsets and streams and birds, + And drifting clouds!"--The purple stained His feet.-- + + "Enough!" His angels moaned in fear, + "_Father, Thy words have pierced Thy side!_" + He whispered, "Roses shall grow there, + And there must be a hawthorn-tide, + And ferns, dewy at dawn," and still + They moaned--"_Enough, the red drops bleed!_" + "And," sweet and low, "on every hill," + He said, "I will have flocks and lambs to lead." + + His angels bowed their heads beneath + Their wings till that great pang was gone: + "_Pour not Thy soul out unto Death!_" + They moaned, and still His Love flowed on, + "There shall be small white wings to stray + From bliss to bliss, from bloom to bloom, + And blue flowers in the wheat;" and--"_Stay! + Speak not_," they cried, "_the word that seals Thy tomb!_" + + He spake--"I have thought of a little child + That I will have there to embark + On small adventures in the wild, + And front slight perils in the dark; + And I will hide from him and lure + His laughing eyes with suns and moons, + And rainbows that shall not endure; + And--when he is weary, sing him drowsy tunes." + + His angels fell before Him weeping + "_Enough! Tempt not the Gates of Hell!_" + He said, "His soul is in his keeping + That we may love each other well, + And lest the dark too much affright him, + I will strow countless little stars + Across his childish skies to light him + That he may wage in peace his mimic wars; + + "And oft forget Me as he plays + With swords and childish merchandize, + Or with his elfin balance weighs, + Or with his foot-rule metes, the skies; + Or builds his castles by the deep, + Or tunnels through the rocks, and then-- + Turn to Me as he falls asleep, + And, in his dreams, feel for My hand again. + + "And when he is older he shall be + My friend and walk here at My side; + Or--when he wills--grow young with Me, + And, to that happy world where once we died + Descending through the calm blue weather, + Buy life once more with our immortal breath, + And wander through the little fields together, + And taste of Love and Death." + + + + +THE PEACEMAKER. + + + Silently over his vast imperial seas, + Over his sentinel fleets the Shadow swept + And all his armies slept. + There was but one quick challenge at the gate, + Then--the cold menace of that out-stretched hand, + Waving aside the panoplies of State, + Brought the last faithful watchers to their knees, + And lightning flashed the grief from land to land. + + Mourn, Britain, mourn, not for a king alone! + This was the people's king! His purple throne + Was in their hearts. They shared it. Millions of swords + Could not have shaken it! Sharers of this doom, + This democratic doom which all men know, + His Common-weal, in this great common woe, + Veiling its head in the universal gloom, + With that majestic grief which knows not words, + Bows o'er a world-wide tomb. + + Mourn, Europe, for our England set this Crown + In splendour past the reach of temporal power, + Secure above the thunders of the hour, + A sun in the great skies of her renown, + A sun to hold her wheeling worlds in one + By its own course of duty pre-ordained, + Where'er the meteors flash and fall, a sun + With its great course of duty! + + So he reigned, + And died in its observance. Mightier he + Than any despot, in his people's love, + He served that law which rules the Thrones above, + That world-wide law which by the raging sea + Abased the flatterers of Canute and makes + The King that abnegates all lesser power + A rock in time of trouble, and a tower + Of strength where'er the tidal tempest breaks; + That world-wide law whose name is harmony, + Whose service perfect freedom! + + And _his_ name + _The Peacemaker_, through all the future years + Shall burn, a glorious and prophetic flame, + A beaconing sun that never shall go down, + A sun to speed the world's diviner morrow, + A sun that shines the brighter for our sorrow; + For, O, what splendour in a monarch's crown + Vies with the splendour of his people's tears? + + And now, O now, while the sorrowful trumpet is blown, + From island to continent, zone to imperial zone, + And the flags of the nations are lowered in grief with our own; + Now, while the roll of the drums that for battle were dumb + When he reigned, salute his passing; and low on the breeze + From the snow-bound North to the Australasian seas + Surges the solemn lament--O, shall it not come, + A glimpse of that mightier union of all mankind? + Now, though our eyes, as they gaze on the vision, grow blind, + Now, while the world is all one funeral knell, + And the mournful cannon thunder his great farewell, + Now, while the bells of a thousand cities toll, + Remember, O England, remember the ageless goal, + Rally the slumbering faith in the depths of thy soul, + Lift up thine eyes to the Kingdom for which he fought, + That Empire of Peace and Good-will, for which to his death-hour he wrought. + Then, then while the pomp of the world seems a little thing, + Ay, though by the world it be said, + _The King is dead!_ + We shall lift up our hearts and answer--_Long live the King!_ + + + + +THE SAILOR-KING + + + The fleet, the fleet puts out to sea + In a thunder of blinding foam to-night, + With a bursting wreck-strewn reef to lee, + But--a seaman fired yon beacon-light! + Seamen hailing a seaman, know-- + Free-men crowning a free-man, sing-- + The worth of that light where the great ships go, + The signal-fire of the king. + + Cloud and wind may shift and veer: + This is steady and this is sure, + A signal over our hope and fear, + A pledge of the strength that shall endure-- + Having no part in our storm-tossed strife-- + A sign of union, which shall bring + Knowledge to men of their close-knit life, + The signal-fire of the king. + + His friends are the old grey glorious waves, + The wide world round, the wide world round, + That have roared with our guns and covered our graves + From Nombre Dios to Plymouth Sound; + And his crown shall shine, a central sun + Round which the planet-nations sing, + Going their ways, but linked in one, + As the ships of our sailor-king. + + Many the ships, but a single fleet; + Many the roads, but a single goal; + And a light, a light where all roads meet, + The beacon-fire of an Empire's soul; + The worth of that light his seamen know, + Through all the deaths that the storm can bring + The crown of their comrade-ship a-glow, + The signal-fire of the king. + + + + +THE FIDDLER'S FAREWELL + + + With my fiddle to my shoulder, + And my hair turning grey, + And my heart growing older + I must shuffle on my way! + Tho' there's not a hearth to greet me + I must reap as I sowed, + And--the sunset shall meet me + At the turn of the road. + + O, the whin's a dusky yellow + And the road a rosy white, + And the blackbird's call is mellow + At the falling of night; + And there's honey in the heather + Where we'll make our last abode, + My tunes and me together + At the turn of the road. + + I have fiddled for your city + Thro' market-place and inn! + I have poured forth my pity + On your sorrow and your sin! + But your riches are your burden, + And your pleasure is your goad! + I've the whin-gold for guerdon + At the turn of the road. + + Your village-lights 'll call me + As the lights of home the dead; + But a black night befall me + Ere your pillows rest my head! + God be praised, tho' like a jewel + Every cottage casement showed, + There's a star that's not so cruel + At the turn of the road. + + Nay, beautiful and kindly + Are the faces drawing nigh, + But I gaze on them blindly + And hasten, hasten by; + For O, no face of wonder + On earth has ever glowed + Like the One that waits me yonder + At the turn of the road. + + Her face is lit with splendour, + She dwells beyond the skies; + But deep, deep and tender + Are the tears in her eyes: + The angels see them glistening + In pity for my load, + And--she's waiting there, she's listening, + At the turn of the road. + + + + +TO A PESSIMIST + + + Life like a cruel mistress woos + The passionate heart of man, you say, + Only in mockery to refuse + His love, at last, and turn away. + + To me she seems a queen that knows + How great is love--but ah, how rare!-- + And, pointing heavenward ere she goes, + Gives him the rose from out her hair. + + + + +MOUNT IDA + +[This poem commemorates an event of some years ago, when a young +Englishman--still remembered by many of his contemporaries at +Oxford--went up into Mount Ida and was never seen again.] + + + I + + Not cypress, but this warm pine-plumage now + Fragrant with sap, I pluck; nor bid you weep, + Ye Muses that still haunt the heavenly brow + Of Ida, though the ascent is hard and steep: + Weep not for him who left us wrapped in sleep + At dawn beneath the holy mountain's breast + And all alone from Ilion's gleaming shore + Clomb the high sea-ward glens, fain to drink deep + Of earth's old glory from your silent crest, + Take the cloud-conquering throne + Of gods, and gaze alone + Thro' heaven. Darkling we slept who saw his face no more. + + + II + + Ah yet, in him hath Lycidas a brother, + And Adonais will not say him nay, + And Thyrsis to the breast of one sweet Mother + Welcomes him, climbing by the self-same way: + Quietly as a cloud at break of day + Up the long glens of golden dew he stole + (And surely Bion called to him afar!) + The tearful hyacinths and the greenwood spray + Clinging to keep him from the sapphire goal, + Kept of his path no trace! + Upward the yearning face + Clomb the ethereal height, calm as the morning star. + + + III + + Ah yet, incline, dear Sisters, or my song + That with the light wings of the skimming swallow + Must range the reedy slopes, will work him wrong! + And with some golden shaft do thou, Apollo, + Show the pine-shadowed path that none may follow; + For, as the blue air shuts behind a bird, + Round him closed Ida's cloudy woods and rills! + Day-long, night-long, by echoing height and hollow, + We called him, but our tumult died unheard: + Down from the scornful sky + Our faint wing-broken cry + Fluttered and perished among the many-folded hills. + + + IV + + Ay, though we clomb each faint-flushed peak of vision, + Nought but our own sad faces we divined: + Thy radiant way still laughed us to derision, + And still revengeful Echo proved unkind; + And oft our faithless hearts half feared to find + Thy cold corse in some dark mist-drenched ravine + Where the white foam flashed headlong to the sea: + How should we find thee, spirits deaf and blind + Even to the things which we had heard and seen? + Eyes that could see no more + The old light on sea and shore, + What should they hope or fear to find? They found not thee; + + + V + + For thou wast ever alien to our skies, + A wistful stray of radiance on this earth, + A changeling with deep memories in thine eyes + Mistily gazing thro' our loud-voiced mirth + To some fair land beyond the gates of birth; + Yet as a star thro' clouds, thou still didst shed + Through our dark world thy lovelier, rarer glow; + Time, like a picture of but little worth, + Before thy young hand lifelessly outspread, + At one light stroke from thee + Gleamed with Eternity; + Thou gav'st the master's touch, and we--we did not know. + + + VI + + Not though we gazed from heaven o'er Ilion + Dreaming on earth below, mistily crowned + With towering memories, and beyond her shone + The wine-dark seas Achilles heard resound! + Only, and after many days, we found + Dabbled with dew, at border of a wood + Bedded in hyacinths, open and a-glow + Thy Homer's Iliad.... Dryad tears had drowned + The rough Greek type and, as with honey or blood, + One crocus with crushed gold + Stained the great page that told + Of gods that sighed their loves on Ida, long ago. + + + VII + + See--_for a couch to their ambrosial limbs + Even as their golden load of splendour presses + The fragrant thyme, a billowing cloud up-swims + Of springing flowers beneath their deep caresses, + Hyacinth, lotus, crocus, wildernesses + Of bloom_ ... but clouds of sunlight and of dew + Dropping rich balm, round the dark pine-woods curled + That the warm wonder of their in-woven tresses, + And all the secret blisses that they knew, + Where beauty kisses truth + In heaven's deep heart of youth, + Might still be hidden, as thou art, from the heartless world. + + + VIII + + Even as we found thy book, below these rocks + Perchance that strange great eagle's feather lay, + When Ganymede, from feeding of his flocks + On Ida, vanished thro' the morning grey: + Stranger it seemed, if thou couldst cast away + Those golden musics as a thing of nought, + A dream for which no longer thou hadst need! + Ah, was it here then that the break of day + Brought thee the substance for the shadow, taught + Thy soul a swifter road + To ease it of its load + And watch this world of shadows as a dream recede? + + + IX + + We slept! Darkling we slept! Our busy schemes, + Our cold mechanic world awhile was still; + But O, their eyes are blinded even in dreams + Who from the heavenlier Powers withdraw their will: + Here did the dawn with purer light fulfil + Thy happier eyes than ours, here didst thou see + The quivering wonder-light in flower and dew, + The quickening glory of the haunted hill, + The Hamadryad beckoning from the tree. + The Naiad from the stream; + While from her long dark dream + Earth woke, trembling with life, light, beauty, through and through. + + + X + + And the everlasting miracle of things + Flowed round thee, and this dark earth opposed no bar, + And radiant faces from the flowers and springs + Dawned on thee, whispering, _Knowest thou whence_ we _are_? + Faintly thou heardst us calling thee afar + As Hylas heard, swooning beneath the wave, + Girdled with glowing arms, while wood and glen + Echoed his name beneath that rosy star; + And thy farewell came faint as from the grave + For very bliss; but we + Could neither hear nor see; + And all the hill with _Hylas! Hylas!_ rang again. + + + XI + + But there were deeper love-tales for thine ears + Than mellow-tongued Theocritus could tell: + Over him like a sea two thousand years + Had swept. They solemnized his music well! + Farewell! What word could answer but farewell, + From thee, O happy spirit, that couldst steal + So quietly from this world at break of day? + What voice of ours could break the silent spell + Beauty had cast upon thee, or reveal + The gates of sun and dew + Which oped and let thee through + And led thee heavenward by that deep enchanted way? + + + XII + + Yet here thou mad'st thy choice: Love, Wisdom, Power, + As once before young Paris, they stood here! + Beneath them Ida, like one full-blown flower, + Shed her bloom earthward thro' the radiant air + Leaving her rounded fruit, their beauty, bare + To the everlasting dawn; and, in thy palm + The golden apple of the Hesperian isle + Which thou must only yield to the Most Fair; + But not to Juno's great luxurious calm, + Nor Dian's curved white moon, + Gav'st thou the sunset's boon, + Nor to foam-bosomed Aphrodite's rose-lipped smile. + + + XIII + + Here didst thou make the eternal choice aright, + Here, in this hallowed haunt of nymph and faun, + They stood before thee in that great new light, + The three great splendours of the immortal dawn, + With all the cloudy veils of Time withdrawn + Or only glistening round the firm white snows + Of their pure beauty like the golden dew + Brushed from the feathery ferns below the lawn; + But not to cold Diana's morning rose, + Nor to great Juno's frown + Cast thou the apple down, + And, when the Paphian raised her lustrous eyes anew, + + + XIV + + Thou from thy soul didst whisper--_in that heaven + Which yearns beyond us! Lead me up the height! + How should the golden fruit to one be given + Till your three splendours in that Sun unite + Where each in each ye move like light in light? + How should I judge the rapture till I know + The pain?_ And like three waves of music there + They closed thee round, blinding thy blissful sight + With beauty and, like one roseate orb a-glow, + They bore thee on their breasts + Up the sun-smitten crests + And melted with thee smiling into the Most Fair. + + + XV + + Upward and onward, ever as ye went + The cities of the world nestled beneath + Closer, as if in love, round Ida, blent + With alien hills in one great bridal-wreath + Of dawn-flushed clouds; while, breathing with your breath + New heavens mixed with your mounting bliss. Deep eyes, + Beautiful eyes, imbrued with the world's tears + Dawned on you, beautiful gleams of Love and Death + Flowed thro' your questioning with divine replies + From that ineffable height + Dark with excess of light + Where the Ever-living dies and the All-loving hears. + + + XVI + + For thou hadst seen what tears upon man's face + Bled from the heart or burned from out the brain, + And not denied or cursed, but couldst embrace + Infinite sweetness in the heart of pain, + And heardst those universal choirs again + Wherein like waves of one harmonious sea + All our slight dreams of heaven are singing still, + And still the throned Olympians swell the strain, + And, hark, the burden, of all--_Come unto Me!_ + Sky into deepening sky + Melts with that one great cry; + And the lost doves of Ida moan on Siloa's hill. + + + XVII + + I gather all the ages in my song + And send them singing up the heights to thee! + Chord by aeonian chord the stars prolong + Their passionate echoes to Eternity: + Earth wakes, and one orchestral symphony + Sweeps o'er the quivering harp-strings of mankind; + Grief modulates into heaven, hate drowns in love, + No strife now but of love in that great sea + Of song! I dream! I dream! Mine eyes grow blind: + Chords that I not command + Escape the fainting hand; + Tears fall. Thou canst not hear. Thou'rt still too far above. + + + XVIII + + Farewell! What word should answer but farewell + From thee, O happy spirit, whose clear gaze + Discerned the path--clear, but unsearchable-- + Where Olivet sweetens, deepens, Ida's praise, + The path that strikes as thro' a sunlit haze + Through Time to that clear reconciling height + Where our commingling gleams of godhead dwell; + Strikes thro' the turmoil of our darkling days + To that great harmony where, like light in light, + Wisdom and Beauty still + Haunt the thrice-holy hill, + And Love, immortal Love ... what answer but farewell? + + + + +THE ELECTRIC TRAM + + + I + + Bluff and burly and splendid + Thro' roaring traffic-tides, + By secret lightnings attended + The land-ship hisses and glides. + And I sit on its bridge and I watch and I dream + While the world goes gallantly by, + With all its crowded houses and its colored shops a-stream + Under the June-blue sky, + Heigh, ho! + Under the June-blue sky. + + + II + + There's a loafer at the kerb with a sulphur-coloured pile + Of "Lights! Lights! Lights!" to sell; + And a flower-girl there with some lilies and a smile + By the gilt swing-doors of a drinking hell, + Where the money is rattling loud and fast, + And I catch one glimpse as the ship swings past + Of a woman with a babe at her breast + Wrapped in a ragged shawl; + She is drinking away with the rest, + And the sun shines over it all, + Heigh, ho! + The sun shines over it all! + + + III + + And a barrel-organ is playing, + Somewhere, far away, + _Abide with me_, and _The world is gone a-maying_, + And _What will the policeman say?_ + There's a glimpse of the river down an alley by a church, + And the barges with their tawny-coloured sails, + And a grim and grimy coal-wharf where the London pigeons perch + And flutter and spread their tails, + Heigh, ho! + Flutter and spread their tails. + + + IV + + O, what does it mean, all the pageant and the pity, + The waste and the wonder and the shame? + I am riding tow'rds the sunset thro' the vision of a City + Which we cloak with the stupor of a name! + I am riding thro' ten thousand thousand tragedies and terrors, + Ten million heavens that save and hells that damn; + And the lightning draws my car tow'rds the golden evening star; + And--They call it only "riding on a tram," + Heigh, ho! + They call it only "riding on a tram." + + + + +SHERWOOD + + +PERSONS OF THE DRAMA + +ROBIN Earl of Huntingdon, known as "Robin Hood." + +LITTLE JOHN } +FRIAR TUCK } +WILL SCARLET } Outlaws and followers of "Robin Hood." +REYNOLD GREENLEAF } +MUCH, THE MILLER'S SON } +ALLAN-A-DALE } + +PRINCE JOHN. +KING RICHARD, Coeur de Lion. +BLONDEL King Richard's minstrel. +OBERON King of the Fairies. +TITANIA Queen of the Fairies. +PUCK A Fairy. +THE SHERIFF OF NOTTINGHAM. +FITZWALTER Father of Marian, known as "Maid Marian." +SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF A Fool. +ARTHUR PLANTAGENET Nephew to Prince John, a boy of about ten years of age. +QUEEN ELINOR Mother of Prince John and Richard Lion-Heart. +MARIAN FITZWALTER Known as Maid Marian, betrothed to Robin Hood. +JENNY Maid to Marian. +WIDOW SCARLET Mother of Will Scarlet. +PRIORESS OF KIRKLEE. + +Fairies, merry men, serfs, peasants, mercenaries, an abbot, a baron, a +novice, nuns, courtiers, soldiers, retainers, etc. + + + + +ACT I + + +SCENE I. _Night. The borders of the forest. The smouldering embers of a +Saxon homestead. The SHERIFF and his men are struggling with a SERF._ + + SERF + + No, no, not that! not that! If you should blind me + God will repay you. Kill me out of hand! + + [_Enter PRINCE JOHN and several of his retainers._] + + JOHN + + Who is this night-jar? + + [_The retainers laugh._] + + Surely, master Sheriff, + You should have cut its tongue out, first. Its cries + Tingle so hideously across the wood + They'll wake the King in Palestine. Small wonder + That Robin Hood evades you. + + SHERIFF + + [_To the SERF._] + + Silence, dog, + Know you not better than to make this clamour + Before Prince John? + + SERF + + Prince John! It is Prince John! + For God's love save me, sir! + + JOHN + + Whose thrall is he? + + SHERIFF + + I know not, sir, but he was caught red-handed + Killing the king's deer. By the forest law + He should of rights be blinded; for, as you see, + + [_He indicates the SERF'S right hand._] + + 'Tis not his first deer at King Richard's cost. + + JOHN + + 'Twill save you trouble if you say at mine. + + SHERIFF + + Ay, sir, I pray your pardon--at _your_ cost! + His right hand lacks the thumb and arrow-finger, + And though he vows it was a falling tree + That crushed them, you may trust your Sheriff, sir, + It was the law that clipped them when he last + Hunted your deer. + + SERF + + Prince, when the Conqueror came, + They burned my father's homestead with the rest + To make the King a broader hunting-ground. + I have hunted there for food. How could I bear + To hear my hungry children crying? Prince, + They'll make good bowmen for your wars, one day. + + JOHN + + He is much too fond of 'Prince': he'll never live + To see a king. Whose thrall?--his iron collar, + Look, is the name not on it? + + SHERIFF + + Sir, the name + Is filed away, and in another hour + The ring would have been broken. He is one of those + Green adders of the moon, night-creeping thieves + Whom Huntingdon has tempted to the woods. + These desperate ruffians flee their lawful masters + And flock around the disaffected Earl + Like ragged rooks around an elm, by scores! + And now, i' faith, the sun of Huntingdon + Is setting fast. They've well nigh beggared him, + Eaten him out of house and home. They say + That, when we make him outlaw, we shall find + Nought to distrain upon, but empty cupboards. + + JOHN + + Did you not serve him once yourself? + + SHERIFF + + Oh, ay, + He was more prosperous then. But now my cupboards + Are full, and his are bare. Well, I'd think scorn + To share a crust with outcast churls and thieves, + Doffing his dignity, letting them call him + Robin, or Robin Hood, as if an Earl + Were just a plain man, which he will be soon, + When we have served our writ of outlawry! + 'Tis said he hopes much from the King's return + And swears by Lion-Heart; and though King Richard + Is brother to yourself, 'tis all the more + Ungracious, sir, to hope he should return, + And overset your rule. But then--to keep + Such base communications! Myself would think it + Unworthy of my sheriffship, much more + Unworthy a right Earl. + + JOHN + + You talk too much! + This whippet, here, slinks at his heel, you say. + Mercy may close her eyes, then. Take him off, + Blind him or what you will; and let him thank + His master for it. But wait--perhaps he knows + Where we may trap this young patrician thief. + Where is your master? + + SERF + + Where you'll never find him. + + JOHN + + Oh, ho! the dog is faithful! Take him away. + Get your red business done, I shall require + Your men to ride with me. + + SHERIFF + + [_To his men._] + + Take him out yonder, + A bow-shot into the wood, so that his clamour + Do not offend my lord. Delay no time, + The irons are hot by this. They'll give you light + Enough to blind him by. + + SERF + + [_Crying out and struggling as he is forced back into the forest._] + + No, no, not that! + God will repay you! Kill me out of hand! + + SHERIFF + + [_To PRINCE JOHN._] + + There is a kind of justice in all this. + The irons being heated in that fire, my lord, + Which was his hut, aforetime. + + [_Some of the men take the glowing irons from the fire and follow + into the wood._] + + There's no need + To parley with him, either. The snares are laid + For Robin Hood. He goes this very night + To his betrothal feast. + + JOHN + + Betrothal feast! + + SHERIFF + + At old Fitzwalter's castle, sir. + + JOHN + + Ha! ha! + There will be one more guest there than he thought! + Ourselves are riding thither. We intended + My Lady Marian for a happier fate + Than bride to Robin Hood. Your plans are laid + To capture him? + + SHERIFF + + [_Consequentially._] + + It was our purpose, sir, + To serve the writ of outlawry upon him + And capture him as he came forth. + + JOHN + + That's well. + Then--let him disappear--you understand? + + SHERIFF + + I have your warrant, sir? Death? A great Earl? + + JOHN + + Why, first declare him outlawed at his feast! + 'Twill gladden the tremulous heart of old Fitzwalter + With his prospective son-in-law; and then-- + No man will overmuch concern himself + Whither an outlaw goes. You understand? + + SHERIFF + + It shall be done, sir. + + JOHN + + But the Lady Marian! + By heaven, I'll take her. I'll banish old Fitzwalter + If he prevent my will in this. You'll bring + How many men to ring the castle round? + + SHERIFF + + A good five score of bowmen. + + JOHN + + Then I'll take her + This very night as hostage for Fitzwalter, + Since he consorts with outlaws. These grey rats + Will gnaw my kingdom's heart out. For 'tis mine, + This England, now or later. They that hold + By Richard, as their absent king, would make + My rule a usurpation. God, am I + My brother's keeper? + + [_There is a cry in the forest from the SERF, who immediately + afterwards appears at the edge of the glade, shaking + himself free from his guards. He seizes a weapon + and rushes at PRINCE JOHN. One of the retainers runs + him through and he falls at the PRINCE'S feet._] + + JOHN + + That's a happy answer! + + SHERIFF + + [_Stooping over the body._] + + He is dead. + + JOHN + + I am sorry. It were better sport + To send him groping like a hoodman blind + Through Sherwood, whimpering for his Robin. Come, + I'll ride with you to this betrothal feast. + Now for my Lady Marian! + + [_Exeunt all. A pause. The scene darkens. Shadowy figures creep + out from the thickets, of old men, women and children._] + + FIRST OLD MAN + + [_Stretching his arms up to Heaven._] + + God, am I + My brother's keeper? Witness, God in heaven, + He said it and not we--Cain's word, he said it! + + FIRST WOMAN + + [_Kneeling by the body._] + + O Father, Father, and the blood of Abel + Cries to thee! + + A BLIND MAN + + Is there any light here still? + I feel a hot breath on my face. The dark + Is better for us all. I am sometimes glad + They blinded me those many years ago. + Princes are princes; and God made the world + For one or two it seems. Well, I am glad + I cannot see His world. + + FIRST WOMAN + + [_Still by the body and whispering to the others._] + + Keep him away. + 'Tis as we thought. The dead man is his son. + Keep him away, poor soul. He need not know. + + [_Some of the men carry the body among the thickets._] + + A CHILD + + Mother, I'm hungry, I'm hungry! + + FIRST OLD MAN + + There's no food + For any of us to-night. The snares are empty, + And I can try no more. + + THE BLIND MAN + + Wait till my son + Comes back. He's a rare hunter is my boy. + You need not fret, poor little one. My son + Is much too quick and clever for the Sheriff. + He'll bring you something good. Why, ha! ha! ha! + Friends, I've a thought--the Sheriff's lit the fire + Ready for us to roast our meat. Come, come, + Let us be merry while we may! My boy + Will soon come back with food for the old folks. + The fire burns brightly, eh? + + SECOND OLD MAN + + The fire that feeds + On hope and eats our hearts away. They've burnt + Everything, everything! + + THE BLIND MAN + + Ah, princes are princes! + But when the King comes home from the Crusade, + We shall have better times. + + FIRST OLD MAN + + Ay, when the King + Comes home from the Crusade. + + CHILD + + Mother, I'm hungry. + + SECOND WOMAN + + Oh, but if I could only find a crust + Left by the dogs. Masters, the child will starve. + We must have food. + + THE BLIND MAN + + I tell you when my boy + Comes back, we shall have plenty! + + FIRST WOMAN + + God pity thee! + + THE BLIND MAN + + What dost thou mean? + + SECOND WOMAN + + Masters, the child will starve. + + FIRST OLD MAN + + Hist, who comes here--a forester? + + THE BLIND MAN + + We'd best + Slip back into the dark. + + FIRST WOMAN + + [_Excitedly._] + + No, stay! All's well. + There's Shadow-of-a-Leaf, good Lady Marian's fool + Beside him! + + THE BLIND MAN + + Ah, they say there's fairy blood + In Shadow-of-a-Leaf. But I've no hopes of more + From him, than wild bees' honey-bags. + + [_Enter LITTLE JOHN, a giant figure, leading a donkey, laden + with a sack. On the other side, SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + trips, a slender figure in green trunk-hose and doublet. + He is tickling the donkey's ears with a long fern._] + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Gee! Whoa! + Neddy, my boy, have you forgot the Weaver, + And how Titania tickled your long ears? + Ha! ha! Don't ferns remind you? + + LITTLE JOHN + + Friends, my master + Hath sent me to you, fearing ye might hunger. + + FIRST OLD MAN + + Thy master? + + LITTLE JOHN + + Robin Hood. + + SECOND WOMAN + + [_Falling on her knees._] + + God bless his name. + God bless the kindly name of Robin Hood. + + LITTLE JOHN + + [_Giving them food._] + + 'Tis well nigh all that's left him; and to-night + He goes to his betrothal feast. + + [_All the outcasts except the first old man exeunt._] + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + [_Pointing to the donkey._] + + Now look, + There's nothing but that shadow of a cross + On his grey back to tell you of the palms + That once were strewn before my Lord, the King. + Won't ferns, won't branching ferns, do just as well? + There's only a dream to ride my donkey now! + But, Neddy, I'll lead you home and cry--HOSANNA! + We'll thread the glad Gate Beautiful again, + Though now there's only a Fool to hold your bridle + And only moonlit ferns to strew your path, + And the great King is fighting for a grave + In lands beyond the sea. Come, Neddy, come, + Hosanna! + + [_Exit SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF with the donkey. He strews ferns + before it as he goes._] + + FIRST OLD MAN + + 'Tis a strange creature, master! Thinkest + There's fairy blood in him? + + LITTLE JOHN + + 'Twas he that brought + Word of your plight to Robin Hood. He flits + Like Moonshine thro' the forest. He'll be home + Before I know it. I must be hastening back. + This makes a sad betrothal night. + + FIRST OLD MAN + + That minds me, + Couched in the thicket yonder, we overheard + The Sheriff tell Prince John.... + + LITTLE JOHN + + Prince John! + + FIRST OLD MAN + + You'd best + Warn Robin Hood. They're laying a trap for him. + Ay! Now I mind me of it! I heard 'em say + They'd take him at the castle. + + LITTLE JOHN + + To-night? + + FIRST OLD MAN + + To-night! + Fly, lad, for God's dear love. Warn Robin Hood! + Fly like the wind, or you'll be there too late. + And yet you'd best be careful. There's five score + In ambush round the castle. + + LITTLE JOHN + + I'll be there + An if I have to break five hundred heads! + + [_He rushes off thro' the forest. The old man goes into the thicket + after the others. The scene darkens. A soft light, as + of the moon, appears between the ferns to the right of the + glade, showing OBERON and TITANIA._] + + TITANIA + + Yet one night more the gates of fairyland + Are opened by a mortal's kindly deed. + + OBERON + + Last night the gates were shut, and I heard weeping! + Men, women, children, beat upon the gates + That guard our happy world. They could not sleep. + Titania, must not that be terrible, + When mortals cannot sleep? + + TITANIA + + Yet one night more + Dear Robin Hood has opened the gates wide + And their poor weary souls can enter in. + + OBERON + + Yet one night more we woodland elves may steal + Out thro' the gates. I fear the time will come + When they must close for ever; and we no more + Shall hold our Sherwood revels. + + TITANIA + + Only love + And love's kind sacrifice can open them. + For when a mortal hurts himself to help + Another, then he thrusts the gates wide open + Between his world and ours. + + OBERON + + Ay, but that's rare, + That kind of love, Titania, for the gates + Are almost always closed. + + TITANIA + + Yet one night more! + Hark, how the fairy host begins to sing + Within the gates. Wait here and we shall see + What weary souls by grace of Robin Hood + This night shall enter Dreamland. See, they come! + + [_The soft light deepens in the hollow among the ferns and the ivory + gates of Dreamland are seen swinging open. The fairy + host is heard, singing to invite the mortals to enter._] + + [_Song of the fairies._] + + The Forest shall conquer! The Forest shall conquer! + The Forest shall conquer! + Your world is growing old; + But a Princess sleeps in the greenwood, + Whose hair is brighter than gold. + + The Forest shall conquer! The Forest shall conquer! + The Forest shall conquer! + O hearts that bleed and burn, + Her lips are redder than roses, + Who sleeps in the faery fern. + + The Forest shall conquer! The Forest shall conquer! + The Forest shall conquer! + By the Beauty that wakes anew + Milk-white with the fragrant hawthorn + In the drip of the dawn-red dew. + + The Forest shall conquer! The Forest shall conquer! + The Forest shall conquer! + O hearts that are weary of pain, + Come back to your home in Faerie + And wait till she wakes again. + + [_The victims of the forest-laws steal out of the thicket once + more--dark, distorted, lame, blind, serfs with iron collars + round their necks, old men, women and children; and as the fairy + song breaks into chorus they pass in procession thro' the + beautiful gates. The gates slowly close. The fairy song is heard + as dying away in the distance._] + + TITANIA + + [_Coming out into the glade and holding up her hands to the evening + star beyond the tree-tops._] + + Shine, shine, dear star of Love, yet one night more. + + +SCENE II. _A banqueting hall in FITZWALTER'S castle. The guests are +assembling for the betrothal feast of ROBIN and MARIAN. Some of ROBIN +HOOD'S men, clad in Lincoln green, are just arriving at the doors. +SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF runs forward to greet them._ + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Come in, my scraps of Lincoln green; come in, + My slips of greenwood. You're much wanted here! + Head, heart and eyes, we are all pent up in walls + Of stone--nothing but walls on every side-- + And not a rose to break them--big blind walls, + Neat smooth stone walls! Come in, my ragged robins; + Come in, my jolly minions of the moon, + My straggling hazel-boughs! Hey, bully friar, + Come in, my knotted oak! Ho, little Much, + Come in, my sweet green linnet. Come, my cushats, + Larks, yellow-hammers, fern-owls, Oh, come in, + Come in, my Dian's foresters, and drown us + With may, with blossoming may! + + FITZWALTER + + Out, Shadow-of-a-Leaf! + Welcome, welcome, good friends of Huntingdon, + Or Robin Hood, by whatsoever name + You best may love him. + + CRIES + + Robin! Robin! Robin! + + [_Enter ROBIN HOOD._] + + FITZWALTER + + Robin, so be it! Myself I am right glad + To call him at this bright betrothal feast + My son. + + [_Lays a hand on ROBIN'S shoulder._] + + Yet, though I would not cast a cloud + Across our happy gathering, you'll forgive + An old man and a father if he sees + All your glad faces thro' a summer mist + Of sadness. + + ROBIN + + Sadness? Yes, I understand. + + FITZWALTER + + No, Robin, no, you cannot understand. + + ROBIN + + Where's Marian? + + FITZWALTER + + Ay, that's all you think of, boy. + But I must say a word to all of you + Before she comes. + + ROBIN + + Why--what?... + + FITZWALTER + + No need to look + So startled; but it is no secret here; + For many of you are sharers of his wild + Adventures. Now I hoped an end had come + To these, until another rumour reached me, + This very day, of yet another prank. + You know, you know, how perilous a road + My Marian must ride if Huntingdon + Tramples the forest-laws beneath his heel + And, in the thin disguise of Robin Hood, + Succours the Saxon outlaws, makes his house + A refuge for them, lavishes his wealth + To feed their sick and needy. + + [_The SHERIFF and two of his men appear in the great doorway + out of sight of the guests._] + + SHERIFF + + [_Whispering._] + + Not yet! keep back! + One of you go--see that the guards are set! + He must not slip us. + + FITZWALTER + + Oh, I know his heart + Is gold, but this is not an age of gold; + And those who have must keep, or lose the power + Even to help themselves. No--he must doff + His green disguise of Robin Hood for ever, + And wear his natural coat of Huntingdon. + + ROBIN + + Ah, which is the disguise? Day after day + We rise and put our social armour on, + A different mask for every friend; but steel + Always to case our hearts. We are all so wrapped, + So swathed, so muffled in habitual thought + That now I swear we do not know our souls + Or bodies from their winding-sheets; but Custom, + Custom, the great god Custom, all day long + Shovels the dirt upon us where we lie + Buried alive and dreaming that we stand + Upright and royal. Sir, I have great doubts + About this world, doubts if we have the right + To sit down here for this betrothal feast + And gorge ourselves with plenty, when we know + That for the scraps and crumbs which we let fall + And never miss, children would kiss our hands + And women weep in gratitude. Suppose + A man fell wounded at your gates, you'd not + Pass on and smile and leave him there to die. + And can a few short miles of distance blind you? + Miles, nay, a furlong is enough to close + The gates of mercy. Must we thrust our hands + Into the wounds before we can believe? + Oh, is our sight so thick and gross? We came, + We saw, we conquered with the Conqueror. + We gave ourselves broad lands; and when our king + Desired a wider hunting ground we set + Hundreds of Saxon homes a-blaze and tossed + Women and children back into the fire + If they but wrung their hands against our will. + And so we made our forest, and its leaves + Were pitiful, more pitiful than man. + They gave our homeless victims the same refuge + And happy hiding place they give the birds + And foxes. Then we made our forest-laws, + And he that dared to hunt, even for food, + Even on the ground where we had burned his hut, + The ground we had drenched with his own kindred's blood, + Poor foolish churl, why, we put out his eyes + With red-hot irons, cut off both his hands, + Torture him with such horrors that ... Christ God, + How can I help but fight against it all? + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Ah, gossips, if the Conqueror had but burned + Everything with four walls, hut, castle, palace, + And turned the whole wide world into a forest, + Drenched us with may, we might be happy then! + With sweet blue wood-smoke curling thro' the boughs, + And just a pigeon's flap to break the silence, + And ferns, of course, there's much to make men happy. + Well, well, the forest conquers at the last! + I saw a thistle in the castle courtyard, + A purple thistle breaking thro' the pavement, + Yesterday; and it's wonderful how soon + Some creepers pick these old grey walls to pieces. + These nunneries and these monasteries now, + They don't spring up like flowers, so I suppose + Old mother Nature wins the race at last. + + FITZWALTER + + Robin, my heart is with you, but I know + A hundred ages will not change this earth. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + [_With a candle in his hand._] + + Gossip, suppose the sun goes out like this. + Pouf! + + [_Blows it out._] + + Stranger things have happened. + + FITZWALTER + + Silence, fool!... + So, if you share your wealth with all the world + Earth will be none the better, and my poor girl + Will suffer for it. Where you got the gold + You have already lavished on the poor + Heaven knows. + + FRIAR TUCK + + Oh, by the mass and the sweet moon + Of Sherwood, so do I? That's none so hard + A riddle! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Ah, Friar Tuck, we know, we know! + Under the hawthorn bough, and at the foot + Of rainbows, that's where fairies hide their gold. + Cut me a silver penny out of the moon + Next time you're there. + + [_Whispers._] + + Now tell me, have you brought + Your quarter-staff? + + FRIAR TUCK + + [_Whispering._] + + Hush! hush. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Oh, mum's the word! + I see it! + + FITZWALTER + + Believe me, Robin, there's one way + And only one--patience! When Lion-Heart + Comes home from the Crusade, he will not brook + This blot upon our chivalry. Prince John + Is dangerous to a heart like yours. Beware + Of rousing him. Meanwhile, your troth holds good; + But, till the King comes home from the Crusade + You must not claim your bride. + + ROBIN + + So be it, then.... + When the great King comes home from the Crusade!... + + FITZWALTER + + Meanwhile for Marian's sake and mine, I pray + Do nothing rash. + + [_Enter WIDOW SCARLET. She goes up to ROBIN HOOD._] + + WIDOW SCARLET + + Are you that Robin Hood + They call the poor man's friend? + + ROBIN + + I am. + + WIDOW SCARLET + + They told me, + They told me I should find you here. They told me! + + ROBIN + + Come, mother, what's the trouble? + + WIDOW SCARLET + + Sir, my son + Will Scarlet lies in gaol at Nottingham + For killing deer in Sherwood! Sir, they'll hang him. + He only wanted food for him and me! + They'll kill him, I tell you, they'll kill him. I can't help + Crying it out. He's all I have, all! Save him! + I'll pray for you, I'll ... + + ROBIN + + [_To FITZWALTER, as he raises WIDOW SCARLET gently to her + feet._] + + Sir, has not the King + Come home from the Crusade? Does not your heart + Fling open wide its gates to welcome him? + + FITZWALTER + + Robin, you set me riddles. Follow your conscience. + Do what seems best. + + ROBIN + + I hope there is a way, + Mother. I knew Will Scarlet. Better heart + There never beat beneath a leather jerkin. + He loved the forest and the forest loves him; + And if the lads that wear the forest's livery + Of living green should happen to break out + And save Will Scarlet (as on my soul I swear, + Mother, they shall!) why, that's a matter none + Shall answer for to prince, or king, or God, + But you and Robin Hood; and if the judgment + Strike harder upon us than the heavenly smile + Of sunshine thro' the greenwood, may it fall + Upon my head alone. + + [_Enter the SHERIFF, with two of his men._] + + SHERIFF + + [_Reads._] + + In the King's name! + Thou, Earl of Huntingdon, by virtue of this writ art hereby + attainted and deprived of thine earldom, thy lands and all thy + goods and chattels whatsoever and whereas thou hast at divers + times trespassed against the officers of the king by force of + arms, thou art hereby outlawed and banished the realm. + + ROBIN + + That's well. + + [_He laughs._] + + It puts an end to the great question + Of how I shall dispose my wealth, Fitzwalter. + But "banished"?--No! that is beyond their power + While I have power to breathe, unless they banish + The kind old oaks of Sherwood. They may call it + "Outlawed," perhaps. + + FITZWALTER + + Who let the villain in + Thro' doors of mine? + + CRIES + + Out with him! Out with him! + + [_The guests draw swords and the SHERIFF retreats thro' the doorway + with his men._] + + ROBIN + + Stop! + Put up your swords! He had his work to do. + + [_WIDOW SCARLET falls sobbing at his feet._] + + WIDOW SCARLET + + O master, master, who will save my son, + My son? + + ROBIN + + [_Raising her._] + + Why, mother, this is but a dream, + This poor fantastic strutting show of law! + And you shall wake with us in Sherwood Forest + And find Will Scarlet in your arms again. + Come, cheerly, cheerly, we shall overcome + All this. Hark! + + [_A bugle sounds in the distance. There is a scuffle in the doorway + and LITTLE JOHN bursts in with his head bleeding._] + + LITTLE JOHN + + Master, master, come away! + They are setting a trap for thee, drawing their lines + All round the castle. + + ROBIN + + How now, Little John, + They have wounded thee! Art hurt? + + LITTLE JOHN + + No, no, that's nothing. + Only a bloody cockscomb. Come, be swift, + Or, if thou wert a fox, thou'dst never slip + Between 'em. Ah, hear that? + + [_Another bugle sounds from another direction._] + + That's number two. + Two sides cut off already. When the third + Sounds--they will have thee, sure as eggs is eggs. + Prince John is there, Fitzwalter cannot save 'ee. + They'll burn the castle down. + + ROBIN + + Prince John is there? + + LITTLE JOHN + + Ay, and my lord Fitzwalter had best look + Well to my mistress Marian, if these ears + Heard right as I came creeping thro' their lines. + Look well to her, my lord, look well to her. + Come, master, come, for God's sake, come away. + + FITZWALTER + + Robin, this is thy rashness. I warned thee, boy! + Prince John! Nay, that's too perilous a jest + For even a prince to play with me. Come, Robin, + You must away and quickly. + + ROBIN + + Let me have + One word with Marian. + + LITTLE JOHN + + It would be the last + On earth. Come, if you ever wish to see + Her face again. + + FITZWALTER + + Come, Robin, are you mad? + You'll bring us all to ruin! + + [_He opens a little door in the wall._] + + The secret passage, + This brings you out by Much the Miller's wheel, + Thro' an otter's burrow in the river bank. + Come, quick, or you'll destroy us! Take this lanthorn. + If you're in danger, slip into the stream + And let it carry you down into the heart + Of Sherwood. Come now, quickly, you must go! + + ROBIN + + The old cave, lads, in Sherwood, you know where + To find me. Friar Tuck, bring Widow Scarlet + Thither to-morrow, with a word or two + From Lady Marian! + + FITZWALTER + + Quickly, quickly, go. + + [_He pushes ROBIN and LITTLE JOHN into the opening and shuts + the door. A pause._] + + Oh, I shall pay for this, this cursed folly! + Henceforth I swear I wash my hands of him! + + [_Enter MARIAN, from a door on the right above the banqueting + hall. She pauses, pale and frightened, on the broad + steps leading down._] + + MARIAN + + Father, where's Robin? + + FITZWALTER + + Child, I bade you stay + Until I called you. + + MARIAN + + Something frightened me! + Father, where's Robin? Where's Robin? + + FITZWALTER + + Hush, Marian, hark! + + [_All stand listening._] + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + [_Stealing to the foot of the stairs and whispering to LADY MARIAN._] + + Lady, they're all so silent now. I'll tell you + I had a dream last night--there was a man + That bled to death, because of four grey walls + And a black-hooded nun. + + FITZWALTER + + [_Angrily._] + + Hist, Shadow-of-a-Leaf! + + [_The third bugle sounds. There is a clamour at the doors. + Enter PRINCE JOHN and his retainers._] + + JOHN + + [_Mockingly._] + + Now this is fortunate! I come in time + To see--Oh, what a picture! Lady Marian, + Forgive me--coming suddenly out of the dark + And seeing you there, robed in that dazzling white + Above these verdant gentlemen, I feel + Like one that greets the gracious evening star + Thro' a gap in a great wood. + Is aught amiss? + Why are you all so silent? Ah, my good, + My brave Fitzwalter, I most fervently + Trust I am not inopportune. + + FITZWALTER + + My lord, + I am glad that you can jest. I am sadly grieved + And sorely disappointed in that youth + Who has incurred your own displeasure. + + JOHN + + Ah? + Your future son-in-law? + + FITZWALTER + + Never on earth! + He is outlawed-- + + MARIAN + + Outlawed! + + FITZWALTER + + And I wash my hands + Of Huntingdon. His shadow shall not darken + My doors again! + + JOHN + + That's vehement! Ha! ha! + And what does Lady Marian say? + + MARIAN + + My father + Speaks hastily. I am not so unworthy. + + FITZWALTER + + Unworthy? + + MARIAN + + Yes, unworthy as to desert him + Because he is in trouble--the bravest man + In England since the days of Hereward. + You know why he is outlawed! + + FITZWALTER + + [_To PRINCE JOHN._] + + Sir, she speaks + As the spoilt child of her old father's dotage. + Give her no heed. She shall not meet with him + On earth again, and till she promise this, + She'll sun herself within the castle garden + And never cross the draw-bridge. + + MARIAN + + Then I'll swim + The moat! + + FRIAR TUCK + + Ha! ha! well spoken. + + MARIAN + + Oh, you forget, + Father, you quite forget there is a King; + And, when the King comes home from the Crusade, + Will you forget Prince John and change once more? + + [_Murmurs of assent from the FORESTERS._] + + JOHN + + Enough of this. + Though I be prince, I am vice-gerent too! + Fitzwalter, I would have some private talk + With you and Lady Marian. Bid your guests + Remove a little-- + + FITZWALTER + + I'll lead them all within! + And let them make what cheer they may. Come, friends. + + [_He leads them up the stairs to the inner room._] + + My lord, I shall return immediately! + + [_Exeunt FITZWALTER and the guests._] + + JOHN + + Marian! + + MARIAN + + My lord! + + JOHN + + [_Drawing close to her._] + + I have come to urge a plea + On your behalf as well as on my own! + Listen, you may not know it--I must tell you. + I have watched your beauty growing like a flower, + With--why should I not say it--worship; yes, + Marian, I will not hide it. + + MARIAN + + Sir, you are mad! + Sir, and your bride, your bride, not three months wedded! + You cannot mean ... + + JOHN + + Listen to me! Ah, Marian, + You'd be more merciful if you knew all! + D'you think that princes wed to please themselves? + + MARIAN + + Sir, English maidens do; and I am plighted + Not to a prince, but to an outlawed man. + + JOHN + + Listen to me! One word! Marian, one word! + I never meant you harm! Indeed, what harm + Could come of this? Is not your father poor? + I'd make him rich! Is not your lover outlawed? + I'd save him from the certain death that waits him. + You say the forest-laws afflict your soul + And his--you say you'd die for their repeal! + Well--I'll repeal them. All the churls in England + Shall bless your name and mix it in their prayers + With heaven itself. + + MARIAN + + The price? + + JOHN + + You call it that! + To let me lay the world before your feet, + To let me take this little hand in mine. + Why should I hide my love from you? + + MARIAN + + No more, + I'll hear no more! You are a prince, you say? + + JOHN + + One word--suppose it some small sacrifice, + To save those churls for whom you say your heart + Bleeds; yet you will not lift your little finger + To save them! And what hinders you?--A breath, + A dream, a golden rule! Can you not break it + For a much greater end? + + MARIAN + + I'd die to save them. + + JOHN + + Then live to save them. + + MARIAN + + No, you will not let me; + D'you think that bartering my soul will help + To save another? If there's no way but this, + Then through my lips those suffering hundreds cry, + We choose the suffering. All that is good in them, + All you have left, all you have not destroyed, + Cries out against you: and I'll go to them, + Suffer and toil and love and die with them + Rather than touch your hand. You over-rate + Your power to hurt our souls. You are mistaken! + There is a golden rule! + + JOHN + + And with such lips + You take to preaching! I was a fool to worry + Your soul with reason. With hair like yours--it's hopeless! + But Marian--you shall hear me. + + [_He catches her in his arms._] + + Yes, by God, + Marian, you shall! I love you. + + MARIAN + + [_Struggling._] + + You should not live! + + JOHN + + One kiss, then! Devil take it. + + [_Enter FITZWALTER above._] + + MARIAN + + [_Wresting herself free._] + + You should not live! + Were I a man and not a helpless girl + You should not live! + + JOHN + + Come, now, that's very wicked. + See how these murderous words affright your father. + My good Fitzwalter, there's no need to look + So ghastly. For your sake and hers and mine + I have been trying to make your girl forget + The name of Huntingdon. A few short months + At our gay court would blot his memory out! + I promise her a life of dazzling pleasures, + And, in return she flies at me--a tigress-- + Clamouring for my blood! Try to persuade her! + + FITZWALTER + + My lord, you are very good. She must decide + Herself. + + JOHN + + [_Angrily._] + + I'll not be trifled with! I hold + The hand of friendship out and you evade it, + The moment I am gone, back comes your outlaw. + You say you have no power with your own child! + Well, then I'll take her back this very night; + Back to the court with me. How do I know + What treasons you are hatching here? I'll take her + As hostage for yourself. + + FITZWALTER + + My lord, you jest! + I have sworn to you. + + JOHN + + No more! If you be loyal, + What cause have you to fear? + + FITZWALTER + + My lord, I'll give + A hundred other pledges; but not this. + + JOHN + + By heaven, will you dictate your terms to me? + I say that she shall come back to the court + This very night! Ho, there, my men. + + [_Enter JOHN'S retainers._] + + Escort + This lady back with us. + + FITZWALTER + + Back there, keep back. Prince or no prince, + I say she shall not go! + + [_He draws his sword._] + + I'd rather see her + Begging in rags with outlawed Huntingdon + Than that one finger of yours should soil her glove. + + JOHN + + So here's an end of fawning, here's the truth, + My old white-bearded hypocrite. Come, take her, + Waste no more time. Let not the old fool daunt you + With that great skewer. + + FITZWALTER + + [_As JOHN'S men advance._] + + By God, since you will have it, + Since you will drive me to my last resort, + Break down my walls, and hound me to the forest, + This is the truth! Out of my gates! Ho, help! + A Robin Hood! A Robin Hood! + + [_There is a clamour from the upper room. The doors are flung + open and the FORESTERS appear at the head of the steps._] + + FRIAR TUCK + + [_Coming down into the hall and brandishing his quarter-staff._] + + A Robin? + Who calls on Robin Hood? His men are here + To answer. + + FITZWALTER + + Drive these villains out of my gates. + + FRIAR TUCK + + [_To PRINCE JOHN._] + + Sir, I perceive you are a man of wisdom, + So let me counsel you. There's not a lad + Up yonder, but at four-score yards can shoot + A swallow on the wing. They have drunken deep. + I cannot answer but their hands might loose + Their shafts before they know it. Now shall I give + The word? Ready, my lads! + + [_The FORESTERS make ready to shoot. JOHN hesitates for a + moment._] + + JOHN + + My Lady Marian, + One word, and then I'll take my leave of you! + + [_She pays no heed._] + + Farewell, then! I have five-score men at hand! + And they shall be but lightning to the hell + Of my revenge, Fitzwalter. I will not leave + One stone upon another. From this night's work + Shall God Himself not save you. + + [_Exeunt JOHN and his men._] + + FRIAR TUCK + + [_As they go out._] + + My Lord Fitzwalter! + I have confessed him! Shall I bid 'em shoot? + 'Twill save a world of trouble. + + FITZWALTER + + No; or the King + Himself will come against me. Follow them out, + Drive them out of my gates, then raise the drawbridge + And let none cross. Oh, I foresaw, foretold! + Robin has wrecked us all! + + [_Exeunt the FORESTERS and FITZWALTER. SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + remains alone with MARIAN._] + + MARIAN + + [_She flings herself down on a couch and buries her head in her arms._] + + O Robin, Robin, + I cannot lose you now! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + [_Sitting at her feet. The lights grow dim._] + + Ah, well, the prince + Promised to break the walls down. Don't you think + These villains are a sort of ploughshare, lady, + And where they plough, who knows what wheat may spring! + The lights are burning low and very low; + So, Lady Marian, let me tell my dream. + There was a forester that bled to death + Because of four grey walls and a black nun + Whose face I could not see--but, oh, beware! + Though I am but your fool, your Shadow-of-a-Leaf, + Dancing before the wild winds of the future, + I feel them thrilling through my tattered wits + Long ere your wisdom feels them. My poor brain + Is like a harp hung in a willow-tree + Swept by the winds of fate. I am but a fool, + But oh, beware of that black-hooded nun. + + MARIAN + + This is no time for jesting, Shadow-of-a-Leaf. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + The lights are burning low. Do you not feel + A cold breath on your face? + + MARIAN + + Fling back that shutter! + Look out and tell me what is happening. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + [_Flinging back the shutter._] + + Look, + Look, gossip, how the moon comes dancing in. + Ah, they have driven Prince John across the drawbridge. + They are raising it, now! + + [_There are cries in the distance, then a heavy sound of chains + clanking and silence. SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF turns from + the window and stands in the stream of moonlight, + pointing to the door on the left._] + + Look! Look! + + MARIAN + + [_Starting up with a cry of fear._] + + Ah! + + [_The tall figure of a nun glides into the moonlit hall and throwing + back her hood reveals the face of QUEEN ELINOR._] + + ELINOR + + Lady Marion, + Tell me quickly, where is Huntingdon hiding? + + MARIAN + + The Queen! + + ELINOR + + Yes! Yes! I donned this uncouth garb + To pass through your besiegers. If Prince John + Discover it, all is lost. Come, tell me quickly, + Where is Robin? + + MARIAN + + Escaped, I hope. + + ELINOR + + Not here? + + MARIAN + + No! + + ELINOR + + Come, dear Lady Marian, do not doubt me. + I am here to save you both. + + MARIAN + + He is not here. + + ELINOR + + Ah, but you know where I may find him, Marian. + All will be lost if you delay to tell me + Where I may speak with him. He is in peril. + By dawn Prince John will have five hundred men + Beleaguering the castle. You are all ruined + Unless you trust me! Armies will scour the woods + To hunt him down. Even now he may be wounded, + Helpless to save himself. + + MARIAN + + Wounded! + + ELINOR + + Dear child, + Take me to him. Here, on this holy cross, + My mother's dying gift, I swear to you + I wish to save him. + + MARIAN + + Oh, but how? + + ELINOR + + Trust me! + + MARIAN + + Wounded! He may be wounded! Oh, if I could, + I'd go to him! I am helpless, prisoned here. + My father ... + + ELINOR + + I alone can save your father. + Give me your word that if I can persuade him, + You'll lead me to your lover's hiding place, + And let me speak with him. + + [_Enter FITZWALTER._] + + Ah, my Lord Fitzwalter! + + FITZWALTER + + The queen! O madam, madam, I am driven + Beyond myself. This girl, this foolish girl + Has brought us all to ruin. This Huntingdon, + As I foresaw, foresaw, foretold, foretold, + Has dragged me down with him. + + ELINOR + + I am on your side, + If you will hear me; and you yet may gain + A son in Robin Hood. + + FITZWALTER + + Madam, I swear + I have done with him. I pray you do not jest; + But if you'll use your power to save my lands ... + I was provoked!... + Prince John required this child here-- + + ELINOR + + Oh, I know! + But you'll forgive him that! I do not wonder + That loveliness like hers-- + + FITZWALTER + + Ay, but you'll pardon + A father's natural anger. Madam, I swear + I was indeed provoked. But you'll assure him + I've washed my hands of Huntingdon. + + MARIAN + + And yet + His men are, even now, guarding your walls! + Father, you cannot, you shall not-- + + FITZWALTER + + Oh, be silent! + Who wrapt me in this tangle? Are you bent + On driving me out in my old age to seek + Shelter in caves and woods? + + ELINOR + + My good Fitzwalter, + It has not come to that! If you will trust me + All will be well; but I must speak a word + With Robin Hood. + + FITZWALTER + + You! + + ELINOR + + Oh, I have a reason. + Your daughter knows his hiding place. + + FITZWALTER + + She knows! + + ELINOR + + Oh, trust them both for that. I am risking much! + To-morrow she shall guide me there. This bird + Being flown, trust me to make your peace with John. + + FITZWALTER + + But--Marian! + + ELINOR + + She'll be safer far with Robin, + Than loitering here until your roof-tree burns. + I think you know it. Fitzwalter, I can save you, + I swear it on this cross. + + FITZWALTER + + But--Marian! Marian! + + ELINOR + + Your castle wrapt in flame!... + There's nought to fear, + If she could--Marian, once, at a court masque, + You wore a page's dress of Lincoln green, + And a green hood that muffled half your face, + I could have sworn 'twas Robin come again-- + He was my page, you know-- + Wear it to-morrow--go, child, bid your maid + Make ready--we'll set out betimes. + + MARIAN + + [_Going up to her father._] + + I'll go, + If you will let me, father. He may be wounded! + Father, forgive me. Let me go to him. + + ELINOR + + Go, child, first do my bidding. He'll consent + When you return. + + [_Exit MARIAN._] + + My dear good friend Fitzwalter, + Trust me, _I_ have some power with Huntingdon. + All shall be as you wish. I'll let her guide me, + But--as for her--she shall not even see him + Unless you wish. Trust me to wind them all + Around my little finger. + + FITZWALTER + + It is dark here. + Let us within. Madam, I think you are right. + And you'll persuade Prince John? + + ELINOR + + [_As they go up the steps._] + + I swear by this, + This holy cross, my mother's dying gift! + + FITZWALTER + + It's very sure he'd burn the castle down. + + [_Exeunt._] + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + [_Coming out into the moonlight and staring up after them._] + + The nun! The nun! They'll whip me if I speak, + For I am only Shadow-of-a-Leaf, the Fool. + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +ACT II + + +_SCENE I. Sherwood Forest: An open glade, showing on the right the mouth +of the outlaw's cave. It is about sunset. The giant figure of LITTLE +JOHN comes out of the cave, singing._ + + LITTLE JOHN + + [_Sings._] + + + When Spring comes back to England + And crowns her brows with may, + Round the merry moonlit world + She goes the greenwood way. + + [_He stops and calls in stentorian tones._] + + Much! Much! Much! Where has he vanished now, + Where has that monstrous giant the miller's son + Hidden himself? + + [_Enter MUCH, a dwarf-like figure, carrying a large bundle of ferns._] + + MUCH + + Hush, hush, child, here I am! + And here's our fairy feather-beds, ha! ha! + Come, praise me, praise me, for a thoughtful parent. + There's nothing makes a better bed than ferns + Either for sleeping sound or rosy dreams. + + LITTLE JOHN + + Take care the fern-seed that the fairies use + Get not among thy yellow locks, my Titan, + Or thou'lt wake up invisible. There's none + Too much of Much already. + + MUCH + + [_Looking up at him impudently._] + + It would take + Our big barn full of fern-seed, I misdoubt, + To make thee walk invisible, Little John, + My sweet Tom Thumb! And, in this troublous age + Of forest-laws, if we night-walking minions, + We gentlemen of the moon, could only hunt + Invisible, there's many and many of us + With thumbs lopped off, eyes gutted and legs pruned, + Slick, like poor pollarded pear-trees, would be lying + Happy and whole this day beneath the boughs. + + LITTLE JOHN + + Invisible? Ay, but what would Jenny say + To such a ghostly midge as thou would'st be + Sipping invisibly at her cherry lips. + + MUCH + + Why, there now, that's a teaser. E'en as it is + (Don't joke about it) my poor Jenny takes + The smallness of her Much sorely to heart! + And though I often tell her half a loaf + (Ground in our mill) is better than no bread, + She weeps, poor thing, that an impartial heaven + Bestows on her so small a crumb of bliss + As me! You'd scarce believe, now, half the nostrums, + Possets and strangely nasty herbal juices + That girl has made me gulp, in the vain hope + That I, the frog, should swell to an ox like thee. + I tell her it's all in vain, and she still cheats + Her fancy and swears I've grown well nigh three feet + Already. O Lord, she's desperate. She'll advance + Right inward to the sources of creation, + She'll take the reins of the world in hand. She'll stop + The sun like Joshua, turn the moon to blood, + And if I have to swallow half the herbs + In Sherwood, I shall stalk a giant yet, + Shoulder to shoulder with thee, Little John, + And crack thy head at quarter-staff. But don't, + Don't joke about it. 'Tis a serious matter. + + LITTLE JOHN + + Into the cave, then, with thy feather-bed. + Old Much, thy father, waits thee there to make + A table of green turfs for Robin Hood. + We shall have guests anon, O merry times, + Baron and Knight and abbot, all that ride + Through Sherwood, all shall come and dine with him + When they have paid their toll! Old Much is there + Growling at thy delay. + + MUCH + + [_Going towards the cave._] + + O, my poor father. + Now, there's a sad thing, too. He is so ashamed + Of his descendants. Why for some nine years + He shut his eyes whenever he looked at me; + And I have seen him on the village green + Pretend to a stranger, once, who badgered him + With curious questions, that I was the son + Of poor old Gaffer Bramble, the lame sexton. + That self-same afternoon, up comes old Bramble + White hair a-blaze and big red waggling nose + All shaking with the palsy; bangs our door + Clean off its hinges with his crab-tree crutch, + And stands there--framed--against the sunset sky! + He stretches out one quivering fore-finger + At father, like the great Destroying Angel + In the stained window: straight, the milk boiled over, + The cat ran, baby squalled and mother screeched. + Old Bramble asks my father--what--what--what + He meant--he meant--he meant! You should have seen + My father's hopeless face! Lord, how he blushed, + Red as a beet-root! Lord, Lord, how he blushed! + 'Tis a hard business when a parent looks + Askance upon his offspring. + + [_Exit into the cave._] + + LITTLE JOHN + + Skip, you chatterer! + Here comes our master. + + [_Enter ROBIN HOOD._] + + Master, where hast thou been? + I feared some harm had come to thee. What's this? + This was a cloth-yard shaft that tore thy coat! + + ROBIN + + Oh, ay, they barked my shoulder, devil take them. + I got it on the borders of the wood. + St. Nicholas, my lad, they're on the watch. + + LITTLE JOHN + + What didst thou there? They're on the watch, i' faith! + A squirrel could not pass them. Why, my namesake + Prince John would sell his soul to get thy head, + And both his ears for Lady Marian; + And whether his ears or soul be worth the more, + I know not. When the first lark flittered up + To sing, at dawn, I woke; and thou wast gone. + What didst thou there? + + ROBIN + + Well, first I went to swim + In the deep pool below the mill. + + LITTLE JOHN + + I swam + Enough last night to last me many a day. + What then? + + ROBIN + + I could not wash away the thought + Of all you told me. If Prince John should dare! + That helpless girl! No, no, I will not think it. + Why, Little John, I went and tried to shoot + A grey goose wing thro' Lady Marian's casement. + + LITTLE JOHN + + Oh, ay, and a pink nosegay tied beneath it. + Now, master, you'll forgive your Little John,-- + But that's midsummer madness and the may + Is only half in flower as yet. But why-- + You are wounded--why are you so pale? + + ROBIN + + No--no-- + Not wounded; but oh, my good faithful friend, + She is not there! I wished to send her warning. + I could not creep much closer; but I swear + I think the castle is in the hands of John. + I saw some men upon the battlements, + Not hers--I know--not hers! + + LITTLE JOHN + + Hist, who comes here? + + [_He seizes his bow and stands ready to shoot._] + + ROBIN + + Stop, man, it is the fool. Thank God, the fool, + Shadow-of-a-Leaf, my Marian's dainty fool. + How now, good fool, what news? What news? + + [_Enter SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF._] + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Good fool! + Should I be bad, sir, if I chanced to bring + No news at all? That is the wise man's way. + Thank heaven, I've lost my wits. I am but a leaf + Dancing upon the wild winds of the world, + A prophet blown before them. Well, this evening, + It is that lovely grey wind from the West + That silvers all the fields and all the seas, + And I'm the herald of May! + + ROBIN + + Come, Shadow-of-a-Leaf, + I pray thee, do not jest. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + I do not jest. + I am vaunt-courier to a gentleman, + A sweet slim page in Lincoln green who comes, + Wood-knife on hip, and wild rose in his face, + With golden news of Marian. Oh, his news + Is one crammed honeycomb, swelling with sweetness + In twenty thousand cells; but delicate! + So send thy man aside. + + ROBIN + + Go, Little John. + + [_LITTLE JOHN goes into the cave._] + + Well, Shadow-of-a-Leaf, where is he? + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + At this moment + His hair is tangled in a rose bush: hark, + He swears, like a young leopard! Nay, he is free. + Come, master page, here is that thief of love, + Give him your message. I'll to Little John. + + [_Exit into the cave. Enter MARIAN, as a page in Lincoln green, + her face muffled in a hood._] + + ROBIN + + Good even, master page, what is thy news + Of Lady Marian? + + [_She stands silent._] + + Answer me quickly, come, + Hide not thy face! + + [_She still stands muffled and silent._] + + Come, boy, the fool is chartered, + Not thou; and I'll break off this hazel switch + And make thee dance if thou not answer me. + What? Silent still? Sirrah, this hazel wand + Shall lace thee till thou tingle, top to toe. + I'll ... + + MARIAN + + [_Unmuffling._] + + Robin! + + ROBIN + + [_Catches her in his arms with a cry._] + + Marian! Marian! + + MARIAN + + Fie upon you, + Robin, you did not know me. + + ROBIN + + [_Embracing her._] + + Oh, you seemed + Ten thousand miles away. This is not moonlight, + And I am not Endymion. Could I dream + My Dian would come wandering through the fern + Before the sunset? Even that rose your face + You muffled in its own green leaves. + + MARIAN + + But you, + Were hidden in the heart of Sherwood, Robin, + Hidden behind a million mighty boughs, + And yet I found you. + + ROBIN + + Ay, the young moon stole + In pity down to her poor shepherd boy; + But he could never climb the fleecy clouds + Up to her throne, never could print one kiss + On her immortal lips. He lay asleep + Among the poppies and the crags of Latmos, + And she came down to him, his queen stole down. + + MARIAN + + Oh, Robin, first a rose and then a moon, + A rose that breaks at a breath and falls to your feet, + The fickle moon--Oh, hide me from the world; + For there they say love goes by the same law! + Let me be outlawed then. I cannot change. + Sweetheart, sweetheart, Prince John will hunt me down! + Prince John--Queen Elinor will hunt me down! + + ROBIN + + Queen Elinor! Nay, but tell me what this means? + How came you here? + + MARIAN + + The Queen--she came last night, + Made it an odious kind of praise to me + That he, not three months wedded to his bride, + Should--pah! + And then she said five hundred men + Were watching round the borders of the wood; + But she herself would take me safely through them, + Said that I should be safer here with Robin, + She had your name so pat--and I gave way. + + [_Enter QUEEN ELINOR behind. She conceals herself to listen._] + + ROBIN + + Marian, she might have trapped you to Prince John. + + MARIAN + + No; no; I think she wanted me to guide her + Here to your hiding place. She wished to see you + Herself, unknown to John, I know not why. + It was my only way. Her skilful tongue + Quite won my father over, made him think, + Poor father, clinging to his lands again, + He yet might save them. And so, without ado + (It will be greatly to the joy of Much, + Your funny little man), I bade my maid + Jenny, go pack her small belongings up + This morning, and to follow with Friar Tuck + And Widow Scarlet. They'll be here anon. + + ROBIN + + Where did you leave the Queen? + + MARIAN + + Robin, she tried + To kill me! We were deep within the wood + And she began to tell me a wild tale, + Saying that I reminded her of days + When Robin was her page, and how you came + To Court, a breath of April in her life, + And how you worshipped her, and how she grew + To love you. But she saw you loved me best + (So would she mix her gall and lies with honey), + So she would let you go. And then she tried + To turn my heart against you, bade me think + Of all the perils of your outlawry, + Then flamed with anger when she found my heart + Steadfast; and when I told her we drew nigh + The cave, she bade me wait and let her come + First, here, to speak with you. Some devil's trick + Gleamed in her smile, the way some women have + Of smiling with their lips, wreathing the skin + In pleasant ripples, laughing with their teeth, + While the cold eyes watch, cruel as a snake's + That fascinates a bird. I'd not obey her. + She whipped a dagger out. Had it not been + For Shadow-of-a-Leaf, who dogged us all the way, + Poor faithful fool, and leapt out at her hand, + She would have killed me. Then she darted away + Like a wild thing into the woods, trying to find + Your hiding place most like. + + ROBIN + + O Marian, why, + Why did you trust her? Listen, who comes here? + + [_Enter FRIAR TUCK, JENNY and WIDOW SCARLET._] + + Ah, Friar Tuck! + + MARIAN + + Good Jenny! + + ROBIN + + And Widow Scarlet! + + FRIAR TUCK + + O children, children, this is thirsty weather! + The heads I have cracked, the ribs I have thwacked, the bones + I have bashed with my good quarter-staff, to bring + These bits of womankind through Sherwood Forest. + + ROBIN + + What, was there scuffling, friar? + + FRIAR TUCK + + Some two or three + Pounced on us, ha! ha! ha! + + JENNY + + A score at least, + Mistress, most unchaste ruffians. + + FRIAR TUCK + + They've gone home, + Well chastened by the Church. This pastoral staff + Mine oaken _Pax Vobiscum_, sent 'em home + To think about their sins, with watering eyes. + You never saw a bunch of such blue faces, + Bumpy and juicy as a bunch of grapes + Bruised in a Bacchanalian orgy, dripping + The reddest wine a man could wish to see. + + ROBIN + + I picture it--those big brown hands of thine + Grape-gathering at their throttles, ha! ha! ha! + Come, Widow Scarlet, come, look not so sad. + + WIDOW SCARLET + + O master, master, they have named the day + For killing of my boy. + + ROBIN + + They have named the day + For setting of him free, then, my good dame. + Be not afraid. We shall be there, eh, Friar? + Grape-gathering, eh? + + FRIAR + + Thou'lt not be there thyself. + My son, the game's too dangerous now, methinks. + + ROBIN + + I shall be there myself. The game's too good + To lose. We'll all be there. You're not afraid, + Marian, to spend a few short hours alone + Here in the woods with Jenny. + + MARIAN + + Not for myself, + Robin. + + ROBIN + + We shall want every hand that day, + And you'll be safe enough. You know we go + Disguised as gaping yokels, old blind men, + With patches on their eyes, poor wandering beggars, + Pedlars with pins and poking-sticks to sell; + And when the time is come--a merry blast + Rings out upon a bugle and suddenly + The Sheriff is aware that Sherwood Forest + Has thrust its green boughs up beneath his feet. + Off go the cloaks and all is Lincoln green, + Great thwacking clubs and twanging bows of yew. + Oh, we break up like nature thro' the laws + Of that dark world; and then, good Widow Scarlet, + Back to the cave we come and your good Will + Winds his big arm about you once again. + Go, Friar, take her in and make her cosy. + Jenny, your Much will grow three feet at least + With joy to welcome you. He is in the cave. + + [_FRIAR TUCK and WIDOW SCARLET go towards the cave._] + + FRIAR TUCK + + Now for a good bowse at a drinking can. + I've got one cooling in the cave, unless + That rascal, Little John, has drunk it all. + + [_Exeunt into cave._] + + JENNY + + [_To MARIAN._] + + Mistress, I haven't spoke a word to you + For nigh three hours. 'Tis most unkind, I think. + + MARIAN + + Go, little tyrant, and be kind to Much. + + JENNY + + Mistress, it isn't Much I want. Don't think + Jenny comes trapesing through these awful woods + For Much. I haven't spoke a word with you + For nigh three hours. 'Tis most unkind, I think. + + MARIAN + + Wait, Jenny, then, I'll come and talk with you. + Robin, she is a tyrant; but she loves me. + And if I do not go, she'll pout and sulk + Three days on end. But she's a wondrous girl. + She'd work until she dropped for me. Poor Jenny! + + ROBIN + + That's a quaint tyranny. Go, dear Marian, go; + But not for long. We have so much to say. + Come quickly back. + + [_Exit MARIAN. ROBIN paces thoughtfully across the glade._ + + _QUEEN ELINOR steals out of her hiding place and + stands before him._] + + You here! + + ELINOR + + Robin, can you + Believe that girl? Am I so treacherous? + + ROBIN + + It seems you have heard whate'er I had to say. + + ELINOR + + Surely you cannot quite forget those days + When you were kind to me. Do you remember + The sunset through that oriel? + + ROBIN + + Ay, a god + Grinning thro' a horse-collar at a pitiful page, + Dazed with the first red gleam of what he thought + Life, as the trouveres find it! I am ashamed, + Remembering how your quick tears blinded me! + + + ELINOR + + Ashamed! You--you--that in my bitter grief + When Rosamund-- + + ROBIN + + I know! I thought your woes, + Those tawdry relics of your treacheries, + Wrongs quite unparalleled. I would have fought + Roland himself to prove you spotless then. + + ELINOR + + Oh, you speak thus to me! Robin, beware! + I have come to you, I have trampled on my pride, + Set all on this one cast! If you should now + Reject me, humble me to the dust before + That girl, beware! I never forget, I warn you; + I never forgive. + + ROBIN + + Are you so proud of that? + + ELINOR + + Ah, well, forgive me, Robin. I'll save you yet + From all these troubles of your outlawry! + Trust me--for I can wind my poor Prince John + Around my little finger. Who knows--with me + To help you--there are but my two sons' lives + That greatly hinder it--why, yourself might reign + Upon the throne of England. + + ROBIN + + Are you so wrapped + In treacheries, helplessly false, even to yourself, + That now you do not know falsehood from truth, + Darkness from light? + + ELINOR + + O Robin, I was true + At least to you. If I were false to others, + At least I-- + + ROBIN + + No--not that--that sickening plea + Of truth in treachery. Treachery cannot live + With truth. The soul wherein they are wedded dies + Of leprosy. + + ELINOR + + [_Coming closer to him._] + + Have you no pity, Robin, + No kinder word than this for the poor creature + That crept--Ah, feel my heart, feel how it beats! + No pity? + + ROBIN + + Five years ago this might have moved me! + + ELINOR + + No pity? + + ROBIN + + None. There is no more to say. + My men shall guide you safely through the wood. + + ELINOR + + I never forgive! + + [_Enter MARIAN from the cave; she stands silent and startled._] + + ROBIN + + My men shall guide you back. + + [_Calls._] + + Ho, there, my lads! + + [_Enter several of the OUTLAWS._] + + This lady needs a guide + Back thro' the wood. + + ELINOR + + Good-bye, then, Robin, and good-bye to you, + Sweet mistress! You have wronged me! What of that? + For--when we meet--Come, lead on, foresters! + + [_Exeunt the QUEEN and her guides._] + + MARIAN + + O Robin, Robin, how the clouds begin + To gather--how that woman seems to have brought + A nightmare on these woods. + + ROBIN + + Forget it all! + She is so tangled in those lies the world + Draws round some men and women, none can help her. + Marian, for God's sake, let us quite forget + That nightmare! Oh, that perfect brow of yours, + Those perfect eyes, pure as the violet wells + That only mirror heaven and are not dimmed + Except by clouds that drift thro' heaven and catch + God's glory in the sunset and the dawn. + + MARIAN + + It is enough for them simply to speak + The love they hold for you. But--I still fear. + Robin--think you--she might have overheard + Your plan--the rescue of Will Scarlet? + + ROBIN + + Why-- + No--No--some time had passed, and yet--she seemed + To have heard your charge against her! No, she guessed it. + Come--let us brush these cobwebs from our minds. + Look how the first white star begins to tremble + Like a big blossom in that sycamore. + Now you shall hear our forest ritual. + Ho, Little John! Summon the lads together! + + [_The OUTLAWS come out of the cave. LITTLE JOHN blows a bugle + and others come in from the forest._] + + Friar, read us the rules. + + FRIAR TUCK + + First, shall no man + Presume to call our Robin Hood or any + By name of Earl, lord, baron, knight or squire, + But simply by their names as men and brothers: + Second, that Lady Marian while she shares + Our outlaw life in Sherwood shall be called + Simply Maid Marian. Thirdly, we that follow + Robin, shall never in thought or word or deed + Do harm to widow, wife or maid; but hold, + Each, for his mother's or sister's or sweetheart's sake, + The glory of womanhood, a sacred thing, + A star twixt earth and heaven. Fourth, whomsoever + Ye meet in Sherwood ye shall bring to dine + With Robin, saving carriers, posts and folk + That ride with food to serve the market towns + Or any, indeed, that serve their fellow men. + Fifth, you shall never do the poor man wrong, + Nor spare a priest or usurer. You shall take + The waste wealth of the rich to help the poor, + The baron's gold to stock the widow's cupboard, + The naked ye shall clothe, the hungry feed, + And lastly shall defend with all your power + All that are trampled under by the world, + The old, the sick and all men in distress. + + ROBIN + + So, if it be no dream, we shall at last + Hasten the kingdom of God's will on earth. + There shall be no more talk of rich and poor, + Norman and Saxon. We shall be one people, + One family, clustering all with happy hands + And faces round that glowing hearth, the sun. + Now let the bugle sound a golden challenge + To the great world. Greenleaf, a forest call! + + [_REYNOLD GREENLEAF blows a resounding call._] + + Now let the guards be set; and then, to sleep! + To-morrow there'll be work enough for all. + The hut for Jenny and Maid Marian! + Come, you shall see how what we lack in halls + We find in bowers. Look how from every branch + Such tapestries as kings could never buy + Wave in the starlight. You'll be waked at dawn + By feathered choirs whose notes were taught in heaven. + + MUCH + + Come, Jenny, come, we must prepare the hut + For Mistress Marian. Here's a bundle of ferns! + + [_They go into the hut. The light is growing dimmer and richer._] + + LITTLE JOHN + + And here's a red cramoisy cloak, a baron + + [_Handing them in at the door._] + + Dropt, as he fled one night from Robin Hood; + And here's a green, and here's a midnight blue, + All soft as down. But wait, I'll get you more. + + [_Two of the Outlaws appear at the door with deerskins. SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + stands behind them with a great bunch of + flowers and ferns._] + + FIRST OUTLAW + + Here's fawn-skins, milder than a maiden's cheek. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Oh, you should talk in rhyme! The world should sing + Just for this once in tune, if Love were king! + + SECOND OUTLAW + + Here's deer-skins, for a carpet, smooth and meek. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + I knew you would! Ha! ha! Now look at what I bring! + + [_He throws flowers into the hut, spray by spray, speaking in a + kind of ecstasy._] + + Here's lavender and love and sweet wild thyme, + And dreams and blue-bells that the fairies chime, + Here's meadow-sweet and moonlight, bound in posies, + With ragged robin, traveller's joy and roses, + And here--just three leaves from a weeping willow; + And here--that's best--deep poppies for your pillow. + + MUCH + + And here's a pillow that I made myself, + Stuffed with dry rose-leaves and grey pigeon's down, + The softest thing on earth except my heart! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + [_Going aside and throwing himself down among the ferns to watch._] + + Just three sweet breaths and then the song is flown! + + [_MUCH looks at him for a moment with a puzzled face, then turns to the hut + again._] + + MUCH + + Jenny, here, take it--though I'm fond of comforts, + Take it and give it to Maid Marian. + + JENNY + + Why, Much, 'tis bigger than thyself. + + MUCH + + Hush, child. + I meant to use it lengthways. 'Twould have made + A feather-bed complete for your poor Much, + Take it! + + [_The OUTLAWS all go into the cave._] + + MARIAN + + O Robin, what a fairy palace! + How cold and grey the walls of castles seem + Beside your forest's fragrant halls and bowers. + I do not think that I shall be afraid + To sleep this night, as I have often been + Beneath our square bleak battlements. + + ROBIN + + And look, + Between the boughs, there is your guard, all night, + That great white star, white as an angel's wings, + White as the star that shone on Bethlehem! + Good-night, sweetheart, good-night! + + MARIAN + + Good-night! + + ROBIN + + One kiss! + Oh, clear bright eyes, dear heavens of sweeter stars, + Where angels play, and your own sweeter soul + Smiles like a child into the face of God, + Good-night! Good-night! + + [_MARIAN goes into the hut. The door is shut. ROBIN goes to + the mouth of the cave and throws himself down on a + couch of deerskins. The light grows dimly rich and + fairy-like._] + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + [_Rising to his knees._] + + Here comes the little cloud! + + [_A little moonlit cloud comes floating down between the tree-tops + into the glade. TITANIA is seen reposing upon it. She + steps to earth. The cloud melts away._] + + How blows the wind from fairyland, Titania? + + TITANIA + + Shadow-of-a-Leaf, the wicked queen has heard + Your master's plan for saving poor Will Scarlet. + She knows Maid Marian will be left alone, + Unguarded in these woods. The wicked Prince + Will steal upon her loneliness. He plots + To carry her away. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + What can we do? + Can I not break my fairy vows and tell? + + TITANIA + + No, no; you cannot, even if you would, + Convey our fairy lore to mortal ears. + When have they heard our honeysuckle bugles + Blowing reveille to the crimson dawn? + We can but speak by dreams; and, if you spoke, + They'd whip you, for your words would all ring false + Like sweet bells out of tune. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + What can we do? + + TITANIA + + Nothing, except on pain of death, to stay + The course of Time and Tide. There's Oberon! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Oberon! + + TITANIA + + He can tell you more than I. + + [_Enter OBERON._] + + OBERON + + Where's Orchis? Where's our fairy trumpeter + To call the court together? + + ORCHIS + + Here, my liege. + + OBERON + + Bugle them hither; let thy red cheeks puff + Until thy curled petallic trumpet thrill + More loudly than a yellow-banded bee + Thro' all the clover clumps and boughs of thyme. + They are scattered far abroad. + + ORCHIS + + My liege, it shall + Outroar the very wasp! + + [_Exit._] + + OBERON + + [_As he speaks, the fairies come flocking from all sides into the + glade._] + + Methinks they grow + Too fond of feasting. As I passed this way + I saw the fairy halls of hollowed oaks + All lighted with their pale green glow-worm lamps. + And under great festoons of maiden-hair + Their brilliant mushroom tables groaned with food. + Hundreds of rose-winged fairies banqueted! + All Sherwood glittered with their prismy goblets + Brimming the thrice refined and luscious dew + Not only of our own most purplest violets, + But of strange fragrance, wild exotic nectars, + Drawn from the fairy blossoms of some star + Beyond our tree-tops! Ay, beyond that moon + Which is our natural limit--the big lamp + Heaven lights upon our boundary. + + ORCHIS + + Mighty King, + The Court is all attendant on thy word. + + OBERON + + [_With great dignity._] + + Elves, pixies, nixies, gnomes and leprechauns, + + [_He pauses._] + + We are met, this moonlight, for momentous councils + Concerning those two drowsy human lovers, + Maid Marian and her outlawed Robin Hood. + They are in dire peril; yet we may not break + Our vows of silence. Many a time + Has Robin Hood by kindly words and deeds + Done in his human world, sent a new breath + Of life and joy like Spring to fairyland; + And at the moth-hour of this very dew-fall, + He saved a fairy, whom he thought, poor soul, + Only a may-fly in a spider's web, + He saved her from the clutches of that Wizard, + That Cruel Thing, that dark old Mystery, + Whom ye all know and shrink from-- + + [_Exclamations of horror from the fairies._] + + Plucked her forth, + So gently that not one bright rainbow gleam + Upon her wings was clouded, not one flake + Of bloom brushed off--there lies the broken web. + Go, look at it; and here is pale Perilla + To tell you all the tale. + + [_The fairies cluster to look at the web, etc._] + + A FAIRY + + Can we not make them free + Of fairyland, like Shadow-of-a-Leaf, to come + And go, at will, upon the wings of dreams? + + OBERON + + Not till they lose their wits like Shadow-of-a-Leaf. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Can I not break my fairy vows and tell? + + OBERON + + Only on pain of what we fairies call + Death! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Death? + + OBERON + + Never to join our happy revels, + Never to pass the gates of fairyland + Again, but die like mortals. What that means + We do not know--who knows? + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + If I could save them!-- + I am only Shadow-of-a-Leaf! + + OBERON + + There is a King + Beyond the seas. If he came home in time, + All might be well. We fairies only catch + Stray gleams, wandering shadows of things to come. + + TITANIA + + Oh, if the King came home from the Crusade! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Why will he fight for graves beyond the sea? + + OBERON + + Our elfin couriers brought the news at dusk + That Lion-Heart, while wandering home thro' Europe, + In jet-black armour, like an errant knight, + Despite the great red cross upon his shield, + Was captured by some wicked prince and thrust + Into a dungeon. Only a song, they say, + Can break those prison-bars. There is a minstrel + That loves his King. If he should roam the world + Singing until from that dark tower he hears + The King reply, the King would be set free. + + TITANIA + + Only a song, only a minstrel? + + OBERON + + Ay; + And Blondel is his name. + + [_A long, low sound of wailing is heard in the distance. The + fairies shudder and creep together._] + + TITANIA + + Hark, what is that? + + OBERON + + The cry of the poor, the cry of the oppressed, + The sound of women weeping for their children, + The victims of the forest laws. The moan + Of that dark world where mortals live and die + Sweeps like an icy wind thro' fairyland. + And oh, it may grow bitterer yet, that sound! + 'Twas Merlin's darkest prophecy that earth + Should all be wrapped in smoke and fire, the woods + Hewn down, the flowers discoloured and the sun + Begrimed, until the rows of lifeless trees + Against the greasy sunset seemed no more + Than sooty smudges of an ogre's thumbs + Upon the sweating forehead of a slave. + While, all night long, fed with the souls of men, + And bodies, too, great forges blast and burn + Till the great ogre's cauldrons brim with gold. + + [_The wailing sound is heard again in the distance._] + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + To be shut out for ever, only to hear + Those cries! I am only Shadow-of-a-Leaf, the fool, + I cannot face it! Is there no hope but this? + No hope for Robin and Maid Marian? + + OBERON + + If the great King comes home from the Crusade + In time! If not,--there is another King + Beyond the world, they say. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Death, that dark death! + To leave the sunlight and the flowers for ever! + I cannot bear it! Oh, I cannot tell them. + I'll wait--perhaps the great King will come home, + If not--Oh, hark, a wandering minstrel's voice? + + OBERON + + Who is drawing hither? Listen, fairies, listen! + + [_Song heard approaching thro' the wood._] + + Knight on the narrow way, + Where wouldst thou ride? + "Onward," I heard him say, + "Love, to thy side!" + + "Nay," sang a bird above; + "Stay, for I see + Death in the mask of love, + Waiting for thee." + + [_The song breaks off. Enter a MINSTREL, leading a great white + steed. He pauses, confronted by the fairy host. The + moonlight dazzles him._] + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Minstrel, art thou, too, free of fairyland? + Where wouldst thou ride? What is thy name? + + MINSTREL + + My name + Is Blondel. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Blondel! + + THE FAIRIES + + Blondel! + + MINSTREL + + And I ride + Through all the world to seek and find my King! + + [_He passes through the fairy host and goes into the woods on the + further side of the glade, continuing his song, which + dies away in the distance._] + + [_Song._] + "Death? What is death?" he cried. + "I must ride on, + On to my true love's side, + Up to her throne!" + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +ACT III + + +SCENE I. _May-day. An open place (near NOTTINGHAM). A crowd of rustics +and townsfolk assembling to see the execution of WILL SCARLET._ + + FIRST RUSTIC + + A sad may-day! Where yonder gallows glowers, + We should have raised the may-pole. + + SECOND RUSTIC + + Ay, no songs, + No kisses in the ring, no country dances + To-day; no lads and lasses on the green, + Crowning their queen of may. + + [_Enter ROBIN HOOD, disguised as an old beggar, with a green + patch on one eye._] + + ROBIN + + Is this the place, + Masters, where they're a-goin' to hang Will Scarlet? + + FIRST RUSTIC + + Ay, father, more's the pity. + + ROBIN + + Eh! Don't ye think + There may be scuffling, masters? There's a many + That seems to like him well, here, roundabouts. + + SECOND RUSTIC + + Too many halberts round him. There's no chance. + + ROBIN + + I've heard the forest might break out, the lads + In Lincoln green, you wot of! If they did? + + FIRST RUSTIC + + There's many here would swing a cudgel and help + To trip the Sheriff up. If Robin Hood + Were only here! But then he's outlawed now. + + SECOND RUSTIC + + Ay, and there's big rewards out. It would be + Sure death for him to try a rescue now. + The biggest patch of Lincoln Green we'll see + This day, is that same patch on thy old eye, + Eh, lads! + + THIRD RUSTIC + + What's more, they say Prince John is out + This very day, scouring thro' Sherwood forest + In quest of Lady Marian! + + ROBIN + + [_Sharply._] + + You heard that? + + THIRD RUSTIC + + Ay, for they say she's flown to Sherwood forest. + + SECOND RUSTIC + + Ah! Ah? That's why he went. I saw Prince John! + With these same eyes I saw him riding out + To Sherwood, not an hour ago. + + ROBIN + + You saw him? + + SECOND RUSTIC + + Ay, and he only took three men at arms. + + FIRST RUSTIC + + Three men at arms! Why then, he must ha' known + That Robin's men would all be busy here! + He's none so bold, he would not risk his skin! + I think there'll be some scuffling after all. + + ROBIN + + Ay, tell 'em so--go, spread it thro' the crowd! + + [_He mutters to himself._] + + He'd take some time, to find her, but 'fore God + We must be quick; 'fore God we must be quick! + + SECOND RUSTIC + + Why, father, one would never think to see thee + Thou had'st so sound a heart! + + FIRST RUSTIC + + Ah, here they come! + The Sheriff and his men; and, in the midst, + There's poor Will Scarlet bound. + + THE CROWD MURMURS + + Ah, here they come! + Look at the halberts shining! Can you see him? + + FIRST RUSTIC + + There, there he is. His face is white: but, Lord, + He takes it bravely. + + SECOND RUSTIC + + He's a brave man, Will. + + SHERIFF + + Back with the crowd there, guards; delay no time! + + SOME WOMEN IN THE CROWD + + Ah, ah, poor lad! + + ROBIN + + [_Eagerly._] + + What are they doing now? + I cannot see! + + FIRST RUSTIC + + The Sheriff's angered now! + + SECOND RUSTIC + + Ay, for they say a messenger has come + From that same godless hangman whose lean neck + I'd like to twist, saying he is delayed. + 'Tis the first godly deed he has ever done. + + THIRD RUSTIC + + The Sheriff says he will not be delayed. + But who will take the hangman's office? + + ROBIN + + Masters, + I have a thought; make way; let me bespeak + The Sheriff! + + RUSTICS + + How now, father, what's to do? + + ROBIN + + Make way, I tell you. Here's the man they want! + + SHERIFF + + What's this? + + ROBIN + + Good master Sheriff, I've a grudge + Against Will Scarlet. Let me have the task + Of sending him to heaven! + + CROWD + + Ah-h-h, the old devil! + + SHERIFF + + Come on, then, and be brief! + + ROBIN + + I'm not a hangman; + But I can cleave your thinnest hazel wand + At sixty yards. + + SHERIFF + + Shoot, then, and make an end. + Make way there, clear the way! + + [_An opening is made in the crowd. ROBIN stands in the gap, + WILL SCARLET is not seen by the audience._] + + + CROWD + + Ah-h-h, the old devil! + + ROBIN + + I'll shoot him one on either side, just graze him, + To show you how I love him; then the third + Slick in his heart. + + [_He shoots. A murmur goes up from the crowd. The crowd + hides WILL SCARLET during the shooting. But ROBIN + remains in full view, in the opening._] + + SHERIFF + + [_Angrily._] + + Take care! You've cut the cord + That bound him on that side! + + ROBIN + + Then here's the second! + I will be careful! + + [_He takes a steady aim._] + + A RUSTIC TO HIS NEIGHBOURS + + I' faith, lads, he can shoot! + What do you think--that green patch on his eye + Smacks of the merry men! He's tricking them! + + [_ROBIN shoots. A louder murmur goes up from the crowd._] + + SHERIFF + + You have cut the rope again! + + A CRY + + He has cut him free! + + ROBIN + + All right! All right! It's just to tease the dog! + Here's for the third now! + + [_He aims and shoots quickly. There is a loud cry of a wounded + man; then a shout from the crowd._] + + THE CROWD + + Ah-h-h, he has missed; he has killed + One of the guards! + + FIRST RUSTIC + + What has he done? + + SECOND RUSTIC + + He has killed + One of the Sheriff's men! + + SHERIFF + + There's treachery here! + I'll cleave the first man's heart that moves! + + ROBIN + + Will Scarlet, + Pick up that dead man's halbert! + + SHERIFF + + Treachery! Help! + Down with the villain! + + ROBIN + + [_Throws off his beggar's crouch and hurls the SHERIFF and several + of his men back amongst the crowd. His cloak drops off._] + + Sherwood! A merry Sherwood! + + CROWD + + Ah! ha! The Lincoln Green! A Robin Hood! + + [_A bugle rings out and immediately some of the yokels throw off + their disguise and the Lincoln green appears as by + magic amongst the crowd. The guards are rushed and + hustled by them. Robin and several of his men make + a ring round WILL SCARLET._] + + SHERIFF + + It is the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon: + There is a great reward upon his head. + Down with him! + + [_The SHERIFF'S men make a rush at the little band. A KNIGHT + in jet black armour, with a red-cross shield, suddenly appears + and forces his way through the mob, sword in + hand._] + + KNIGHT + + What, so many against so few! + Back, you wild wolves. Now, foresters, follow me, + For our St. George and merry England, charge, + Charge them, my lads! + + [_The FORESTERS make a rush with him and the SHERIFF and his + men take to flight._] + + ROBIN + + Now back to Sherwood, swiftly! + A horse, or I shall come too late; a horse! + + [_He sees the KNIGHT in armour standing by his horse._] + + Your pardon, sir; our debt to you is great, + Too great almost for thanks; but if you be + Bound by the vows of chivalry, I pray you + Lend me your charger; and my men will bring you + To my poor home in Sherwood. There you'll find + A most abundant gratitude. + + KNIGHT + + Your name? + + ROBIN + + Was Huntingdon; but now is Robin Hood. + + KNIGHT + + If I refuse? + + ROBIN + + Then, sir, I must perforce + Take it. I am an outlaw, but the law + Of manhood still constrains me--'tis a matter + Of life and death-- + + KNIGHT + + Take it and God be with you! + I'll follow you to Sherwood with your men. + + [_ROBIN seizes the horse, leaps to the saddle, and gallops away._] + + [_Curtain._] + + +SCENE II. _Sherwood Forest. Outside the cave. JENNY, MARIAN and WIDOW +SCARLET._ + + MARIAN + + This dreadful waiting! How I wish that Robin + Had listened to the rest and stayed with me. + How still the woods are! Jenny, do you think + There will be fighting? Oh, I am selfish, mother; + You need not be afraid. Robin will bring + Will Scarlet safely back to Sherwood. Why, + Perhaps they are all returning even now! + Cheer up! How long d'you think they've been away, + Jenny, six hours or more? The sun is high, + And all the dew is gone. + + JENNY + + Nay, scarce three hours. + Now don't you keep a-fretting. They'll be back, + Quite soon enough. I've scarcely spoke with you, + This last three days and more; and even now + It seems I cannot get you to myself, + Two's quite enough. + + [_To WIDOW SCARLET._] + + + Come, widow, come with me. + I'll give you my own corner in the hut + And make you cosy. If you take a nap + Will Scarlet will be here betimes you wake. + + [_Takes her to the hut and shuts her in._] + + There, drat her, for a mumping mumble-crust! + + MARIAN + + Come, Jenny, that's too bad; the poor old dame + Is lonely. + + JENNY + + She's not lonely when she sleeps, + And if I never get you to myself + Where was the good of trapesing after you + And living here in Sherwood like wild rabbits? + You ha'nt so much as let me comb your hair + This last three days and more. + + MARIAN + + Well, comb it, Jenny, + Now, if you like, and comb it all day long; + But don't get crabbed, and don't speak so crossly! + + [_JENNY begins loosening MARIAN'S hair and combing it._] + + JENNY + + Why, Mistress, it grows longer every day. + It's far below your knees, and how it shines! + And wavy, just like Much the Miller's brook, + Where it comes tumbling out into the sun, + Like gold, red gold. + + MARIAN + + Ah, that's provoking, Jenny, + For you forgot to bring me my steel glass, + And, if you chatter so, I shall soon want it. + + JENNY + + I've found a very good one at a pinch. + There's a smooth silver pool, down in the stream, + Where you can see your face most beautiful. + + MARIAN + + So that's how Jenny spends her lonely hours, + A sad female Narcissus, while poor Much + Dwines to an Echo! + + JENNY + + I don't like those gods. + I never cared for them. But, as for Much, + Much is the best of all the merry men. + And, mistress, O, he speaks so beautifully, + It _might_ be just an Echo from blue hills + Far, far away! You see he's quite a scholar: + Much, more an' most (That's what he calls the three + Greasy caparisons--much, more an' most)! + You see they thought that being so very small + They could not make him grow to be a man, + They'd make a scholar of him instead. The Friar + Taught him his letters. He can write his name, + And mine, and yours, just like a missal book, + In lovely colours; and he always draws + The first big letter of JENNY like a tree + With naked Cupids hiding in the branches. + Mistress, I don't believe you hear one word + I ever speak to you! Your eyes are always + That far and far away. + + MARIAN + + I'm listening, Jenny! + + JENNY + + Well, when he draws the first big M of yours, + He makes it like a bridge from earth to heaven, + With white-winged angels passing up and down; + And, underneath the bridge, in a black stream, + He puts the drowning face of the bad Prince + Holding his wicked hands out, while a devil + Stands on the bank and with a pointed stake + Keeps him from landing-- + Ah, what's that? What's that? + + MARIAN + + O Jenny, how you startled me! + + JENNY + + I thought + I saw that same face peering thro' the ferns + Yonder--there--see, they are shaking still. + + [_She screams._] + + Ah! Ah! + + [_PRINCE JOHN and another man appear advancing across the + glade._] + + JOHN + + So here's my dainty tigress in her den, + And--Warman--there's a pretty scrap for you + Beside her. Now, sweet mistress, will you deign + To come with me, to change these cheerless woods + For something queenlier? If I be not mistaken, + You have had time to tire of that dark cave. + Was I not right, now? Surely you can see + Those tresses were not meant to waste their gold + Upon this desert. Nay, but Marian, hear me. + I do not jest. + + [_At a sign from MARIAN, JENNY goes quickly inside the cave._] + + That's well! Dismiss your maid! + Warman, remove a little. + + [_His man retires._] + + I see you think + A little better of me! Out in the wood + There waits a palfrey for you, and the stirrup + Longs, as I long, to clasp your dainty foot. + I am very sure by this you must be tired + Of outlawry, a lovely maid like you. + + [_He draws nearer._] + + MARIAN + + Wait--I must think, must think. + + JOHN + + Give me your hand! + Why do you shrink from me? If you could know + The fire that burns me night and day, you would not + Refuse to let me snatch one cooling kiss + From that white hand of yours. + + MARIAN + + If you be prince, + You will respect my loneliness and go. + + JOHN + + How can I leave you, when by day and night + I see that face of yours. + I'll not pretend + I do not love you, do not long for you, + Desire and hunger for your kiss, your touch! + I'll not pretend to be a saint, you see! + I hunger and thirst for you. Marian, Marian. + + MARIAN + + You are mad! + + JOHN + + Ay, mad for you. + Body and soul + I am broken up with love for you. Your eyes + Flash like the eyes of a tigress, and I love them + The better for it. + Ah, do not shrink from me! + + [_JENNY comes out of the cave and hands MARIAN a bow. She + leaps back and aims it at JOHN._] + + MARIAN + + Back, you wild beast, or by the heaven above us, + I'll kill you! Now, don't doubt me. I can shoot + Truly as any forester. I swear, + Prince or no prince, king or no king, I'll kill you + If you should stir one step from where you stand. + + JOHN + + Come, come, sweet Marian, put that weapon down. + I was beside myself, was carried away. + I cannot help my love for-- + + MARIAN + + I'll not hear + Another sickening word: throw down your arms, + That dagger at your side. + + JOHN + + Oh, that's too foolish, + Marian, I swear-- + + MARIAN + + You see that rusty stain + Upon the silver birch down yonder? Watch. + + [_She shoots. Then swiftly aims at him again._] + + Now, throw your weapon down. + + [_He pulls out the dagger and throws it down, with a shrug of his + shoulders. One of his men steals up behind MARIAN._] + + JENNY + + Ah, Mistress Marian, + There's one behind you! Look! + + [_The man springs forward and seizes MARIAN'S arms._] + + JOHN + + [_Coming forward and taking hold of her also._] + + So, my sweet tigress, + You're trapped then, are you? Well, we'll waste no time! + We'll talk this over when we reach the castle. + Keep off the maid, there, Warman; I can manage + This turbulent beauty. Ah, by God, you shall + Come! Ah? God's blood, what's this? + + [_MARIAN has succeeded in drawing her dagger and slightly wounding + him. She wrests herself free._] + + MARIAN + + Keep back, I warn you! + + JOHN + + [_Advancing slowly._] + + Strike, now strike if you will. You will not like + To see the red blood spurting up your hand. + That's not maid's work. Come, strike! + + [_ROBIN HOOD appears at the edge of the glade behind him_] + + You see, you cannot! + Your heart is tenderer than you think. + + ROBIN + + [_Quietly._] + + Prince John! + + JOHN + + [_Turns round and confronts ROBIN._] + + Out with your blade, Warman; call up the rest! + We can strike freely now, without a fear + Of marring the sweet beauty of the spoil. + We four can surely make an end of him. + Have at him, lads, and swiftly, or the thieves + Will all be down on us. + + [_ROBIN draws his sword and sets his back to an oak. The other + two followers of PRINCE JOHN come out of the wood._] + + ROBIN + + Come on, all four! + This oak will shift its roots before I budge + One inch from four such howling wolves. Come on; + You must be tired of fighting women-folk. + Come on! By God, sir, you must guard your head + Better than that, + + [_He disarms WARMAN._] + + Or you're just food for worms + Already; come, you dogs! + + PRINCE JOHN + + Work round, you three, + Behind him! Drive him out from that damned oak! + + ROBIN + + Oh, that's a princely speech! Have at you, sir! + + [_He strikes PRINCE JOHN'S sword out of his hand and turns suddenly + to confront the others. JOHN picks up a dagger + and makes as if to stab ROBIN in the back. At the same + instant, bugles are heard in the distance. The red-cross + knight flashes between the trees and seizing JOHN'S arm + in his gauntleted hand, disarms him, then turns to help + ROBIN._] + + KNIGHT + + What, four on one! Down with your blades, you curs, + Or, by Mahound!-- + + [_The three men take to flight. JOHN stands staring at the newcomer. + The FORESTERS appear, surrounding the + glade._] + + JOHN + + [_Muttering._] + + What? Thou? Thou? Or his ghost? + No--no--it cannot be. + + ROBIN + + Let them yelp home, + The pitiful jackals. They have left behind + The prime offender. Ha, there, my merry lads, + All's well; but take this villain into the cave + And guard him there. + + [_The FORESTERS lead PRINCE JOHN into the cave._] + + JOHN + + [_To the FORESTERS._] + + Answer me one thing: who + Is yonder red-cross knight? + + A FORESTER + + No friend of thine, + Whoe'er he be! + + KNIGHT + + [_To ROBIN._] + + I need not ask _his_ name. + I grieve to know it! + + ROBIN + + Sir, I am much beholden + To your good chivalry. What thanks is mine + To give, is all your own. + + KNIGHT + + Then I ask this! + Give me that prisoner! I think his life is mine. + + ROBIN + + You saved my own, and more, you saved much more + Than my poor life is worth. But, sir, think well! + This man is dangerous, not to me alone, + But to the King of England; for he'll yet + Usurp the throne! Think well! + + KNIGHT + + I ask no more. + I have more reasons than you know. + + ROBIN + + So be it. + Ho! Bring the prisoner back! + + [_The FORESTERS bring PRINCE JOHN back. He stares at + the KNIGHT as if in fear._] + + Sir, you shall judge him. + This prisoner is your own. + + KNIGHT + + Then--let him go! + + FORESTERS + + What! Set him free? + + ROBIN + + Obey! + + [_They release PRINCE JOHN._] + + KNIGHT + + Out of my sight; + Go! + + PRINCE JOHN + + What man is this? + + KNIGHT + + Quickly, get thee gone! + +[_PRINCE JOHN goes out, shaken and white._] + + ROBIN + + We'll think no more of him! It is our rule + That whomsoe'er we meet in merry greenwood + Should dine with us. Will you not be our guest? + + KNIGHT + + That's a most happy thought! I have not heard + A merrier word than dinner all this day. + I am well-nigh starved. + + ROBIN + + Will you not raise your visor + And let us know to whose good knightly hand + We are so beholden? + + KNIGHT + + Sir, you will pardon me, + If, for a little, I remain unknown. + But, tell me, are you not that Robin Hood + Who breaks the forest laws? + + ROBIN + + That is my name. + We hold this earth as naturally our own + As the glad common air we breathe. We think + No man, no king, can so usurp the world + As not to give us room to live free lives, + But, if you shrink from eating the King's deer-- + + KNIGHT + + Shrink? Ha! ha! ha! I count it as my own! + + [_The FORESTERS appear, preparing the dinner on a table of green + turfs, beneath a spreading oak. MARIAN and JENNY + appear at the door of the hut. JENNY goes across to help + at the preparations for dinner._] + + ROBIN + + Ah, there's my Lady Marian! Will you not come + And speak with her? + + [_He and the KNIGHT go and talk to MARIAN in the background._] + + LITTLE JOHN + + [_At the table._] + The trenchers all are set; + Manchets of wheat, cream, curds and honey-cakes, + Venison pasties, roasted pigeons! Much, + Run to the cave; we'll broach our rarest wine + To-day. Old Much is waiting for thee there + To help him. He is growling roundly, too, + At thy delay. + + MUCH + + [_Going towards the cave._] + + Ah me, my poor old father! + + JENNY + + I've dressed the salt and strawed the dining hall + With flowers. + + [_Enter FRIAR TUCK with several more FORESTERS and WILL + SCARLET._] + + ROBIN + + Ah, good Will Scarlet, here at last! + + FRIAR TUCK + + We should ha' been here sooner; but these others + Borrowed a farmer's market cart and galloped + Ahead of us! + + ROBIN + + Thy mother is in the hut, + Sheer broken down with hope and fearfulness, + Waiting and trembling for thee, Will. Go in, + Put thy big arm around her. + + [_WILL SCARLET goes into the hut with a cry._] + + SCARLET + + Mother! + + FRIAR TUCK + + You see, + My sons, you couldn't expect the lad to run! + There is a certain looseness in the limbs, + A quaking of the flesh that overcomes + The bravest who has felt a hangman's rope + Cuddling his neck. + + ROBIN + + You judge him by the rope + That cuddles your slim waist! Oh, you sweet armful, + Sit down and pant! I warrant you were glad + To bear him company. + + FRIAR TUCK + + I'll not deny it! + I am a man of solids. Like the Church, + I am founded on a rock. + + [_He sits down._] + + ROBIN + + Solids, i' faith! + Sir, it is true he is partly based on beef; + He grapples with it squarely; but fluids, too, + Have played their part in that cathedral choir + He calls his throat. One godless virtue, sir, + They seem to have given him. Never a nightingale + Gurgles jug! jug! in mellower tones than he + When jugs are flowing. Never a thrush can pipe + Sweet, sweet, so rarely as, when a pipe of wine + Summers his throttle, we'll make him sing to us + One of his heathen ditties--_The Malmsey Butt_, + Or _Down the Merry Red Lane!_ + + FRIAR TUCK + + Oh, ay, you laugh, + But, though I cannot run, when I am rested + I'll challenge you, Robin, to a game of buffets, + One fair, square, stand-up, stand-still, knock-down blow + Apiece; you'll need no more. If you not kiss + The turf, at my first clout, I will forego + Malmsey for ever! + + ROBIN + + Friar, I recant; + You're champion there. Fists of a common size + I will encounter; but not whirling hams + Like thine! + + FRIAR TUCK + + I knew it! + + JENNY + + [_Approaching._] + + Please you, sirs, all is ready! + + FRIAR TUCK + + Ah, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny, that's good news! + + [_WILL SCARLET comes out of the hut with his arm round his + mother. They all sit down at the table of turfs. Enter + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF timidly._] + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Is there a place for me? + + A FORESTER + + Ay, come along! + + FRIAR TUCK + + Now, Robin, don't forget the grace, my son. + + ROBIN + + [_Standing up._] + + It is our custom, sir, since our repast + Is borrowed from the King, to drain one cup + To him, and his return from the Crusade, + Before we dine. That same wine-bibbing friar + Calls it our 'grace'; and constitutes himself + Remembrancer--without a cause, for never + Have we forgotten, never while bugles ring + Thro' Sherwood, shall forget--Outlaws, the King! + + [_All stand up except the KNIGHT._] + + CRIES + + The King and his return from the Crusade! + + [_They drink and resume their seats._] + + ROBIN + + You did not drink the health, sir Knight. I hope + You hold with Lion-Heart. + + KNIGHT + + Yes; I hold with him. + You were too quick for me. I had not drawn + These gauntlets off. + But tell me, Lady Marian, + When is your bridal day with Robin Hood? + + MARIAN + + We shall be wedded when the King comes home + From the Crusade. + + KNIGHT + + Ah, when the King comes home! + That's music--all the birds of April sing + In those four words for me--the King comes home. + + MARIAN + + I am glad you love him, sir. + + ROBIN + + But you're not eating! + Your helmet's locked and barred! Will you not raise + Your visor? + + KNIGHT + + [_Laughs._] + + Ha! ha! ha! You see I am trapped! + I did not wish to raise it! Hunger and thirst + Break down all masks and all disguises, Robin. + + [_He rises and removes his helmet, revealing the face of RICHARD + COEUR DE LION._] + + ROBIN + + The King! + + [_They all leap to their feet._] + + OUTLAWS + + The King! The King! + + ROBIN + + But oh, my liege, + I should have known, when we were hard beset + Around Will Scarlet by their swarming bands, + And when you rode out of the Eastern sky + And hurled our foemen down, I should have known + It was the King come home from the Crusade! + And when I was beset here in the wood + By treacherous hounds again, I should have known + Whose armour suddenly burned between the leaves! + I should have known, either it was St. George + Or else the King come home from the Crusade! + + RICHARD + + Indeed there is one thing that might have told you, + Robin--a lover's instinct, since it seems + So much for you and Marian depends + On my return. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Sire, you will pardon me, + For I am only a fool, and yet methinks + You know not half the meaning of those words-- + The King, the King comes home from the Crusade! + Thrust up your swords, heft uppermost, my lads, + And shout--the King comes home from the Crusade. + + [_He leaps on a seat, and thrusts up the King's sword, heft uppermost, + as if it were a cross._] + + ROBIN + + Pardon him, sire, poor Shadow-of-a-Leaf has lost + His wits! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + That's what Titania said you'd say, + Poor sweet bells out of tune! But oh, don't leave, + Don't leave the forest! There's darker things to come! + Don't leave the forest! I have wits enough at least + To wrap my legs around my neck for warmth + On winter nights. + + RICHARD + + Well, you've no need to pass + The winter in these woods-- + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Oh, not _that_ winter! + + ROBIN + + Shadow-of-a-Leaf, be silent! + + [_SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF goes aside and throws himself down sobbing + among the ferns._] + + RICHARD + + When even your cave + Methinks can scarce be cheery. Huntingdon, + Your earldom we restore to you this day! + You and my Lady Marian shall return + To Court with us, where your true bridal troth + Shall be fulfilled with golden marriage bells. + Now, friends, the venison pasty! We must hear + _The Malmsey Butt_ and _Down the Merry Red Lane_, + Ere we set out, at dawn, for London Town. + + ROBIN + + Allan-a-dale shall touch a golden string + To speed our feast, sire, for he soars above + The gross needs of the Churchman! + + RICHARD + + Allan-a-Dale? + + WILL SCARLET + + Our greenwood minstrel, sire! His harp is ours + Because we won his bride for him. + + RICHARD + + His bride? + + REYNOLD GREENLEAF + + Was to be wedded, sire, against her will + Last May, to a rich old baron. + + RICHARD + + Pigeon-pie-- + And Malmsey--yes--a rich old baron--tell! + + ROBIN + + Sire, on the wedding day, my merry men + Crowded the aisles with uninvited guests; + And, as the old man drew forth the golden ring, + They threw aside their cloaks with one great shout + Of 'Sherwood'; and, for all its crimson panes, + The church was one wild sea of Lincoln green! + The Forest had broken in, sire, and the bride + Like a wild rose tossing on those green boughs, + Was borne away and wedded here by Tuck + To her true lover; and so--his harp is ours. + + ALLAN-A-DALE + + No feasting song, sire, but the royal theme + Of chivalry--a song I made last night + In yonder ruined chapel. It is called + _The Old Knight's Vigil_. + + RICHARD + + Our hearts will keep it young! + + [_ALLAN-A-DALE sings, SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF raises his head among the + ferns._] + + [_Song._] + + I + + Once, in this chapel, Lord + Young and undaunted, + Over my virgin sword + Lightly I chaunted,-- + "Dawn ends my watch. I go + Shining to meet the foe!" + + II + + "Swift with thy dawn," I said, + "Set the lists ringing! + Soon shall thy foe be sped, + And the world singing! + Bless my bright plume for me, + Christ, King of Chivalry. + + [_SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF rises to his knees amongst the ferns._] + + III + + "War-worn I kneel to-night, + Lord, by Thine altar! + Oh, in to-morrow's fight, + Let me not falter! + Bless my dark arms for me, + Christ, King of Chivalry. + + IV + + "Keep Thou my broken sword + All the long night through + While I keep watch and ward! + Then--the red fight through, + Bless the wrenched haft for me, + Christ, King of Chivalry. + + V + + "Keep, in thy pierced hands, + Still the bruised helmet: + Let not their hostile bands + Wholly o'erwhelm it! + Bless my poor shield for me, + Christ, King of Chivalry. + + VI + + "Keep Thou the sullied mail, + Lord, that I tender + Here, at Thine altar-rail! + Then--let Thy splendour + Touch it once ... and I go + Stainless to meet the foe." + + [_SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF rises to his feet and takes a step towards the + minstrel._] + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +ACT IV + + +SCENE I. _Garden of the King's Palace. Enter JOHN and ELINOR._ + + ELINOR + + You will be king the sooner! Not a month + In England, and my good son Lion-Heart + Must wander over-seas again. These two, + Huntingdon and his bride, must bless the star + Of errant knighthood. + + JOHN + + He stayed just long enough + To let them pass one fearless honeymoon + In the broad sunlight of his royal favour, + Then, like a meteor off goes great King Richard, + And leaves them but the shadow of his name + To shelter them from my revenge. They know it! + I have seen her shiver like a startled fawn + And draw him closer, damn him, as I passed. + + ELINOR + + They would have flitted to the woods again + But for my Lord Fitzwalter. + + JOHN + + That old fool + Has wits enough to know I shall be king, + And for his land's sake cheats himself to play + Sir Pandarus of Troy. "'Tis wrong, dear daughter, + To think such evil." Pah, he makes me sick! + + ELINOR + + Better to laugh. He is useful. + + JOHN + + If I were king! + If Richard were to perish over-seas! + I'd-- + + ELINOR + + You'd be king the sooner. Never fear: + These wandering meteors flash into their graves + Like lightning, and no thunder follows them + To warn their foolish henchmen. + + JOHN + + [_Looking at her searchingly._] + + Shall I risk + The King's return? + + ELINOR + + What do you mean? + + JOHN + + I mean + I cannot wait and watch this Robin Hood + Dangle the fruit of Tantalus before me, + Then eat it in my sight! I have borne enough! + He gave me like a fairing to my brother + In Sherwood Forest; and I now must watch him, + A happy bridegroom with the happy bride, + Whose lips I meant for mine. + + ELINOR + + And do you think + I love to see it? + + JOHN + + Had it not been for you + He would have died ere this! + + ELINOR + + Then let him die! + + JOHN + + Oh, ay, but do you mean it, mother? + + ELINOR + + God, + I hate him, hate him! + + JOHN + + Mother, he goes at noon + To Sherwood Forest, with a bag of gold + For some of his old followers. If, by chance + He fall--how saith the Scripture?--among thieves + And vanish--is not heard of any more, + I think Suspicion scarce could lift her head + Among these roses here to hiss at me, + When Lion-Heart returns. + + ELINOR + + Vanish? + + JOHN + + I would not + Kill him too quickly. I would have him taken + To a dungeon that I know. + + ELINOR + + You have laid your trap + Already? Tell me. You need not be afraid! + I saw them kiss, in the garden, yesternight; + And I have wondered, ever since, if fire + Could make a brand quite hot enough to stamp + My hate upon him. + + JOHN + + Well, then, I will tell you-- + The plan is laid; and, if his bag of gold + Rejoice one serf to-day, then I'll resign + Maid Marian to his loving arms for ever. + But you must help me, mother, or she'll suspect. + Do not let slip your mask of friendliness, + As I have feared. Look--there our lovers come + Beneath that arch of roses. Look, look, mother, + They are taking leave of one another now, + A ghastly parting, for he will be gone + Well nigh four hours, they think. To look at them, + One might suppose they knew it was for ever. + + ELINOR + + Come, or my hate will show itself in my face: + I must not see them. + + [_Exeunt PRINCE and ELINOR. A pause. Enter ROBIN HOOD and + MARIAN._] + + ROBIN + + So, good-bye, once more, + Sweetheart. + + MARIAN + + Four hours; how shall I pass the time? + Four hours, four ages, you will scarce be home + By dusk; how shall I pass it? + + ROBIN + + You've to think + What robe to wear at the great masque to-night + And then to don it. When you've done all that + I shall be home again. + + MARIAN + + What, not before? + + ROBIN + + That's not unlikely, either. + + MARIAN + + Now you mock me, + But you'll be back before the masque begins. + + ROBIN + + I warrant you I will. + + MARIAN + + It is a month + To-day since we were married. Did you know it? + Fie, I believe you had forgotten, Robin. + + ROBIN + + I had, almost. If marriage make the moons + Fly, as this month has flown, we shall be old + And grey in our graves before we know it. + I wish that we could chain old Father Time. + + MARIAN + + And break his glass into ten thousand pieces. + + ROBIN + + And drown his cruel scythe ten fathom deep, + Under the bright blue sea whence Love was born: + + MARIAN + + Ah, but we have not parted all this month + More than a garden's breadth, an arrow's flight: + Time will be dead till you come back again. + Four hours of absence make four centuries! + Do you remember how the song goes, Robin, + That bids true lovers not to grieve at parting + Often? for Nature gently severs them thus, + Training them up with kind and tender art, + For the great day when they must part for ever. + + ROBIN + + Do you believe it, Marian? + + MARIAN + + No; for love + Buried beneath the dust of life and death, + Would wait for centuries of centuries, + Ages of ages, until God remembered, + And, through that perishing cloud-wrack, face looked up + Once more to loving face. + + ROBIN + + Your hope--and mine! + Is not a man's poor memory, indeed, + A daily resurrection? Your hope--and mine! + + MARIAN + + And all the world's at heart! I do believe it. + + ROBIN + + And I--if only that so many souls + Like yours have died believing they should meet + Again, lovers and children, little children! + God will not break that trust. I have found my heaven + Again in you; and, though I stumble still, + Your small hand leads me thro' the darkness, up + And onward, to the heights I dared not see, + And dare not even now; but my head bows + Above your face; I see them in your eyes. + Love, point me onward still! + + [_He takes her in his arms._] + + Good-bye! Good-bye! + + MARIAN + + Come back, come back, before the masque begins! + + ROBIN + + Ay, or a little later--never fear: + You'll not so easily lose me. + + MARIAN + + I shall count + The minutes! + + ROBIN + + Why, you're trembling! + + MARIAN + + Yes, I am foolish. + This is the first small parting we have had; + But--you'll be back ere dusk? + + ROBIN + + [_Laughing._] + + Ah, do you think + That chains of steel could hold me, sweet, from you, + With those two heavenly eyes to call me home, + Those lips to welcome me? Good-bye! + + MARIAN + + Good-bye! + + [_He goes hurriedly out. She looks after him for a moment, then + suddenly calls._] + + Robin! Ah, well, no matter now--too late! + + [_She stands looking after him._] + + +SCENE II. _Sherwood Forest: dusk. Outside the cave, as in the second +act. SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF runs quickly across the glade, followed by PUCK._ + + PUCK + + Shadow-of-a-Leaf! Shadow-of-a-Leaf! Shadow-of-a-Leaf! + Don't dance away like that; don't hop; don't skip + Like that, I tell you! I'll never do it again, + I promise. Don't be silly now! Come here; + I want to tell you something. Ah, that's right. + Come, sit down here upon this bank of thyme + "While I thine amiable ears"--Oh, no, + Forgive me, ha! ha! ha! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Now, Master Puck, + You'll kindly keep your word! A foxglove spray + In the right hand is deadlier than the sword + That mortals use, and one resounding thwack + Applied to your slim fairyhood's green limbs + Will make it painful, painful, very painful, + Next time your worship wishes to sit down + Cross-legged upon a mushroom. + + PUCK + + Ha! ha! ha! + Poor Shadow-of-a-Leaf! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + You keep your word, that's all! + + PUCK + + Haven't I kept my word? Wasn't it I + That made you what these poor, dull mortals call + Crazy? Who crowned you with the cap and bells? + Who made you such a hopeless, glorious fool + That wise men are afraid of every word + You utter? Wasn't it I that made you free + Of fairyland--that showed you how to pluck + Fern-seed by moonlight, and to walk and talk + Between the lights, with urchins and with elves? + Is there another fool twixt earth and heaven + Like you--ungrateful rogue--answer me that! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + All true, dear gossip, and for saving me + From the poor game of blind man's buff men call + Wisdom, I thank you; but to hang and buzz + Like a mad dragon-fly, now on my nose, + Now on my neck, now singing in my ears, + Is that to make me free of fairyland? + No--that's enough to make the poor fool mad + And take to human wisdom. + + PUCK + + Yet you love me, + Ha! ha!--you love me more than all the rest. + You can't deny it! You can't deny it! Ha! ha! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + I won't deny it, gossip. E'en as I think + There must be something loves us creatures, Puck, + More than the Churchmen say. We are so teased + With thorns, bullied with briars, baffled with stars. + I've lain sometimes and laughed until I cried + To see the round moon rising o'er these trees + With that same foolish face of heavenly mirth + Winking at lovers in the blue-bell glade. + + PUCK + + Lovers! Ha! ha! I caught a pair of 'em + Last night, behind the ruined chapel! Lovers! + O Lord, these mortals, they'll be the death of me! + Hist, who comes here? + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Scarlet and Little John, + And all the merry men--not half so merry + Since Robin went away. He was to come + And judge between the rich and poor to-day, + I think he has forgotten. + + PUCK + + Hist, let me hide + Behind this hawthorn bush till they are gone. + + [_Enter the FORESTERS--they all go into the cave except SCARLET + and LITTLE JOHN, who stand at the entrance, looking + anxiously back._] + + LITTLE JOHN + + I have never known the time when Robin Hood + Said "I will surely come," and hath not been + Punctual as yonder evening star. + + SCARLET + + Pray God + No harm hath fallen him. Indeed he said, + "Count on my coming." + + LITTLE JOHN + + I'll sound yet one more call. + They say these Courts will spoil a forester. + It may be he has missed the way. I'd give + My sword-hand just to hear his jolly bugle + Answer me. + + [_He blows a forest call. They listen. All is silent._] + + SCARLET + + Silence--only the sough of leaves! + + LITTLE JOHN + + Well, I'm for sleep: the moon is not so bright + Since Robin left us. + + SCARLET + + Ha! Shadow-of-a-Leaf, alone? + I thought I heard thy voice. + + LITTLE JOHN + + Oh, he will talk + With ferns and flowers and whisper to the mice! + Perfectly happy, art thou not, dear fool? + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Perfectly happy since I lost my wits! + + SCARLET + + Pray that thou never dost regain them, then, + Shadow-of-a-Leaf. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + I thank you kindly, sir, + And pray that you may quickly lose your own, + And so be happy, too. Robin's away, + But, if you'd lost your wits, you would not grieve. + + SCARLET + + Good-night, good fool. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + I will not say "Good-night," + Wise man, for I am crazed, and so I know + 'Tis good, and yet you'll grieve. I wish you both + A bad night that will tease your wits away + And make you happy. + + [_The OUTLAWS enter the cave. SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF beckons to + PUCK, who steals out again._] + + PUCK + + Shadow-of-a-Leaf, some change + Is creeping o'er the forest. I myself + Scarce laugh so much since Robin went away! + Oh, my head hangs as heavily as a violet + Brimmed with the rain. Shadow-of-a-Leaf, a cloud, + A whisper steals across this listening wood! + I am growing afraid. Dear fool, I am thy Puck, + But I am growing afraid there comes an end + To all our Sherwood revels, and I shall never + Tease thee again. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Here comes the King! + + [_Enter OBERON._] + + Hail, Oberon. + King of the fairies, I strew ferns before you. + There are no palms here: ferns do just as well! + + OBERON + + Shadow-of-a-Leaf, our battles all are wasted; + Our fairy dreams whereby we strove to warn + Robin and Marian, wasted. Shadow-of-a-Leaf, + Dear Robin Hood, the lover of the poor, + And kind Maid Marian, our forest queen, + Are in the toils at last! + + [_He pauses._] + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Speak, speak! + + OBERON + + Prince John + Hath trapped and taken Robin. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Is not Richard + King of this England? Did not Richard tempt + Robin, for Marian's sake, to leave the forest? + Did he not swear upon the Holy Cross + That Robin should be Earl of Huntingdon + And hold his lands in safety? + + OBERON + + Only fear + Of Richard held the wicked Prince in leash. + But Richard roamed abroad again. Prince John + Would murder Robin secretly. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Wise men + Fight too much for these holy sepulchres! + Are not the living images of God + Better than empty graves? + + OBERON + + One grave is filled + Now; for our fairy couriers have brought + Tidings that Richard Lion-Heart is dead. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Dead? + + OBERON + + Dead! In a few brief hours the news will reach + The wicked Prince. He will be King of England, + With Marian in his power! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + No way to save them! + + OBERON + + We cannot break our fairy vows of silence. + A mortal, Shadow-of-a-Leaf, can break those vows, + But only on pain of death. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Oberon, I, + Shadow-of-a-Leaf, the fool, must break my vows! + I must save Robin Hood that he may save + Marian from worse than death. + + OBERON + + Shadow-of-a-Leaf, + Think what death means to you, never to join + Our happy sports again, never to see + The moonlight streaming through these ancient oaks + Again, never to pass the fairy gates + Again. We cannot help it. They will close + Like iron in your face, and you will hear + Our happy songs within; but you will lie + Alone, without, dying, and never a word + To comfort you, no hand to touch your brow. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + So be it. I shall see them entering in! + The time is brief. Quick, tell me, where is Robin? + Quick, or the news that makes Prince John a king + Will ruin all. + + OBERON + + Robin is even now + Thrust in the great dark tower beyond the wood, + The topmost cell where foot can never climb. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Cannot an arrow reach it? Ay, be swift; + Come, lead me thither. + + OBERON + + I cannot disobey + The word that kills the seed to raise the wheat, + The word that--Shadow-of-a-Leaf, I think I know + Now, why great kings ride out to the Crusade. + + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Quickly, come, quickly! + + [_Exeunt OBERON and SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF. PUCK remains + staring after them, then vanishes with a sob, between + the trees. LITTLE JOHN and SCARLET appear once + more at the mouth of the cave._] + + SCARLET + + I thought I heard a voice. + + + LITTLE JOHN + + 'Twas only Shadow-of-a-Leaf again. He talks + For hours among the ferns, plays with the flowers, + And whispers to the mice, perfectly happy! + + + SCARLET + + I cannot rest for thinking that some harm + Hath chanced to Robin. Call him yet once more. + + [_LITTLE JOHN blows his bugle. All is silent. They stand + listening._] + + +SCENE III. _A gloomy cell. ROBIN bound. PRINCE JOHN and two mercenaries. +A low narrow door in the background, small barred window on the left._ + + PRINCE JOHN + + [_To the Mercenaries._] + + Leave us a moment. I have private matters + To lay before this friend of all the poor. + You may begin to build the door up now, + So that you do not wall me in with him. + + [_The two men begin filling up the doorway with rude blocks of + masonry._] + + So now, my good green foot-pad, you are trapped + At last, trapped in the practice of your trade! + Trapped, as you took your stolen Norman gold + To what was it--a widow, or Saxon serf + With eye put out for breaking forest laws? + You hold with them, it seems. Your dainty soul + Sickens at our gross penalties; and so + We'll not inflict them on your noble self, + Although we have the power. There's not a soul + Can ever tell where Robin Hood is gone. + These walls will never echo it. + + [_He taps the wall with his sword._] + + And yet + There surely must be finer ways to torture + So fine a soul as yours. Was it not you + Who gave me like a fairing to my brother + With lofty condescension in your eyes; + And shall I call my mercenaries in + And bid them burn your eyes out with hot irons? + Richard is gone--he'll never hear of it! + An Earl that plays the robber disappears, + That's all. Most like he died in some low scuffle + Out in the greenwood. I am half inclined + To call for red-hot irons after all, + So that your sympathy with Saxon churls + May be more deep, you understand; and then + It would be sweet for you, alone and blind, + To know that you could never in this life + See Marian's face again. But no--that's bad. + Bad art to put hope's eyes out. It destroys + Half a man's fear to rob him of his hope. + No; you shall drink the dregs of it. Hope shall die + More exquisite a death. Robin, my friend, + You understand that, when I quit your presence, + This bare blank cell becomes your living tomb. + Do you not comprehend? It's none so hard. + The doorway will be built up. There will be + No door, you understand, but just a wall, + Some six feet thick, of solid masonry. + Nobody will disturb you, even to bring + Water or food. You'll starve--see--like a rat, + Bricked up and buried. But you'll have time to think + Of how I tread a measure at the masque + To-night, with Marian, while her wide eyes wonder + Where Robin is--and old Fitzwalter smiles + And bids his girl be gracious to the Prince + For his land's sake. Ah, ha! you wince at that! + Will you not speak a word before I go? + Speak, damn you! + + [_He strikes ROBIN across the face with his glove. ROBIN remains + silent._] + + Six days hence, if you keep watch + At yonder window (you'll be hungry then) + You may catch sight of Marian and Prince John + Wandering into the gardens down below. + You will be hungry then; perhaps you'll strive + To call to us, or stretch a meagre arm + Through those strong bars; but then you know the height + Is very great--no voice can reach to the earth: + This is the topmost cell in my Dark Tower. + Men look like ants below there. I shall say + To Marian, See that creature waving there + High up above us, level with the clouds, + Is it not like a winter-shrivelled fly? + And she will laugh; and I will pluck her roses. + And then--and then--there are a hundred ways, + You know, to touch a woman's blood with thoughts + Beyond its lawful limits. Ha! ha! ha! + By God, you almost spoke to me, I think. + Touches at twilight, whispers in the dark, + Sweet sympathetic murmurs o'er the loss + Of her so thoughtless Robin, do you think + Maid Marian will be quite so hard to win + When princes come to woo? There will be none + To interrupt us then. Time will be mine + To practise all the amorous arts of Ovid, + And, at the last-- + + ROBIN + Will you not free my hands? + You have your sword. But I would like to fight you + Here, with my naked hands. I want no more. + + PRINCE JOHN + + Ha! ha! At last the sullen speaks. + That's all + I wanted. I have struck you in the face. + Is't not enough? You can't repay that blow. + + ROBIN + + Bury, me down in hell and I'll repay it + The day you die, across your lying mouth + That spoke of my true lady, I will repay it, + Before the face of God! + + PRINCE JOHN + + [_Laughing._] + + Meanwhile, for me + Till you repay that blow, there is the mouth + Of Marian, the sweet honey-making mouth + That shall forestall your phantom blow with balm. + Oh, you'll go mad too soon if I delay. + I am glad you spoke. Farewell, the masons wait. + And I must not be late for Marian. + + [_Exit thro' the small aperture now left in the doorway. It + is rapidly closed and sounds of heavy masonry being + piled against it are heard. ROBIN tries to free his + hands and after an effort, succeeds. He hurls himself + against the doorway, and finds it hopeless. He + turns to the window, peers through it for a moment, then + suddenly unwinds a scarf from his neck, ties it to one + of the bars and stands to one side._] + + ROBIN + Too high a shot for most of my good bowmen! + What's that? A miss? + + [_He looks thro' the window._] + + Good lad, he'll try again! + + [_He stands at the side once more and an arrow comes thro' the + window._] + + Why, that's like magic! + + [_He pulls up the thread attached to it._] + + Softly, or 'twill break!-- + Ah, now 'tis sturdy cord. + --I'll make it fast. + But, how to break these bars! + St. Nicholas, + There's someone climbing. He must have a head + Of iron, and the lightness of a cat! + Downward is bad enough, but up is more + Than mortal! Who the devil can it be? + Thank God, it's growing dark. But what a risk! + None of my merry men could e'en attempt it. + I'm very sure it can't be Little John. + What, Shadow-of-a-Leaf! + + [_SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF appears at the window._] + + 'Fore God, dear faithful fool, + I am glad to see you. + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Softly, gossip, softly, + Pull up the rope a little until we break + This bar away--or some kind friend may see + The dangling end below. Now here's a toothpick, + Six inches of grey steel, for you to work with, + And here's another for me. Pick out the mortar! + + [_They work to loosen the bars._] + + Wait! Here's a rose I brought you in my cap + And here's a spray of fern! Old Nature's keys + Open all prisons, I'll throw them in for luck, + + [_He throws them into the cell and begins working feverishly again._] + + So that the princes of the world may know + The forest let you out. Down there on earth, + If any sees me, they will only think + The creepers are in leaf. Pick out the mortar! + That's how the greenwood works. You know, 'twill thrust + Its tendrils through these big grey stones one day + And pull them down. I noticed in the courtyard + The grass is creeping though the crevices + Already, and yellow dandelions crouch + In all the crumbling corners. Pick it out! + This is a very righteous work indeed + For men in Lincoln green; for what are we + But tendrils of old Nature, herald sprays! + We scarce anticipate. Pick the mortar out. + Quick, there's no time to lose, although to-night + We're in advance of sun and moon and stars + And all the tackling sands in Time's turned glass. + + [_With a sudden cry._] + + Richard is dead! + + ROBIN + Richard is dead! The King + Is dead! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Ah, dead! Come, pick the mortar out, + Out of the walls of towers and shrines and tombs! + For now Prince John is King, and Lady Marian + In peril, gossip! Yet we are in advance + Of sun and moon to-night, for sweet Prince John + Is not aware yet of his kinglihood, + Or of his brother's death. + + ROBIN + + [_Pausing a moment._] + + Why, Shadow-of-a-Leaf, + What does this mean? + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Come, pick the mortar out; + You have no time to lose. This very night + My Lady Marian must away to Sherwood. + At any moment the dread word may come + That makes John King of England. Quick, be quick! + + ROBIN + + She is at the masque to-night! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + Then you must mask + And fetch her thence! Ah, ha, the bar works loose. + Pull it! + + [_They pull at the bar, get it free, and throw it into the cell._] + + Now, master, follow me down the rope. + + [_Exit ROBIN thro' the window._] + + +SCENE IV. _Night. The garden of the King's palace (as before), but +lighted with torches for the masque. Music swells up and dies away +continually. Maskers pass to and fro between the palace and the garden. +On the broad terrace in front some of them are dancing a galliard._ + +[_PRINCE JOHN enters and is met by_ QUEEN ELINOR, _neither of them +masked._] + + ELINOR + + All safe? + + PRINCE JOHN + + Ay, buried and bricked up now, to think + Alone, in the black night, of all I told him. + Thank God, we have heard the last of Robin Hood. + + ELINOR + + [_She puts on her mask._] + + You are sure? + + PRINCE JOHN + + I saw him entombed with my own eyes! + Six feet of solid masonry. Look there, + There's the young knight you've lately made your own. + Where is my Lady Marian? Ah, I see her! + With that old hypocrite, Fitzwalter. + + [_They part. PRINCE JOHN puts on his mask as he goes._] + + A LADY + + But tell me + Where is Prince John? + + A MASKER + + That burly-shouldered man + By yonder pillar, talking with old Fitzwalter, + And the masked girl, in green, with red-gold hair, + Is Lady Marian! + + THE LADY + + Where is Robin Hood? + I have never seen him, but from all one hears + He is a wood-god and a young Apollo, + And a more chaste Actaeon all in one. + + MASKER + + Oh, ay, he never watched Diana bathing, + Or, if he did, all Sherwood winked at it. + Who knows? Do you believe a man and maid + Can sleep out in the woods all night, as these + Have slept a hundred times, and put to shame + Our first poor parents; throw the apple aside + And float out of their leafy Paradise + Like angels? + + LADY + + No; I fear the forest boughs + Could tell sad tales. Oh, I imagine it-- + Married to Robin, by a fat hedge-priest + Under an altar of hawthorn, with a choir + Of sparrows, and a spray of cuckoo-spit + For holy water! Oh, the modest chime + Of blue-bells from a fairy belfry, a veil + Of evening mist, a robe of golden hair; + A blade of grass for a ring; a band of thieves + In Lincoln green to witness the sweet bans; + A glow-worm for a nuptial taper, a bed + Of rose-leaves, and wild thyme and wood-doves' down. + Quick! Draw the bridal curtains--three tall ferns-- + Across the cave mouth, lest a star should peep + And make the wild rose leap into her face! + Pish! A sweet maid! But where is Robin Hood? + + MASKER + + I know not; but he'd better have a care + Of Mistress Marian. If I know Prince John + He has marked her for his own. + + LADY + + I cannot see + What fascinates him. + + MASKER + + No, you are right, nor I. + + PRINCE JOHN + + Come, Lady Marian, let me lead you out + To tread a measure. + + MARIAN + + Pray, sir, pardon me! + I am tired. + + FITZWALTER + + [_Whispering angrily to her._] + + Now, Marian, be not so ungracious. + You both abuse him and disparage us. + His courtiers led the ladies they did choose. + Do not displease him, girl. I pray you, go! + Dance out your galliard. God's dear holy-bread, + Y'are too forgetful. Dance, or by my troth, + You'll move my patience. I say you do us wrong. + + MARIAN + + I will do what you will. Lead, lead your dance. + + [_Exeunt JOHN and MARIAN._] + + FIRST MASKER + + [_To a lady, as they come up from the garden._] + + Will you not let me see your face now, sweet? + + LADY + + You hurt my lip with that last kiss of yours. + Hush, do not lean your face so close, I pray you; + Loosen my fingers. There's my lord. + + FIRST MASKER + + Where? Where? + Now, if I know him, I shall know your name! + + LADY + + That tall man with the damozel in red. + + FIRST MASKER + + Oh, never fear him. He, too, wore a mask! + I saw them-- + + [_They pass out talking._] + + SECOND MASKER + + [_Looking after them._] + + Saw you those two turtle-doves! + + SECOND LADY + + Yes. + + SECOND MASKER + + Come with me, I'll show you where I caught them + Among the roses, half an hour ago. + + [_They laugh and exeunt into the gardens. The music swells up + and more dancers appear._] + + [_Enter ROBIN HOOD, still in his forester's garb, but wearing a + mask. He walks as if wounded and in pain. He + sits down in the shadow of a pillar watching, and + partly concealed from the throng._] + + THIRD LADY + + Remember now to say you did not see me + Here at the masque. + + THIRD MASKER + + Or shall I say that I + Was out in Palestine? + + [_They pass. Enter little ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. He comes + up to ROBIN HOOD._] + + ARTHUR + + Are you not Robin Hood? + + ROBIN + + Hush, Arthur. Don't you see I wear a mask + Like all the rest to-night? + + ARTHUR + + Why do they wear + Masks? + + ROBIN + + They must always wear some sort of mask + At court. Sometimes they wear them all their lives. + + ARTHUR + + You are jesting, Robin. Now I wanted you + To tell me tales of Sherwood. Tell me how + You saved Will Scarlet. + + ROBIN + + Why, I've told you that + A score of times. + + ARTHUR + + I know, I want to hear it + Again. Well, tell me of that afternoon + When Lion-Heart came home from the Crusade. + I have often thought of that. It must have been + Splendid! You weren't expecting it at all? + + ROBIN + + No, not at all; but, Arthur, tell me first + Have you seen Lady Marian? + + ARTHUR + + Yes, I saw her + Treading a measure with my Uncle John! + + ROBIN + + Stand where you are and watch; and, if you see her, + Beckon her. Then I'll tell you how the King + Came home from the Crusade. + + ARTHUR + + First, let me tell you + Just how I think it was. It must have been + Like a great picture. All your outlaws there + Sitting around your throne of turf, and you + Judging the rich and poor. That's how it was + Last night, I dreamed of it; and you were taking + The baron's gold and giving it to the halt + And blind; and then there was a great big light + Between the trees, as if a star had come + Down to the earth and caught among the boughs, + With beams like big soft swords amongst the ferns + And leaves, and through the light a mighty steed + Stepped, and the King came home from the Crusade. + Was it like that? Was there a shining light? + + ROBIN + + I think there must have been, a blinding light, + + ARTHUR + + Filling an arch of leaves? + + ROBIN + + Yes! + + ARTHUR + + That was it! + That's how the King came home from the Crusade. + + ROBIN + + But there--you've told the story! + + ARTHUR + + Ah, not all! + + ROBIN + + No, not quite all. What's that? + + [_The music suddenly stops. The maskers crowd together whispering + excitedly._] + + ARTHUR + + Why have they stopped + The music? Ah, there's Hubert. Shall I ask him? + + ROBIN + + Yes, quickly, and come back! + + [_ARTHUR runs up to a masker. Several go by hurriedly._] + + FIRST MASKER + + The King is dead! + + SECOND MASKER + + Where did it happen? France? + + FIRST MASKER + + I know not, sir! + + [_ARTHUR returns._] + + ARTHUR + + Robin, they say the King is dead! So John + Is king now, is he not? + + ROBIN + + Ay, John is king! + Now, tell me quickly, use your eyes, my boy, + Where's Lady Marian? + + ARTHUR + + Ah, there she is at last, + Alone! + + ROBIN + + Go to her quickly, and bring her hither. + + [_ARTHUR runs off and returns with_ MARIAN.] + + MARIAN + + Robin, thank God, you have returned. I feared-- + + ROBIN + + No more, dear heart, you must away to Sherwood! + Shadow-of-a-Leaf is waiting by the orchard + With your white palfrey. Away, or the new king + Will hunt us down. I'll try to gain you time. + Go--quickly! + + MARIAN + + Robin, your face is white, you are wounded! + What's this--there's blood upon your doublet! + Robin! + + ROBIN + + Nothing! Go, quickly! + + MARIAN + + Robin, I cannot leave you. + + ROBIN + + Go, Marian. If you ever loved me, go. + + MARIAN + + You'll follow? + + ROBIN + + Oh, with my last breath I will, + God helping me; but I must gain you time! + Quickly! Here comes the King! + + MARIAN + + Oh, follow soon! + + [_Exit._] + + [_ROBIN sits down again, steadying himself against the pillar. + JOHN appears at the doors of the palace, above the terrace, a + scroll in his hand._] + + JOHN + + My friends, the King is dead! + + MASKERS + + + [_Taking off their masks, with a cry._] + + Long live King John! + + JOHN + + + [_Coming down amongst them._] + + Our masque is ended by this grievous news; + But where's my Lady Marian? I had some word + To speak with her! Not here! Why-- + + ROBIN + + + [_Still masked, rises and confronts the King, who stares at him and + shrinks back a little._] + + All the masks + Are off, sire! No, perhaps they wear them still. + + JOHN + + Who is this? + + ROBIN + + One that was dead and lives. You say + Your brother, the great King, is dead. Oh, sire, + If that be so, you'll hear a dead man speak, + For your dead brother's sake. You say the King + Is dead; but you are king. So the King lives! + You are King of England now from sea to sea, + Is it not so? Shout, maskers, once again, + Long live the King! + + MASKERS + + Long live the King! + + ROBIN + + You see + What power is yours! Your smile is life, your frown + Death. At a word from you the solid earth + Would shake with tramp of armies. You can call + Thousands to throw away their lives like straws + Upon your side, if any foreign king + Dare to affront you. + + [_He draws nearer to JOHN, who still shrinks a little, as if in fear._] + + Richard, you say, is dead, + And yet, O King, I say that the great King + Lives! + + [_He strikes JOHN across the face. JOHN cowers and staggers back. + The MASKERS draw their swords, the women + scream and rush together. ROBIN turns, sword in hand, + to confront the MASKERS._] + + Back, fools; for I say that the great King + Lives. Do not doubt it. Ye have dreamed him dead + How often. Hark, God in heaven, ye know that voice. + + [_A voice is heard drawing nearer thro' the distant darkness of the + garden, singing. All listen. JOHN'S face whitens._] + + [_Song._] + + Knight, on the narrow way, + Where wouldst thou ride? + "Onward," I heard him say, + "Love, to thy side." + + ROBIN + + 'Tis Blondel! Still vaunt-courier to the King, + As when he burst the bonds of Austria! Listen! + + [_Song nearer._] + + "Nay," sang a bird above, + "Stay, for I see + Death, in the mask of love, + Waiting for thee." + + MASKERS + + [_Resuming their masks and muttering to one another._] + + Can the King live? Is this John's treachery? Look, + He is crushed with fear! + + ROBIN + Listen! I'll go to meet him. + + [_Exit into the garden._] + + MASKERS + + It was the song of Blondel! The same song + He made with Richard, long since!-- + Blondel's voice! + Just as we heard it on that summer's night + When Lion-Heart came home from the Crusade. + + [_The Song still drawing nearer._] + + "Death! What is Death?" he cried. + "I must ride on, + On to my true love's side, + Up to her throne!" + + [_Enter BLONDEL, from the garden. He stands, startled by the + scene before him._] + + MASKERS + + Blondel! Where is the King? Where is the King? + + BLONDEL + + Did ye not know?--Richard, the King, is dead! + + MASKERS + + Dead! + + JOHN + + Dead! And ye let the living dog escape + That dared snarl at our sovereignty. I know him, + Risen from the dead or not. I know 'twas he, + 'Twas Robin Hood! After him; hunt him down! + Let him not live to greet another sun. + After him! + + MASKERS + + [_Drawing their swords and plunging into the darkness._] + + After him; hunt the villain down! + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +ACT V + + +SCENE I. _Morning. Sherwood Forest (as before). LITTLE JOHN and some of +the OUTLAWS are gathered together talking. Occasionally they look +anxiously toward the cave and at the approaches through the wood. Enter +two FORESTERS, running and breathless._ + + FIRST FORESTER + + The King's men! They are scouring thro' the wood, + Two troops of them, five hundred men in each + And more are following. + + SECOND FORESTER + + We must away from here + And quickly. + + LITTLE JOHN + + Where did you sight them? + + SECOND FORESTER + + From the old elm, + Our watch-tower. They were not five miles away! + + FIRST FORESTER + + Five, about five. We saw the sunlight flash + Along, at least five hundred men at arms; + And, to the north, along another line, + Bigger, I think; but not so near. + + SECOND FORESTER + + Where's Robin? + We must away at once! + + FIRST FORESTER + + No time to lose! + + LITTLE JOHN + + His wound is bitter--I know not if we dare + Move him! + + FIRST FORESTER + + His wound? + + LITTLE JOHN + + Ay, some damned arrow pierced him + When he escaped last night from the Dark Tower. + He never spoke of it when first he reached us; + And, suddenly, he swooned. He is asleep + Now. He must not be wakened. They will take + Some time yet ere they thread our forest-maze. + + FIRST FORESTER + + Not long, by God, not long. They are moving fast. + + [_MARIAN appears at the mouth of the cave. All turn to look at + her, expectantly. She seems in distress._] + + MARIAN + + He is tossing to and fro. I think his wound + Has taken fever! What can we do? + + FRIAR TUCK + + I've sent + A messenger to Kirklee Priory, + Where my old friend the Prioress hath store + Of balms and simples, and hath often helped + A wounded forester. Could we take him there, + Her skill would quickly heal him. + + LITTLE JOHN + + The time is pressing! + + FRIAR TUCK + + The lad will not be long! + + [_ROBIN appears tottering and white at the mouth of the cave._] + + MARIAN + + [_Running to him._] + + O Robin, Robin, + You must not rise! Your wound! + + ROBIN + + [_He speaks feverishly._] + + Where can I rest + Better than on my greenwood throne of turf? + Friar, I heard them say they had some prisoners. + Bring them before me. + + FRIAR TUCK + + Master, you are fevered, + And they can wait. + + ROBIN + + Yes, yes; but there are some + That cannot wait, that die for want of food, + And then--the Norman gold will come too late, + Too late. + + LITTLE JOHN + O master, you must rest. + + [_Going up to him._] + + MARIAN + Oh, help me, + Help me with him. Help me to lead him back. + + ROBIN + + No! No! You must not touch me! I will rest + When I have seen the prisoners, not before. + + LITTLE JOHN + + He means it, mistress, better humour him + Or he will break his wound afresh. + + MARIAN + + O Robin, + Give me your word that you'll go back and rest, + When you have seen them. + + ROBIN + + Yes, I will try, I will try! + But oh, the sunlight! Where better, sweet, than this? + + [_She leads him to the throne of turf and he sits down upon it, with + MARIAN at his side._] + + The Friar is right. This life is wine, red wine, + Under the greenwood boughs! Oh, still to keep it, + One little glen of justice in the midst + Of multitudinous wrong. Who knows? We yet + May leaven the whole world. + + [_Enter the Outlaws, with several prisoners, among them, a + KNIGHT, an ABBOT, and a FORESTER._] + + Those are the prisoners? + You had some victims of the forest laws + That came to you for help. Bring them in, too, + And set them over against these lords of the earth! + + [_Some ragged women and children appear. Several serfs with + iron collars round their necks and their eyes put out, + are led gently in._] + + Is that our Lincoln green among the prisoners? + There? One of my own band? + + LITTLE JOHN + + Ay, more's the pity! + We took him out of pity, and he has wronged + Our honour, sir; he has wronged a helpless woman + Entrusted to his guidance thro' the forest. + + ROBIN + + Ever the same, the danger comes from those + We fight for, those below, not those above! + Which of you will betray me to the King? + + THE FORESTER + + Do you ask _me_, sir? + + ROBIN + + Judas answered first, + With "Master, is it I?" Hang not thy head! + What say'st thou to this charge? + + THE FORESTER + + Why, Friar Tuck + Can answer for me. Do you think he cares + Less for a woman's lips than I? + + FRIAR TUCK + + Cares less, + Thou rotten radish? Nay, but a vast deal more! + God's three best gifts to man,--woman and song + And wine, what dost _thou_ know of all their joy? + Thou lean pick-purse of kisses? + + ROBIN + + Take him out, + Friar, and let him pack his goods and go, + Whither he will. I trust the knave to thee + And thy good quarter-staff, for some five minutes + Before he says "Farewell." + + FRIAR + + Bring him along, + Give him a quarter-staff, I'll thrash him roundly. + + [_He goes out. Two of the FORESTERS follow with the prisoner. + Others bring the ABBOT before ROBIN._] + + ROBIN + + Ah! Ha! I know him, the godly usurer + Of York! + + LITTLE JOHN + + We saw a woman beg for alms, + One of the sufferers by the rule which gave + This portly Norman his fat priory + And his abundant lands. We heard him say + That he was helpless, had not one poor coin + To give her, not a scrap of bread! He wears + Purple beneath his cloak: his fine sleek palfrey + Flaunted an Emperor's trappings! + + ABBOT + + Man, the Church + Must keep her dignity! + + ROBIN + + [_Pointing to the poor woman, etc._] + + Ay, look at it! + There is your dignity! And you must wear + Silk next your skin to show it. But there was one + You call your Master, and He had not where + To lay His head, save one of these same trees! + + ABBOT + + Do you blaspheme! I pray you, let me go! + There are grave matters waiting. I am poor! + + ROBIN + + Look in his purse and see. + + ABBOT + + [_Hurriedly._] + + I have five marks + In all the world, no more. I'll give them to you! + + ROBIN + + Look in his purse and see. + + [_They pour a heap of gold out of his purse._] + + ROBIN + + Five marks, Indeed! + Here's, at the least, a hundred marks in gold! + + ABBOT + + That is my fees, my fees; you must not take them! + + ROBIN + + The ancient miracle!--five loaves, two small fishes; + And then--of what remained--they gathered up + Twelve basketsful! + + ABBOT + + Oh, you blaspheming villains! + + ROBIN + + Abbot, I chance to know how this was wrought, + This miracle; wrought with the blood, anguish and sweat + Of toiling peasants, while the cobwebs clustered + Around your lordly cellars of red wine. + Give him his five and let him go. + + ABBOT + + [_Going out._] + + The King + Shall hear of this! The King will hunt you down! + + ROBIN + + And now--the next! + + SCARLET + + Beseech you, sir, to rest, + Your wound will-- + + ROBIN + + No! The next, show me the next! + + SCARLET + + This Norman baron-- + + ROBIN + + What, another friend! + Another master of broad territories. + How many homes were burned to make you lord + Of half a shire? What hath he in his purse? + + SCARLET + + Gold and to spare! + + BARON + + To keep up mine estate + I need much more. + + ROBIN + + [_Pointing to the poor._] + + Ay, you need these! these! these! + + BARON + + [_Protesting._] + + I am not rich. + + ROBIN + + Look in his purse and see. + + BARON + + You dogs, the King shall hear of it! + + ROBIN + + [_Murmuring as if to himself._] + + Five loaves! + And yet, of what remained, they gathered up + Twelve basketsful. The bread of human kindness + Goes far! Oh, I begin to see new meanings + In that old miracle! How much? How much? + + SCARLET + + Five hundred marks in gold! + + ROBIN + + [_Half rising and speaking with a sudden passion._] + + His churls are starving, + Starving! Their little children cry for bread! + One of those jewels on his baldric there + Would feed them all in plenty all their lives! + Five loaves--and yet--and yet--of what remained, + The fragments, mark you, twelve great basketsful! + + BARON + + I am in a madman's power! The man is mad! + + ROBIN + + Take all he has, all you can get. To-night, + When all is dark (we must have darkness, mind, + For deeds like this) blind creatures will creep out + With groping hands and gaping mouths, lean arms, + And shrivelled bodies, branded, fettered, lame, + Distorted, horrible; and they will weep + Great tears like gouts of blood upon our feet, + And we shall succour them and make them think + (That's if you have not mangled their poor souls + As well, or burned their children with their homes), + We'll try to make them think that some few roods + Of earth are not so bitter as hell might be. + Are you not glad to think of this? Nay--go-- + Or else your face will haunt me when I die! + Take him quickly away. The next! The next! + O God! + + [_Flings up his arms and falls fainting._] + + MARIAN + + [_Bending over him._] + + O Robin! Robin! Help him quickly. + The wound! The wound! + + [_They gather round ROBIN. The OUTLAWS come back with the + captive FORESTER, his pack upon his back._] + + FRIAR TUCK + + [_To the FORESTER._] + + Now, get you gone and quickly! + What, what hath happened? + + [_FRIAR TUCK and the OUTLAWS join the throng round ROBIN. The + FORESTER shakes his fist at them and goes across the glade + muttering. The MESSENGER from Kirklee Priory comes out of the + forest at the same moment and speaks to him, not knowing of his + dismissal._] + + MESSENGER + + All's well! Robin can come + To Kirklee. Our old friend the Prioress + Is there, and faithful! They've all balms and simples + To heal a wound. + + FORESTER + + [_Staring at him._] + + To Kirklee? + + MESSENGER + + Yes, at sunset, + We'll take him to the borders of the wood + All will be safe. + Where he can steal in easily, alone. + + FORESTER + + The King's men are at hand! + + MESSENGER + + Oh, but if we can leave him there, all's safe; + We'll dodge the King's men. + + FORESTER + + When is he to go? + + MESSENGER + + Almost at once; but he must not steal in + Till sundown, when the nuns are all in chapel. + How now? What's this? What's this? + + [_He goes across to the throng round ROBIN._] + + FORESTER + + [_Looking after him._] + + Alone, to Kirklee! + + [_Exit._] + + +SCENE II. _A room in Kirklee Priory. A window on the right overlooks a +cloister leading up to the chapel door. The forest is seen in the +distance, the sun beginning to set behind it. The PRIORESS and a NOVICE +are sitting in a window-seat engaged in broidery work._ + + NOVICE + + He must be a good man--this Robin Hood! + I long to see him. Father used to say + England had known none like him since the days + Of Hereward the Wake. + + PRIORESS + + He will be here + By vespers. You shall let him in. Who's that? + Can that be he? It is not sundown yet. + See who is there. + + [_Exit NOVICE. She returns excitedly._] + + NOVICE + + A lady asks to see you! + She is robed like any nun and yet she spoke + Like a great lady--one that is used to rule + More than obey; and on her breast I saw + A ruby smouldering like a secret fire + Beneath her cloak. She bade me say she came + On Robin Hood's behest. + + PRIORESS + + What? Bring her in + Quickly. + + [_Exit NOVICE and returns with QUEEN ELINOR in a nun's garb. At + the sign from the PRIORESS the NOVICE retires._] + + ELINOR + + Madam, I come to beg a favour. + I am a friend of Robin Hood. I have heard-- + One of his Foresters, this very noon + Brought me the news--that he is sorely wounded; + And purposes to seek your kindly help + At Kirklee Priory. + + PRIORESS + + Oh, then indeed, + You must be a great friend, for this was kept + Most secret from all others. + + ELINOR + + A great friend! + He was my page some fifteen years ago, + And all his life I have watched over him + As if he were my son! I have come to beg + A favour--let me see him when he comes. + My husband was a soldier, and I am skilled + In wounds. In Palestine I saved his life + When every leech despaired of it, a wound + Caused by a poisoned arrow. + + PRIORESS + + You shall see him. + I have some skill myself in balms and simples, + But, in these deadlier matters I would fain + Trust to your wider knowledge. + + ELINOR + + Let me see him alone; + Alone, you understand. His mind is fevered. + I have an influence over him. Do not say + That I am here, or aught that will excite him. + Better say nothing--lead him gently in, + And leave him. In my hands he is like a child. + + PRIORESS + + It shall be done. I see you are subtly versed + In the poor workings of our mortal minds. + + ELINOR + + I learnt much from a wise old Eastern leech + When I was out in Palestine. + + PRIORESS + + I have heard + They have great powers and magic remedies; + They can restore youth to the withered frame. + + ELINOR + + There is only one thing that they cannot do. + + PRIORESS + + And what? + + ELINOR + + They cannot raise the dead. + + PRIORESS + + Ah, no; + I am most glad to hear you say it, most glad + To know we think alike. That is most true-- + Yes--yes--most true; for God alone, dear friend, + Can raise the dead! + + [_A bell begins tolling slowly._] + + The bell for even-song! + You have not long to wait. + + [_Shadowy figures of nuns pass the windows and enter the chapel. + The sunset deepens._] + + Will you not pray + With me? + + [_The PRIORESS and QUEEN ELINOR kneel down together before a + little shrine. Enter the NOVICE._] + + NOVICE + + There is a forester at the door. + Mother, I think 'tis he! + + PRIORESS + + [_Rising._] + + Admit him, then. + + ELINOR + + Leave me: I will keep praying till he comes. + + PRIORESS + + You are trembling! You are not afraid? + + ELINOR + + [_With eyes closed as in strenuous devotion._] + + No; no; + Leave me, I am but praying! + + [_A chant swells up in the chapel. Exit PRIORESS. ELINOR continues + muttering as in prayer. Enter ROBIN HOOD, + steadying himself on his bow, weak and white. She + rises and passes between him and the door to confront + him._] + + ELINOR + + Ah, Robin, you have come to me at last + For healing. Pretty Marian cannot help you + With all her kisses. + + ROBIN HOOD + + [_Staring at her wildly._] + + You! I did not know + That you were here. I did not ask your help. + I must go--Marian! + + [_He tries to reach the door, but reels in a half faint on the way. + ELINOR supports him as he pauses, panting for breath._] + + ELINOR + + Robin, your heart is hard, + Both to yourself and me. You cannot go, + Rejecting the small help which I can give + As if I were a leper. Ah, come back. + Are you so unforgiving? God forgives! + Did you not see me praying for your sake? + Think, if you think not of yourself, oh, think + Of Marian--can you leave her clinging arms + Yet, for the cold grave, Robin? I have risked + Much, life itself, to bring you help this day! + I have some skill in wounds. + + [_She holds him closer and brings her face near to his own, looking + into his eyes._] + + Ah, do you know + How slowly, how insidiously this death + Creeps, coil by tightening coil, around a man, + When he is weak as you are? Do you know + How the last subtle coil slips round your throat + And the flat snake-like head lifts up and peers + With cruel eyes of cold, keen inquisition, + Rivetting your own, until the blunt mouth sucks + Your breath out with one long, slow, poisonous kiss? + + ROBIN HOOD + + O God, that nightmare! Leave me! Let me go! + + ELINOR + + You stare at me as if you saw that snake. + Ha! Ha! Your nerves are shaken; you are so weak! + You cannot go! What! Fainting? Ah, rest here + Upon this couch. + + [_She half supports, half thrusts him back to a couch, in an alcove + out of sight and draws a curtain. There is a knock at + the door._] + + ELINOR + + Who's there? + + PRIORESS + + Madam, I came + To know if I could help in anything. + + ELINOR + + Nothing! His blood runs languidly. It needs + The pricking of a vein to make the heart + Beat, and the sluggish rivers flow. I have brought + A lance for it. I'll let a little blood. + Not over-much; enough, enough to set + The pulses throbbing. + + PRIORESS + + Maid Marian came with him. + She waits without and asks-- + + ELINOR + + Let her not come + Near him till all is done. Let her not know + Anything, or the old fever will awake. + I'll lance his arm now! + + [_The PRIORESS closes the door. ELINOR goes into the alcove. The + chant from the chapel swells up again. QUEEN + ELINOR comes out of the alcove, white and trembling. + She speaks in a low whisper as she looks back._] + + Now, trickle down, sweet blood. Grow white, fond lips + That have kissed Marian--yet, she shall not boast + You kissed her last; for I will have you wake + To the fierce memory of this kiss in heaven + Or burn with it in hell; + + [_She kneels down as if to kiss the face of ROBIN, within. The + chant from the chapel swells up more loudly. The door + slowly opens. MARIAN steals in. ELINOR rises and confronts + her._] + + ELINOR + + [_Laying a hand upon ROBIN'S bow beside her._] + + Hush! Do not wake him! + + MARIAN + + [_In a low voice._] + + What have you done with him? + + ELINOR + + [_As MARIAN advances towards the couch._] + + He is asleep. + Hush! Not a step further! Stay where you are! His life + Hangs on a thread. + + MARIAN + Why do you stare upon me? + What have you done? What's this that trickles down-- + + [_Stoops to the floor and leaps back with a scream._] + + It is blood. You have killed him! + + ELINOR + + [_Seizes the bow and shoots. MARIAN falls._] + + Follow him--down to hell. + King John will find you there. + + [_Exit. The scene grows dark._] + + MARIAN + + [_Lifts her head with a groan._] + + I am dying, Robin! + O God, I cannot wake him! Robin! Robin! + Give me one word to take into the dark! + He will not wake! He will not wake! O God, + Help him! + + [_She falls back unconscious. SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF, a green spray + in his hand, opens the casement and stands for a moment + in the window against the last glow of sunset, then + enters and runs to the side of ROBIN._] + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + [_Hurriedly._] + + Awake, awake, Robin, awake! + The forest waits to help you! All the leaves + Are listening for your bugle. Ah, where is it? + Let but one echo sound and the wild flowers + Will break thro' these grey walls and the green sprays + Drag down these deadly towers. Wake, Robin, wake, + And let the forest drown the priest's grey song + With happy murmurs. Robin, the gates are open + For you and Marian! All I had to give + I have given to thrust them open, the dear gates + Of fairyland which I shall never pass + Again. I can no more, I am but a shadow, + Dying as mortals die! It is not I + That calls, not I, but Marian. Hear her voice! + Robin, awake! + O, master mine, farewell! + + [_Exit lingeringly through the casement._] + + ROBIN + + [_ROBIN is dimly seen in the mouth of the alcove. He stretches out + his hands blindly in the dark._] + + Marian! Why do you call to me in dreams? + Why do you call me? I must go. What's this? + Help me, kind God, for I must say one word, + Only one word--good-bye--to Marian, + To Marian--Ah, too weak, too weak! + + [_He sees the dark body of MARIAN and utters a cry, falling on his + knees beside her._] + + O God, + Marian! Marian! + My bugle! Ah, my bugle! + + [_He rises to his feet and, drowning the distant organ-music, he + blows a resounding forest-call. It is answered by several + in the forest. He falls on his knees by MARIAN and + takes her in his arms._] + + O Marian, Marian, who hath used thee so? + + MARIAN + + Robin, it is my death-wound. Ah, come close. + + ROBIN + + Marian, Marian, what have they done to thee? + + [_The OUTLAWS are heard thundering at the gates with cries._] + + OUTLAWS + + Robin! Robin! Robin! Break down the doors. + + [_The terrified nuns stream past the window, out of the chapel. + The OUTLAWS rush into the room. The scene still + darkens._] + + SCARLET + + Robin and Marian! + + LITTLE JOHN + + Christ, what devil's hand + Hath played the butcher here? Quick, hunt them down, + They passed out yonder. Let them not outlive + Our murdered king and queen. + + REYNOLD GREENLEAF + + O Robin, Robin, + Who shot this bitter shaft into her breast? + + [_Several stoop and kneel by the two lovers._] + + ROBIN HOOD + + Speak to me, Marian, speak to me, only speak! + Just one small word, one little loving word + Like those--do you remember?--you have breathed + So many a time and often, against my cheek, + Under the boughs of Sherwood, in the dark + At night, with nothing but the boughs and stars + Between us and the dear God up in heaven! + O God, why does a man's heart take so long + To break? It would break sooner if you spoke + A word to me, a word, one small kind word. + + MARIAN + + Sweetheart! + + ROBIN + + Sweetheart! You have broken it, broken it! Oh, kind, + Kind heart of Marian! + + MARIAN + + Robin, come soon! + + [_Dies._] + + ROBIN + + Soon, sweetheart! Oh, her sweet brave soul is gone! + Marian, I follow quickly! + + SCARLET + + God, Kirklee + Shall burn for this! + + LITTLE JOHN + + Kirklee shall burn for this! + O master, master, you shall be avenged! + + ROBIN + + No; let me stand upright! Your hand, good Scarlet! + We have lived our lives and God be thanked we go + Together thro' this darkness. We shall wake, + Please God, together. It is growing darker! + I cannot see your faces. Give me my bow + Quickly into my hands, for my strength fails + And I must shoot one last shaft on the trail + Of yonder setting sun, never to reach it! + But where this last, last bolt of all my strength, + My hope, my love, shall fall, there bury us both, + Together, and tread the green turf over us! + The bow! + + [_SCARLET hands him his bow. He stands against the faint glow + of the window, draws the bow to full length, shoots and + falls back into the arms of LITTLE JOHN._] + + LITTLE JOHN + + [_Laying him down._] + + Weep, England, for thine outlawed lover, + Dear Robin Hood, the poor man's friend, is dead. + + [_The scene becomes quite dark. Then out of the darkness, and as + if at a distance, the voice of SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF is + heard singing the fairy song of the first scene. The + fairy glade in Sherwood begins to be visible in the gloom + by the soft light of the ivory gates which are swinging + open once more among the ferns. As the scene grows + clearer the song of SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF grows more and + more triumphant and is gradually caught up by the + chorus of the fairy host within the woods._] + + [_Song of SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF._] + + I + + The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! + The Forest has conquered! + The world begins again! + And O, the red of the roses, + And the rush of the healing rain! + + II + + The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! + The Forest has conquered! + The Princess wakes from sleep; + For the soft green keys of the wood-land + Have opened her donjon-keep! + + III + + The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! + The Forest has conquered! + Their grey walls hemmed us round; + But, under my greenwood oceans, + Their castles are trampled and drowned. + + IV + + The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! + The Forest has conquered! + My green sprays climbed on high, + And the ivy laid hold on their turrets + And haled them down from the sky! + + V + + The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! + The Forest has conquered! + They were strong! They are overthrown! + For the little soft hands of the wild-flowers + Have broken them, stone by stone. + + VI + + The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! + The Forest has conquered! + Though Robin lie dead, lie dead, + And the green turf by Kirklee + Lie light over Marian's head, + + VII + + Green ferns on the crimson sky-line, + What bugle have you heard? + Was it only the peal of the blue-bells, + Was it only the call of a bird? + + VIII + + The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! + The Forest has conquered! + The rose o'er the fortalice floats! + My nightingales chant in their chapels, + My lilies have bridged their moats! + + IX + + The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! + The Forest has conquered! + King Death, in the light of the sun, + Shrinks like an elfin shadow! + His reign is over and done! + + X + + The hawthorn whitens the wood-land; + My lovers, awake, awake, + Shake off the grass-green coverlet, + Glide, bare-foot, thro' the brake! + + XI + + The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! + The Forest has conquered! + And, under the great green boughs, + I have found out a place for my lovers, + I have built them a beautiful house. + + XII + + Green ferns in the dawn-red dew-fall, + This gift by my death I give,-- + They shall wander immortal thro' Sherwood! + In my great green house they shall live! + + XIII + + The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! + The Forest has conquered! + When the first wind blows from the South, + They shall meet by the Gates of Faerie! + She shall set her mouth to his mouth! + + XIV + + He shall gather her, fold her and keep her; + They shall pass thro' the Gates, they shall live! + For the Forest, the Forest has conquered! + This gift by my death I give! + + XV + + The Forest has conquered! The Forest has conquered! + The Forest has conquered! + The world awakes anew; + And O, the scent of the hawthorn, + And the drip of the healing dew! + + [_The song ceases. TITANIA and OBERON come out into the moon-lit + glade._] + + OBERON + + Yet one night more the gates of fairyland + Are opened by a mortal's kindly deed. + But Robin Hood and Marian now are driven + As we shall soon be driven, from the world + Of cruel mortals. + + TITANIA + + Mortals call them dead; + Oberon, what is death? + + OBERON + + Only a sleep. + But these may dream their happy dreams in death + Before they wake to that new lovely life + Beyond the shadows; for poor Shadow-of-a-Leaf + Has given them this by love's eternal law + Of sacrifice, and they shall enter in + To dream their lover's dream in fairyland. + + TITANIA + + And Shadow-of-a-Leaf? + + OBERON + + He cannot enter now. + The gates are closed against him. + + TITANIA + + But is this + For ever? + + OBERON + We fairies have not known or heard + What waits for those who, like this wandering Fool, + Throw all away for love. But I have heard + There is a great King, out beyond the world, + Not Richard, who is dead, nor yet King John; + But a great King who one day will come home + Clothed with the clouds of heaven from His Crusade. + + TITANIA + + The great King! + + OBERON + + Hush, the poor dark mortals come! + + [_The crowd of serfs, old men, poor women, and children, begin to + enter as the fairy song swells up within the gates again. + ROBIN and MARIAN are led along by a crowd of fairies + at the end of the procession._] + + TITANIA + + And there, see, there come Robin and his bride. + And the fairies lead them on, strewing their path + With ferns and moon-flowers. See, they have entered in! + + [_The last fairy vanishes thro' the gates._] + + OBERON + + And we must follow, for the gates may close + For ever now. Hundreds of years may pass + Before another mortal gives his life + To help the poor and needy. + + [_OBERON and TITANIA follow hand in hand thro' the gates. They + begin to close. SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF steals wistfully + and hesitatingly across, as if to enter. They close + in his face. He goes up to them and leans against + them sobbing, a small green figure, looking like a + greenwood spray against their soft ivory glow. The + fairy music dies. He sinks to his knees and holds up + his hands. Immediately a voice is heard singing and + drawing nearer thro' the forest._] + + [_Song--drawing nearer._] + + Knight on the narrow way, + Where wouldst thou ride? + "Onward," I heard him say, + "Love, to thy side!" + + "Nay," sang a bird above, + "Stay, for I see + Death in the mask of love + Waiting for thee." + + [_Enter BLONDEL, leading a great white steed. He stops and looks + at the kneeling figure._] + + BLONDEL + + Shadow-of-a-Leaf! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + [_Rising to his feet._] + + Blondel! + + BLONDEL + + I go to seek + My King! + + SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF + + [_In passionate grief._] + + The King is dead! + + BLONDEL + + [_In yet more passionate joy and triumph._] + + The great King lives! + + [_Then more tenderly._] + + Will you not come and look for Him with me? + + [_They go slowly together through the forest and are lost to sight. + BLONDEL'S voice is heard singing the third stanza + of the song in the distance, further and further away._] + + "Death? What is Death?" he cried. + "I must ride on!" + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN + + +I + +A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA + + Under that foggy sunset London glowed, + Like one huge cob-webbed flagon of old wine. + And, as I walked down Fleet Street, the soft sky + Mowed thro' the roaring thoroughfares, transfused + Their hard sharp outlines, blurred the throngs of black + On either pavement, blurred the rolling stream + Of red and yellow busses, till the town + Turned to a golden suburb of the clouds. + And, round that mighty bubble of St. Paul's, + Over the up-turned faces of the street, + An air-ship slowly sailed, with whirring fans, + A voyager in the new-found realms of gold, + A shadowy silken chrysalis whence should break + What radiant wings in centuries to be. + + So, wandering on, while all the shores of Time + Softened into Eternity, it seemed + A dead man touched me with his living hand, + A flaming legend passed me in the streets + Of London--laugh who will--that City of Clouds, + Where what a dreamer yet, in spite of all, + Is man, that splendid visionary child + Who sent his fairy beacon through the dusk, + On a blue bus before the moon was risen,-- + _This Night, at eight, The Tempest!_ + + Dreaming thus, + (Small wonder that my footsteps went astray!) + I found myself within a narrow street, + Alone. There was no rumour, near or far, + Of the long tides of traffic. In my doubt + I turned and knocked upon an old inn-door, + Hard by, an ancient inn of mullioned panes, + And crazy beams and over-hanging eaves: + And, as I knocked, the slowly changing west + Seemed to change all the world with it and leave + Only that old inn steadfast and unchanged, + A rock in the rich-coloured tides of time. + + And, suddenly, as a song that wholly escapes + Remembrance, at one note, wholly returns, + There, as I knocked, memory returned to me. + I knew it all--the little twisted street, + The rough wet cobbles gleaming, far away, + Like opals, where it ended on the sky; + And, overhead, the darkly smiling face + Of that old wizard inn; I knew by rote + The smooth sun-bubbles in the worn green paint + Upon the doors and shutters. + + There was one + Myself had idly scratched away one dawn, + One mad May-dawn, three hundred years ago, + When out of the woods we came with hawthorn boughs + And found the doors locked, as they seemed to-night. + Three hundred years ago--nay, Time was dead! + No need to scan the sign-board any more + Where that white-breasted siren of the sea + Curled her moon-silvered tail among such rocks + As never in the merriest seaman's tale + Broke the blue-bliss of fabulous lagoons + Beyond the Spanish Main. + + And, through the dream, + Even as I stood and listened, came a sound + Of clashing wine-cups: then a deep-voiced song + Made the old timbers of the Mermaid Inn + Shake as a galleon shakes in a gale of wind + When she rolls glorying through the Ocean-sea. + + + SONG + + I + + Marchaunt Adventurers, chanting at the windlass, + Early in the morning, we slipped from Plymouth Sound, + All for Adventure in the great New Regions, + All for Eldorado and to sail the world around! + Sing! the red of sun-rise ripples round the bows again. + Marchaunt Adventurers, O sing, we're outward bound, + All to stuff the sunset in our old black galleon, + All to seek the merchandise that no man ever found. + + _Chorus:_ Marchaunt Adventurers! + Marchaunt Adventurers! + + Marchaunt Adventurers, O, whither are ye bound?-- + All for Eldorado and the great new Sky-line, + All to seek the merchandise that no man ever found. + + + II + + Marchaunt Adventurers, O, what'ull ye bring home again?-- + Wonders and works and the thunder of the sea! + Whom will ye traffic with?--The King of the Sunset! + What shall be your pilot then?--A wind from Galilee. + Nay, but ye be marchaunts, will ye come back empty-handed?-- + Ay, we be marchaunts, though our gain we ne'er shall see. + Cast we now our bread upon the waste wild waters. + After many days, it shall return with usury. + + _Chorus:_ Marchaunt Adventurers! + Marchaunt Adventurers! + + What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be?-- + Englande!--Englande!--Englande!--Englande!-- + Glory everlasting and the lordship of the sea! + + And there, framed in the lilac patch of sky + That ended the steep street, dark on its light, + And standing on those glistering cobblestones + Just where they took the sunset's kiss, I saw + A figure like foot-feathered Mercury, + Tall, straight and splendid as a sunset-cloud. + + Clad in a crimson doublet and trunk-hose, + A rapier at his side; and, as he paused, + His long fantastic shadow swayed and swept + Against my feet. + + A moment he looked back, + Then swaggered down as if he owned a world + Which had forgotten--did I wake or dream?-- + Even his gracious ghost! + + Over his arm + He swung a gorgeous murrey-coloured cloak + Of Ciprus velvet, caked and smeared with mud + As on the day when--did I dream or wake? + And had not all this happened once before?-- + When he had laid that cloak before the feet + Of Gloriana! By that mud-stained cloak, + 'Twas he! Our Ocean-Shepherd! Walter Raleigh! + He brushed me passing, and with one vigorous thrust + Opened the door and entered. At his heels + I followed--into the Mermaid!--through three yards + Of pitch-black gloom, then into an old inn-parlour + Swimming with faces in a mist of smoke + That up-curled, blue, from long Winchester pipes, + While--like some rare old picture, in a dream + Recalled--quietly listening, laughing, watching, + Pale on that old black oaken wainscot floated + One bearded oval face, young, with deep eyes, + Whom Raleigh hailed as "Will!" + + But as I stared + A sudden buffet from a brawny hand + Made all my senses swim, and the room rang + With laughter as upon the rush-strewn floor + My feet slipped and I fell. Then a gruff voice + Growled over me--"Get up now, John-a-dreams, + Or else mine host must find another drawer! + Hast thou not heard us calling all this while?" + And, as I scrambled up, the rafters rang + With cries of "Sack! Bring me a cup of sack! + Canary! Sack! Malmsey! and Muscadel!" + I understood and flew. I was awake, + A leather-jerkined pot-boy to these gods, + A prentice Ganymede to the Mermaid Inn! + + There, flitting to and fro with cups of wine, + I heard them toss the Chrysomelan names + From mouth to mouth--Lyly and Peele and Lodge, + Kit Marlowe, Michael Drayton, and the rest, + With Ben, rare Ben, brick-layer Ben, who rolled + Like a great galleon on his ingle-bench. + Some twenty years of age he seemed; and yet + This young Gargantua with the bull-dog jaws, + The T, for Tyburn, branded on his thumb, + And grim pock-pitted face, was growling tales + To Dekker that would fright a buccaneer.-- + How in the fierce Low Countries he had killed + His man, and won that scar on his bronzed fist; + Was taken prisoner, and turned Catholick; + And, now returned to London, was resolved + To blast away the vapours of the town + With Boreas-throated plays of thunderous mirth. + "I'll thwack their Tribulation-Wholesomes, lad, + Their Yellow-faced Envies and lean Thorns-i'-the-Flesh, + At the _Black-friars Theatre_, or _The Rose_, + Or else _The Curtain_. Failing these, I'll find + Some good square inn-yard with wide galleries, + And windows level with the stage. 'Twill serve + My Comedy of Vapours; though, I grant. + For Tragedy a private House is best, + Or, just as Burbage tip-toes to a deed + Of blood, or, over your stable's black half-door, + Marked _Battlements_ in white chalk, your breathless David + Glowers at the whiter Bathsheba within, + Some humorous coach-horse neighs a 'hallelujah'! + And the pit splits its doublets. Over goes + The whole damned apple-barrel, and the yard + Is all one rough and tumble, scramble and scratch + Of prentices, green madams, and cut-purses + For half-chewed Norfolk pippins. Never mind! + We'll build the perfect stage in Shoreditch yet. + And Will, there, hath half promised I shall write + A piece for his own company! What d'ye think + Of _Venus and Adonis_, his first heir, + Printed last week? A bouncing boy, my lad! + And he's at work on a Midsummer's Dream + That turns the world to fairyland!" + + All these + And many more were there, and all were young! + There, as I brimmed their cups, I heard the voice + Of Raleigh ringing across the smoke-wreathed room,-- + "Ben, could you put a frigate on the stage, + I've found a tragedy for you. Have you heard + The true tale of Sir Humphrey Gilbert?" + + "No!" + + "Why, Ben, of all the tragical affairs + Of the Ocean-sea, and of that other Ocean + Where all men sail so blindly, and misjudge + Their friends, their charts, their storms, their stars, their God, + If there be truth in the blind crowder's song + I bought in Bread Street for a penny, this + Is the brief type and chronicle of them all. + Listen!" Then Raleigh sent these rugged rhymes + Of some blind crowder rolling in great waves + Of passion across the gloom. At each refrain + He sank his voice to a broad deep undertone, + As if the distant roar of breaking surf + Or the low thunder of eternal tides + Filled up the pauses of the nearer storm, + Storm against storm, a soul against the sea:-- + + +A KNIGHT OF THE OCEAN-SEA + + Sir Humphrey Gilbert, hard of hand, + Knight-in-chief of the Ocean-sea, + Gazed from the rocks of his New Found Land + And thought of the home where his heart would be. + + He gazed across the wintry waste + That weltered and hissed like molten lead,-- + "He saileth twice who saileth in haste! + I'll wait the favour of Spring," he said. + + _Ever the more, ever the more, + He heard the winds and the waves roar! + Thunder on thunder shook the shore._ + + The yellow clots of foam went by + Like shavings that curl from a ship-wright's plane, + Clinging and flying, afar and nigh, + Shuddering, flying and clinging again. + + A thousand bubbles in every one + Shifted and shimmered with rainbow gleams; + But--had they been planets and stars that spun + He had let them drift by his feet like dreams: + + Heavy of heart was our Admirall, + For, out of his ships--and they were but three!-- + He had lost the fairest and most tall, + And--he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea. + + _Ever the more, ever the more, + He heard the winds and the waves roar! + Thunder on thunder shook the shore._ + + Heavy of heart, heavy of heart, + For she was a galleon mighty as May, + And the storm that ripped her glory apart + Had stripped his soul for the winter's way; + + And he was aware of a whisper blown + From foc'sle to poop, from windward to lee, + That the fault was his, and his alone, + And--he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea. + + "Had he done that! Had he done this!" + And yet his mariners loved him well; + But an idle word is hard to miss, + And the foam hides more than the deep can tell. + + And the deep had buried his best-loved books, + With many a hard-worn chart and plan: + And a king that is conquered must see strange looks, + So bitter a thing is the heart of man! + + And--"Who will you find to pay your debt? + For a venture like this is a costly thing! + Will they stake yet more, tho' your heart be set + On the mightier voyage you planned for the Spring?" + + He raised his head like a Viking crowned,-- + "I'll take my old flag to her Majestie, + And she will lend me ten thousand pound + To make her Queen of the Ocean-sea!" + + _Ever the more, ever the more, + He heard the winds and the waves roar! + Thunder on thunder shook the shore._ + + Outside--they heard the great winds blow! + Outside--the blustering surf they heard, + And the bravest there would ha' blenched to know + That they must be taken at their own word. + + For the great grim waves were as molten lead + --And he had two ships who sailed with three!-- + "And I sail not home till the Spring," he said, + "They are all too frail for the Ocean-sea." + + But the trumpeter thought of an ale-house bench, + And the cabin-boy longed for a Devonshire lane, + And the gunner remembered a green-gowned wench, + And the fos'cle whisper went round again,-- + + "Sir Humphrey Gilbert is hard of hand, + But his courage went down with the ship, may-be, + And we wait for the Spring in a desert land, + For--_he is afraid of the Ocean-sea_." + + _Ever the more, ever the more, + He heard the winds and the waves roar! + Thunder on thunder shook the shore._ + + He knew, he knew how the whisper went! + He knew he must master it, last or first! + He knew not how much or how little it meant; + But his heart was heavy and like to burst. + + "Up with your sails, my sea-dogs all! + The wind has veered! And my ships," quoth he, + "They will serve for a British Admirall + Who is Knight-in-chief of the Ocean-sea!" + + His will was like a North-east wind + That swept along our helmless crew; + But he would not stay on the _Golden Hynde_, + For that was the stronger ship of the two. + + "My little ship's-company, lads, hath passed + Perils and storms a-many with me! + Would ye have me forsake them at the last? + They'll need a Knight of the Ocean-sea!" + + _Ever the more, ever the more, + We heard the winds and the waves roar! + Thunder on thunder shook the shore._ + + Beyond Cape Race, the pale sun splashed + The grim grey waves with silver light + Where, ever in front, his frigate crashed + Eastward, for England and the night. + + And still as the dark began to fall, + Ever in front of us, running free, + We saw the sails of our Admirall + Leading us home through the Ocean-sea. + + _Ever the more, ever the more, + We heard the winds and the waves roar! + But he sailed on, sailed on before._ + + On Monday, at noon of the third fierce day + A-board our _Golden Hynde_ he came, + With a trail of blood, marking his way + On the salt wet decks as he walked half-lame. + + For a rusty nail thro' his foot had pierced. + "Come, master-surgeon, mend it for me; + Though I would it were changed for the nails that amerced + The dying thief upon Calvary." + + The surgeon bathed and bound his foot, + And the master entreated him sore to stay; + But roughly he pulled on his great sea-boot + With--"The wind is rising and I must away!" + + I know not why so little a thing, + When into his pinnace we helped him down, + Should make our eyelids prick and sting + As the salt spray were into them blown, + + But he called as he went--"Keep watch and steer + By my lanthorn at night!" Then he waved his hand + With a kinglier watch-word, "We are as near + To heaven, my lads, by sea as by land!" + + _Ever the more, ever the more, + We heard the gathering tempest roar! + But he sailed on, sailed on before._ + + Three hundred leagues on our homeward road, + We strove to signal him, swooping nigh, + That he would ease his decks of their load + Of nettings and fights and artillery. + + And dark and dark that night 'gan fall, + And high the muttering breakers swelled, + Till that strange fire which seamen call + "Castor and Pollux," we beheld, + + An evil sign of peril and death, + Burning pale on the high main-mast; + But calm with the might of Gennesareth + Our Admirall's voice went ringing past, + + Clear thro' the thunders, far and clear, + Mighty to counsel, clear to command, + Joyfully ringing, "We are as near + To heaven, my lads, by sea as by land!" + + _Ever the more, ever the more, + We heard the rising hurricane roar! + But he sailed on, sailed on before._ + + And over us fled the fleet of the stars, + And, ever in front of us, far or nigh, + The lanthorn on his cross-tree spars + Dipped to the Pit or soared to the Sky! + + 'Twould sweep to the lights of Charles's Wain, + As the hills of the deep 'ud mount and flee. + Then swoop down vanishing cliffs again + To the thundering gulfs of the Ocean-sea. + + We saw it shine as it swooped from the height, + With ruining breakers on every hand, + Then--a cry came out of the black mid-night, + _As near to heaven by sea as by land!_ + + And the light was out! Like a wind-blown spark; + All in a moment! And we--and we-- + Prayed for his soul as we swept thro' the dark: + For he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea. + + _Over our fleets for evermore + The winds 'ull triumph and the waves roar! + But he sails on, sails on before!_ + + Silence a moment held the Mermaid Inn, + Then Michael Drayton, raising a cup of wine, + Stood up and said,--"Since many have obtained + Absolute glory that have done great deeds, + But fortune is not in the power of man, + So they that, truly attempting, nobly fail, + Deserve great honour of the common-wealth. + Such glory did the Greeks and Romans give + To those that in great enterprises fell + Seeking the true commodity of their country + And profit to all mankind; for, though they failed, + Being by war, death, or some other chance, + Hindered, their images were set up in brass, + Marble and silver, gold and ivory, + In solemn temples and great palace-halls, + No less to make men emulate their virtues + Than to give honour to their just deserts. + God, from the time that He first made the world, + Hath kept the knowledge of His Ocean-sea + And the huge AEquinoctiall Continents + Reserved unto this day. Wherefore I think + No high exploit of Greece and Rome but seems + A little thing to these Discoveries + Which our adventurous captains even now + Are making, out there, Westward, in the night, + Captains most worthy of commendation, + Hugh Willoughby--God send him home again + Safe to the Mermaid!--and Dick Chauncellor, + That excellent pilot. Doubtless this man, too, + Sir Humphrey Gilbert, was worthy to be made + Knight of the Ocean-sea. I bid you all + Stand up, and drink to his immortal fame!" + + +II + +A COINER OF ANGELS + + + Some three nights later, thro' the thick brown fog, + A link-boy, dropping flakes of crimson fire, + Flared to the door and, through its glowing frame, + Ben Jonson and Kit Marlowe, arm in arm, + Swaggered into the Mermaid Inn and called + For red-deer pies. + There, as they supped, I caught + Scraps of ambrosial talk concerning Will, + His _Venus and Adonis_. + "Gabriel thought + 'Twas wrong to change the old writers and create + A cold Adonis." + --"Laws were made for Will, + Not Will for laws, since first he stole a buck + In Charlecote woods." + --"Where never a buck chewed fern," + Laughed Kit, "unless it chewed the fern seed, too, + And walked invisible." + "Bring me some wine," called Ben, + And, with his knife thrumming upon the board, + He chanted, while his comrade munched and smiled. + + + I + + Will Shakespeare's out like Robin Hood + With his merry men all in green, + To steal a deer in Charlecote wood + Where never a deer was seen. + + + II + + He's hunted all a night of June, + He's followed a phantom horn, + He's killed a buck by the light of the moon, + Under a fairy thorn. + + + III + + He's carried it home with his merry, merry band, + There never was haunch so fine; + For this buck was born in Elfin-land + And fed upon sops-in-wine. + + + IV + + This buck had browsed on elfin boughs + Of rose-marie and bay, + And he's carried it home to the little white house + Of sweet Anne Hathaway. + + + V + + "The dawn above your thatch is red! + Slip out of your bed, sweet Anne! + I have stolen a fairy buck," he said, + "The first since the world began. + + + VI + + "Roast it on a golden spit, + And see that it do not burn; + For we never shall feather the like of it + Out of the fairy fern." + + + VII + + She scarce had donned her long white gown + And given him kisses four, + When the surly Sheriff of Stratford-town + Knocked at the little green door. + + + VIII + + They have gaoled sweet Will for a poacher; + But squarely he fronts the squire, + With "When did you hear in your woods of a deer? + Was it under a fairy briar?" + + + IX + + Sir Thomas he puffs,--"If God thought good + My water-butt ran with wine, + Or He dropt me a buck in Charlecote wood, + I wot it is mine, not thine!" + + + X + + "If you would eat of elfin meat," + Says Will, "you must blow up your horn! + Take your bow, and feather the doe + That's under the fairy thorn! + + + XI + + "If you would feast on elfin food, + You've only the way to learn! + Take your bow and feather the doe + That's under the fairy fern!" + + + XII + + They're hunting high, they're hunting low, + They're all away, away, + With horse and hound to feather the doe + That's under the fairy spray! + + + XIII + + Sir Thomas he raged! Sir Thomas he swore! + But all and all in vain; + For there never was deer in his woods before, + And there never would be again! + + + And, as I brought the wine--"This is my grace," + Laughed Kit, "Diana grant the jolly buck + That Shakespeare stole were toothsome as this pie." + + He suddenly sank his voice,--"Hist, who comes here? + Look--Richard Bame, the Puritan! O, Ben, Ben, + Your Mermaid Inn's the study for the stage, + Your only teacher of exits, entrances, + And all the shifting comedy. Be grave! + Bame is the godliest hypocrite on earth! + Remember I'm an atheist, black as coal. + He has called me Wormall in an anagram. + Help me to bait him; but be very grave. + We'll talk of Venus." + As he whispered thus, + A long white face with small black-beaded eyes + Peered at him through the doorway. All too well, + Afterwards, I recalled that scene, when Bame, + Out of revenge for this same night, I guessed, + Penned his foul tract on Marlowe's tragic fate; + And, twelve months later, I watched our Puritan + Riding to Tyburn in the hangman's cart + For thieving from an old bed-ridden dame + With whom he prayed, at supper-time, on Sundays. + + Like a conspirator he sidled in, + Clasping a little pamphlet to his breast, + While, feigning not to see him, Ben began:-- + + "Will's _Venus and Adonis_, Kit, is rare, + A round, sound, full-blown piece of thorough work, + On a great canvas, coloured like one I saw + In Italy, by one--Titian! None of the toys + Of artistry your lank-haired losels turn, + Your Phyllida--Love-lies-bleeding--Kiss-me-Quicks, + Your fluttering Sighs and Mark-how-I-break-my-beats, + Begotten like this, whenever and how you list, + Your Moths of verse that shrivel in every taper; + But a sound piece of craftsmanship to last + Until the stars are out. 'Tis twice the length + Of Vergil's books--he's listening! Nay, don't look!-- + Two hundred solid stanzas, think of that; + But each a square celestial brick of gold + Laid level and splendid. I've laid bricks and know + What thorough work is. If a storm should shake + The Tower of London down, Will's house would stand. + Look at his picture of the stallion, + Nostril to croup, that's thorough finished work!" + + "'Twill shock our Tribulation-Wholesomes, Ben! + Think of that kiss of Venus! Deep, sweet, slow, + As the dawn breaking to its perfect flower + And golden moon of bliss; then slow, sweet, deep, + Like a great honeyed sunset it dissolves + Away!" + A hollow groan, like a bass viol, + Resounded thro' the room. Up started Kit + In feigned alarm--"What, Master Richard Bame! + Quick, Ben, the good man's ill. Bring him some wine! + Red wine for Master Bame, the blood of Venus + That stained the rose!" + "White wine for Master Bame," + Ben echoed, "Juno's cream that" ... Both at once + They thrust a wine-cup to the sallow lips + And smote him on the back. + "Sirs, you mistake!" coughed Bame, waving his hands + And struggling to his feet, + "Sirs, I have brought + A message from a youth who walked with you + In wantonness, aforetime, and is now + Groaning in sulphurous fires!" + "Kit, that means hell!" + "Yea, sirs, a pamphlet from the pit of hell, + Written by Robert Greene before he died. + Mark what he styles it--_A Groatsworth of Wit + Bought with a Million of Repentance_!" + "Ah, + Poor Rob was all his life-time either drunk, + Wenching, or penitent, Ben! Poor lad, he died + Young. Let me see now, Master Bame, you say + Rob Greene wrote this on earth before he died, + And then you printed it yourself in hell!" + "Stay, sir, I came not to this haunt of sin + To make mirth for Beelzebub!" + "O, Ben, + That's you!" + "'Swounds, sir, am I Beelzebub? + Ogs-gogs!" roared Ben, his hand upon his hilt! + "Nay, sir, I signified the god of flies! + I spake out of the scriptures!" snuffled Bame + With deprecating eye. + "I come to save + A brand that you have kindled at your fire, + But not yet charred, not yet so far consumed, + One Richard Cholmeley, who declares to all + He was persuaded to turn atheist + By Marlowe's reasoning. I have wrestled with him, + But find him still so constant to your words + That only you can save him from the fire." + "Why, Master Bame," said Kit, "had I the keys + To hell, the damned should all come out and dance + A morrice round the Mermaid Inn to-night." + "Nay, sir, the damned are damned!" + "Come, sit you down! + Take some more wine! You'd have them all be damned + Except Dick Cholmeley. What must I unsay + To save him?" A quick eyelid dropt at Ben. + "Now tell me, Master Bame!" + "Sir, he derides + The books of Moses!" + "Bame, do you believe?-- + There's none to hear us but Beelzebub-- + Do you believe that we must taste of death + Because God set a foolish naked wench + Too near an apple-tree, how long ago? + Five thousand years? But there were men on earth + Long before that!" "Nay, nay, sir, if you read + The books of Moses...." "Moses was a juggler!" + "A juggler, sir, how, what!" "Nay, sir, be calm! + Take some more wine--the white, if that's too red! + I never cared for Moses! Help yourself + To red-deer pie. Good! + All the miracles + You say that he performed--why, what are they? + I know one Heriots, lives in Friday Street, + Can do much more than Moses! Eat your pie + In patience, friend, the mouth of man performs + One good work at a time. What says he, Ben? + The red-deer stops his--what? Sticks in his gizzard? + O--_led them through the wilderness_! No doubt + He did--for forty years, and might have made + The journey in six months. Believe me, sir, + That is no miracle. Moses gulled the Jews! + Skilled in the sly tricks of the Egyptians, + Only one art betrayed him. Sir, his books + Are filthily written. I would undertake-- + If I were put to write a new religion-- + A method far more admirable. Eh, what? + _Gruel in the vestibule?_ Interpret, Ben! + His mouth's too full! _O, the New Testament!_ + Why, there, consider, were not all the Apostles + Fishermen and base fellows, without wit + Or worth?"--again his eyelid dropt at Ben.-- + "The Apostle Paul alone had wit, and he + Was a most timorous fellow in bidding us + Prostrate ourselves to worldly magistrates + Against our conscience! I shall fry for this? + I fear no bugbears or hobgoblins, sir, + And would have all men not to be afraid + Of roasting, toasting, pitch-forks, or the threats + Of earthly ministers, tho' their mouths be stuffed + With curses or with crusts of red-deer pie! + One thing I will confess--if I must choose-- + Give me the Papists that can serve their God + Not with your scraps, but solemn ceremonies, + Organs, and singing men, and shaven crowns. + Your protestant is a hypocritical ass!" + + "Profligate! You blaspheme!" Up started Bame, + A little unsteady now upon his feet, + And shaking his crumpled pamphlet over his head! + + "Nay--if your pie be done, you shall partake + A second course. Be seated, sir, I pray. + We atheists will pay the reckoning! + I had forgotten that a Puritan + Will swallow Moses like a red-deer pie + Yet choke at a wax-candle! Let me read + Your pamphlet. What, 'tis half addressed to me! + Ogs-gogs! Ben! Hark to this--the Testament + Of poor Rob Greene would cut Will Shakespeare off + With less than his own Groatsworth! Hark to this!" + And there, unseen by them, a quiet figure + Entered the room and beckoning me for wine + Seated himself to listen, Will himself, + While Marlowe read aloud with knitted brows. + "'_Trust them not; for there is an upstart crow + Beautified with our feathers!_' + --O, he bids + All green eyes open:--'_And, being an absolute + Johannes fac-totum is in his own conceit + The only Shake-scene in a country!_'" + "Feathers!" + Exploded Ben. "Why, come to that, he pouched + Your eagle's feather of blank verse, and lit + His Friar Bacon's little magic lamp + At the Promethean fire of Faustus. Jove, + It was a faery buck, indeed, that Will + Poached in that greenwood." + "Ben, see that you walk + Like Adam, naked! Nay, in nakedness + Adam was first. Trust me, you'll not escape + This calumny! Vergil is damned--he wears + A hen-coop round his waist, nicked in the night + From Homer! Plato is branded for a thief, + Why, he wrote Greek! And old Prometheus, too, + Who stole his fire from heaven!" + "Who printed it?" + "Chettle! I know not why, unless he too + Be one of those same dwarfs that find the world + Too narrow for their jealousies. Ben, Ben, + I tell thee 'tis the dwarfs that find no world + Wide enough for their jostling, while the giants, + The gods themselves, can in one tavern find + Room wide enough to swallow the wide heaven + With all its crowded solitary stars." + + "Why, then, the Mermaid Inn should swallow this," + The voice of Shakespeare quietly broke in, + As laying a hand on either shoulder of Kit + He stood behind him in the gloom and smiled + Across the table at Ben, whose eyes still blazed + With boyhood's generous wrath. "Rob was a poet. + And had I known ... no matter! I am sorry + He thought I wronged him. His heart's blood beats in this. + Look, where he says he dies forsaken, Kit!" + "Died drunk, more like," growled Ben. "And if he did," + Will answered, "none was there to help him home, + Had not a poor old cobbler chanced upon him, + Dying in the streets, and taken him to his house, + And let him break his heart on his own bed. + Read his last words. You know he left his wife + And played the moth at tavern tapers, burnt + His wings and dropt into the mud. Read here, + His dying words to his forsaken wife, + Written in blood, Ben, blood. Read it, '_I charge thee, + Doll, by the love of our youth, by my soul's rest, + See this man paid! Had he not succoured me + I had died in the streets._' How young he was to call + Thus on their poor dead youth, this withered shadow + That once was Robin Greene. He left a child-- + See--in its face he prays her not to find + The father's, but her own. '_He is yet green + And may grow straight_,' so flickers his last jest, + Then out for ever. At the last he begged + A penny-pott of malmsey. In the bill, + All's printed now for crows and daws to peck, + You'll find four shillings for his winding sheet. + He had the poet's heart and God help all + Who have that heart and somehow lose their way + For lack of helm, souls that are blown abroad + By the great winds of passion, without power + To sway them, chartless captains. Multitudes ply + Trimly enough from bank to bank of Thames + Like shallow wherries, while tall galleons, + Out of their very beauty driven to dare + The uncompassed sea, founder in starless nights, + And all that we can say is--'They died drunk!'" + + "I have it from veracious witnesses," + Bame snuffled, "that the death of Robert Greene + Was caused by a surfeit, sir, of Rhenish wine + And pickled herrings. Also, sir, that his shirt + Was very foul, and while it was at wash + He lay i' the cobbler's old blue smock, sir!" + "Gods," + The voice of Raleigh muttered nigh mine ear, + "I had a dirty cloak once on my arm; + But a Queen's feet had trodden it! Drawer, take + Yon pamphlet, have it fried in cod-fish oil + And bring it hither. Bring a candle, too, + And sealing-wax! Be quick. The rogue shall eat it, + And then I'll seal his lips." + "No--not to-night," + Kit whispered, laughing, "I've a prettier plan + For Master Bame." + "As for that scrap of paper," + The voice of Shakespeare quietly resumed, + "Why, which of us could send his heart and soul + Thro' Caxton's printing-press and hope to find + The pretty pair unmangled. I'll not trust + The spoken word, no, not of my own lips, + Before the Judgment Throne against myself + Or on my own defence; and I'll not trust + The printed word to mirror Robert Greene. + See--here's another Testament, in blood, + Written, not printed, for the Mermaid Inn. + Rob sent it from his death-bed straight to me. + Read it. 'Tis for the Mermaid Inn alone; + And when 'tis read, we'll burn it, as he asks." + + Then, from the hands of Shakespeare, Marlowe took + A little scroll, and, while the winds without + Rattled the shutters with their ghostly hands + And wailed among the chimney-tops, he read:-- + + Greeting to all the Mermaid Inn + From their old Vice and Slip of Sin, + Greeting, Ben, to you, and you + Will Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe, too. + Greeting from your Might-have-been, + Your broken sapling, Robert Greene. + + Read my letter--'Tis my last, + Then let Memory blot me out, + I would not make my maudlin past + A trough for every swinish snout. + + First, I leave a debt unpaid, + It's all chalked up, not much all told, + For Bread and Sack. When I am cold, + Doll can pawn my Spanish blade + And pay mine host. She'll pay mine'host! + But ... I have chalked up other scores + In your own hearts, behind the doors, + Not to be paid so quickly. Yet, + O, if you would not have my ghost + Creeping in at dead of night, + Out of the cold wind, out of the wet, + With weeping face and helpless fingers + Trying to wipe the marks away, + Read what I can write, still write, + While this life within them lingers. + Let me pay, lads, let me pay. + + _Item_, for a peacock phrase, + Flung out in a sudden blaze, + Flung out at his friend Shake-scene, + By this ragged Might-have-been, + This poor Jackdaw, Robert Greene. + + Will, I knew it all the while! + And you know it--and you smile! + My quill was but a Jackdaw's feather, + While the quill that Ben, there, wields, + Fluttered down thro' azure fields, + From an eagle in the sun; + And yours, Will, yours, no earth-born thing, + A plume of rainbow-tinctured grain, + Dropt out of an angel's wing. + Only a Jackdaw's feather mine, + And mine ran ink, and Ben's ran wine, + And yours the pure Pierian streams. + + But I had dreams, O, I had dreams! + Dreams, you understand me, Will; + And I fretted at the tether + That bound me to the lowly plain, + Gnawed my heart out, for I knew + Once, tho' that was long ago, + I might have risen with Ben and you + Somewhere near that Holy Hill + Whence the living rivers flow. + Let it pass. I did not know + One bitter phrase could ever fly + So far through that immortal sky + --Seeing all my songs had flown so low-- + One envious phrase that cannot die + From century to century. + + Kit Marlowe ceased a moment, and the wind, + As if indeed the night were all one ghost, + Wailed round the Mermaid Inn, then sent once more + Its desolate passion through the reader's voice:-- + + Some truth there was in what I said. + Kit Marlowe taught you half your trade; + And something of the rest you learned + From me,--but all you took you earned. + You took the best I had to give, + You took my clay and made it live; + And that--why that's what God must do!-- + My music made for mortal ears + You flung to all the listening spheres. + You took my dreams and made them true. + And, if I claimed them, the blank air + Might claim the breath I shape to prayer. + I do not claim it! Let the earth + Claim the thrones she brings to birth. + Let the first shapers of our tongue + Claim whate'er is said or sung, + Till the doom repeal that debt + And cancel the first alphabet. + Yet when, like a god, you scaled + The shining crags where my foot failed; + When I saw my fruit of the vine + Foam in the Olympian cup, + Or in that broader chalice shine + Blood-red, a sacramental drink, + With stars for bubbles, lifted up, + Through the universal night, + Up to the celestial brink, + Up to that quintessential Light + Where God acclaimed you for the wine + Crushed from those poor grapes of mine; + O, you'll understand, no doubt, + How the poor vine-dresser fell, + How a pin-prick can let out + All the bannered hosts of hell, + Nay, a knife-thrust, the sharp truth-- + I had spilt my wine of youth, + The Temple was not mine to build. + My place in the world's march was filled. + + Yet--through all the years to come-- + Men to whom my songs are dumb + Will remember them and me + For that one cry of jealousy, + That curse where I had come to bless, + That harsh voice of unhappiness. + They'll note the curse, but not the pang, + Not the torment whence it sprang, + They'll note the blow at my friend's back, + But not the soul stretched on the rack. + They'll note the weak convulsive sting, + Not the crushed body and broken wing. + + _Item_, for my thirty years, + Dashed with sun and splashed with tears, + Wan with revel, red with wine, + This Jack-o-lanthorn life of mine. + Other wiser, happier men, + Take the full three-score-and-ten, + Climb slow, and seek the sun. + Dancing down is soon done. + Golden boys, beware, beware,-- + The ambiguous oracles declare + Loving gods for those that die + Young, as old men may; but I, + Quick as was my pilgrimage, + Wither in mine April age. + + _Item_, one groatsworth of wit, + Bought at an exceeding price, + Ay, a million of repentance. + Let me pay the whole of it. + Lying here these deadly nights, + Lads, for me the Mermaid lights + Gleam as for a castaway + Swept along a midnight sea + The harbour-lanthorns, each a spark, + A pin-prick in the solid dark, + That lets trickle through a ray + Glorious out of Paradise, + To stab him with new agony. + Let me pay, lads, let me pay! + Let the Mermaid pass the sentence: + I am pleading guilty now, + A dead leaf on the laurel-bough, + And the storm whirls me away. + + Kit Marlowe ceased; but not the wailing wind + That round and round the silent Mermaid Inn + Wandered, with helpless fingers trying the doors, + Like a most desolate ghost. + + A sudden throng + Of players bustled in, shaking the rain + From their plumed hats. "Veracious witnesses," + The snuffle of Bame arose anew, "declare + It was a surfeit killed him, Rhenish wine + And pickled herrings. His shirt was very foul. + He had but one. His doublet, too, was frayed, + And his boots broken ..." + + "What! Gonzago, you!" + A short fat player called in a deep voice + Across the room and, throwing aside his cloak + To show the woman's robe he wore beneath, + Minced up to Bame and bellowed--"'Tis such men + As you that tempt us women to our fall!" + And all the throng of players rocked and roared, + Till at a nod and wink from Kit a hush + Held them again. + + "Look to the door," he said, + "Is any listening?" The young player crept, + A mask of mystery, to the door and peeped. + "All's well! The coast is clear!" + "Then shall we tell + Our plan to Master Bame?" + Round the hushed room + Went Kit, a pen and paper in his hand, + Whispering each to read, digest, and sign, + While Ben re-filled the glass of Master Bame. + "And now," said Kit aloud, "what think you, lads? + Shall he be told?" Solemnly one or two + 'Gan shake their heads with "Safety! safety! Kit!" + "O, Bame can keep a secret! Come, we'll tell him! + He can advise us how a righteous man + Should act! We'll let him share an he approve. + Now, Master Bame,--come closer--my good friend, + Ben Jonson here, hath lately found a way + Of--hush! Come closer!--coining money, Bame." + "Coining!" "Ay, hush, now! Hearken! A certain sure + And indiscoverable method, sir! + He is acquainted with one Poole, a felon + Lately released from Newgate, hath great skill + In mixture of metals--hush!--and, by the help + Of a right cunning maker of stamps, we mean + To coin French crowns, rose-nobles, pistolettes, + Angels and English shillings." + For one breath + Bame stared at him with bulging beetle-eyes, + Then murmured shyly as a country maid + In her first wooing, "Is't not against the law?" + "Why, sir, who makes the law? Why should not Bame + Coin his own crowns like Queen Elizabeth? + She is but mortal! And consider, too, + The good works it should prosper in your hands, + Without regard to red-deer pies and wine + White as the Milky Way. Such secrets, Bame, + Were not good for the general; but a few + Discreet and righteous palms, your own, my friend, + And mine,--what think you?" + With a hesitant glance + Of well-nigh child-like cunning, screwing his eyes, + Bame laughed a little huskily and looked round + At that grave ring of anxious faces, all + Holding their breath and thrilling his blunt nerves + With their stage-practice. "And no risk?" breathed Bame, + "No risk at all?" "O, sir, no risk at all! + We make the very coins. Besides, that part + Touches not you. Yours is the honest face, + That's all we want." + "Why, sir, if you be sure + There is no risk ..." + "You'll help to spend it. Good! + We'll talk anon of this, and you shall carry + More angels in your pocket, master Bame, + Than e'er you'll meet in heaven. Set hand on seal + To this now, master Bame, to prove your faith. + Come, all have signed it. Here's the quill, dip, write. + Good!" + And Kit, pocketing the paper, bowed + The gull to the inn-door, saying as he went,-- + "You shall hear further when the plan's complete. + But there's one great condition--not one word, + One breath of scandal more on Robert Greene. + He's dead; but he was one of us. The day + You air his shirt, I air this paper, too." + No gleam of understanding, even then, + Illumed that long white face: no stage, indeed, + Has known such acting as the Mermaid Inn + That night, and Bame but sniggered, "Why, of course, + There's good in all men; and the best of us + Will make mistakes." + "But no mistakes in this," + Said Kit, "or all together we shall swing + At Tyburn--who knows what may leap to light?-- + You understand? No scandal!" "Not a breath!" + So, in dead silence, Master Richard Bame + Went out into the darkness and the night, + To ask, as I have heard, for many a moon, + The price of malmsey-butts and silken hose, + And doublets slashed with satin. + As the door + Slammed on his back, the pent-up laughter burst + With echo and re-echo round the room, + But ceased as Will tossed on the glowing hearth + The last poor Testament of Robert Greene. + All watched it burn. The black wind wailed and moaned + Around the Mermaid as the sparks flew up. + "God, what a night for ships upon the sea," + Said Raleigh, peering through the wet black panes, + "Well--we may thank Him for the Little Red Ring!" + "_The Little Red Ring_," cried Kit, "_the Little Red Ring!_" + Then up stood Dekker on the old black settle. + "Give it a thumping chorus, lads," he called, + And sang this brave song of the Mermaid Inn:-- + + + I + + Seven wise men on an old black settle, + Seven wise men of the Mermaid Inn, + Ringing blades of the one right metal, + What is the best that a blade can win? + Bread and cheese, and a few small kisses? + Ha! ha! ha! Would you take them--you? + --Ay, if Dame Venus would add to her blisses + A roaring fire and a friend or two! + + _Chorus:_ Up now, answer me, tell me true!-- + --Ay, if the hussy would add to her blisses + A roaring fire and a friend or two! + + + II + + What will you say when the world is dying? + What, when the last wild midnight falls + Dark, too dark for the bat to be flying + Round the ruins of old St. Paul's? + What will be last of the lights to perish? + What but the little red ring we knew, + Lighting the hands and the hearts that cherish + A fire, a fire, and a friend or two! + + _Chorus:_ Up now, answer me, tell me true! + What will be last of the stars to perish? + --The fire that lighteth a friend or two! + + + III + + Up now, answer me, on your mettle + Wisest man of the Mermaid Inn, + Soberest man on the old black settle, + Out with the truth! It was never a sin.-- + Well, if God saved me alone of the seven, + Telling me _you_ must be damned, or _you_, + "This," I would say, "This is hell, not heaven! + Give me the fire and a friend or two!" + + _Chorus:_ Steel was never so ringing true: + "God," we would say, "this is hell, not heaven! + Give us the fire, and a friend or two!" + + +III + +BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON + + The garlands of a Whitsun ale were strewn + About our rushes, the night that Raleigh brought + Bacon to sup with us. There, on that night, + I saw the singer of the _Faerie Queen_ + Quietly spreading out his latest cantos + For Shakespeare's eye, like white sheets in the sun. + Marlowe, our morning-star, and Michael Drayton + Talked in that ingle-nook. And Ben was there, + Humming a song upon that old black settle: + "Or leave a kiss but in the cup + And I'll not ask for wine." + But, meanwhile, he drank malmsey. + Francis Bacon + Straddled before the fire; and, all at once, + He said to Shakespeare, in a voice that gripped + The Mermaid Tavern like an arctic frost: + + "_There are no poets in this age of ours, + Not to compare with Plautus. They are all + Dead, the men that were famous in old days._" + "Why--so they are," said Will. The humming stopped. + I saw poor Spenser, a shy gentle soul, + With haunted eyes like starlit forest pools, + Smuggling his cantos under his cloak again. + "There's verse enough, no doubt," Bacon went on, + "But English is no language for the Muse. + Whom would you call our best? There's Gabriel Harvey, + And Edward, Earl of Oxford. Then there's Dyer, + And Doctor Golding; while, for tragedy, + Thomas, Lord Buckhurst, hath a lofty vein. + And, in a lighter prettier vein, why, Will, + There is _thyself!_ But--where's Euripides?" + + "Dead," echoed Ben, in a deep ghost-like voice. + And drip--drip--drip--outside we heard the rain + Miserably dropping round the Mermaid Inn. + + "Thy Summer's Night--eh, Will? Midsummer's Night?-- + That's a quaint fancy," Bacon droned anew, + "But--Athens was an error, Will! Not Athens! + Titania knew not Athens! Those wild elves + Of thy Midsummer's Dream--eh? Midnight's Dream?-- + Are English all. Thy woods, too, smack of England; + They never grew round Athens. Bottom, too, + He is not Greek!" + "Greek?" Will said, with a chuckle, + "Bottom a Greek? Why, no, he was the son + Of Marian Hacket, the fat wife that kept + An ale-house, Wincot-way. I lodged with her + Walking from Stratford. You have never tramped + Along that countryside? By Burton Heath? + Ah, well, you would not know my fairylands. + It warms my blood to let my home-spuns play + Around your cold white Athens. There's a joy + In jumping time and space." + But, as he took + The cup of sack I proffered, solemnly + The lawyer shook his head. "Will, couldst thou use + Thy talents with discretion, and obey + Classic examples, those mightst match old Plautus, + In all except priority of the tongue. + This English tongue is only for an age, + But Latin for all time. So I propose + To embalm in Latin my philosophies. + Well seize your hour! But, ere you die, you'll sail + A British galleon to the golden courts + Of Cleopatra." + "Sail it!" Marlowe roared, + Mimicking in a fit of thunderous glee + The drums and trumpets of his Tamburlaine: + "And let her buccaneers bestride the sphinx, + And play at bowls with Pharaoh's pyramids, + And hale white Egypt with their tarry hands + Home to the Mermaid! Lift the good old song + That Rob Greene loved. Gods, how the lad would shout it! + Stand up and sing, John Davis!" + "Up!" called Raleigh, + "Lift the chanty of Black Bill's Honey-moon, Jack! + We'll keep the chorus going!" + "Silence, all!" + Ben Jonson echoed, rolling on his bench: + "This gentle lawyer hath a longing, lads, + To hear a right Homeric hymn. Now, Jack! + But wet your whistle, first! A cup of sack + For the first canto! Muscadel, the next! + Canary for the last!" I brought the cup. + John Davis emptied it at one mighty draught, + Leapt on a table, stamped with either foot, + And straight began to troll this mad sea-tale: + + + CANTO THE FIRST + + Let Martin Parker at hawthorn-tide + Prattle in Devonshire lanes, + Let all his pedlar poets beside + Rattle their gallows-chains, + A tale like mine they never shall tell + Or a merrier ballad sing, + Till the Man in the Moon pipe up the tune + And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring! + + _Chorus:_ Till Philip of Spain in England reign, + And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring! + + All in the gorgeous dawn of day + From grey old Plymouth Sound + Our galleon crashed thro' the crimson spray + To sail the world around: + _Cloud i' the Sun_ was her white-scrolled name,-- + There was never a lovelier lass + For sailing in state after pieces of eight + With her bombards all of brass. + + _Chorus:_ Culverins, robinets, iron may-be; + But her bombards all of brass! + + Now, they that go down to the sea in ships, + Though piracy be their trade, + For all that they pray not much with their lips + They know where the storms are made: + With the stars above and the sharks below, + They need not parson or clerk; + But our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still, + Except--sometimes--in the dark! + + _Chorus:_ Now let Kit Marlowe mark! + Our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still, + Except--sometimes--in the dark! + + All we adventured for, who shall say, + Nor yet what our port might be?-- + A magical city of old Cathay, + Or a castle of Muscovy, + With our atheist bo'sun, Bill, Black Bill, + Under the swinging Bear, + Whistling at night for a seaman to light + His little poop-lanthorns there. + + _Chorus:_ On the deep, in the night, for a seaman to light + His little lost lanthorns there. + + But, as over the Ocean-sea we swept, + We chanced on a strange new land + Where a valley of tall white lilies slept + With a forest on either hand; + A valley of white in a purple wood + And, behind it, faint and far, + Breathless and bright o'er the last rich height, + Floated the sunset-star. + + _Chorus:_ Fair and bright o'er the rose-red height, + Venus, the sunset-star. + + 'Twas a marvel to see, as we beached our boat, + Black Bill, in that peach-bloom air, + With the great white lilies that reached to his throat + Like a stained-glass bo'sun there, + And our little ship's chaplain, puffing and red, + A-starn as we onward stole, + With the disk of a lily behind his head + Like a cherubin's aureole. + + _Chorus:_ He was round and red and behind his head + He'd a cherubin's aureole. + + "Hyrcania, land of honey and bees, + We have found thee at last," he said, + "Where the honey-comb swells in the hollow trees," + (O, the lily behind his head!) + "The honey-comb swells in the purple wood! + 'Tis the swette which the heavens distil, + Saith Pliny himself, on my little book-shelf! + Is the world not sweet to thee, Bill?" + + _Chorus:_ "Saith Pliny himself, on my little book-shelf! + Is the world not sweet to thee, Bill?" + + Now a man may taste of the devil's hot spice, + And yet if his mind run back + To the honey of childhood's Paradise + His heart is not wholly black; + And Bill, Black Bill, from the days of his youth, + Tho' his chest was broad as an oak, + Had cherished one innocent little sweet tooth, + And it itched as our chaplain spoke. + + _Chorus:_ He had kept one perilous little tooth, + And it itched as our chaplain spoke. + + All around was a mutter of bees, + And Bill 'gan muttering too,-- + "If the honey-comb swells in the hollow trees, + (What else can a Didymus do?) + I'll steer to the purple woods myself + And see if this thing be so, + Which the chaplain found on his little book-shelf, + For Pliny lived long ago." + + _Chorus:_ There's a platter of delf on his little book-shelf, + And Pliny lived long ago. + + Scarce had he spoken when, out of the wood, + And buffeting all around, + Rooting our sea-boots where we stood, + There rumbled a marvellous sound, + As a mountain of honey were crumbling asunder, + Or a sunset-avalanche hurled + Honey-comb boulders of golden thunder + To smother the old black world. + + _Chorus:_ Honey-comb boulders of musical thunder + To mellow this old black world. + + And the chaplain he whispered--"This honey, one saith, + On my camphired cabin-shelf, + None may harvest on pain of death; + For the bee would eat it himself! + None walketh those woods but him whose voice + In the dingles you then did hear!" + "A VOICE?" growls Bill. "Ay, Bill, r-r-rejoice! + 'Twas the great Hyrcanian Bear!" + + _Chorus:_ Give thanks! _Re_-joice! 'Twas the glor-r-r-ious Voice + Of the great Hyrcanian Bear! + + But, marking that Bill looked bitter indeed, + For his sweet tooth hungered sore, + "Consider," he saith, "that the Sweet hath need + Of the Sour, as the Sea of the Shore! + As the night to the day is our grief to our joy, + And each for its brother prepares + A banquet, Bill, that would otherwise cloy. + Thus is it with honey and bears." + + _Chorus:_ Roses and honey and laughter would cloy! + Give us thorns, too, and sorrow and bears! + + "Consider," he saith, "how by fretting a string + The lutanist maketh sweet moan, + And a bird ere it fly must have air for its wing + To buffet or fall like a stone: + Tho' you blacken like Pluto you make but more white + These blooms which not Enna could yield! + Consider, Black Bill, ere the coming of night, + The lilies," he saith, "of the field." + + _Chorus:_ "Consider, Black Bill, in this beautiful light, + The lilies," he saith, "of the field." + + "Consider the claws of a Bear," said Bill, + "That can rip off the flesh from your bones, + While his belly could cabin the skipper and still + Accommodate Timothy Jones! + Why, that's where a seaman who cares for his grog + Perspires how this world isn't square! + If there's _cause_ for a _cow_, if there's _use_ for a _dog_, + By Pope John, there's no _Sense_ in a _Bear!_" + + _Chorus:_ Cause for a cow, use for a dog, + By'r Lakin, no _Sense_ in a _Bear!_ + + But our little ship's chaplain--"Sense," quoth he, + "Hath the Bear tho' his making have none; + For, my little book saith, by the sting of this bee + Would Ursus be wholly foredone, + But, or ever the hive he adventureth nigh + And its crisp gold-crusted dome, + He lardeth his nose and he greaseth his eye + With a piece of an honey-comb." + + _Chorus:_ His velvety nose and his sensitive eye + With a piece of an honey-comb. + + Black Bill at the word of that golden crust + --For his ears had forgotten the roar, + And his eyes grew soft with their innocent lust-- + 'Gan licking his lips once more: + "Be it bound like a missal and printed as fair, + With capitals blue and red, + 'Tis a lie; for what honey could comfort a bear, + Till the bear win the honey?" he said. + + _Chorus:_ "Ay, _whence_ the first honey wherewith the first bear + First larded his nose?" he said. + + "Thou first metaphysical bo'sun, Bill," + Our chaplain quizzingly cried, + "Wilt thou riddle me redes of a dumpling still + With thy 'how came the apple inside'?" + "Nay," answered Bill, "but I quest for truth, + And I find it not on your shelf! + I will face your Hyrcanian bear, forsooth, + And look at his nose myself." + + _Chorus:_ For truth, for truth, or a little sweet tooth-- + I will into the woods myself. + + Breast-high thro' that foam-white ocean of bloom + With its wonderful spokes of gold, + Our sun-burnt crew in the rose-red gloom + Like buccaneer galleons rolled: + Breast-high, breast-high in the lilies we stood, + And before we could say "good-night," + Out of the valley and into the wood + He plunged thro' the last rich light. + + _Chorus:_ Out of the lilies and into the wood, + Where the Great Bear walks all night! + + And our little ship's chaplain he piped thro' the trees + As the moon rose, white and still, + "Hylas, return to thy Heracles!" + And we helped him with "Come back, Bill!" + Thrice he piped it, thrice we halloo'd, + And thrice we were dumb to hark; + But never an answer came from the wood, + So--we turned to our ship in the dark. + + _Chorus:_ Good-bye, Bill! you're a Didymus still; + But--you're all alone in the dark. + + "This honey now"--as the first canto ceased, + The great young Bacon pompously began-- + "Which Pliny calleth, as it were, the swette + Of heaven, or spettle of the stars, is found + In Muscovy. Now ..." "Bring the muscadel," + Ben Jonson roared--"'Tis a more purple drink, + And suits with the next canto!" + At one draught + John Davis drained the cup, and with one hand + Beating the measure, rapidly trolled again. + + +CANTO THE SECOND + + Now, Rabelais, art thou quite foredone, + Dan Chaucer, Drayton, Every One! + Leave we aboard our _Cloud i' the Sun_ + This crew of pirates dreaming-- + Of Angels, minted in the blue + Like golden moons, Rose-nobles, too, + As under the silver-sliding dew + Our emerald creek lay gleaming! + + _Chorus:_ Under the stars lay gleaming! + + And mailed with scales of gold and green + The high star-lilied banks between, + Nosing our old black hulk unseen, + Great alligators shimmered: + Blood-red jaws i' the blue-black ooze, + Where all the long warm day they snooze, + Chewing old cuds of pirate-crews, + Around us grimly glimmered. + + _Chorus:_ Their eyes like rubies glimmered. + + Let us now sing of Bill, good sirs! + Follow him, all green foresteres, + Fearless of Hyrcanian bears + As of these ghostly lilies! + For O, not Drayton there could sing + Of wild Pigwiggen and his King + So merry a jest, so jolly a thing + As this my tale of Bill is. + + _Chorus:_ Into the woods where Bill is! + + Now starts he as a white owl hoots, + And now he stumbles over roots, + And now beneath his big sea-boots + In yon deep glade he crunches + Black cakes of honey-comb that were + So elfin-sweet, perchance, last year; + But neither Bo'sun, now, nor Bear + At that dark banquet munches. + + _Chorus:_ Onward still he crunches! + + Black cakes of honey-comb he sees + Above him in the forks of trees, + Filled by stars instead of bees, + With brimming silver glisten: + But ah, such food of gnome and fay + Could neither Bear nor Bill delay + Till where yon ferns and moonbeams play + He starts and stands to listen! + + _Chorus:_ What melody doth he listen? + + Is it the Night-Wind as it comes + Through the wood and softly thrums + Silvery tabors, purple drums, + To speed some wild-wood revel? + Nay, Didymus, what faint sweet din + Of viol and flute and violin + Makes all the forest round thee spin, + The Night-Wind or the Devil? + + _Chorus:_ No doubt at all--the Devil! + + He stares, with naked knife in hand, + This buccaneer in fairyland! + Dancing in a saraband + The red ferns reel about him! + Dancing in a morrice-ring + The green ferns curtsey, kiss and cling! + Their Marians flirt, their Robins fling + Their feathery heels to flout him! + + _Chorus:_ The whole wood reels about him. + + Dance, ye shadows! O'er the glade, + Bill, the Bo'sun, undismayed, + Pigeon-toes with glittering blade! + Drake was never bolder! + Devil or Spaniard, what cares he + Whence your eerie music be? + Till--lo, against yon old oak-tree + He leans his brawny shoulder! + + _Chorus:_ He lists and leans his shoulder! + + Ah, what melody doth he hear + As to that gnarled old tree-trunk there + He lays his wind-bit brass-ringed ear, + And steals his arm about it? + What Dryad could this Bo'sun win + To that slow-rippling amorous grin?-- + 'Twas full of singing bees within! + Not Didymus could doubt it! + + _Chorus:_ So loud they buzzed about it! + + Straight, o'er a bough one leg he throws, + And up that oaken main-mast goes + With reckless red unlarded nose + And gooseberry eyes of wonder! + Till now, as in a galleon's hold, + Below, he sees great cells of gold + Whence all the hollow trunk up-rolled + A low melodious thunder. + + _Chorus:_ A sweet and perilous thunder! + + Ay, there, within that hollow tree, + Will Shakespeare, mightst thou truly see + The Imperial City of the Bee, + In Chrysomelan splendour! + And, in the midst, one eight-foot dome + Swells o'er that Titan honey-comb + Where the Bee-Empress hath her home, + With such as do attend her, + + _Chorus:_ Weaponed with stings attend her! + + But now her singing sentinels + Have turned to sleep in waxen cells, + And Bill leans down his face and smells + The whole sweet summer's cargo-- + In one deep breath, the whole year's bloom, + Lily and thyme and rose and broom, + One Golden Fleece of flower-perfume + In that old oaken Argo. + + _Chorus:_ That green and golden Argo! + + And now he hangs with dangling feet + Over that dark abyss of sweet, + Striving to reach such wild gold meat + As none could buy for money: + His left hand grips a swinging branch + When--crack! Our Bo'sun, stout and stanch, + Falls like an Alpine avalanche, + Feet first into the honey! + + _Chorus:_ Up to his ears in honey! + + And now his red unlarded nose + And bulging eyes are all that shows + Above it, as he puffs and blows! + And now--to 'scape the scathing + Of that black host of furious bees + His nose and eyes he fain would grease + And bobs below those golden seas + Like an old woman bathing. + + _Chorus:_ Old Mother Hubbard bathing! + + And now he struggles, all in vain, + To reach some little bough again; + But, though he heaves with might and main, + This honey holds his ribs, sirs, + So tight, a barque might sooner try + To steer a cargo through the sky + Than Bill, thus honey-logged, to fly + By flopping of his jib, sirs! + + _Chorus:_ His tops'l and his jib, sirs! + + Like Oberon in the hive his beard + With wax and honey all besmeared + Would make the crescent moon afeard + That now is sailing brightly + Right o'er his leafy donjon-keep! + But that she knows him sunken deep, + And that his tower is straight and steep, + She would not smile so lightly. + + _Chorus:_ Look down and smile so lightly. + + She smiles in that small heavenly space, + Ringed with the tree-trunk's leafy grace, + While upward grins his ghastly face + As if some wild-wood Satyr, + Some gnomish Ptolemy should dare + Up that dark optic tube to stare, + As all unveiled she floated there, + Poor maiden moon, straight at her! + + _Chorus:_ The buccaneering Satyr! + + But there, till some one help him out, + Black Bill must stay, without a doubt. + "_Help! Help!_" he gives a muffled shout. + None but the white owls hear it! + _Who? Whoo?_ they cry: Bill answers "ME! + _I am stuck fast in this great tree! + Bring me a rope, good Timothy! + There's honey, lads, we'll share it!_" + + _Chorus:_ Ay, now he wants to share it. + + Then, thinking help may come with morn, + He sinks, half-famished and out-worn, + And scarce his nose exalts its horn + Above that sea of glory! + But, even as he owns defeat, + His belly saith, "A man must eat, + And since there is none other meat, + Come, lap this mess before 'ee!" + + _Chorus:_ This glorious mess before 'ee. + + Then Dian sees a right strange sight + As, bidding him a fond good-night, + She flings a silvery kiss to light + In that deep oak-tree hollow, + And finds that gold and crimson nose + A moving, munching, ravenous rose + That up and down unceasing goes, + Save when he stops to swallow! + + _Chorus:_ He finds it hard to swallow! + + Ay, now his best becomes his worst, + For honey cannot quench his thirst, + Though he should eat until he burst; + But, ah, the skies are kindly, + And from their tender depths of blue + They send their silver-sliding dew. + So Bill thrusts out his tongue anew + And waits to catch it--blindly! + + _Chorus:_ For ah, the stars are kindly! + + And sometimes, with a shower of rain, + They strive to ease their prisoner's pain: + Then Bill thrusts out his tongue again + With never a grace, the sinner! + And day and night and day goes by, + And never a comrade comes anigh, + And still the honey swells as high + For supper, breakfast, dinner! + + _Chorus:_ Yet Bill has grown no thinner! + + The young moon grows to full and throws + Her buxom kiss upon his nose, + As nightly over the tree she goes, + And peeps and smiles and passes, + Then with her fickle silver flecks + Our old black galleon's dreaming decks; + And then her face, with nods and becks, + In midmost ocean glasses. + + _Chorus:_ 'Twas ever the way with lasses! + + Ah, Didymus, hast thou won indeed + That Paradise which is thy meed? + (Thy tale not all that run may read!) + Thy sweet hath now no leaven! + Now, like an onion in a cup + Of mead, thou liest for Jove to sup, + Could Polyphemus lift thee up + With Titan hands to heaven! + + _Chorus:_ This great oak-cup to heaven! + + The second canto ceased; and, as they raised + Their wine-cups with the last triumphant note, + Bacon, undaunted, raised his grating voice-- + "This honey which, in some sort, may be styled + The Spettle of the Stars ..." "Bring the Canary!" + Ben Jonson roared. "It is a moral wine + And suits the third, last canto!" At one draught + John Davis drained it and began anew. + + +CANTO THE THIRD + + A month went by. We were hoisting sail! + We had lost all hope of Bill; + Though, laugh as you may at a seaman's tale, + He was fast in his honey-comb still! + And often he thinks of the chaplain's word + In the days he shall see no more,-- + How the Sweet, indeed, of the Sour hath need; + And the Sea, likewise, of the Shore. + + _Chorus:_ The chaplain's word of the Air and a Bird; + Of the Sea, likewise, and the Shore! + + "O, had I the wings of a dove, I would fly + To a heaven, of aloes and gall! + I have honeyed," he yammers, "my nose and mine eye, + And the bees cannot sting me at all! + And it's O, for the sting of a little brown bee, + Or to blister my hands on a rope, + Or to buffet a thundering broad-side sea + On a deck like a mountain-slope!" + + _Chorus:_ With her mast snapt short, and a list to port + And a deck like a mountain-slope. + + But alas, and he thinks of the chaplain's voice + When that roar from the woods out-break-- + _R-r-re-joice! R-r-re-joice!_ "Now, wherefore rejoice + In the music a bear could make? + 'Tis a judgment, maybe, that I stick in this tree; + Yet in this I out-argued him fair! + Though I live, though I die, in this honey-comb pie, + By Pope Joan, there's no sense in a bear!" + + _Chorus:_ Notes in a nightingale, plums in a pie, + By'r Lakin, no _Sense_ in a _Bear_! + + He knew not our anchor was heaved from the mud: + He was growling it over again, + When--a strange sound suddenly froze his blood, + And curdled his big slow brain!-- + A marvellous sound, as of great steel claws + Gripping the bark of his tree, + Softly ascended! Like lightning ended + His honey-comb reverie! + + _Chorus:_ The honey-comb quivered! The little leaves shivered! + _Something was climbing the tree!_ + + Something that breathed like a fat sea-cook, + Or a pirate of fourteen ton! + But it clomb like a cat (tho' the whole tree shook) + Stealthily tow'rds the sun, + Till, as Black Bill gapes at the little blue ring + Overhead, which he calls the sky, + It is clean blotted out by a monstrous Thing + Which--_hath larded its nose and its eye._ + + _Chorus:_ O, well for thee, Bill, that this monstrous Thing + Hath blinkered its little red eye. + + Still as a mouse lies Bill with his face + Low down in the dark sweet gold, + While this monster turns round in the leaf-fringed space! + Then--taking a good firm hold, + As the skipper descending the cabin-stair, + Tail-first with a vast slow tread, + Solemnly, softly, cometh this Bear + Straight down o'er the Bo'sun's head. + + _Chorus:_ Solemnly--slowly--cometh this Bear, + Tail-first o'er the Bo'sun's head. + + Nearer--nearer--then all Bill's breath + Out-bursts in one leap and yell! + And this Bear thinks, "Now am I gripped from beneath + By a roaring devil from hell!" + And madly Bill clutches his brown bow-legs, + And madly this Bear doth hale, + With his little red eyes fear-mad for the skies + And Bill's teeth fast in his tail! + + _Chorus:_ Small wonder a Bear should quail! + To have larded his nose, to have greased his eyes, + And be stung at the last in his tail. + + Pull, Bo'sun! Pull, Bear! In the hot sweet gloom, + Pull Bruin, pull Bill, for the skies! + Pull--out of their gold with a bombard's boom + Come Black Bill's honeyed thighs! + Pull! Up! Up! Up! with a scuffle and scramble, + To that little blue ring of bliss, + This Bear doth go with our Bo'sun in tow + Stinging his tail, I wis. + + _Chorus:_ And this Bear thinks--"Many great bees I know, + But there never was Bee like this!" + + All in the gorgeous death of day + We had slipped from our emerald creek, + And our _Cloud i' the Sun_ was careening away + With the old gay flag at the peak, + When, suddenly, out of the purple wood, + Breast-high thro' the lilies there danced + A tall lean figure, black as a nigger, + That shouted and waved and pranced! + + _Chorus:_ A gold-greased figure, but black as a nigger, + Waving his shirt as he pranced! + + "'Tis Hylas! 'Tis Hylas!" our chaplain flutes, + And our skipper he looses a shout! + "'Tis Bill! Black Bill, in his old sea-boots! + _Stand by to bring her about! + Har-r-rd a-starboard!"_ And round we came, + With a lurch and a dip and a roll, + And a banging boom thro' the rose-red gloom + For our old Black Bo'sun's soul! + + _Chorus:_ Alive! Not dead! Tho' behind his head + He'd a seraphin's aureole! + + And our chaplain he sniffs, as Bill finished his tale, + (With the honey still scenting his hair!) + O'er a plate of salt beef and a mug of old ale-- + "By Pope Joan, there's no sense in a bear!" + And we laughed, but our Bo'sun he solemnly growls + --"Till the sails of yon heavens be furled, + It taketh--now, mark!--all the beasts in the Ark, + Teeth and claws, too, to make a good world!" + + Chorus: Till the great--blue--sails--be--furled, + It taketh--now, mark!--all the beasts in the Ark, + Teeth and claws, too, to make a good world! + + + "Sack! Sack! Canary! Malmsey! Muscadel!"-- + As the last canto ceased, the Mermaid Inn + Chorussed. I flew from laughing voice to voice; + But, over all the hubbub, rose the drone + Of Francis Bacon,--"Now, this Muscovy + Is a cold clime, not favourable to bees + (Or love, which is a weakness of the south) + As well might be supposed. Yet, as hot lands + Gender hot fruits and odoriferous spice, + In this case we may think that honey and flowers + Are comparable with the light airs of May + And a more temperate region. Also we see, + As Pliny saith, this honey being a swette + Of heaven, a certain spettle of the stars, + Which, gathering unclean vapours as it falls, + Hangs as a fat dew on the boughs, the bees + Obtain it partly thus, and afterwards + Corrupt it in their stomachs, and at last + Expel it through their mouths and harvest it + In hives; yet, of its heavenly source it keeps + A great part. Thus, by various principles + Of natural philosophy we observe--" + And, as he leaned to Drayton, droning thus, + I saw a light gleam of celestial mirth + Flit o'er the face of Shakespeare--scarce a smile-- + A swift irradiation from within + As of a cloud that softly veils the sun. + + +IV + +THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE + + We had just set our brazier smouldering, + To keep the Plague away. Many a house + Was marked with the red cross. The bells tolled + Incessantly. Nash crept into the room + Shivering like a fragment of the night, + His face yellow as parchment, and his eyes + Burning. + + "The Plague! He has taken it!" voices cried. + "That's not the Plague! The old carrion-crow is drunk; + But stand away. What ails you, Nash my lad?" + Then, through the clamour, as through a storm at sea, + The master's voice, the voice of Ben, rang out, + "Nash!" + + Ben leapt to his feet, and like a ship + Shouldering the waves, he shouldered the throng aside. + "What ails you, man? What's that upon your breast? + Blood?" + + "Marlowe is dead," said Nash, + And stunned the room to silence ... + + "Marlowe--dead!" + Ben caught him by the shoulders. "Nash! Awake! + What do you mean? Marlowe? Kit Marlowe? Dead? + I supped with him--why--not three nights ago! + You are drunk! You are dazed! There's blood upon your coat!" + "That's--where he died," said Nash, and suddenly sank + Sidelong across a bench, bowing his head + Between his hands ... + Wept, I believe. Then, like a whip of steel, + His lean black figure sprang erect again. + "Marlowe!" he cried, "Kit Marlowe, killed for a punk, + A taffeta petticoat! Killed by an apple-squire! + Drunk! I was drunk; but I am sober now, + Sober enough, by God! Poor Kit is dead." + + * * * * + + The Mermaid Inn was thronged for many a night + With startled faces. Voices rose and fell, + As I recall them, in a great vague dream, + Curious, pitiful, angry, thrashing out + The tragic truth. Then, all along the Cheape, + The ballad-mongers waved their sheets of rhyme, + Croaking: _Come buy! Come buy! The bloody death + Of Wormall, writ by Master Richard Bame! + Come buy! Come buy! The Atheist's Tragedy._ + And, even in Bread Street, at our very door, + The crowder to his cracked old fiddle sang:-- + + "_He was a poet of proud repute + And wrote full many a play, + Now strutting in a silken suit, + Now begging by the way._" + + Then, out of the hubbub and the clash of tongues, + The bawdy tales and scraps of balladry, + (As out of chaos rose the slow round world) + At last, though for the Mermaid Inn alone, + Emerged some tragic semblance of a soul, + Some semblance of the rounded truth, a world + Glimpsed only through great mists of blood and tears, + Yet smitten, here and there, with dreadful light, + As I believe, from heaven. + + Strangely enough, + (Though Ben forgot his pipe and Will's deep eyes + Deepened and softened, when they spoke of Kit, + For many a month thereafter) it was Nash + That took the blow like steel into his heart. + Nash, our "Piers Penniless," whom Rob Greene had called + "Young Juvenal," the first satirist of our age, + Nash, of the biting tongue and subtle sneer, + Brooded upon it, till his grief became + Sharp as a rapier, ready to lunge in hate + At all the lies of shallower hearts. + + One night, + The night he raised the mists from that wild world, + He talked with Chapman in the Mermaid Inn + Of Marlowe's poem that was left half-sung, + His _Hero and Leander_. + + "Kit desired, + If he died first, that you should finish it," + Said Nash. + + A loaded silence filled the room + As with the imminent spirit of the dead + Listening. And long that picture haunted me: + Nash, like a lithe young Mephistopheles + Leaning between the silver candle-sticks, + Across the oak table, with his keen white face, + Dark smouldering eyes, and black, dishevelled hair; + Chapman, with something of the steady strength + That helms our ships, and something of the Greek, + The cool clear passion of Platonic thought + Behind the fringe of his Olympian beard + And broad Homeric brows, confronting him + Gravely. + + There was a burden of mystery + Brooding on all that night; and, when at last + Chapman replied, I knew he felt it, too. + The curious pedantry of his wonted speech + Was charged with living undertones, like truths + Too strange and too tremendous to be breathed + Save thro' a mask. And though, in lines that flamed + Once with strange rivalry, Shakespeare himself defied + Chapman, that spirit "by spirits taught to write + Above a mortal pitch," Will's nimbler sense + Was quick to breathings from beyond our world + And could not hold them lightly. + + "Ah, then Kit," + Said Chapman, "had some prescience of his end, + Like many another dreamer. What strange hints + Of things past, present, and to come, there lie + Sealed in the magic pages of that music + Which, laying strong hold on universal laws, + Ranges beyond these mud-walls of the flesh, + Though dull wits fail to follow. It was this + That made men find an oracle in the books + Of Vergil, and an everlasting fount + Of science in the prophets." + + Once again + That haunted silence filled the shadowy room; + And, far away up Bread Street, we could hear + The crowder, piping of black Wormall still:-- + + "_He had a friend, once gay and green, + Who died of want alone, + In whose black fate he might have seen + The warning of his own._" + + "Strange he should ask a hod-man like myself + To crown that miracle of his April age," + Said Chapman, murmuring softly under breath, + "_Amorous Leander, beautiful and young_ ... + Why, Nash, had I been only charged to raise + Out of its grave in the green Hellespont + The body of that boy, + To make him sparkle and leap thro' the cold waves + And fold young Hero to his heart again, + The task were scarce as hard. + But ... stranger still,"-- + And his next words, although I hardly knew + All that he meant, went tingling through my flesh-- + "Before you spoke, before I knew his wish, + I had begun to write! + I knew and loved + His work. Himself I hardly knew at all; + And yet--I know him now! I have heard him now + And, since he pledged me in so rare a cup, + I'll lift and drink to him, though lightnings fall + From envious gods to scourge me. I will lift + This cup in darkness to the soul that reigns + In light on Helicon. Who knows how near? + For I have thought, sometimes, when I have tried + To work his will, the hand that moved my pen + Was mine, and yet--not mine. The bodily mask + Is mine, and sometimes, dull as clay, it sleeps + With old Musaeus. Then strange flashes come, + Oracular glories, visionary gleams, + And the mask moves, not of itself, and sings." + + "I know that thought," said Nash. "A mighty ship, + A lightning-shattered wreck, out in that night, + Unseen, has foundered thundering. We sit here + Snug on the shore, and feel the wash of it, + The widening circles running to our feet. + Can such a soul go down to glut the sharks + Without one ripple? Here comes one sprinkle of spray. + Listen!" And through that night, quick and intense, + And hushed for thunder, tingled once again, + Like a thin wire, the crowder's distant tune:-- + + "_Had he been prenticed to the trade + His father followed still, + This exit he had never made, + Nor played a part so ill._" + + "Here is another," said Nash, "I know not why; + But like a weed in the long wash, I too + Was moved, not of myself, to a tune like this. + O, I can play the crowder, fiddle a song + On a dead friend, with any the best of you. + Lie and kick heels in the sun on a dead man's grave + And yet--God knows--it is the best we can; + And better than the world's way, to forget." + So saying, like one that murmurs happy words + To torture his own grief, half in self-scorn, + He breathed a scrap of balladry that raised + The mists a moment from that Paradise, + That primal world of innocence, where Kit + In childhood played, outside his father's shop, + Under the sign of the _Golden Shoe_, as thus:-- + + A cobbler lived in Canterbury + --He is dead now, poor soul!-- + He sat at his door and stitched in the sun, + Nodding and smiling at everyone; + For St. Hugh makes all good cobblers merry, + And often he sang as the pilgrims passed, + "I can hammer a soldier's boot, + And daintily glove a dainty foot. + Many a sandal from my hand + Has walked the road to Holy Land. + Knights may fight for me, priests may pray for me, + Pilgrims walk the pilgrim's way for me, + I have a work in the world to do! + --_Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, + To good St. Hugh!_-- + The cobbler must stick to his last." + + And anon he would cry + "Kit! Kit! Kit!" to his little son, + "Look at the pilgrims riding by! + Dance down, hop down, after them, run!" + Then, like an unfledged linnet, out + Would tumble the brave little lad, + With a piping shout,-- + "O, look at them, look at them, look at them, Dad! + Priest and prioress, abbot and friar, + Soldier and seaman, knight and squire! + How many countries have they seen? + Is there a king there, is there a queen + Dad, one day, + Thou and I must ride like this, + All along the Pilgrim's Way, + By Glastonbury and Samarcand, + El Dorado and Cathay, + London and Persepolis, + All the way to Holy Land!" + + Then, shaking his head as if he knew, + Under the sign of the _Golden Shoe_, + Touched by the glow of the setting sun, + While the pilgrims passed, + The little cobbler would laugh and say: + "When you are old you will understand + 'Tis a very long way + To Samarcand! + Why, largely to exaggerate + Befits not men of small estate, + But--I should say, yes, I should say, + 'Tis a hundred miles from where you stand; + And a hundred more, my little son, + A hundred more, to Holy Land!... + I have a work in the world to do + --_Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, + To good St. Hugh!_-- + The cobbler must stick to his last." + + "Which last," said Nash, breaking his rhyme off short, + "The crowder, after his kind, would seem to approve. + Well--all the waves from that great wreck out there + Break, and are lost in one withdrawing sigh: + + The little lad that used to play + Around the cobbler's door, + Kit Marlowe, Kit Marlowe, + We shall not see him more. + + But--could I tell you how that galleon sank, + Could I but bring you to that hollow whirl, + The black gulf in mid-ocean, where that wreck + Went thundering down, and round it hell still roars, + That were a tale to snap all fiddle-strings." + "Tell me," said Chapman. + + "Ah, you wondered why," + Said Nash, "you wondered why he asked your help + To crown that work of his. Why, Chapman, think, + Think of the cobbler's awl--there's a stout lance + To couch at London, there's a conquering point + To carry in triumph through Persepolis! + I tell you Kit was nothing but a child, + When some rich patron of the _Golden Shoe_ + Beheld him riding into Samarcand + Upon a broken chair, the which he said + Was a white steed, splashed with the blood of kings. + When, on that patron's bounty, he did ride + So far as Cambridge, he was a brave lad, + Untamed, adventurous, but still innocent, + O, innocent as the cobbler's little self! + He brought to London just a bundle and stick, + A slender purse, an Ovid, a few scraps + Of song, and all unshielded, all unarmed + A child's heart, packed with splendid hopes and dreams. + I say a child's heart, Chapman, and that phrase + Crowns, not dis-crowns, his manhood. + Well--he turned + An honest penny, taking some small part + In plays at the _Red Bull_. And, all the while, + Beyond the paint and tinsel of the stage, + Beyond the greasy cock-pit with its reek + Of orange-peel and civet, as all of these + Were but the clay churned by the glorious rush + Of his white chariots and his burning steeds, + Nay, as the clay were a shadow, his great dreams, + Like bannered legions on some proud crusade, + Empurpling all the deserts of the world, + Swept on in triumph to the glittering towers + Of his abiding City. + Then--he met + That damned blood-sucking cockatrice, the pug + Of some fine strutting mummer, one of those plagues + Bred by our stage, a puff-ball on the hill + Of Helicon. As for his wench--she too + Had played so many parts that she forgot + The cue for truth. King Puff had taught her well. + He was the vainer and more foolish thing, + She the more poisonous. + One dark day, to spite + Archer, her latest paramour, a friend + And apple-squire to Puff, she set her eyes + On Marlowe ... feigned a joy in his young art, + Murmured his songs, used all her London tricks + To coney-catch the country greenhorn. Man, + Kit never even _saw_ her painted face! + He pored on books by candle-light and saw + Everything thro' a mist. O, I could laugh + To think of it, only--his up-turned skull + There, in the dark, now that the flesh drops off, + Has laughed enough, a horrible silent laugh, + To think his Angel of Light was, after all, + Only the red-lipped Angel of the Plague. + He was no better than the rest of us, + No worse. He felt the heat. He felt the cold. + He took her down to Deptford to escape + Contagion, and the crashing of sextons' spades + On dead men's bones in every churchyard round; + The jangling bell and the cry, _Bring out your dead_. + And there she told him of her luckless life, + Wedded, deserted, both against her will, + A luckless Eve that never knew the snake. + True and half-true she mixed in one wild lie, + And then--she caught him by the hand and wept. + No death-cart passed to warn him with its bell. + Her eyes, her perfumed hair, and her red mouth, + Her warm white breast, her civet-scented skin, + Swimming before him, in a piteous mist, + Made the lad drunk, and--she was in his arms; + And all that God had meant to wake one day + Under the Sun of Love, suddenly woke + By candle-light and cried, 'The Sun; The Sun!' + And he believed it, Chapman, he believed it! + He was a cobbler's son, and he believed + In Love! Blind, through that mist, he caught at Love, + The everlasting King of all this world. + + Kit was not clever. Clever men--like Pomp-- + Might jest. And fools might laugh. But when a man, + Simple as all great elemental things, + Makes his whole heart a sacrificial fire + To one whose love is in her supple skin, + There comes a laughter in which jests break up + Like icebergs in a sea of burning marl. + Then dreamers turn to murderers in an hour. + Then topless towers are burnt, and the Ocean-sea + Tramples the proud fleet, down, into the dark, + And sweeps over it, laughing. Come and see, + The heart now of this darkness--no more waves, + But the black central hollow where that wreck + Went down for ever. + How should Piers Penniless + Brand that wild picture on the world's black heart?-- + Last night I tried the way of the Florentine, + And bruised myself; but we are friends together + Mourning a dead friend, none will ever know!-- + Kit, do you smile at poor Piers Penniless, + Measuring it out? Ah, boy, it is my best! + Since hearts must beat, let it be _terza rima_, + A ladder of rhyme that two sad friends alone + May let down, thus, to the last circle of hell." + + So saying, and motionless as a man in trance, + Nash breathed the words that raised the veil anew, + Strange intervolving words which, as he spake them, + Moved like the huge slow whirlpool of that pit + Where the wreck sank, the serpentine slow folds + Of the lewd Kraken that sucked it, shuddering, down:-- + + This is the Deptford Inn. Climb the dark stair. + Come, come and see Kit Marlowe lying dead! + See, on the table, by that broken chair, + + The little phials of paint--the white and red. + A cut-lawn kerchief hangs behind the door, + Left by his punk, even as the tapster said. + + There is the gold-fringed taffeta gown she wore, + And, on that wine-stained bed, as is most meet, + He lies alone, never to waken more. + + O, still as chiselled marble, the frayed sheet + Folds the still form on that sepulchral bed, + Hides the dead face, and peaks the rigid feet. + + Come, come and see Kit Marlowe lying dead! + Draw back the sheet, ah, tenderly lay bare + The splendour of that Apollonian head; + + The gloriole of his flame-coloured hair; + The lean athletic body, deftly planned + To carry that swift soul of fire and air; + + The long thin flanks, the broad breast, and the grand + Heroic shoulders! Look, what lost dreams lie + Cold in the fingers of that delicate hand; + + And, shut within those lyric lips, what cry + Of unborn beauty, sunk in utter night, + Lost worlds of song, sealed in an unknown sky, + + Never to be brought forth, clothed on with light. + Was this, then, this the secret of his song?-- + _Who ever loved that loved not at first?_ + + It was not Love, not Love, that wrought this wrong; + And yet--what evil shadow of this dark town + Could quench a soul so flame-like clean and strong, + + Strike the young glory of his manhood down, + Dead, like a dog, dead in a drunken brawl, + Dead for a phial of paint, a taffeta gown? + + What if his blood were hot? High over all + He heard, as in his song the world still hears, + Those angels on the burning heavenly wall + + Who chant the thunder-music of the spheres. + Yet--through the glory of his own young dream + Here did he meet that face, wet with strange tears, + + Andromeda, with piteous face astream, + Hailing him, Perseus. In her treacherous eyes + As in dark pools the mirrored stars will gleam, + + Here did he see his own eternal skies; + And here--she laughed, nor found the dream amiss; + But bade him pluck and eat--in Paradise. + + Here did she hold him, broken up with bliss, + Here, like a supple snake, around him coiled, + Here did she pluck his heart out with a kiss, + + Here were the wings clipped and the glory soiled, + Here adders coupled in the pure white shrine, + Here was the Wine spilt, and the Shew-bread spoiled. + + Black was that feast, though he who poured the Wine + Dreamed that he poured it in high sacrament. + Deep in her eyes he saw his own eyes shine, + + Beheld Love's god-head and was well content. + Subtly her hand struck the pure silver note, + The throbbing chord of passion that God meant + + To swell the bliss of heaven. Round his young throat + She wound her swarthy tresses; then, with eyes + Half mad to see their power, half mad to gloat, + + Half mad to batten on their own devilries, + And mark what heaven-born splendours they could quell, + She held him quivering in a mesh of lies, + + And in soft broken speech began to tell-- + There as, against her heart, throbbing he lay-- + The truth that hurled his soul from heaven to hell. + + Quivering, she watched the subtle whip-lash flay + The white flesh of the dreams of his pure youth; + Then sucked the blood and left them cold as clay. + + Luxuriously she lashed him with the truth. + Against his mouth her subtle mouth she set + To show, as through a mask, O, without ruth, + + As through a cold clay mask (brackish and wet + With what strange tears!) it was not his, not his, + The kiss that through his quivering lips she met. + + Kissing him, "_Thus_," she whispered, "_did he kiss. + Ah, is the sweetness like a sword, then, sweet? + Last night--ah, kiss again--aching with bliss,_ + + _Thus was I made his own, from head to feet._" + --A sudden agony thro' his body swept + Tempestuously.--"_Our wedded pulses beat_ + + _Like this and this; and then, at dawn, he slept._" + She laughed, pouting her lips against his cheek + To drink; and, as in answer, Marlowe wept. + + As a dead man in dreams, he heard her speak. + Clasped in the bitter grave of that sweet clay, + Wedded and one with it, he moaned. Too weak + + Even to lift his head, sobbing, he lay, + Then, slowly, as their breathings rose and fell, + He felt the storm of passion, far away, + + Gather. The shuddering waves began to swell. + And, through the menace of the thunder-roll, + The thin quick lightnings, thrilling through his hell, + + Lightnings that hell itself could not control + (Even while she strove to bow his neck anew) + Woke the great slumbering legions of his soul. + + Sharp was that severance of the false and true, + Sharp as a sword drawn from a shuddering wound. + But they, that were one flesh, were cloven in two. + + Flesh leapt from clasping flesh, without a sound. + He plucked his body from her white embrace, + And cast him down, and grovelled on the ground. + + Yet, ere he went, he strove once more to trace, + Deep in her eyes, the loveliness he knew; + Then--spat his hatred into her smiling face. + + She clung to him. He flung her off. He drew + His dagger, thumbed the blade, and laughed--"Poor punk! + What? Would you make me your own murderer, too?" + + * * * * + + "That was the day of our great feast," said Nash, + "Aboard the _Golden Hynde_. The grand old hulk + Was drawn up for the citizens' wonderment + At Deptford. Ay, Piers Penniless was there! + Soaked and besotted as I was, I saw + Everything. On her poop the minstrels played, + And round her sea-worn keel, like meadow-sweet + Curtseying round a lightning-blackened oak, + Prentices and their sweethearts, heel and toe, + Danced the brave English dances, clean and fresh + As May. + But in her broad gun-guarded waist + Once red with British blood, long tables groaned + For revellers not so worthy. Where her guns + Had raked the seas, barrels of ale were sprung, + Bestrid by roaring tipplers. Where at night + The storm-beat crew silently bowed their heads + With Drake before the King of Life and Death, + A strumpet wrestled with a mountebank + For pence, a loose-limbed Lais with a clown + Of Cherry Hilton. Leering at their lewd twists, + Cross-legged upon the deck, sluggish with sack, + Like a squat toad sat Puff ... + Propped up against the bulwarks, at his side, + Archer, his apple-squire, hiccoughed a bawdy song. + Suddenly, through that orgy, with wild eyes, + Yet with her customary smile, O, there + I saw in daylight what Kit Marlowe saw + Through blinding mists, the face of his first love. + She stood before her paramour on the deck, + Cocking her painted head to right and left, + Her white teeth smiling, but her voice a hiss: + 'Quickly,' she said to Archer, 'come away, + Or there'll be blood spilt!' + 'Better blood than wine,' + Said Archer, struggling to his feet, 'but who, + Who would spill blood?' + 'Marlowe!' she said. + Then Puff + Reeled to his feet. 'What, Kit, the cobbler's son? + The lad that broke his leg at the _Red Bull_, + Tamburlaine-Marlowe, he that would chain kings + To's chariot-wheel? What, is he rushing hither? + He would spill blood for Gloriana, hey? + O, my Belphoebe, you will crack my sides! + Was this the wench that shipped a thousand squires? + O, ho! But here he comes. Now, solemnly, lads,-- + _Now walk the angels on the walls of heaven + To entertain divine Zenocrate!_' + And there stood Kit, high on the storm-scarred poop, + Against the sky, bare-headed. I saw his face, + Pale, innocent, just the dear face of that boy + Who walked to Cambridge with a bundle and stick,-- + The little cobbler's son. Yet--there I caught + My only glimpse of how the sun-god looked, + And only for one moment. + When he saw + His mistress, his face whitened, and he shook. + Down to the deck he came, a poor weak man; + And yet--by God--the only man that day + In all our drunken crew. + 'Come along, Kit,' + Cried Puff, 'we'll all be friends now, all take hands, + And dance--ha! ha!--the shaking of the sheets!' + Then Archer, shuffling a step, raised his cracked voice + In Kit's own song to a falsetto tune, + Snapping one hand, thus, over his head as he danced:-- + + '_Come, live with me, and be my love, + And we will all the pleasures prove!_' ... + + Puff reeled between, laughing. 'Damn you,' cried Kit, + And, catching the fat swine by his round soft throat, + Hurled him headlong, crashing across the tables, + To lie and groan in the red bilge of wine + That washed the scuppers. + Kit gave him not one glance. + 'Archer,' he said in a whisper. + Instantly + A long thin rapier flashed in Archer's hand. + The ship was one wild uproar. Women screamed + And huddled together. A drunken clamorous ring + Seethed around Marlowe and his enemy. + Kit drew his dagger, slowly, and I knew + Blood would be spilt. + 'Here, take my rapier, Kit!' + I cried across the crowd, seeing the lad + Was armed so slightly. But he did not hear. + I could not reach him. + All at once he leapt + Like a wounded tiger, past the rapier point + Straight at his enemy's throat. I saw his hand + Up-raised to strike! I heard a harlot's scream, + And, in mid-air, the hand stayed, quivering, white, + A frozen menace. + I saw a yellow claw + Twisting the dagger out of that frozen hand; + I saw his own steel in that yellow grip, + His own lost lightning raised to strike at him! + I saw it flash! I heard the driving grunt + Of him that struck! Then, with a shout, the crowd + Sundered, and through the gap, a blank red thing + Streaming with blood came the blind face of Kit, + Reeling, to me! And I, poor drunken I, + Held my arms wide for him. Here, on my breast, + With one great sob, he burst his heart and died." + + * * * * + + Nash ceased. And, far away down Friday Street, + The crowder with his fiddler wailed again: + + "_Blaspheming Tambolin must die + And Faustus meet his end. + Repent, repent, or presentlie + To hell ye must descend._" + + And, as in answer, Chapman slowly breathed + Those mightiest lines of Marlowe's own despair: + + "_Think'st thou that I who saw the face of God, + And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, + Am not tormented with ten thousand hells?_" + + "Ah, you have said it," said Nash, "and there you know + Why Kit desired your hand to crown his work. + He reverenced you as one whose temperate eyes + Austere and grave, could look him through and through; + One whose firm hand could grasp the reins of law + And guide those furious horses of the sun, + As Ben and Will can guide them, where you will. + His were, perchance, the noblest steeds of all, + And from their nostrils blew a fierier dawn + Above the world. That glory is his own; + But where he fell, he fell. Before his hand + Had learned to quell them, he was dashed to the earth. + 'Tis yours to show that good men honoured him. + For, mark this, Chapman, since Kit Marlowe fell. + There will be fools that, in the name of Art, + Will wallow in the mire, crying 'I fall, + I fall from heaven!'--fools that have only heard + From earth, the rumour of those golden hooves + Far, far above them. Yes, you know the kind, + The fools that scorn Will for his lack of fire + Because he quells the storms they never knew, + And rides above the thunder; fools of Art + That skip and vex, like little vicious fleas, + Their only Helicon, some green madam's breast. + Art! Art! O, God, that I could send my soul, + In one last wave, from that night-hidden wreck, + Across the shores of all the years to be; + O, God, that like a crowder I might shake + Their blind dark casements with the pity of it, + Piers Penniless his ballad, a poor scrap, + That but for lack of time, and hope and pence, + He might have bettered! For a dead man's sake, + Thus would the wave break, thus the crowder cry:-- + + Dead, like a dog upon the road; + Dead, for a harlot's kiss; + The Apollonian throat and brow, + The lyric lips, so silent now, + The flaming wings that heaven bestowed + For loftier airs than this! + + The sun-like eyes whose light and life + Had gazed an angel's down, + That burning heart of honey and fire, + Quenched and dead for an apple-squire, + Quenched at the thrust of a mummer's knife, + Dead--for a taffeta gown! + + The wine that God had set apart, + The noblest wine of all, + Wine of the grapes that angels trod, + The vintage of the glory of God, + The crimson wine of that rich heart, + Spilt in a drunken brawl, + + Poured out to make a steaming bath + That night in the Devil's Inn, + A steaming bath of living wine + Poured out for Circe and her swine, + A bath of blood for a harlot + To supple and sleek her skin. + + And many a fool that finds it sweet + Through all the years to be, + Crowning a lie with Marlowe's fame, + Will ape the sin, will ape the shame, + Will ape our captain in defeat; + But--not in victory; + + Till Art become a leaping-house, + And Death be crowned as Life, + And one wild jest outshine the soul + Of Truth ... O, fool, is this your goal? + You are not our Kit Marlowe, + But the drunkard with the knife; + + Not Marlowe, but the Jack-o'-Lent + That lured him o'er the fen! + O, ay, the tavern is in its place, + And the punk's painted smiling face, + But where is our Kit Marlowe + The man, the king of men? + + Passion? You kiss the painted mouth, + The hand that clipped his wings, + The hand that into his heart she thrust + And tuned him to her whimpering lust, + And played upon his quivering youth + As a crowder plucks the strings. + + But he who dared the thunder-roll, + Whose eagle-wings could soar, + Buffeting down the clouds of night, + To beat against the Light of Light, + That great God-blinded eagle-soul, + We shall not see him, more." + + +V + +THE COMPANION OF A MILE + +THWACK! _Thwack_! One early dawn upon our door I heard the bladder of +some motley fool Bouncing, and all the dusk of London shook With bells! +I leapt from bed,--had I forgotten?--I flung my casement wide and craned +my neck Over the painted Mermaid. There he stood, His right leg yellow +and his left leg blue, With jingling cap, a sheep-bell at his tail, +Wielding his eel-skin bladder,--_bang! thwack! bang!_--Catching a +comrade's head with the recoil And skipping away! All Bread Street dimly +burned Like a reflected sky, green, red and white With littered +branches, ferns and hawthorn-clouds; For, round Sir Fool, a frolic +morrice-troop Of players, poets, prentices, mad-cap queans, Robins and +Marians, coloured like the dawn, And sparkling like the greenwood whence +they came With their fresh boughs all dewy from the dark, Clamoured, +_Come down! Come down, and let us in!_ High over these, I suddenly saw +Sir Fool Leap to a sign-board, swing to a conduit-head, And perch there, +gorgeous on the morning sky, Tossing his crimson cockscomb to the blue +And crowing like Chanticleer, _Give them a rouse! Tickle it, tabourer! +Nimbly, lasses, nimbly! Tuck up your russet petticoats and dance! Let +the Cheape know it is the first of May!_ + +And as I seized shirt, doublet and trunk-hose, I saw the hobby-horse +come cantering down, A pasteboard steed, dappled a rosy white Like +peach-bloom, bridled with purple, bitted with gold, A crimson foot-cloth +on his royal flanks, And, riding him, His Majesty of the May! Round him +the whole crowd frolicked with a shout, And as I stumbled down the +crooked stair I heard them break into a dance and sing:-- + + +SONG + + I + + Into the woods we'll trip and go, + Up and down and to and fro, + Under the moon to fetch in May, + And two by two till break of day, + A-maying, + A-playing, + For Love knows no gain-saying! + Wisdom trips not? Even so-- + Come, young lovers, trip and go, + Trip and go. + + + II + + Out of the woods we'll dance and sing + Under the morning-star of Spring, + Into the town with our fresh boughs + And knock at every sleeping house, + Not sighing, + Or crying, + Though Love knows no denying! + Then, round your summer queen and king, + Come, young lovers, dance and sing, + Dance and sing! + + "_Chorus_," the great Fool tossed his gorgeous crest, + And lustily crew against the deepening dawn, + "_Chorus_," till all the Cheape caught the refrain, + And, with a double thunder of frolic feet, + Its ancient nut-brown tabors woke the Strand:-- + + A-maying, + A-playing, + For Love knows no gain-saying! + Wisdom trips not? Even so,-- + Come, young lovers, trip and go, + Trip and go. + + Into the Mermaid with a shout they rushed + As I shot back the bolts, and _bang, thwack, bang,_ + The bladder bounced about me. What cared I? + This was all England's holy-day! "Come in, + My yellow-hammers," roared the Friar Tuck + Of this mad morrice, "come you into church, + My nightingales, my scraps of Lincoln green, + And hear my sermon!" On a window-seat + He stood, against the diamonded rich panes + In the old oak parlour and, throwing back his hood, + Who should it be but Ben, rare Ben himself? + The wild troup laughed around him, some a-sprawl + On tables, kicking parti-coloured heels, + Some with their Marians jigging on their knees, + And, in the front of all, the motley fool + Cross-legged upon the rushes. + O, I knew him,-- + Will Kemp, the player, who danced from London town + To Norwich in nine days and was proclaimed + Freeman of Marchaunt Venturers and hedge-king + Of English morrice-dancery for ever! + His nine-days' wonder, through the countryside + Was hawked by every ballad-monger. Kemp + Raged at their shake-rag Muses. None but I + Guessed ever for what reason, since he chose + His anticks for himself and, in his games, + Was more than most May-fools fantastical. + I watched his thin face, as he rocked and crooned, + Shaking the squirrels' tails around his ears; + And, out of all the players I had seen, + His face was quickest through its clay to flash + The passing mood. Though not a muscle stirred, + The very skin of it seemed to flicker and gleam + With little summer lightnings of the soul + At every fleeting fancy. For a man + So quick to bleed at a pin-prick or to leap + Laughing through hell to save a butterfly, + This world was difficult; and perchance he found + In his fantastic games that open road + Which even Will Shakespeare only found at last + In motley and with some wild straws in his hair. + But "Drawer! drawer!" bellowed Friar Ben, + "Make ready a righteous breakfast while I preach;-- + Tankards of nut-brown ale, and cold roast beef, + Cracknels, old cheese, flaunes, tarts and clotted cream. + Hath any a wish not circumscribed by these?" + + "A white-pot custard, for my white-pot queen," + Cried Kemp, waving his bauble, "mark this, boy, + A white-pot custard for my queen of May,-- + She is not here, but that concerns not thee!-- + A white-pot Mermaid custard, with a crust, + Lashings of cream, eggs, apple-pulse and spice, + A little sugar and manchet bread. Away! + Be swift!" + And as I bustled to and fro, + The Friar raised his big brown fists again + And preached in mockery of the Puritans + Who thought to strip the moonshine wings from Mab, + Tear down the May-poles, rout our English games, + And drive all beauty back into the sea. + + Then laughter and chatter and clashing tankards drowned + All but their May-day jollity a-while. + But, as their breakfast ended, and I sank + Gasping upon a bench, there came still more + Poets and players crowding into the room; + And one--I only knew him as Sir John-- + Waved a great ballad at Will Kemp and laughed, + "Atonement, Will, atonement!" + "What," groaned Kemp, + "Another penny poet? How many lies + Does _this_ rogue tell? Sir, I have suffered much + From these Melpomenes and strawberry quills, + And think them better at their bloody lines + On _The Blue Lady_. Sir, they set to work + At seven o'clock in the morning, the same hour + That I, myself, that's _Cavaliero_ Kemp, + With heels of feather and heart of cork, began + Frolickly footing, from the great Lord Mayor + Of London, tow'rds the worshipful Master Mayor + Of Norwich." + "Nay, Kemp, this is a May-day tune, + A morrice of country rhymes, made by a poet + Who thought it shame so worthy an act as thine + Should wither in oblivion if the Muse + With her Castalian showers could keep it green. + And while the fool nid-nodded all in time, + Sir John, in swinging measure, trolled this tale:-- + + + I + + With Georgie Sprat, my overseer, and Thomas Slye, my tabourer, + And William Bee, my courier, when dawn emblazed the skies, + I met a tall young butcher as I danced by little Sudbury, + Head-master o' morrice-dancers all, high headborough of hyes. + + By Sudbury, by Sudbury, by little red-roofed Sudbury, + He wished to dance a mile with me! I made a courtly bow: + I fitted him with morrice-bells, with treble, bass and tenor bells, + And "_Tickle your tabor, Tom_," I cried, "_we're going to market now_." + + And rollicking down the lanes we dashed, and frolicking up the hills + we clashed, + And like a sail behind me flapped his great white frock a-while, + Till, with a gasp, he sank and swore that he could dance with me no more; + And--over the hedge a milk-maid laughed, _Not dance with him a mile_? + + "You lout!" she laughed, "I'll leave my pail, and dance with him for + cakes and ale! + I'll dance a mile for love," she laughed, "and win my wager, too. + Your feet are shod and mine are bare; but when could leather dance on air? + A milk-maid's feet can fall as fair and light as falling dew." + + I fitted her with morrice-bells, with treble, bass and tenor bells: + The fore-bells, as I linked them at her throat, how soft they sang! + Green linnets in a golden nest, they chirped and trembled on her breast, + And, faint as elfin blue-bells, at her nut-brown ankles rang. + + I fitted her with morrice-bells that sweetened into woodbine bells, + And trembled as I hung them there and crowned her sunny brow: + "Strike up," she laughed, "my summer king!" And all her bells began to ring, + And "_Tickle your tabor, Tom_," I cried, "_we're going to Sherwood now_!" + + When cocks were crowing, and light was growing, and horns were blowing, + and milk-pails flowing, + We swam thro' waves of emerald gloom along a chestnut aisle, + Then, up a shining hawthorn-lane, we sailed into the sun again, + Will Kemp and his companion, his companion of a mile. + + "Truer than most," snarled Kemp, "but mostly lies! + And why does he forget the miry lanes + By Brainford with thick woods on either side, + And the deep holes, where I could find no ease + But skipped up to my waist?" A crackling laugh + Broke from his lips which, if he had not worn + The cap and bells, would scarce have roused the mirth + Of good Sir John, who roundly echoed it, + Then waved his hand and said, "Nay, but he treats + Your morrice in the spirit of Lucian, Will, + Who thought that dancing was no mushroom growth, + But sprung from the beginning of the world + When Love persuaded earth, air, water, fire, + And all the jarring elements to move + In measure. Right to the heart of it, my lad, + The song goes, though the skin mislike you so." + "Nay, an there's more of it, I'll sing it, too! + 'Tis a fine tale, Sir John, I have it by heart, + Although 'tis lies throughout." Up leapt Will Kemp, + And crouched and swayed, and swung his bauble round, + Making the measure as they trolled the tale, + Chanting alternately, each answering each. + + + II + + _The Fool_ + + The tabor fainted far behind us, but her feet that day + They beat a rosier morrice o'er the fairy-circled green. + + _Sir John_ + + And o'er a field of buttercups, a field of lambs and buttercups, + We danced along a cloth of gold, a summer king and queen! + + _The Fool_ + + And straying we went, and swaying we went, with lambkins round us + playing we went; + Her face uplift to drink the sun, and not for me her smile, + We danced, a king and queen of May, upon a fleeting holy-day, + But O, she'd won her wager, my companion of a mile! + + _Sir John_ + + Her rosy lips they never spoke, though every rosy foot-fall broke + The dust, the dust to Eden-bloom; and, past the throbbing blue, + All ordered to her rhythmic feet, the stars were dancing with my sweet, + And all the world a morrice-dance! + + _The Fool_ + + She knew not; but I knew! + Love like Amphion with his lyre, made all the elements conspire + To build His world of music. All in rhythmic rank and file, + I saw them in their cosmic dance, catch hands across, retire, advance, + For me and my companion, my companion of a mile! + + _Sir John_ + + The little leaves on every tree, the rivers winding to the sea, + The swinging tides, the wheeling winds, the rolling heavens above, + Around the May-pole Igdrasil, they worked the Morrice-master's will, + Persuaded into measure by the all-creative Love. + + That hour I saw, from depth to height, this wildering universe unite! + The lambs of God around us and His passion in every flower! + + _The Fool_ + + His grandeur in the dust, His dust a blaze of blinding majesty, + And all His immortality in one poor mortal hour. + + And Death was but a change of key in Life the golden melody, + And Time became Eternity, and Heaven a fleeting smile; + For all was each and each was all, and all a wedded unity, + Her heart in mine, and mine in my companion of a mile. + + _Thwack_! _Thwack_! He whirled his bauble round about, + "This fellow beats them all," he cried, "the worst + Those others wrote was that I hopped from York + To Paris with a mortar on my head. + This fellow sends me leaping through the clouds + To buss the moon! The best is yet to come; + Strike up, Sir John! Ha! ha! You know no more?" + Kemp leapt upon a table. "Clear the way", + He cried, and with a great stamp of his foot + And a wild crackling laugh, drew all to hark, + "With hey and ho, through thick and thin, + The hobby-horse is forgotten, + But I must finish what I begin, + Tho' all the roads be rotten. + + "By all those twenty thousand chariots, Ben, + Hear this true tale they shall! Now, let me see, + Where was Will Kemp? Bussing the moon's pale mouth? + Ah, yes!" He crouched above the listening throng,-- + "_Good as a play_," I heard one whispering quean,-- + And, waving his bauble, shuffling with his feet + In a dance that marked the time, he sank his voice + As if to breathe great secrets, and so sang:-- + + + III + + At Melford town, at Melford town, at little grey-roofed Melford town, + A long mile from Sudbury, upon the village green, + We danced into a merry rout of country-folk that skipt about + A hobby-horse, a May-pole, and a laughing white-pot queen. + + They thronged about us as we stayed, and there I gave my sunshine maid + An English crown for cakes and ale--her dancing was so true! + And "Nay," she said, "I danced my mile for love!" I answered with a smile, + "'Tis but a silver token, lass, 'thou'st won that wager, too." + + I took my leash of morrice-bells, my treble, bass and tenor bells, + They pealed like distant marriage-bells! And up came William Bee + With Georgie Sprat, my overseer, and Thomas Slye, my tabourer, + "Farewell," she laughed, and vanished with a Suffolk courtesie. + I leapt away to Rockland, and from Rockland on to Hingham, + From Hingham on to Norwich, sirs! I hardly heard a-while + The throngs that followed after, with their shouting and their laughter, + For a shadow danced beside me, my companion of a mile! + + At Norwich, by St. Giles his gate, I entered, and the Mayor in state, + With all the rosy knights and squires for twenty miles about, + With trumpets and with minstrelsy, was waiting there to welcome me; + And, as I skipt into the street, the City raised a shout. + + They gave me what I did not seek. I fed on roasted swans a week! + They pledged me in their malmsey, and they lined me warm with ale! + They sleeked my skin with red-deer pies, and all that runs and + swims and flies; + But, through the clashing wine-cups, O, I heard her clanking pail. + + And, rising from his crimson chair, the worshipful and portly Mayor + Bequeathed me forty shillings every year that I should live, + With five good angels in my hand that I might drink while I could stand! + They gave me golden angels! What I lacked they could not give. + + They made Will Kemp, thenceforward, sirs, Freeman of Marchaunt Venturers! + They hoped that I would dance again from Norwich up to York; + Then they asked me, all together, had I met with right May weather, + And they praised my heels of feather, and my heart, my heart of cork. + + * * * * + + As I came home by Sudbury, by little red-roofed Sudbury, + I waited for my bare-foot maid, among her satin kine! + I heard a peal of wedding-bells, of treble, bass and tenor bells: + "Ring well," I cried, "this bridal morn! You soon shall ring for mine!" + + I found her foot-prints in the grass, just where she stood and saw me pass. + I stood within her own sweet field and waited for my may. + I laughed. The dance has turned about! I stand within: she'll pass without, + And--_down the road the wedding came, the road I danced that day_! + + _I saw the wedding-folk go by, with laughter and with minstrelsy, + I gazed across her own sweet hedge, I caught her happy smile, + I saw the tall young butcher pass to little red-roofed Sudbury, + His bride upon his arm, my lost companion of a mile._ + + Down from his table leapt the motley Fool. + His bladder bounced from head to ducking head, + His crackling laugh rang high,--"Sir John, I danced + In February, and the song says May! + A fig for all your poets, liars all! + Away to Fenchurch Street, lasses and lads, + They hold high revel there this May-day morn. + Away!" The mad-cap throng echoed the cry. + He drove them with his bauble through the door; + Then, as the last gay kerchief fluttered out + He gave one little sharp sad lingering cry + As of a lute-string breaking. He turned back + + And threw himself along a low dark bench; + His jingling cap was crumpled in his fist, + And, as he lay there, all along Cheapside + The happy voices of his comrades rang:-- + + Out of the woods we'll dance and sing + Under the morning-star of Spring, + Into the town with our fresh boughs + And knock at every sleeping house, + Not sighing, + Or crying, + Though Love knows no denying! + Then, round your summer queen and king, + Come, young lovers, dance and sing, + Dance and sing! + + His motley shoulders heaved. I touched his arm, + "What ails you, sir?" He raised his thin white face, + Wet with the May-dew still. A few stray petals + Clung in his tangled hair. He leapt to his feet, + "'Twas February, but I danced, boy, danced + In May! Can you do this?" Forward he bent + Over his feet, and shuffled it, heel and toe, + Out of the Mermaid, singing his old song-- + + A-maying, + A-playing, + For Love knows no gain-saying! + Wisdom trips not? Even so,-- + Come, young lovers, trip and go, + Trip and go. + + Five minutes later, over the roaring Strand, + "_Chorus!_" I heard him crow, and half the town + Reeled into music under his crimson comb. + + +VI + +BIG BEN + + Gods, what a hubbub shook our cobwebs out + The day that Chapman, Marston and our Ben + Waited in Newgate for the hangman's hands. + + Chapman and Marston had been flung there first + For some imagined insult to the Scots + In _Eastward Ho_, the play they wrote with Ben. + But Ben was famous now, and our brave law + Would fain have winked and passed the big man by. + The lesser men had straightway been condemned + To have their ears cut off, their noses slit. + With other tortures. + + Ben had risen at that! + He gripped his cudgel, called for a quart of ale, + Then like Helvellyn with his rocky face + And mountain-belly, he surged along Cheapside, + Snorting with wrath, and rolled into the gaol, + To share the punishment. + + "There is my mark! + 'Tis not the first time you have branded me," + Said our big Ben, and thrust his broad left thumb + Branded with T for Tyburn, into the face + Of every protest. "That's the mark you gave me + Because I killed my man in Spitalfields, + A duel honest as any your courtiers fight. + But I was no Fitzdotterel, bore no gules + And azure, robbed no silk-worms for my hose, + I was Ben Jonson, out of Annandale, + Bricklayer in common to the good Lord God. + You branded me. I am Ben Jonson still. + You cannot rub it out." + + The Mermaid Inn + Buzzed like a hornet's nest, upon the day + Fixed for their mutilation. And the stings + Were ready, too; for rapiers flashed and clashed + Among the tankards. Dekker was there, and Nash, + Brome (Jonson's body-servant, whom he taught + His art of verse and, more than that, to love him,) + And half a dozen more. They planned to meet + The prisoners going to Tyburn, and attempt + A desperate rescue. + + All at once we heard + A great gay song come marching down the street, + A single voice, and twenty marching men, + Then the full chorus, twenty voices strong:-- + + The prentice whistles at break of day + All under fair roofs and towers, + When the old Cheape openeth every way + Her little sweet inns like flowers; + And he sings like a lark, both early and late, + To think, if his house take fire, + At the good _Green Dragon_ in Bishopsgate + He may drink to his heart's desire. + + _Chorus:_ Or sit at his ease in the old _Cross Keys_ + And drink to his heart's desire. + + But I, as I walk by _Red Rose Lane_, + Tho' it warmeth my heart to see + _The Swan_, _The Golden Hynde_, and _The Crane_, + With the door set wide for me; + Tho' Signs like daffodils paint the strand + When the thirsty bees begin, + Of all the good taverns in Engeland + My choice is--_The Mermaid Inn_. + + _Chorus:_ There is much to be said for _The Saracen's Head_, + But my choice is _The Mermaid Inn_. + + Into the tavern they rushed, these roaring boys. + "Now broach your ripest and your best," they cried. + "All's well! They are all released! They are on the way! + Old Camden and young Selden worked the trick. + Where is Dame Dimpling? Where's our jolly hostess? + Tell her the Mermaid Tavern will have guests: + We are sent to warn her. She must raid Cook's Row, + And make their ovens roar. Nobody dines + This day with old Duke Humphrey. Red-deer pies, + Castles of almond crust, a shield of brawn + Big as the nether millstone, barrels of wine, + Three roasted peacocks! Ben is on the way!" + Then all the rafters rang with song again:-- + + There was a Prince--long since, long since!-- + To East Cheape did resort, + For that he loved _The Blue Boar's Head_ + Far better than Crown or Court; + + But old King Harry in Westminster + Hung up, for all to see, + Three bells of power in St. Stephen's Tower, + Yea, bells of a thousand and three, + + _Chorus:_ Three bells of power in a timber tower, + Thirty thousand and three, + + For Harry the Fourth was a godly king + And loved great godly bells! + He bade them ring and he bade them swing + Till a man might hear nought else. + In every tavern it soured the sack + With discord and with din; + But they drowned it all in a madrigal + Like this, at _The Mermaid Inn_. + + _Chorus:_ They drowned it all in a madrigal + Like this, at _The Mermaid Inn._ + + "But how did Selden work it?"--"Nobody knows. + They will be here anon. Better ask Will. + He's the magician!"--"Ah, here comes Dame Dimpling!" + And, into the rollicking chaos our good Dame + --A Dame of only two and thirty springs-- + All lavender and roses and white kerchief, + Bustled, to lay the tables. + + Fletcher flung + His arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. + But all she said was, "_One--two--three--four--five-- + Six at a pinch, in yonder window-seat._" + "A health to our Dame Dimpling," Beaumont cried, + And Dekker, leaping on the old black settle, + Led all their tumult into a song again:-- + + What is the Mermaid's merriest toast? + Our hostess--good Dame Dimpling! + Who is it rules the Mermaid roast? + Who is it bangs the Mermaid host, + Tho' her hands be soft as her heart almost? + Dame Dimpling! + + She stands at the board in her fresh blue gown + With the sleeves tucked up--Dame Dimpling! + She rolls the white dough up and down + And her pies are crisp, and her eyes are brown. + So--she is the Queen of all this town,-- + Dame Dimpling! + + Her sheets are white as black-thorn bloom, + White as her neck, Dame Dimpling! + Her lavender sprigs in the London gloom + Make every little bridal-room + A country nook of fresh perfume,-- + Dame Dimpling! + + She wears white lace on her dark brown hair: + And a rose on her breast, Dame Dimpling! + And who can show you a foot as fair + Or an ankle as neat when she climbs the stair, + Taper in hand, and head in the air, + And a rose in her cheek?--O, past compare, + Dame Dimpling! + + "But don't forget those oyster-pies," cried Lyly. + "Nor the roast beef," roared Dekker. "Prove yourself + The Muse of meat and drink." + + There was a shout + In Bread Street, and our windows all swung wide, + Six heads at each. + + Nat Field bestrode our sign + And kissed the painted Mermaid on her lips, + Then waved his tankard. + + "Here they come," he cried. + "Camden and Selden, Chapman and Marston, too, + And half Will's company with our big Ben + Riding upon their shoulders." + + "Look!" cried Dekker, + "But where is Atlas now? O, let them have it! + A thumping chorus, lads! Let the roof crack!" + And all the Mermaid clashed and banged again + In thunderous measure to the marching tune + That rolled down Bread Street, forty voices strong:-- + + At _Ypres Inn_, by _Wring-wren Lane_, + Old John of Gaunt would dine: + He scarce had opened an oyster or twain, + Or drunk one flagon of wine, + When, all along the Vintry Ward, + He heard the trumpets blow, + And a voice that roared--"If thou love thy lord, + Tell John of Gaunt to go!" + + _Chorus:_ A great voice roared--"If thou love thy lord, + Tell John of Gaunt to go!" + + Then into the room rushed Haviland + That fair fat Flemish host, + "They are marching hither with sword and brand, + Ten thousand men--almost! + It is these oysters or thy sweet life, + Thy blood or the best of the bin!"-- + "Proud Pump, avaunt!" quoth John of Gaunt, + "I will dine at _The Mermaid Inn!_" + + _Chorus:_ "Proud Pump, avaunt!" quoth John of Gaunt, + "There is wine at _The Mermaid Inn!_" + + And in came Ben like a great galleon poised + High on the white crest of a shouting wave, + And then the feast began. The fragrant steam + As from the kitchens of Olympus drew + A throng of ragged urchins to our doors. + Ben ordered them a castellated pie + That rolled a cloud around them where they sat + Munching upon the cobblestones. Our casements + Dripped with the golden dews of Helicon; + And, under the warm feast our cellarage + Gurgled and foamed in the delicious cool + With crimson freshets-- + "Tell us," cried Nat Field, + When pipes began to puff. "How did you work it?" + Camden chuckled and tugged his long white beard. + "Out of the mouth of babes," he said and shook + His head at Selden! "O, young man, young man, + There's a career before you! Selden did it. + Take my advice, my children. Make young Selden + Solicitor-general to the Mermaid Inn. + That rosy silken smile of his conceals + A scholar! Yes, that suckling lawyer there + Puts my grey beard to shame. His courteous airs + And silken manners hide the nimblest wit + That ever trimmed a sail to catch the wind + Of courtly favour. Mark my words now, Ben, + That youth will sail right up against the wind + By skilful tacking. But you run it fine, + Selden, you run it fine. Take my advice + And don't be too ironical, my boy, + Or even the King will see it." + He chuckled again. + "But tell them of your tractate!" + "Here it is," + Quoth Selden, twisting a lighted paper spill, + Then, with his round cherubic face aglow + Lit his long silver pipe, + "Why, first," he said, + "Camden being Clarencieux King-at-arms, + He read the King this little tract I wrote + Against tobacco." And the Mermaid roared + With laughter. "Well, you went the way to hang + All three of them," cried Lyly, "and, as for Ben, + His Trinidado goes to bed with him." + "Green gosling, quack no more," Selden replied, + Smiling that rosy silken smile anew. + "The King's a _critic_! When have critics known + The poet from his creatures, God from me? + How many cite Polonius to their sons + And call it Shakespeare? Well, I took my text + From sundry creatures of our great big Ben, + And called it 'Jonson.' + Camden read it out + Without the flicker of an eye. His beard + Saved us, I think. The King admired his text. + '_There is a man_,' he read, '_lies at death's door + Thro' taking of tobacco. Yesterday + He voided a bushel of soot_.' + 'God bless my soul, + A bushel of soot! Think of it!' said the King. + 'The man who wrote those great and splendid words,' + Camden replied,--I had prepared his case + Carefully--'lies in Newgate prison, sire. + His nose and ears await the hangman's knife.' + + 'Ah,' said the shrewd King, goggling his great eyes + Cannily. 'Did he not defame the Scots?' + 'That's true,' said Camden, like a man that hears + Truth for the first time. 'O ay, he defamed 'em,' + The King said, very wisely, once again. + 'Ah, but,' says Camden, like a man that strives + With more than mortal wit, 'only such Scots + As flout your majesty, and take tobacco. + He is a Scot, himself, and hath the gift + Of preaching.' Then we gave him Jonson's lines + Against Virginia. '_Neither do thou lust + After that tawny weed; for who can tell, + Before the gathering and the making up, + What alligarta may have spawned thereon_,' + Or words to that effect. + 'Magneeficent!' + Spluttered the King--'who knows? Who knows, indeed? + That's a grand touch, that Alligarta, Camden!' + 'The Scot who wrote those great and splendid words,' + Said Camden, 'languishes in Newgate, sire. + His ears and nose--' + And there, as we arranged + With Inigo Jones, the ladies of the court + Assailed the King in tears. Their masque and ball + Would all be ruined. All their Grecian robes, + Procured at vast expense, were wasted now. + The masque was not half-written. Master Jones + Had lost his poets. They were all in gaol. + Their noses and their ears ... + 'God bless my soul,' + Spluttered the King, goggling his eyes again, + 'What d'you make of it, Camden?'-- + 'I should say + A Puritan plot, sire; for these justices-- + Who love tobacco--use their law, it seems, + To flout your Majesty at every turn. + If this continue, sire, there'll not be left + A loyal ear or nose in all your realm.' + At that, our noble monarch well-nigh swooned. + He hunched his body, padded as it was + Against the assassin's knife, six inches deep + With great green quilts, wagged his enormous head, + Then, in a dozen words, he wooed destruction: + 'It is presumption and a high contempt + In subjects to dispute what kings can do,' + He whimpered. 'Even as it is blasphemy + To thwart the will of God.' + He waved his hand, + And rose. 'These men must be released, at once!' + Then, as I think, to seek a safer place, + He waddled from the room, his rickety legs + Doubling beneath that great green feather-bed + He calls his 'person.'--I shall dream to-night + Of spiders, Camden.--But in half an hour, + Inigo Jones was armed with Right Divine + To save such ears and noses as the ball + Required for its perfection. Think of that! + And let this earthly ball remember, too, + That Chapman, Marston, and our great big Ben + Owe their poor adjuncts to--ten Grecian robes + And 'Jonson' on tobacco! England loves + Her poets, O, supremely, when they're dead." + "But Ben has narrowly escaped her love," + Said Chapman gravely. + "What do you mean?" said Lodge. + And, as he spoke, there was a sudden hush. + A tall gaunt woman with great burning eyes, + And white hair blown back softly from a face + Ethereally fierce, as might have looked + Cassandra in old age, stood at the door. + "Where is my Ben?" she said. + "Mother!" cried Ben. + He rose and caught her in his mighty arms. + Her labour-reddened, long-boned hands entwined + Behind his neck. + "She brought this to the gaol," + Said Chapman quietly, tossing a phial across + To Camden. "And he meant to take it, too, + Before the hangman touched him. Half an hour + And you'd have been too late to save big Ben. + He has lived too much in ancient Rome to love + A slit nose and the pillory. He'd have wrapped + His purple round him like an emperor. + I think she had another for herself." + "There's Roman blood in both of them," said Dekker, + "Don't look. She is weeping now," And, while Ben held + That gaunt old body sobbing against his heart, + Dekker, to make her think they paid no heed, + Began to sing; and very softly now. + Full forty voices echoed the refrain:-- + + _The Cardinal's Hat_ is a very good inn, + And so is _The Puritan's Head_; + But I know a sign of a Wine, a Wine + That is better when all is said. + It is whiter than Venus, redder than Mars, + It was old when the world begun; + For all good inns are moons or stars + But _The Mermaid_ is their Sun. + + _Chorus:_ They are all alight like moons in the night, + But _The Mermaid_ is their Sun. + + Therefore, when priest or parson cries + That inns like flowers increase, + I say that mine inn is a church likewise, + And I say to them "Be at peace!" + An host may gather in dark St. Paul's + To salve their souls from sin; + But the Light may be where "two or three" + Drink Wine in _The Mermaid Inn_. + + _Chorus:_ The Light may be where "two or three" + Drink Wine in _The Mermaid Inn_. + + +VII + +THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN + + 'Twas on an All Souls' Eve that our good Inn + --Whereof, for ten years now, myself was host-- + Heard and took part in its most eerie tale. + It was a bitter night, and master Ben, + --His hair now flecked with grey, though youth still fired + His deep and ageless eyes,--in the old oak-chair, + Over the roaring hearth, puffed at his pipe; + A little sad, as often I found him now + Remembering vanished faces. Yet the years + Brought others round him. Wreaths of Heliochrise + Gleamed still in that great tribe of Benjamin, + Burned still across the malmsey and muscadel. + Chapman and Browne, Herrick,--a name like thyme + Crushed into sweetness by a bare-foot maid + Milking, at dewy dawn, in Elfin-land,-- + These three came late, and sat in a little room + Aside, supping together, on one great pie, + Whereof both crust and coffin were prepared + By master Herrick's receipt, and all washed down + With mighty cups of sack. This left with Ben, + John Ford, wrapped in his cloak, brooding aloof, + Drayton and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden. + Suddenly, in the porch, I heard a sound + Of iron that grated on the flags. A spade + And pick came edging through the door. + + "O, room! + Room for the master-craftsman," muttered Ford, + And grey old sexton Scarlet hobbled in. + He shuffled off the snow that clogged his boots, + --On my clean rushes!--brushed it from his cloak + Of Northern Russet, wiped his rheumatic knees, + Blew out his lanthorn, hung it on a nail, + Leaned his rude pick and spade against the wall, + Flung back his rough frieze hood, flapped his gaunt arms, + And called for ale. + + "Come to the fire," said Lodge. + "Room for the wisest counsellor of kings, + The kindly sage that puts us all to bed, + And tucks us up beneath the grass-green quilt." + "Plenty of work, eh Timothy?" said Ben. + "Work? Where's my liquor? O, ay, there's work to spare," + Old Scarlet croaked, then quaffed his creaming stoup, + While Ben said softly--"Pity you could not spare, + You and your Scythe-man, some of the golden lads + That I have seen here in the Mermaid Inn!" + Then, with a quiet smile he shook his head + And turned to master Drummond of Hawthornden. + "Well, songs are good; but flesh and blood are better. + The grey old tomb of Horace glows for me + Across the centuries, with one little fire + Lit by a girl's light hand." Then, under breath, + Yet with some passion, he murmured this brief rhyme:-- + + I + + _Dulce ridentem_, laughing through the ages, + _Dulce loquentem_, O, fairer far to me, + Rarer than the wisdom of all his golden pages + Floats the happy laughter of his vanished Lalage. + + II + + _Dulce loquentem_,--we hear it and we know it. + _Dulce ridentem_,--so musical and low. + "Mightier than marble is my song!" Ah, did the poet + Know why little Lalage was mightier even so? + + III + + _Dulce ridentem_,--through all the years that sever, + Clear as o'er yon hawthorn hedge we heard her passing by,-- + _Lalagen amabo_,--a song may live for ever + _Dulce loquentem_,--but Lalage must die. + + "I'd like to learn that rhyme," the sexton said. + "I've a fine memory too. You start me now, + I'd keep it up all night with ancient ballads." + And then--a strange thing happened. I saw John Ford + "With folded arms and melancholy hat" + (As in our Mermaid jest he still would sit) + Watching old Scarlet like a man in trance. + The sexton gulped his ale and smacked his lips, + Then croaked again--"O, ay, there's work to spare, + We fills 'em faster than the spades can dig," + And, all at once, the lights burned low and blue. + Ford leaned right forward, with his grim black eyes + Widening. + + "Why, that's a marvellous ring!" he said, + And pointed to the sexton's gnarled old hand + Spread on the black oak-table like the claw + Of some great bird of prey. "A ruby worth + The ransom of a queen!" The fire leapt up! + The sexton stared at him; + Then stretched his hand out, with its blue-black nails, + Full in the light, a grim earth-coloured hand, + But bare as it was born. + + "There was a ring! + I could have sworn it! Red as blood!" cried Ford. + And Ben and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden + All stared at him. For such a silent soul + Was master Ford that, when he suddenly spake, + It struck the rest as dumb as if the Sphinx + Had opened its cold stone lips. He would sit mute + Brooding, aloof, for hours, his cloak around him, + A staff between his knees, as if prepared + For a long journey, a lonely pilgrimage + To some dark tomb; a strange and sorrowful soul, + Yet not--as many thought him--harsh or hard, + But of a most kind patience. Though he wrote + In blood, they say, the blood came from his heart; + And all the sufferings of this world he took + To his own soul, and bade them pasture there: + Till out of his compassion, he became + A monument of bitterness. He rebelled; + And so fell short of that celestial height + Whereto the greatest only climb, who stand + By Shakespeare, and accept the Eternal Law. + These find, in law, firm footing for the soul, + The strength that binds the stars, and reins the sea, + The base of being, the pillars of the world, + The pledge of honour, the pure cord of love, + The form of truth, the golden floors of heaven. + These men discern a height beyond all heights, + A depth below all depths, and never an end + Without a pang beyond it, and a hope; + Without a heaven beyond it, and a hell. + For these, despair is like a bubble pricked, + An old romance to make young lovers weep. + For these, the law becomes a fiery road, + A Jacob's ladder through that vast abyss + Lacking no rung from realm to loftier realm, + Nor wanting one degree from dust to wings. + These, at the last, radiant with victory, + Lay their strong hands upon the winged steeds + And fiery chariots, and exult to hold, + Themselves, the throbbing reins, whereby they steer + The stormy splendours. + He, being less, rebelled, + Cried out for unreined steeds, and unruled stars, + An unprohibited ocean and a truth + Untrue; and the equal thunder of the law + Hurled him to night and chaos, who was born + To shine upon the forehead of the day. + And yet--the voice of darkness and despair + May speak for heaven where heaven would not be heard, + May fight for heaven where heaven would not prevail, + And the consummate splendour of that strife, + Swallowing up all discords, all defeat, + In one huge victory, harmonising all, + Make Lucifer, at last, at one with God. + + There,--on that All Souls' Eve, you might have thought + A dead man spoke, to see how Drayton stared, + And Drummond started. + "You saw no ruby ring," + The old sexton muttered sullenly. "If you did, + The worse for me, by all accounts. The lights + Burned low. You caught the firelight on my fist. + What was it like, this ring?" + "A band of gold, + And a great ruby, heart-shaped, fit to burn + Between the breasts of Lais. Am I awake + Or dreaming?" + "Well,--that makes the second time! + There's many have said they saw it, out of jest, + To scare me. For the astrologer did say + The third time I should die. Now, did you see it? + Most likely someone's told you that old tale! + You hadn't heard it, now?" + Ford shook his head. + "What tale?" said Ben. + "O, you could make a book + About my life. I've talked with quick and dead, + And neither ghost nor flesh can fright me now! + I wish it was a ring, so's I could catch him, + And sell him; but I've never seen him yet. + A white witch told me, if I did, I'd go + Clink, just like that, to heaven or t'other place, + Whirled in a fiery chariot with ten steeds + The way Elijah went. For I have seen + So many mighty things that I must die + Mightily. + Well,--I came, sirs, to my craft + The day mine uncle Robert dug the grave + For good Queen Katharine, she whose heart was broke + By old King Harry, a very great while ago. + Maybe you've heard about my uncle, sirs? + He was far-famous for his grave-digging. + In depth, in speed, in neatness, he'd no match! + They've put a fine slab to his memory + In Peterborough Cathedral--_Robert Scarlet, + Sexton for half a century_, it says, + _In Peterborough Cathedral, where he built + The last sad habitation for two queens, + And many hundreds of the common sort. + And now himself, who for so many built + Eternal habitations, others have buried._ + _Obiit anno aetatis, ninety-eight, + July the second, fifteen ninety-four._ + We should do well, sir, with a slab like that, + Shouldn't we?" And the sexton leered at Lodge. + "Not many boasts a finer slab than that. + There's many a king done worse. Ah, well, you see, + He'd a fine record. Living to ninety-eight, + He buried generations of the poor, + A countless host, and thought no more of it + Than digging potatoes. He'd a lofty mind + That found no satisfaction in small deeds. + But from his burying of two queens he drew + A lively pleasure. Could he have buried a third, + It would indeed have crowned his old white hairs. + But he was famous, and he thought, perchance, + A third were mere vain-glory. So he died. + I helped him with the second." + The old man leered + To see the shaft go home. + Ben filled the stoup + With ale. "So that," quoth he, "began the tale + About this ruby ring?" "But who," said Lodge, + "Who was the second queen?" + "A famous queen, + And a great lover! When you hear her name, + Your hearts will leap. Her beauty passed the bounds + Of modesty, men say, yet--she died young! + We buried her at midnight. There were few + That knew it; for the high State Funeral + Was held upon the morrow, Lammas morn. + Anon you shall hear why. A strange thing that,-- + To see the mourners weeping round a hearse + That held a dummy coffin. Stranger still + To see us lowering the true coffin down + By torchlight, with some few of her true friends, + In Peterborough Cathedral, all alone." + "Old as the world," said Ford. "It is the way + Of princes. Their true tears and smiles are seen + At dead of night, like ghosts raised from the grave! + And all the luxury of their brief, bright noon, + Cloaks but a dummy throne, a mask of life; + And, at the last, drapes a false catafalque, + Holding a vacant urn, a mask of death. + But tell, tell on!" + The sexton took a draught + Of ale and smacked his lips. + "Mine uncle lived + A mile or more from Peterborough, then. + And, past his cottage, in the dead of night, + Her royal coach came creeping through the lanes, + With scutcheons round it and no crowd to see, + And heralds carrying torches in their hands, + And none to admire, but him and me, and one, + A pedlar-poet, who lodged with us that week + And paid his lodging with a bunch of rhymes. + By these, he said, my uncle Robert's fame + Should live, as in a picture, till the crack + Of doom. My uncle thought that he should pay + Four-pence beside; but, when the man declared + The thought unworthy of these august events, + My uncle was abashed. + And, truth to tell, + The rhymes were mellow, though here and there he swerved + From truth to make them so. Nor would he change + 'June' to 'July' for all that we could say. + 'I never said the month was June,' he cried, + 'And if I did, Shakespeare hath jumped an age! + Gods, will you hedge me round with thirty nights? + "June" rhymes with "moon"!' With that, he flung them down + And strode away like Lucifer, and was gone, + Before old Scarlet could approach again + The matter of that four-pence. + Yet his rhymes + Have caught the very colours of that night! + I can see through them, + Ay, just as through our cottage window-panes, + Can see the great black coach, + Carrying the dead queen past our garden-gate. + The roses bobbing and fluttering to and fro, + Hide, and yet show the more by hiding, half. + And, like smoked glass through which you see the sun, + The song shows truest when it blurs the truth. + This is the way it goes." + He rose to his feet, + Picked up his spade, and struck an attitude, + Leaning upon it. "I've got to feel my spade, + Or I'll forget it. This is the way I speak it. + Always." And, with a schoolboy's rigid face, + And eyes fixed on the rafters, he began, + Sing-song, the pedlar-poet's bunch of rhymes:-- + + As I went by the cattle-shed + The grey dew dimmed the grass, + And, under a twisted apple-tree, + Old Robin Scarlet stood by me. + "Keep watch! Keep watch to-night," he said, + "There's things 'ull come to pass. + + "Keep watch until the moon has cleared + The thatch of yonder rick; + Then I'll come out of my cottage-door + To wait for the coach of a queen once more; + And--you'll say nothing of what you've heard, + But rise and follow me quick." + + "And what 'ull I see if I keep your trust, + And wait and watch so late?" + "Pride," he said, "and Pomp," he said, + "Beauty to haunt you till you're dead, + And Glorious Dust that goes to dust, + Passing the white farm-gate. + + "You are young and all for adventure, lad, + And the great tales to be told: + This night, before the clock strike one, + Your lordliest hour will all be done; + But you'll remember it and be glad, + In the days when you are old!" + + All in the middle of the night, + My face was at the pane; + When, creeping out of his cottage-door, + To wait for the coach of a queen once more, + Old Scarlet, in the moon-light, + Beckoned to me again. + + He stood beneath a lilac-spray, + Like Father Time for dole, + In Reading Tawny cloak and hood, + With mattock and with spade he stood, + And, far away to southward, + A bell began to toll. + + He stood beneath a lilac-spray, + And never a word he said; + But, as I stole out of the house, + He pointed over the orchard boughs, + Where, not with dawn or sunset, + The Northern sky grew red. + + I followed him, and half in fear, + To the old farm-gate again; + And, round the curve of the long white road, + I saw that the dew-dashed hedges glowed + Red with the grandeur drawing near, + And the torches of her train. + + They carried her down with singing, + With singing sweet and low, + Slowly round the curve they came, + Twenty torches dropping flame, + The heralds that were bringing her + The way we all must go. + + 'Twas master William Dethick, + The Garter King of Arms, + Before her royal coach did ride, + With none to see his Coat of Pride, + For peace was on the countryside, + And sleep upon the farms; + + Peace upon the red farm, + Peace upon the grey, + Peace on the heavy orchard trees, + And little white-walled cottages, + Peace upon the wayside, + And sleep upon the way. + + So master William Dethick, + With forty horse and men, + Like any common man and mean + Rode on before the Queen, the Queen, + And--only a wandering pedlar + Could tell the tale again. + + How, like a cloud of darkness, + Between the torches moved + Four black steeds and a velvet pall + Crowned with the Crown Imperiall + And--on her shield--the lilies, + The lilies that she loved. + + Ah, stained and ever stainless + Ah, white as her own hand, + White as the wonder of that brow, + Crowned with colder lilies now, + White on the velvet darkness, + The lilies of her land! + + The witch from over the water, + The fay from over the foam, + The bride that rode thro' Edinbro' town + With satin shoes and a silken gown, + A queen, and a great king's daughter,-- + Thus they carried her home, + + With torches and with scutcheons, + Unhonoured and unseen, + With the lilies of France in the wind a-stir, + And the Lion of Scotland over her, + Darkly, in the dead of night, + They carried the Queen, the Queen. + + The sexton paused and took a draught of ale. + "'Twas there," he said, "I joined 'em at the gate, + My uncle and the pedlar. What they sang, + The little shadowy throng of men that walked + Behind the scutcheoned coach with bare bent heads + I know not; but 'twas very soft and low. + They walked behind the rest, like shadows flung + Behind the torch-light, from that strange dark hearse. + And, some said, afterwards, they were the ghosts + Of lovers that this queen had brought to death. + A foolish thought it seemed to me, and yet + Like the night-wind they sang. And there was one + An olive-coloured man,--the pedlar said + Was like a certain foreigner that she loved, + One Chastelard, a wild French poet of hers. + Also the pedlar thought they sang 'farewell' + In words like this, and that the words in French + Were written by the hapless Queen herself, + When as a girl she left the vines of France + For Scotland and the halls of Holyrood:-- + + I + + Though thy hands have plied their trade + Eighty years without a rest, + Robin Scarlet, never thy spade + Built a house for such a guest! + Carry her where, in earliest June, + All the whitest hawthorns blow; + Carry her under the midnight moon, + Singing very soft and low. + Slow between the low green larches, carry the lovely lady sleeping, + Past the low white moon-lit farms, along the lilac-shadowed way! + Carry her through the summer darkness, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping! + Answering only, to any that ask you, whence ye carry her,--_Fotheringhay!_ + + II + + She was gayer than a child! + --_Let your torches droop for sorrow._-- + Laughter in her eyes ran wild! + --_Carry her down to Peterboro'._-- + Words were kisses in her mouth! + --_Let no word of blame be spoken._-- + She was Queen of all the South! + --_In the North, her heart was broken._-- + They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her + land's own keeping, + Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free + to dance. + Out of the cold grey Northern mists, we carry her weeping, + weeping, weeping,-- + _O, ma patrie, + La plus cherie, + Adieu, plaisant pays de France!_ + + + III + + Many a red heart died to beat + --_Music swelled in Holyrood!_-- + Once, beneath her fair white feet. + --_Now the floors may rot with blood_-- + She was young and her deep hair-- + --_Wind and rain were all her fate!_-- + Trapped young Love as in a snare, + --_And the wind's a sword in the Canongate! + Edinboro'! + Edinboro'! + Music built the towers of Troy, but thy grey walls are built of sorrow!_ + Wind-swept hills, and sorrowful glens, of thrifty sowing and iron reaping, + What if her foot were fair as a sunbeam, how should it touch or + melt your snows? + What if her hair were a silken mesh? + Hands of steel can deal hard blows, + Iron breast-plates bruise fair flesh! + Carry her southward, palled in purple, + Weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping, + What had their rocks to do with roses? Body and soul she was all one rose. + + Thus, through the summer night, slowly they went, + We three behind,--the pedlar-poet and I, + And Robin Scarlet. The moving flare that ringed + The escutcheoned hearse, lit every leaf distinct + Along the hedges and woke the sleeping birds, + But drew no watchers from the drowsier farms. + Thus, through a world of innocence and sleep, + We brought her to the doors of her last home, + In Peterborough Cathedral. Round her tomb + They stood, in the huge gloom of those old aisles, + The heralds with their torches, but their light + Struggled in vain with that tremendous dark. + Their ring of smoky red could only show + A few sad faces round the purple pall, + The wings of a stone angel overhead, + The base of three great pillars, and, fitfully, + Faint as the phosphorus glowing in some old vault, + One little slab of marble, far away. + Yet, or the darkness, or the pedlar's words + Had made me fanciful, I thought I saw + Bowed shadows praying in those unplumbed aisles, + Nay, dimly heard them weeping, in a grief + That still was built of silence, like the drip + Of water from a frozen fountain-head. + We laid her in her grave. We closed the tomb. + With echoing footsteps all the funeral went; + And I went last to close and lock the doors; + Last, and half frightened of the enormous gloom + That rolled along behind me as one by one + The torches vanished. O, I was glad to see + The moonlight on the kind turf-mounds again. + But, as I turned the key, a quivering hand + Was laid upon my arm. I turned and saw + That foreigner with the olive-coloured face. + From head to foot he shivered, as with cold. + He drew me into the shadows of the porch. + 'Come back with me,' he whispered, and slid his hand + --Like ice it was!--along my wrist, and slipped + A ring upon my finger, muttering quick, + As in a burning fever, 'All the wealth + Of Eldorado for one hour! Come back! + I must go back and see her face again! + I was not there, not there, the day she--died. + You'll help me with the coffin. Not a soul + Will know. Come back! One moment, only one!' + I thought the man was mad, and plucked my hand + Away from him. He caught me by the sleeve, + And sank upon his knees, lifting his face + Most piteously to mine. 'One moment! See! + I loved her!' + I saw the moonlight glisten on his tears, + Great, long, slow tears they were; and then--my God-- + As his face lifted and his head sank back + Beseeching me--I saw a crimson thread + Circling his throat, as though the headsman's axe + Had cloven it with one blow, so shrewd, so keen, + The head had slipped not from the trunk. + I gasped; + And, as he pleaded, stretching his head back, + The wound, O like a second awful mouth, + The wound began to gape. + I tore my cloak + Out of his clutch. My keys fell with a clash. + I left them where they lay, and with a shout + I dashed into the broad white empty road. + There was no soul in sight. Sweating with fear + I hastened home, not daring to look back; + But as I turned the corner, I heard the clang + Of those great doors, and knew he had entered in. + + Not till I saw before me in the lane + The pedlar and my uncle did I halt + And look at that which clasped my finger still + As with a band of ice. + My hand was bare! + I stared at it and rubbed it. Then I thought + I had been dreaming. There had been no ring! + The poor man I had left there in the porch, + Being a Frenchman, talked a little wild; + But only wished to look upon her grave. + And I--I was the madman! So I said + Nothing. But all the same, for all my thoughts, + I'd not go back that night to find the keys, + No, not for all the rubies in the crown + Of Prester John. + + * * * * + + The high State Funeral + Was held on Lammas Day. A wondrous sight + For Peterborough! For myself, I found + Small satisfaction in a catafalque + That carried a dummy coffin. None the less, + The pedlar thought that as a Solemn Masque, + Or Piece of Purple Pomp, the thing was good, + And worthy of a picture in his rhymes; + The more because he said it shadowed forth + The ironic face of Death. + The Masque, indeed + Began before we buried her. For a host + Of Mourners--Lords and Ladies--on Lammas eve + Panting with eagerness of pride and place, + Arrived in readiness for the morrow's pomp, + And at the Bishop's Palace they found prepared + A mighty supper for them, where they sat + All at one table. In a Chamber hung + With 'scutcheons and black cloth, they drank red wine + And feasted, while the torches and the Queen + Crept through the darkness of Northampton lanes. + + At seven o'clock on Lammas Morn they woke, + After the Queen was buried; and at eight + The Masque set forth, thus pictured in the rhymes + With tolling bells, which on the pedlar's lips + Had more than paid his lodging: Thus he spake it, + Slowly, sounding the rhymes like solemn bells, + And tolling, in between, with lingering tongue:-- + + _Toll!_--From the Palace the Releevants creep,-- + A hundred poor old women, nigh their end, + Wearing their black cloth gowns, and on each head + An ell of snow-white holland which, some said, + Afterwards they might keep, + --_Ah, Toll!_--with nine new shillings each to spend, + For all the trouble that they had, and all + The sorrow of walking to this funeral. + + _Toll!_--And the Mourning Cloaks in purple streamed + Following, a long procession, two by two, + Her Household first. With these, Monsieur du Preau + Her French Confessor, unafraid to show + The golden Cross that gleamed + About his neck, warned what the crowd might do + Said _I will wear it, though I die for it!_ + So subtle in malice was that Jesuit. + + _Toll!_--Sir George Savile in his Mourner's Gown + Carried the solemn Cross upon a Field + Azure, and under it by a streamer borne + Upon a field of Gules, an Unicorn + Argent and, lower down, + A scrolled device upon a blazoned shield, + Which seemed to say--I AM SILENT TILL THE END!-- + _Toll! Toll!_--IN MY DEFENCE, GOD ME DEFEND! + + _Toll!_--and a hundred poor old men went by, + Followed by two great Bishops.--_Toll, ah toll!_-- + Then, with White Staves and Gowns, four noble lords; + Then sixteen Scots and Frenchmen with drawn swords; + Then, with a Bannerol, + Sir Andrew Noel, lifting to the sky + The Great Red Lion. Then the Crown and Crest + Borne by a Herald on his glittering breast. + + And now--ah now, indeed, the deep bell tolls-- + That empty Coffin, with its velvet pall, + Borne by six Gentlemen, under a canopy + Of purple, lifted by four knights, goes by. + + The Crown Imperial + Burns on the Coffin-head. Four Bannerols + On either side, uplifted by four squires, + Roll on the wind their rich heraldic fires. + _Toll!_ The Chief Mourner--the fair Russell!--_toll!_-- + Countess of Bedford--_toll!_--they bring her now, + Weeping under a purple Cloth of State, + Till, halting there before the Minister Gate, + Having in her control + The fair White Staves of office, with a bow + She gives them to her two great Earls again, + Then sweeps them onward in her mournful train. + + _Toll!_ At the high Cathedral door the Quires + Meet them and lead them, singing all the while + A mighty _Miserere_ for her soul! + Then, as the rolling organ--_toll, ah toll!_-- + Floods every glimmering aisle + With ocean-thunders, all those knights and squires + Bring the false Coffin to the central nave + And set it in the Catafalque o'er her grave. + + The Catafalque was made in Field-bed wise + Valanced with midnight purple, fringed with gold: + All the Chief Mourners on dark thrones were set + Within it, as jewels in some huge carcanet: + Above was this device + IN MY DEFENCE, GOD ME DEFEND, inscrolled + Round the rich Arms of Scotland, as to say + "Man judged me. I abide the Judgment Day." + + The sexton paused anew. All looked at him, + And at his wrinkled, grim, earth-coloured hand, + As if, in that dim light, beclouded now + With blue tobacco-smoke, they thought to see + The smouldering ruby again. + "Ye know," he said, + "How master William Wickham preached that day?" + Ford nodded. "I have heard of it. He showed + Subtly, O very subtly, after his kind, + That the white Body of Beauty such as hers + Was in itself Papistical, a feast, + A fast, an incense, a burnt-offering, + And an Abomination in the sight + Of all true Protestants. Why, her very name + Was Mary!" + "Ay, that's true, that's very true!" + The sexton mused. "Now that's a strange deep thought! + The Bishop missed a text in missing that. + Her name, indeed, was Mary!" + "Did you find + Your keys again?" "Ay, Sir, I found them!" "Where?" + "Strange you should ask me that! After the throng + Departed, and the Nobles were at feast, + All in the Bishop's Palace--a great feast + And worthy of their sorrow--I came back + Carrying my uncle's second bunch of keys + To lock the doors and search, too, for mine own. + 'Twas growing dusk already, and as I thrust + The key into the lock, the great grey porch + Grew cold upon me, like a tomb. + I pushed + Hard at the key--then stopped--with all my flesh + Freezing, and half in mind to fly; for, sirs, + The door was locked already, and--_from within_! + I drew the key forth quietly and stepped back + Into the Churchyard, where the graves were warm + With sunset still, and the blunt carven stones + Lengthened their homely shadows, out and out, + To Everlasting. Then I plucked up heart, + Seeing the footprints of that mighty Masque + Along the pebbled path. A queer thought came + Into my head that all the world without + Was but a Masque, and I was creeping back, + Back from the Mourner's Feast to Truth again. + Yet--I grew bold, and tried the Southern door. + 'Twas locked, but held no key on the inner side + To foil my own, and softly, softly, click, + I turned it, and with heart, sirs, in my mouth, + Pushed back the studded door and entered in ... + Stepped straight out of the world, I might have said, + Out of the dusk into a night so deep, + So dark, I trembled like a child.... + And then + I was aware, sirs, of a great sweet wave + Of incense. All the gloom was heavy with it, + As if her Papist Household had returned + To pray for her poor soul; and, my fear went. + But either that strange incense weighed me down, + Or else from being sorely over-tasked, + A languor came upon me, and sitting there + To breathe a moment, in a velvet stall, + I closed mine eyes. + A moment, and no more, + For then I heard a rustling in the nave, + And opened them; and, very far away, + As if across the world, in Rome herself, + I saw twelve tapers in the solemn East, + And saw, or thought I saw, cowled figures kneel + Before them, in an incense-cloud. + And then, + Maybe the sunset deepened in the world + Of masques without--clear proof that I had closed + Mine eyes but for a moment, sirs, I saw + As if across a world-without-end tomb, + A tiny jewelled glow of crimson panes + Darkening and brightening with the West. + And then, + Then I saw something more--Queen Mary's vault, + And--it was open!... + Then, I heard a voice, + A strange deep broken voice, whispering love + In soft French words, that clasped and clung like hands; + And then--two shadows passed against the West, + Two blurs of black against that crimson stain, + Slowly, O very slowly, with bowed heads, + Leaning together, and vanished into the dark + Beyond the Catafalque. + Then--I heard him pray,-- + And knew him for the man that prayed to me,-- + Pray as a man prays for his love's last breath! + And then, O sirs, it caught me by the throat, + And I, too, dropped upon my knees and prayed; + For, as in answer to his prayer, there came + A moan of music, a mighty shuddering sound + From the great organ, a sound that rose and fell + Like seas in anger, very far away; + And then a peal of thunder, and then it seemed, + As if the graves were giving up their dead, + A great cowled host of shadows rose and sang;-- + + _Dies irae, dies illa + Solvet saeclum in favilla, + Teste David cum Sibylla._ + + I heard her sad, sad, little, broken voice, + Out in the darkness. 'Ay, and David, too, + His blood is on the floors of Holyrood, + To speak for me.' Then that great ocean-sound + Swelled to a thunder again, and heaven and earth + Shrivelled away; and in that huge slow hymn + Chariots were driven forth in flaming rows, + And terrible trumpets blown from deep to deep. + + And then, ah then, the heart of heaven was hushed, + And--in the hush--it seemed an angel wept, + Another Mary wept, and gathering up + All our poor wounded, weary, way-worn world, + Even as a Mother gathers up her babe, + Soothed it against her breast, and rained her tears + On the pierced feet of God, and melted Him + To pity, and over His feet poured her deep hair. + The music died away. The shadows knelt. + And then--I heard a rustling nigh the tomb, + And heard--and heard--or dreamed I heard--farewells, + Farewells for everlasting, deep farewells, + Bitter as blood, darker than any death. + And, at the last, as in a kiss, one breath, + One agony of sweetness, like a sword + For sharpness, drawn along a soft white throat; + And, for its terrible sweetness, like a sigh + Across great waters, very far away,-- + _Sweetheart!_ + + And then, like doors, like world-without-end doors + That shut for Everlasting, came a clang, + And ringing, echoing, through the echo of it, + One terrible cry that plucked my heart-strings out, + _Mary!_ And on the closed and silent tomb, + Where there were two, one shuddering shadow lay, + And then--I, too,--reeled, swooned and knew no more. + + Sirs, when I woke, there was a broad bright shaft + Of moonlight, slanting through an Eastern pane + Full on her tomb and that black Catafalque. + And on the tomb there lay--my bunch of keys! + I struggled to my feet, + Ashamed of my wild fancies, like a man + Awakening from a drunken dream. And yet, + When I picked up the keys, although that storm + Of terror had all blown by and left me calm, + I lifted up mine eyes to see the scroll + Round the rich crest of that dark canopy, + IN MY DEFENCE, GOD ME DEFEND. The moon + Struck full upon it; and, as I turned and went, + God help me, sirs, though I were loyal enough + To good Queen Bess, I could not help but say, + _Amen!_ + And yet, methought it was not I that spake, + But some deep soul that used me for a mask, + A soul that rose up in this hollow shell + Like dark sea-tides flooding an empty cave. + I could not help but say with my poor lips, + _Amen! Amen!_ + Sirs, 'tis a terrible thing + To move in great events. Since that strange night + I have not been as other men. The tides + Would rise in this dark cave"--he tapped his skull-- + "Deep tides, I know not whence; and when they rose + My friends looked strangely upon me and stood aloof. + And once, my uncle said to me--indeed, + It troubled me strangely,--'Timothy,' he said, + 'Thou art translated! I could well believe + Thou art two men, whereof the one's a fool, + The other a prophet. Or else, beneath thy skin + There lurks a changeling! What hath come to thee?' + And then, sirs, then--well I remember it! + 'Twas on a summer eve, and we walked home + Between high ghostly hedges white with may-- + And uncle Robin, in his holy-day suit + Of Reading Tawny, felt his old heart swell + With pride in his great memories. He began + Chanting the pedlar's tune, keeping the time + Thus, jingle, jingle, slowly, with his keys:-- + + + I + + Douglas, in the moonless night + --_Muffled oars on blue Loch Leven!_-- + Took her hand, a flake of white + --_Beauty slides the bolts of heaven._-- + Little white hand, like a flake of snow, + When they saw it, his Highland crew + Swung together and murmured low, + "Douglas, wilt _thou_ die then, too?" + And the pine trees whispered, weeping, + "_Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!_ + Little white hand like a tender moonbeam, soon shall you set the + broadswords leaping, + It is the Queen, the Queen!" they whispered, watching her soar to + the saddle anew. + "There will be trumpets blown in the mountains, a mist of blood on the + heather, and weeping, + Weeping, weeping, and _thou_, too, dead for her, Douglas, Douglas, + tender and true." + + + II + + Carry the queenly lass along! + --_Cold she lies, cold and dead,_-- + She whose laughter was a song, + --_Lapped around with sheets of lead!_-- + She whose blood was wine of the South, + --_Light her down to a couch of clay!_-- + And a royal rose her mouth, + And her body made of may! + --Lift your torches, weeping, weeping, + Light her down to a couch of clay. + They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her + land's own keeping, + Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot + free to dance! + + Hush! Between the solemn pinewoods, carry the lovely lady sleeping, + Out of the cold grey Northern mists, with banner and scutcheon, + plume, and lance, + Carry her southward, palled in purple, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping,-- + _O, ma patrie, + La plus cherie, + Adieu, plaisant pays de France!_ + + + Well, sirs, that dark tide rose within my brain! + I snatched his keys and flung them over the hedge, + Then flung myself down on a bank of ferns + And wept and wept and wept. + It puzzled him. + Perchance he feared my mind was going and yet, + O, sirs, if you consider it rightly now, + With all those ages knocking at his doors, + With all that custom clamouring for his care, + Is it so strange a grave-digger should weep? + Well--he was kind enough and heaped my plate + That night at supper. + But I could never dig my graves at ease + In Peterborough Churchyard. So I came + To London--to St. Mary Magdalen's. + And thus, I chanced to drink my ale one night + Here in the Mermaid Inn. 'Twas All Souls' Eve, + And, on that bench, where master Ford now sits + Was master Shakespeare-- + Well, the lights burned low, + And just like master Ford to-night he leaned + Suddenly forward. 'Timothy,' he said, + 'That's a most marvellous ruby!' + My blood froze! + I stretched my hand out bare as it was born; + And he said nothing, only looked at me. + Then, seeing my pipe was empty, he bade me fill + And lit it for me. + Peach, the astrologer, + Was living then; and that same night I went + And told him all my trouble about this ring. + He took my hand in his, and held it--thus-- + Then looked into my face and said this rhyme:-- + + _The ruby ring, that only three + While Time and Tide go by, shall see, + Weds your hand to history._ + + _Honour and pride the first shall lend; + The second shall give you gold to spend; + The third--shall warn you of your end._ + + Peach was a rogue, some say, and yet he spake + Most truly about the first," the sexton mused, + "For master Shakespeare, though they say in youth + Outside the theatres, he would hold your horse + For pence, prospered at last, bought a fine house + In Stratford, lived there like a squire, they say. + And here, here he would sit, for all the world + As he were but a poet! God bless us all, + And then--to think!--he rose to be a squire! + A deep one, masters! Well, he lit my pipe!" + "Why did they bury such a queen by night?" + Said Ford. "Kings might have wept for her. Did Death + Play epicure and glutton that so few + Were bidden to such a feast. Once on a time, + I could have wept, myself, to hear a tale + Of beauty buried in the dark. And hers + Was loveliness, far, far beyond the common! + Such beauty should be marble to the touch + Of time, and clad in purple to amaze + The moth. But she was kind and soft and fair, + A woman, and so she died. But, why the dark?" + + "Sir, they gave out the coffin was too heavy + For gentlemen to bear!"--"For kings to bear?" + Ford flashed at him. The sexton shook his head,-- + "Nay! Gentlemen to bear! But--the true cause-- + Ah, sir, 'tis unbelievable, even to me, + A sexton, for a queen so fair of face! + And all her beds, even as the pedlar said, + Breathing Arabia, sirs, her walls all hung + With woven purple wonders and great tales + Of amorous gods, and mighty mirrors, too, + Imaging her own softness, night and dawn, + When through her sumptuous hair she drew the combs; + And like one great white rose-leaf half her breast + Shone through it, firm as ivory." + "Ay," said Lodge, + Murmuring his own rich music under breath, + "_About her neck did all the graces throng, + And lay such baits as did entangle death._" + "Well, sir, the weather being hot, they feared + She would not hold the burying!"... + "In some sort," + Ford answered slowly, "if your tale be true, + She did not hold it. Many a knightly crest + Will bend yet o'er the ghost of that small hand." + + There was a hush, broken by Ben at last, + Who turned to Ford--"How now, my golden lad? + The astrologer's dead hand is on thy purse!" + + Ford laughed, grimly, and flung an angel down. + "Well, cause or consequence, rhyme or no rhyme, + There is thy gold. I will not break the spell, + Or thou mayst live to bury us one and all!" + "And, if I live so long," the old man replied, + Lighting his lanthorn, "you may trust me, sirs, + Mine Inn is quiet, and I can find you beds + Where Queens might sleep all night and never move. + Good-night, sirs, and God bless you, one and all." + He shouldered pick and spade. I opened the door. + The snow blew in, and, as he shuffled out, + There, in the strait dark passage, I could swear + I saw a spark of red upon his hand, + Like a great smouldering ruby. + I gasped. He stopped. + He peered at me. + "Twice in a night," he said. + "Nothing," I answered, "only the lanthorn-light." + He shook his head. "I'll tell you something more! + There's nothing, nothing now in life or death + That frightens me. Ah, things used to frighten me. + But never now. I thought I had ten years; + But if the warning comes and says '_Thou fool, + This night!_' Why, then, I'm ready." + I watched him go, + With glimmering lanthorn up the narrow street, + Like one that walked upon the clouds, through snow + That seemed to mix the City with the skies. + + On Christmas Eve we heard that he was dead. + + +VIII + +FLOS MERCATORUM + + FLOS MERCATORUM! On that night of nights + We drew from out our Mermaid cellarage + All the old glory of London in one cask + Of magic vintage. Never a city on earth-- + Rome, Paris, Florence, Bagdad--held for Ben + The colours of old London; and, that night, + We staved them like a wine, and drank, drank deep! + + 'Twas Master Heywood, whom the Mermaid Inn + Had dubbed our London laureate, hauled the cask + Out of its ancient harbourage. "Ben," he cried, + Bustling into the room with Dekker and Brome, + "The prentices are up!" Ben raised his head + Out of the chimney-corner where he drowsed, + And listened, reaching slowly for his pipe. + + "_Clerk of the Bow Bell_," all along the Cheape + There came a shout that swelled into a roar. + "What! Will they storm the Mermaid?" Heywood laughed, + "They are turning into Bread Street!" + Down they came! + We heard them hooting round the poor old Clerk-- + "Clubs! Clubs! The rogue would have us work all night! + He rang ten minutes late! Fifteen, by Paul's!" + And over the hubbub rose, like a thin bell, + The Clerk's entreaty--"Now, good boys, good boys, + Children of Cheape, be still, I do beseech you! + I took some forty winks, but then...." A roar + Of wrathful laughter drowned him--"Forty winks! + Remember Black May-day! We'll make you wink!" + There was a scuffle, and into the tavern rushed + Gregory Clopton, Clerk of the Bow Bell,-- + A tall thin man, with yellow hair a-stream, + And blazing eyes. + "Hide me," he clamoured, "quick! + These picaroons will murder me!" + I closed + The thick oak doors against the coloured storm + Of prentices in red and green and ray, + Saffron and Reading tawny. Twenty clubs + Drubbed on the panels as I barred them out; + And even our walls and shutters could not drown + Their song that, like a mocking peal of bells, + Under our windows, made all Bread Street ring:-- + + "_Clerk of the Bow Bell, + With the yellow locks, + For thy late ringing + Thy head shall have knocks!_" + + Then Heywood, seeing the Clerk was all a-quake, + Went to an upper casement that o'er-looked + The whole of Bread Street. Heywood knew their ways, + And parleyed with them till their anger turned + To shouts of merriment. Then, like one deep bell + His voice rang out, in answer to their peal:-- + + "_Children of Cheape, + Hold you all still! + You shall have Bow Bell + Rung at your will!_" + + Loudly they cheered him. Courteously he bowed, + Then firmly shut the window; and, ere I filled + His cup with sack again, the crowd had gone. + + "My clochard, sirs, is warm," quavered the Clerk. + "I do confess I took some forty winks! + They are good lads, our prentices of Cheape, + But hasty!" + "Wine!" said Ben. He filled a cup + And thrust it into Gregory's trembling hands. + "Yours is a task," said Dekker, "a great task! + You sit among the gods, a lord of time, + Measuring out the pulse of London's heart." + "Yea, sir, above the hours and days and years, + I sometimes think. 'Tis a great Bell--the Bow! + And hath been, since the days of Whittington." + "The good old days," growled Ben. "Both good and bad + Were measured by my Bell," the Clerk replied. + And, while he spoke, warmed by the wine, his voice + Mellowed and floated up and down the scale + As if the music of the London bells + Lingered upon his tongue. "I know them all, + And love them, all the voices of the bells. + + FLOS MERCATORUM! That's the Bell of Bow + Remembering Richard Whittington. You should hear + The bells of London when they tell his tale. + Once, after hearing them, I wrote it down. + I know the tale by heart now, every turn." + "Then ring it out," said Heywood. + Gregory smiled + And cleared his throat. + "You must imagine, sirs, + The Clerk, sitting on high, among the clouds, + With London spread beneath him like a map. + Under his tower, a flock of prentices + Calling like bells, of little size or weight, + But bells no less, ask that the Bell of Bow + Shall tell the tale of Richard Whittington, + As thus." + Then Gregory Clopton, mellowing all + The chiming vowels, and dwelling on every tone + In rhythm or rhyme that helped to swell the peal + Or keep the ringing measure, beat for beat, + Chanted this legend of the London bells:-- + + Clerk of the Bow Bell, four and twenty prentices, + All upon a Hallowe'en, we prithee, for our joy, + Ring a little turn again for sweet Dick Whittington, + _Flos Mercatorum_, and a barefoot boy!-- + + "Children of Cheape," did that old Clerk answer, + "You will have a peal, then, for well may you know, + All the bells of London remember Richard Whittington + When they hear the voice of the big Bell of Bow!"-- + + Clerk with the yellow locks, mellow be thy malmsey! + He was once a prentice, and carolled in the Strand! + Ay, and we are all, too, Marchaunt Adventurers, + Prentices of London, and lords of Engeland. + + "Children of Cheape," did that old Clerk answer, + "Hold you, ah hold you, ah hold you all still! + Souling if you come to the glory of a Prentice, + You shall have the Bow Bell rung at your will!" + + "Whittington! Whittington! O, turn again, Whittington, + Lord Mayor of London," the big Bell began: + "Where was he born? O, at Pauntley in Gloucestershire + Hard by Cold Ashton, Cold Ashton," it ran. + + "_Flos Mercatorum_," moaned the bell of All Hallowes, + "There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone!" + "Then we all sang," echoed happy St. Saviour's, + "Called him, and lured him, and made him our own. + + Told him a tale as he lay upon the hillside, + Looking on his home in the meadow-lands below!" + "Told him a tale," clanged the bell of Cold Abbey; + "Told him the truth," boomed the big Bell of Bow! + + Sang of a City that was like a blazoned missal-book, + Black with oaken gables, carven and inscrolled; + Every street a coloured page, and every sign a hieroglyph, + Dusky with enchantments, a City paved with gold; + + "Younger son, younger son, up with stick and bundle!"-- + Even so we rung for him--"But--kneel before you go; + Watch by your shield, lad, in little Pauntley Chancel, + Look upon the painted panes that hold your Arms a-glow,-- + + Coat of Gules and Azure; but the proud will not remember it! + And the Crest a Lion's Head, until the new be won! + Far away, remember it! And O, remember this, too,-- + Every barefoot boy on earth is but a younger son." + + Proudly he answered us, beneath the painted window,-- + "Though I be a younger son, the glory falls to me: + While my brother bideth by a little land in Gloucestershire, + All the open Earth is mine, and all the Ocean-sea. + + Yet will I remember, yet will I remember, + By the chivalry of God, until my day be done, + When I meet a gentle heart, lonely and unshielded, + Every barefoot boy on earth is but a younger son!" + + Then he looked to Northward for the tall ships of Bristol; + Far away, and cold as death, he saw the Severn shine: + Then he looked to Eastward, and he saw a string of colours + Trickling through the grey hills, like elfin drops of wine; + + Down along the Mendip dale, the chapmen and their horses, + Far away, and carrying each its little coloured load, + Winding like a fairy-tale, with pack and corded bundle, + Trickled like a crimson thread along the silver road. + + Quick he ran to meet them, stick and bundle on his shoulder! + Over by Cold Ashton, he met them trampling down,-- + White shaggy horses with their packs of purple spicery, + Crimson kegs of malmsey, and the silks of London town. + + When the chapmen asked of him the bridle-path to Dorset, + Blithely he showed them, and he led them on their way, + Led them through the fern with their bales of breathing Araby, + Led them to a bridle-path that saved them half a day. + + Merrily shook the silver bells that hung the broidered bridle-rein, + Chiming to his hand, as he led them through the fern, + Down to deep Dorset, and the wooded Isle of Purbeck, + Then--by little Kimmeridge--they led him turn for turn. + + Down by little Kimmeridge, and up by Hampshire forest-roads, + Round by Sussex violets, and apple-bloom of Kent, + Singing songs of London, telling tales of London, + All the way to London, with packs of wool they went. + + "London was London, then! A clean, clear moat + Girdled her walls that measured, round about, + Three miles or less. She is big and dirty now," + Said Dekker. + "Call it a silver moat," growled Ben, + "That's the new poetry! Call it crystal, lad! + But, till you kiss the Beast, you'll never find + Your Fairy Prince. Why, all those crowded streets, + Flung all their filth, their refuse, rags and bones, + Dead cats and dogs, into your clean clear moat, + And made it sluggish as old Acheron. + Fevers and plagues, death in a thousand shapes + Crawled out of it. London was dirty, lad; + And till you kiss that fact, you'll never see + The glory of this old Jerusalem!" + "Ay, 'tis the fogs that make the sunset red," + Answered Tom Heywood. "London is earthy, coarse, + Grimy and grand. You must make dirt the ground, + Or lose the colours of friend Clopton's tale. + Ring on!" And, nothing loth, the Clerk resumed:-- + + Bravely swelled his heart to see the moat of London glittering + Round her mighty wall--they told him--two miles long! + Then--he gasped as, echoing in by grim black Aldgate, + Suddenly their shaggy nags were nodding through a throng: + + Prentices in red and ray, marchaunts in their saffron, + Aldermen in violets, and minstrels in white, + Clerks in homely hoods of budge, and wives with crimson wimples, + Thronging as to welcome him that happy summer night. + + "Back," they cried, and "Clear the way," and caught the ringing + bridle-reins: + "Wait! the Watch is going by, this vigil of St. John!" + Merrily laughed the chapmen then, reining their great white horses back, + "When the pageant passes, lad, we'll up and follow on!" + + There, as thick the crowd surged, beneath the blossomed ale-poles, + Lifting up to Whittington a fair face afraid, + Swept against his horse by a billow of madcap prentices, + Hard against the stirrup breathed a green-gowned maid. + + Swift he drew her up and up, and throned her there before him, + High above the throng with her laughing April eyes, + Like a Queen of Faerie on the great pack-saddle. + "Hey!" laughed the chapmen, "the prentice wins the prize!" + + "Whittington! Whittington! the world is all before you!" + Blithely rang the bells and the steeples rocked and reeled! + Then--he saw her eyes grow wide, and, all along by Leaden Hall, + Drums rolled, earth shook, and shattering trumpets pealed. + + Like a marching sunset, there, from Leaden Hall to Aldgate, + Flared the crimson cressets--O, her brows were haloed then!-- + Then the stirring steeds went by with all their mounted trumpeters, + Then, in ringing harness, a thousand marching men. + + Marching--marching--his heart and all the halberdiers, + And his pulses throbbing with the throbbing of the drums; + Marching--marching--his blood and all the burganets! + "Look," she cried, "O, look," she cried, "and now the morrice comes!" + + Dancing--dancing--her eyes and all the Lincoln Green, + Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, dancing through the town! + "Where is Marian?" Laughingly she turned to Richard Whittington. + "Here," he said, and pointed to her own green gown. + + Dancing--dancing--her heart and all the morrice-bells! + Then there burst a mighty shout from thrice a thousand throats! + Then, with all their bows bent, and sheaves of peacock arrows, + Marched the tall archers in their white silk coats, + + White silk coats, with the crest of London City + Crimson on the shoulder, a sign for all to read,-- + Marching--marching--and then the sworded henchmen, + Then, William Walworth, on his great stirring steed. + + _Flos Mercatorum_, ay, the fish-monger, Walworth,-- + He whose nets of silk drew the silver from the tide, + He who saved the king when the king was but a prentice,-- + Lord Mayor of London, with his sword at his side! + + Burned with magic changes, his blood and all the pageantry; + Burned with deep sea-changes, the wonder in her eyes; + _Flos Mercatorum!_ 'Twas the rose-mary of Paphos, + Reddening all the City for the prentice and his prize! + + All the book of London, the pages of adventure, + Passed before the prentice on that vigil of St. John: + Then the chapmen shook their reins,--"We'll ride behind the revelry, + Round again to Cornhill! Up, and follow on!" + + Riding on his pack-horse, above the shouting multitude, + There she turned and smiled at him, and thanked him for his grace: + "Let me down by _Red Rose Lane_," and, like a wave of twilight + While she spoke, her shadowy hair--touched his tingling face. + + When they came to _Red Rose Lane_, beneath the blossomed ale-poles, + Light along his arm she lay, a moment, leaping down: + Then she waved "farewell" to him, and down the Lane he watched her + Flitting through the darkness in her gay green gown. + + All along the Cheape, as he rode among the chapmen, + Round by _Black Friars_, to the _Two-Necked Swan_ + Coloured like the sunset, prentices and maidens + Danced for red roses on the vigil of St. John. + + Over them were jewelled lamps in great black galleries, + Garlanded with beauty, and burning all the night; + All the doors were shadowy with orpin and St. John's wort, + Long fennel, green birch, and lilies of delight. + + "He should have slept here at the Mermaid Inn," + Said Heywood as the chanter paused for breath. + "What? Has our Mermaid sung so long?" cried Ben. + "Her beams are black enough. There was an Inn," + Said Tom, "that bore the name; and through its heart + There flowed the right old purple. I like to think + It was the same, where Lydgate took his ease + After his hood was stolen; and Gower, perchance; + And, though he loved the _Tabard_ for a-while, + I like to think the Father of us all, + The old Adam of English minstrelsy caroused + Here in the Mermaid Tavern. I like to think + Jolly Dan Chaucer, with his kind shrewd face + Fresh as an apple above his fur-fringed gown, + One plump hand sporting with his golden chain, + Looked out from that old casement over the sign, + And saw the pageant, and the shaggy nags, + With Whittington, and his green-gowned maid, go by. + "O, very like," said Clopton, "for the bells + Left not a head indoors that night." He drank + A draught of malmsey--and thus renewed his tale:-- + + "_Flos Mercatorum_," mourned the bell of All Hallowes, + "There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone, + Rubbing down the great white horses for a supper!" + "True," boomed the Bow Bell, "his hands were his own!" + + Where did he sleep? On a plump white wool-pack, + Open to the moon on that vigil of St. John, + Sheltered from the dew, where the black-timbered gallery + Frowned above the yard of the _Two-Necked Swan_. + + Early in the morning, clanged the bell of St. Martin's, + Early in the morning, with a groat in his hand, + Mournfully he parted with the jolly-hearted chapmen, + Shouldered his bundle and walked into the _Strand_; + + Walked into the _Strand_, and back again to _West Cheape_, + Staring at the wizardry of every painted sign, + Dazed with the steeples and the rich heraldic cornices + Drinking in the colours of the Cheape like wine. + + All about the booths now, the parti-coloured prentices + Fluted like a flock of birds along a summer lane, + Green linnets, red caps, and gay gold finches,-- + _What d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack again?_ + + "Buy my dainty doublets, cut on double taffetas, + Buy my Paris thread," they cried, and caught him by the hand, + "Laces for your Heart's-Delight, and lawns to make her love you, + Cambric for her wimple, O, the finest in the land." + + Ah, but he was hungry, foot-sore, weary, + Knocking at the doors of the armourers that day! + _What d'ye lack?_ they asked of him; but no man lacked a prentice: + When he told them what he lacked, they frowned and turned away. + + Hard was his bed that night, beneath a cruel archway, + Down among the hulks, with his heart growing cold! + London is a rare town, but O, the streets of London, + Red though their flints be, they are not red with gold. + + Pale in the dawn, ere he marched on his adventure, + Starving for a crust, did he kneel a-while again, + Then, upon the fourth night, he cried, O, like a wounded bird + "Let me die, if die I must, in _Red Rose Lane_." + + Like a little wounded bird he trailed through the darkness, + Laid him on a door-step, and then--O, like a breath + Pitifully blowing out his life's little rushlight, + Came a gush of blackness, a swoon deep as death. + + Then he heard a rough voice! Then he saw a lanthorn! + Then he saw a bearded face, and blindly wondered whose: + Then--a marchaunt's portly legs, with great Rose-Windows, + Bigger than St. Paul's, he thought, embroidered on his shoes. + + "Alice!" roared the voice, and then, O like a lilied angel, + Leaning from the lighted door a fair face afraid, + Leaning over _Red Rose Lane_, O, leaning out of Paradise, + Drooped the sudden glory of his green-gowned maid! + + * * * * + + "O, mellow be thy malmsey," grunted Ben, + Filling the Clerk another cup. + "The peal," + Quoth Clopton, "is not ended; but the pause + In ringing, chimes to a deep inward ear + And tells its own deep tale. Silence and sound, + Darkness and light, mourning and mirth,--no tale, + No painting, and no music, nay, no world, + If God should cut their fruitful marriage-knot. + A shallow sort to-day would fain deny + A hell, sirs, to this boundless universe. + To such I say 'no hell, no Paradise!' + Others would fain deny the topless towers + Of heaven, and make this earth a hell indeed. + To such I say, 'the unplumbed gulfs of grief + Are only theirs for whom the blissful chimes + Ring from those unseen heights.' This earth, mid-way, + Hangs like a belfry where the ringers grasp + Their ropes in darkness, each in his own place, + Each knowing, by the tune in his own heart, + Never by sight, when he must toss through heaven + The tone of his own bell. Those bounded souls + Have never heard our chimes! Why, sirs, myself + Simply by running up and down the scale + Descend to hell or soar to heaven. My bells + Height above height, deep below deep, respond! + Their scale is infinite. Dare I, for one breath, + Dream that one note hath crowned and ended all, + Sudden I hear, far, far above those clouds, + Like laughing angels, peal on golden peal, + Innumerable as drops of April rain, + Yet every note distinct, round as a pearl, + And perfect in its place, a chime of law, + Whose pure and boundless mere arithmetic + Climbs with my soul to God." + Ben looked at him, + Gently. "Resume, old moralist," he said. + "On to thy marriage-bells!" + "The fairy-tales + Are wiser than they know, sirs. All our woes + Lead on to those celestial marriage-bells. + The world's a-wooing; and the pure City of God + Peals for the wedding of our joy and pain! + This was well seen of Richard Whittington; + For only he that finds the London streets + Paved with red flints, at last shall find them paved + Like to the Perfect City, with pure gold. + Ye know the world! what was a London waif + To Hugh Fitzwarren's daughter? He was fed + And harboured; and the cook declared she lacked + A scullion. So, in Hugh Fitzwarren's house, + He turned the jack, and scoured the dripping-pan. + How could he hope for more? + This marchaunt's house + Was builded like a great high-gabled inn, + Square, with a galleried courtyard, such as now + The players use. Its rooms were rich and dim + With deep-set coloured panes and massy beams. + Its ancient eaves jutted o'er _Red Rose Lane_ + Darkly, like eyebrows of a mage asleep. + Its oaken stair coiled upward through a dusk + Heavy with fume of scented woods that burned + To keep the Plague away,--a gloom to embalm + A Pharaoh, but to dull the cheek and eye + Of country lads like Whittington. + He pined + For wind and sunlight. Yet he plied his task + Patient as in old tales of Elfin-land, + The young knight would unhelm his golden locks + And play the scullion, so that he might watch + His lady's eyes unknown, and oftener hear + Her brook-like laughter rippling overhead; + Her green gown, like the breath of Eden boughs, + Rustling nigh him. And all day long he found + Sunshine enough in this. But when at night + He crept into the low dark vaulted den, + The cobwebbed cellar, where the cook had strewn + The scullion's bed of straw (and none too thick + Lest he should sleep too long), he choked for breath; + And, like an old man hoarding up his life, + Fostered his glimmering rushlight as he sate + Bolt upright, while a horrible scurry heaved + His rustling bed, and bright black-beaded eyes + Peered at him from the crannies of the wall. + Then darkness whelmed him, and perchance he slept,-- + Only to fight with nightmares and to fly + Down endless tunnels in a ghastly dream, + Hunted by horrible human souls that took + The shape of monstrous rats, great chattering snouts, + Vile shapes of shadowy cunning and grey greed, + That gnaw through beams, and undermine tall towns, + And carry the seeds of plague and ruin and death + Under the careless homes of sleeping men. + Thus, in the darkness, did he wage a war + With all the powers of darkness. 'If the light + Do break upon me, by the grace of God,' + So did he vow, 'O, then will I remember, + Then, then, will I remember, ay, and help + To build that lovelier City which is paved + For rich and poor alike, with purest gold.' + + Ah, sirs, he kept his vow. Ye will not smile + If, at the first, the best that he could do + Was with his first poor penny-piece to buy + A cat, and bring her home, under his coat + By stealth (or else that termagant, the cook, + Had drowned it in the water-butt, nor deemed + The water worse to drink). So did he quell + First his own plague, but bettered others, too. + Now, in those days, Marchaunt Adventurers + Shared with their prentices the happy chance + Of each new venture. Each might have his stake, + Little or great, upon the glowing tides + Of high romance that washed the wharfs of Thames; + And every lad in London had his groat + Or splendid shilling on some fair ship at sea. + + So, on an April eve, Fitzwarren called + His prentices together; for, ere long, + The _Unicorn_, his tall new ship, must sail + Beyond the world to gather gorgeous webs + From Eastern looms, great miracles of silk + Dipt in the dawn by wizard hands of Ind; + Or, if they chanced upon that fabled coast + Where Sydon, river of jewels, like a snake + Slides down the gorge its coils of crimson fire, + Perchance a richer cargo,--rubies, pearls, + Or gold bars from the Gates of Paradise. + And many a moon, at least, a faerie foam + Would lap Blackfriars wharf, where London lads + Gazed in the sunset down that misty reach + For old black battered hulks and tattered sails + Bringing their dreams home from the uncharted sea. + + And one flung down a groat--he had no more. + One staked a shilling, one a good French crown; + And one an angel, O, light-winged enough + To reach Cathay; and not a lad but bought + His pennyworth of wonder, + So they thought, + Till all at once Fitzwarren's daughter cried + 'Father, you have forgot poor Whittington!' + "Snails,' laughed the rosy marchaunt, 'but that's true! + Fetch Whittington! The lad must stake his groat! + 'Twill bring us luck!' + 'Whittington! Whittington!' + Down the dark stair, like a gold-headed bird, + Fluttered sweet Alice. 'Whittington! Richard! Quick! + Quick with your groat now for the _Unicorn_!' + + 'A groat!' cried Whittington, standing there aghast, + With brown bare arms, still coloured by the sun, + Among his pots and pans. 'Where should I find + A groat? I staked my last groat in a cat!' + --'What! Have you nothing? Nothing but a cat? + Then stake the cat,' she said; and the quick fire + That in a woman's mind out-runs the thought + Of man, lit her grey eyes. + Whittington laughed + And opened the cellar-door. Out sailed his wealth, + Waving its tail, purring, and rubbing its head + Now on his boots, now on the dainty shoe + Of Alice, who straightway, deaf to his laughing prayers, + Caught up the cat, whispered it, hugged it close, + Against its grey fur leaned her glowing cheek, + And carried it off in triumph. + + _Red Rose Lane_ + Echoed with laughter as, with amber eyes + Blinking, the grey cat in a seaman's arms + Went to the wharf. 'Ay, but we need a cat,' + The captain said. So, when the painted ship + Sailed through a golden sunrise down the Thames, + A grey tail waved upon the misty poop, + And Whittington had his venture on the seas. + + It was a nine days' jest, and soon forgot. + But, all that year,--ah, sirs, ye know the world, + For all the foolish boasting of the proud, + Looks not beneath the coat of Taunton serge + For Gules and Azure. A prince that comes in rags + To clean your shoes and, out of his own pride, + Waits for the world to paint his shield again + Must wait for ever and a day. + The world + Is a great hypocrite, hypocrite most of all + When thus it boasts its purple pride of race, + Then with eyes blind to all but pride of place + Tramples the scullion's heraldry underfoot, + Nay, never sees it, never dreams of it, + Content to know that, here and now, his coat + Is greasy.... + So did Whittington find at last + Such nearness was most distant; that to see her, + Talk with her, serve her thus, was but to lose + True sight, true hearing. He must save his life + By losing it; forsake, to win, his love; + Go out into the world to bring her home. + It was but labour lost to clean the shoes, + And turn the jack, and scour the dripping-pan. + For every scolding blown about her ears + The cook's great ladle fell upon the head + Of Whittington; who, beneath her rule, became + The scullery's general scapegoat. It was he + That burned the pie-crust, drank the hippocras, + Dinted the silver beaker.... + Many a month + He chafed, till his resolve took sudden shape + And, out of the dark house at the peep of day, + Shouldering bundle and stick again, he stole + To seek his freedom, and to shake the dust + Of London from his shoes.... + You know the stone + On Highgate, where he sate awhile to rest, + With aching heart, and thought 'I shall not see + Her face again.' There, as the coloured dawn + Over the sleeping City slowly bloomed, + A small black battered ship with tattered sails + Blurring the burnished glamour of the Thames + Crept, side-long to a wharf. + Then, all at once, + The London bells rang out a welcome home; + And, over them all, tossing the tenor on high, + The Bell of Bow, a sun among the stars, + Flooded the morning air with this refrain:-- + + 'Turn again, Whittington! Turn again, Whittington! + _Flos Mercatorum_, thy ship hath come home! + Trailing from her cross-trees the crimson of the sunrise, + Dragging all the glory of the sunset thro' the foam. + Turn again, Whittington, + Turn again, Whittington, + Lord Mayor of London! + + Turn again, Whittington! When thy hope was darkest, + Far beyond the sky-line a ship sailed for thee. + _Flos Mercatorum_, O, when thy faith was blindest, + Even then thy sails were set beyond the Ocean-sea.' + + So he heard and heeded us, and turned again to London, + Stick and bundle on his back, he turned to _Red Rose Lane_, + Hardly hearing as he went the chatter of the prentices,-- + _What d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack again?_ + + Back into the scullery, before the cook had missed him, + Early in the morning his labours he began: + Once again to clean the shoes and clatter with the water-pail, + Once again to scrub the jack and scour the dripping-pan. + + All the bells of London were pealing as he laboured. + Wildly beat his heart, and his blood began to race. + Then--there came a light step and, suddenly, beside him + Stood his lady Alice, with a light upon her face. + + 'Quick,' she said, 'O, quick,' she said, 'they want you, + Richard Whittington!' + 'Quick,' she said; and, while she spoke, her lighted eyes betrayed + All that she had hidden long, and all she still would hide from him. + So--he turned and followed her, his green-gowned maid. + + * * * * + + There, in a broad dark oaken-panelled room + Rich with black carvings and great gleaming cups + Of silver, sirs, and massy halpace built + Half over _Red Rose Lane_, Fitzwarren sat; + And, at his side, O, like an old romance + That suddenly comes true and fills the world + With April colours, two bronzed seamen stood, + Tattered and scarred, and stained with sun and brine. + '_Flos Mercatorum_,' Hugh Fitzwarren cried, + Holding both hands out to the pale-faced boy, + 'The prentice wins the prize! Why, Whittington, + Thy cat hath caught the biggest mouse of all!' + And, on to the table, tilting a heavy sack, + One of the seamen poured a glittering stream + Of rubies, emeralds, opals, amethysts, + That turned the room to an Aladdin's cave, + Or magic goblet brimmed with dusky wine + Where clustering rainbow-coloured bubbles clung + And sparkled, in the halls of Prester John. + + 'And that,' said Hugh Fitzwarren, 'is the price + Paid for your cat in Barbary, by a King + Whose house was rich in gems, but sorely plagued + With rats and mice. Gather it up, my lad, + And praise your master for his honesty; + For, though my cargo prospered, yours outshines + The best of it. Take it, my lad, and go; + You're a rich man; and, if you use it well, + Riches will make you richer, and the world + Will prosper in your own prosperity. + The miser, like the cold and barren moon, + Shines with a fruitless light. The spendthrift fool + Flits like a Jack-o-Lent over quags and fens; + But he that's wisely rich gathers his gold + Into a fruitful and unwasting sun + That spends its glory on a thousand fields + And blesses all the world. Take it and go.' + + Blankly, as in a dream, Whittington stared. + 'How should I take it, sir? The ship was yours, + And ...' + 'Ay, the ship was mine; but in that ship + Your stake was richer than we knew. 'Tis yours.' + 'Then,' answered Whittington, 'if this wealth be mine, + Who but an hour ago was all so poor, + I know one way to make me richer still.' + He gathered up the glittering sack of gems, + Turned to the halpace, where his green-gowned maid + Stood in the glory of the coloured panes. + He thrust the splendid load into her arms, + Muttering--'Take it, lady! Let me be poor! + But rich, at least, in that you not despise + The waif you saved.' + --'Despise you, Whittington?'-- + 'O, no, not in the sight of God! But I + Grow tired of waiting for the Judgment Day! + I am but a man. I am a scullion now; + But I would like, only for half an hour, + To stand upright and say "I am a king!" + Take it!' + And, as they stood, a little apart, + Their eyes were married in one swift level look, + Silent, but all that souls could say was said. + + * * * * + + And + 'I know a way,' said the Bell of St. Martin's. + 'Tell it, and be quick,' laughed the prentices below! + 'Whittington shall marry her, marry her, marry her! + Peal for a wedding,' said the big Bell of Bow. + + He shall take a kingdom up, and cast it on the sea again; + He shall have his caravels to traffic for him now; + He shall see his royal sails rolling up from Araby, + And the crest--a honey-bee--golden at the prow. + + Whittington! Whittington! The world is all a fairy tale!-- + Even so we sang for him.--But O, the tale is true! + Whittington he married her, and on his merry marriage-day, + O, we sang, we sang for him, like lavrocks in the blue. + + Far away from London, these happy prentice lovers + Wandered through the fern to his western home again, + Down by deep Dorset to the wooded isle of Purbeck, + Round to little Kimmeridge, by many a lover's lane. + + There did they abide as in a dove-cote hidden + Deep in happy woods until the bells of duty rang; + Then they rode the way he went, a barefoot boy to London, + Round by Hampshire forest-roads, but as they rode he sang:-- + + _Kimmeridge in Dorset is the happiest of places! + All the little homesteads are thatched with beauty there! + All the old ploughmen, there, have happy smiling faces, + Christmas roses in their cheeks, and crowns of silver hair. + + Blue as are the eggs in the nest of the hedge-sparrow, + Gleam the little rooms in the homestead that I know: + Death, I think, has lost the way to Kimmeridge in Dorset; + Sorrow never knew it, or forgot it, long ago! + + Kimmeridge in Dorset, Kimmeridge in Dorset, + Though I may not see you more thro' all the years to be, + Yet will I remember the little happy homestead + Hidden in that Paradise where God was good to me._ + + * * * * + + So they turned to London, and with mind and soul he laboured, + _Flos Mercatorum_, for the mighty years to be, + Fashioning, for profit--to the years that should forget him!-- + This, our sacred City that must shine upon the sea. + + London was a City when the Poulters ruled the Poultry! + Rosaries of prayer were hung in Paternoster Row, + Gutter Lane was Guthrun's, then; and, bright with painted missal-books, + _Ave Mary Corner_, sirs, was fairer than ye know. + + London was mighty when her marchaunts loved their merchandise, + Bales of Eastern magic that empurpled wharf and quay: + London was mighty when her booths were a dream-market, + Loaded with the colours of the sunset and the sea. + + There, in all their glory, with the Virgin on their bannerols, + Glory out of Genoa, the Mercers might be seen, + Walking to their Company of Marchaunt Adventurers;-- + Gallantly they jetted it in scarlet and in green. + + There, in all the glory of the lordly Linen Armourers, + Walked the Marchaunt Taylors with the Pilgrim of their trade, + Fresh from adventuring in Italy and Flanders, + _Flos Mercatorum_, for a green-gowned maid. + + _Flos Mercatorum!_ Can a good thing come of Nazareth? + High above the darkness, where our duller senses drown, + Lifts the splendid Vision of a City, built on merchandise, + Fairer than that City of Light that wore the violet crown, + + Lifts the sacred vision of a far-resplendent City, + Flashing, like the heart of heaven, its messages afar, + Trafficking, as God Himself through all His interchanging worlds, + Holding up the scales of law, weighing star by star, + + Stern as Justice, in one hand the sword of Truth and Righteousness; + Blind as Justice, in one hand the everlasting scales, + Lifts the sacred Vision of that City from the darkness, + Whence the thoughts of men break out, like blossoms, or like sails! + + Ordered and harmonious, a City built to music, + Lifting, out of chaos, the shining towers of law,-- + Ay, a sacred City, and a City built of merchandise, + _Flos Mercatorum_, was the City that he saw. + + And by that light," quoth Clopton, "did he keep + His promise. He was rich; but in his will + He wrote those words which should be blazed with gold + In London's _Liber Albus_:-- + + _The desire + And busy intention of a man, devout + And wise, should be to fore-cast and secure + The state and end of this short life with deeds + Of mercy and pity, especially to provide + For those whom poverty insulteth, those + To whom the power of labouring for the needs + Of life, is interdicted._ + He became + The Father of the City. Felons died + Of fever in old Newgate. He rebuilt + The prison. London sickened, from the lack + Of water, and he made fresh fountains flow. + He heard the cry of suffering and disease, + And built the stately hospital that still + Shines like an angel's lanthorn through the night, + The stately halls of St. Bartholomew. + He saw men wrapt in ignorance, and he raised + Schools, colleges, and libraries. He heard + The cry of the old and weary, and he built + Houses of refuge. + Even so he kept + His prentice vows of Duty, Industry, + Obedience, words contemned of every fool + Who shrinks from law; yet were those ancient vows + The adamantine pillars of the State. + Let all who play their Samson be well warned + That Samsons perish, too! + His monument + Is London!" + + "True," quoth Dekker, "and he deserves + Well of the Mermaid Inn for one good law, + Rightly enforced. He pilloried that rogue + Will Horold, who in Whittington's third year + Of office, as Lord Mayor, placed certain gums + And spices in great casks, and filled them up + With feeble Spanish wine, to have the taste + And smell of Romeney,--Malmsey!" + "Honest wine, + Indeed," replied the Clerk, "concerns the State, + That solemn structure touched with light from heaven, + Which he, our merchant, helped to build on earth. + And, while he laboured for it, all things else + Were added unto him, until the bells + More than fulfilled their prophecy. + One great eve, + Fair Alice, leaning from her casement, saw + Another Watch, and mightier than the first, + Billowing past the newly painted doors + Of Whittington Palace--so men called his house + In Hart Street, fifteen yards from old Mark Lane,-- + thousand burganets and halberdiers; + A thousand archers in their white silk coats, + A thousand mounted men in ringing mail, + A thousand sworded henchmen; then, his Guild, + Advancing, on their splendid bannerols + The Virgin, glorious in gold; and then, + _Flos Mercatorum_, on his great stirring steed + Whittington! On that night he made a feast + For London and the King. His feasting hall + Gleamed like the magic cave that Prester John + Wrought out of one huge opal. East and West + Lavished their wealth on that great Citizen + Who, when the King from Agincourt returned + Victorious, but with empty coffers, lent + Three times the ransom of an Emperor + To fill them--on the royal bond, and said + When the King questioned him of how and whence, + 'I am the steward of your City, sire! + There is a sea, and who shall drain it dry?' + + Over the roasted swans and peacock pies, + The minstrels in the great black gallery tuned + All hearts to mirth, until it seemed their cups + Were brimmed with dawn and sunset, and they drank + The wine of gods. Lord of a hundred ships, + Under the feet of England, Whittington flung + The purple of the seas. And when the Queen, + Catharine, wondered at the costly woods + That burned upon his hearth, the Marchaunt rose, + He drew the great sealed parchments from his breast, + The bonds the King had given him on his loans, + Loans that might drain the Mediterranean dry. + 'They call us hucksters, madam, we that love + Our City,' and, into the red-hot heart of the fire, + He tossed the bonds of sixty thousand pounds. + 'The fire burns low,' said Richard Whittington. + Then, overhead, the minstrels plucked their strings; + And, over the clash of wine-cups, rose a song + That made the old timbers of their feasting-hall + Shake, as a galleon shakes in a gale of wind, + When she rolls glorying through the Ocean-sea:-- + + Marchaunt Adventurers, O, what shall it profit you + Thus to seek your kingdom in the dream-destroying sun? + Ask us why the hawthorn brightens on the sky-line: + Even so our sails break out when Spring is well begun! + _Flos Mercatorum!_ Blossom wide, ye sail of Englande, + Hasten ye the kingdom, now the bitter days are done! + Ay, for we be members, one of another, + 'Each for all and all for each,' quoth Richard Whittington! + + _Chorus:_--Marchaunt Adventurers, + Marchaunt Adventurers, + Marchaunt Adventurers, the Spring is well begun! + Break, break out on every sea, O, fair white sails of Englande! + 'Each for all, and all for each,' quoth Richard Whittington. + + Marchaunt Adventurers, O what 'ull ye bring home again? + Woonders and works and the thunder of the sea! + Whom will ye traffic with? The King of the sunset!-- + What shall be your pilot, then?--A wind from Galilee! + + --Nay, but ye be marchaunts, will ye come back empty-handed?-- + Ay, we be marchaunts, though our gain we ne'er shall see! + Cast we now our bread upon the waste wild waters; + After many days it shall return with usury. + + _Chorus:_--Marchaunt Adventurers, + Marchaunt Adventurers, + What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be? + Englande! Englande! Englande! Englande! + Glory everlasting and the lordship of the sea. + + What need to tell you, sirs, how Whittington + Remembered? Night and morning, as he knelt + In those old days, O, like two children still, + Whittington and his Alice bowed their heads + Together, praying. + From such simple hearts, + O never doubt it, though the whole world doubt + The God that made it, came the steadfast strength + Of England, all that once was her strong soul, + The soul that laughed and shook away defeat + As her strong cliffs hurl back the streaming seas. + Sirs, in his old age Whittington returned, + And stood with Alice, by the silent tomb + In little Pauntley church. + There, to his Arms, + The Gules and Azure, and the Lion's Head + So proudly blazoned on the painted panes; + (O, sirs, the simple wistfulness of it + Might move hard hearts to laughter, but I think + Tears tremble through it, for the Mermaid Inn) + He added his new crest, the hard-won sign + And lowly prize of his own industry, + _The Honey-bee_. And, far away, the bells + Peal softly from the pure white City of God:-- + _Ut fragrans nardus + Fama fuit iste Ricardus._ + With folded hands he waits the Judgment now. + Slowly our dark bells toll across the world, + For him who waits the reckoning, his accompt + Secure, his conscience clear, his ledger spread + A _Liber Albus_ flooded with pure light. + + _Flos Mercatorum, + Fundator presbyterorum_,... + + Slowly the dark bells toll for him who asks + No more of men, but that they may sometimes + Pray for the souls of Richard Whittington, + Alice, his wife, and (as themselves of old + Had prayed) the father and mother of each of them. + Slowly the great notes fall and float away:-- + + _Omnibus exemplum + Barathrum vincendo morosum + Condidit hoc templum ... + Pauperibus pater ... + Finiit ipse dies + Sis sibi Christe quies. Amen._" + + +IX + +RALEIGH + + Ben was our only guest that day. His tribe + Had flown to their new shrine--the Apollo Room, + To which, though they enscrolled his golden verse + Above their doors like some great-fruited vine, + Ben still preferred our _Mermaid_, and to smoke + Alone in his old nook; perhaps to hear + The voices of the dead, + The voices of his old companions. + Hovering near him,--Will and Kit and Rob. + + "Our Ocean-shepherd from the Main-deep sea, + Raleigh," he muttered, as I brimmed his cup, + "Last of the men that broke the fleets of Spain, + 'Twas not enough to cage him, sixteen years, + Rotting his heart out in the Bloody Tower, + But they must fling him forth in his old age + To hunt for El Dorado. Then, mine host, + Because his poor old ship _The Destiny_ + Smashes the Spaniard, but comes tottering home + Without the Spanish gold, our gracious king, + To please a catamite, + Sends the old lion back to the Tower again. + The friends of Spain will send him to the block + This time. That male Salome, Buckingham, + Is dancing for his head. Raleigh is doomed." + A shadow stood in the doorway. We looked up; + And there, but O, how changed, how worn and grey, + Sir Walter Raleigh, like a hunted thing, + Stared at us. + + "Ben," he said, and glanced behind him. + Ben took a step towards him. + "O, my God, + Ben," whispered the old man in a husky voice, + Half timorous and half cunning, so unlike + His old heroic self that one might weep + To hear it, "Ben, I have given them all the slip! + I may be followed. Can you hide me here + Till it grows dark?" + Ben drew him quickly in, and motioned me + To lock the door. "Till it grows dark," he cried, + "My God, that you should ask it!" + "Do not think, + Do not believe that I am quite disgraced," + The old man faltered, "for they'll say it, Ben; + And when my boy grows up, they'll tell him, too, + His father was a coward. I do cling + To life for many reasons, not from fear + Of death. No, Ben, I can disdain that still; + But--there's my boy!" + Then all his face went blind. + He dropt upon Ben's shoulder and sobbed outright, + "They are trying to break my pride, to break my pride!" + The window darkened, and I saw a face + Blurring the panes. Ben gripped the old man's arm, + And led him gently to a room within, + Out of the way of guests. + "Your pride," he said, + "That is the pride of England!" + At that name-- + _England!_-- + As at a signal-gun, heard in the night + Far out at sea, the weather and world-worn man, + That once was Raleigh, lifted up his head. + Old age and weakness, weariness and fear + Fell from him like a cloak. He stood erect. + His eager eyes, full of great sea-washed dawns, + Burned for a moment with immortal youth, + While tears blurred mine to see him. + "You do think + That England will remember? You do think it?" + He asked with a great light upon his face. + Ben bowed his head in silence. + + * * * * + + "I have wronged + My cause by this," said Raleigh. "Well they know it + Who left this way for me. I have flung myself + Like a blind moth into this deadly light + Of freedom. Now, at the eleventh hour, + Is it too late? I might return and--" + "No! + Not now!" Ben interrupted. "I'd have said + Laugh at the headsman sixteen years ago, + When England was awake. She will awake + Again. But now, while our most gracious king, + Who hates tobacco, dedicates his prayers + To Buckingham-- + This is no land for men that, under God, + Shattered the Fleet Invincible." + A knock + Startled us, at the outer door. "My friend + Stukeley," said Raleigh, "if I know his hand. + He has a ketch will carry me to France, + Waiting at Tilbury." + I let him in,-- + A lean and stealthy fellow, Sir Lewis Stukeley,-- + liked him little. He thought much of his health, + More of his money bags, and most of all + On how to run with all men all at once + For his own profit. At the _Mermaid Inn_ + Men disagreed in friendship and in truth; + But he agreed with all men, and his life + Was one soft quag of falsehood. Fugitives + Must use false keys, I thought; and there was hope + For Raleigh if such a man would walk one mile + To serve him now. Yet my throat moved to see him + Usurping, with one hand on Raleigh's arm, + A kind of ownership. "_Lend me ten pounds_," + Were the first words he breathed in the old man's ear, + And Raleigh slipped his purse into his hand. + + * * * * + + Just over Bread Street hung the bruised white moon + When they crept out. Sir Lewis Stukeley's watch-dog, + A derelict bo'sun, with a mulberry face, + Met them outside. "The coast quite clear, eh, Hart?" + Said Stukeley. "Ah, that's good. Lead on, then, quick." + And there, framed in the cruddle of moonlit clouds + That ended the steep street, dark on its light, + And standing on those glistening cobblestones + Just where they turned to silver, Raleigh looked back + Before he turned the corner. He stood there. + A figure like foot-feathered Mercury, + Tall, straight and splendid, waving his plumed hat + To Ben, and taking his last look, I felt, + Upon our _Mermaid Tavern_. As he paused, + His long fantastic shadow swayed and swept + Against our feet. Then, like a shadow, he passed. + + "It is not right," said Ben, "it is not right. + Why did they give the old man so much grace? + Witness and evidence are what they lack. + Would you trust Stukeley--not to draw him out? + Raleigh was always rash. A phrase or two + Will turn their murderous axe into a sword + Of righteousness-- + + Why, come to think of it, + Blackfriar's Wharf, last night, I landed there, + And--no, by God!--Raleigh is not himself, + The tide will never serve beyond Gravesend. + It is a trap! Come on! We'll follow them! + Quick! To the river side!"-- + We reached the wharf + Only to see their wherry, a small black cloud + Dwindling far down that running silver road. + Ben touched my arm. + "Look there," he said, pointing up-stream. + The moon + Glanced on a cluster of pikes, like silver thorns, + Three hundred yards away, a little troop + Of weaponed men, embarking hurriedly. + Their great black wherry clumsily swung about, + Then, with twelve oars for legs, came striding down, + An armoured beetle on the glittering trail + Of some small victim. + Just below our wharf + A little dinghy waddled. + Ben cut the painter, and without one word + Drew her up crackling thro' the lapping water, + Motioned me to the tiller, thrust her off, + And, pulling with one oar, backing with the other, + Swirled her round and down, hard on the track + Of Raleigh. Ben was an old man now but tough, + O tough as a buccaneer. We distanced them. + His oar blades drove the silver boiling back. + By Broken Wharf the beetle was a speck. + It dwindled by Queen Hythe and the Three Cranes. + By Bellyn's Gate we had left it, out of sight. + By Custom House and Galley Keye we shot + Thro' silver all the way, without one glimpse + Of Raleigh. Then a dreadful shadow fell + And over us the Tower of London rose + Like ebony; and, on the glittering reach + Beyond it, I could see the small black cloud + That carried the great old seaman slowly down + Between the dark shores whence in happier years + The throng had cheered his golden galleons out, + And watched his proud sails filling for Cathay. + There, as through lead, we dragged by Traitor's Gate, + There, in the darkness, under the Bloody Tower, + There, on the very verge of victory, + Ben gasped and dropped his oars. + "Take one and row," he said, "my arms are numbed. + We'll overtake him yet!" I clambered past him, + And took the bow oar. + + Once, as the pace flagged, + Over his shoulder he turned his great scarred face + And snarled, with a trickle of blood on his coarse lips, + "Hard!"-- + And blood and fire ran through my veins again, + For half a minute more. + + Yet we fell back. + Our course was crooked now. And suddenly + A grim black speck began to grow behind us, + Grow like the threat of death upon old age. + Then, thickening, blackening, sharpening, foaming, swept + Up the bright line of bubbles in our wake, + That armoured wherry, with its long twelve oars + All well together now. + + "Too late," gasped Ben, + His ash-grey face uplifted to the moon, + One quivering hand upon the thwart behind him, + A moment. Then he bowed over his knees + Coughing. "But we'll delay them. We'll be drunk, + And hold the catch-polls up!" + + We drifted down + Before them, broadside on. They sheered aside. + Then, feigning a clumsy stroke, Ben drove our craft + As they drew level, right in among their blades. + There was a shout, an oath. They thrust us off; + And then we swung our nose against their bows + And pulled them round with every well-meant stroke. + A full half minute, ere they won quite free, + Cursing us for a pair of drunken fools. + + We drifted down behind them. + + "There's no doubt," + Said Ben, "the headsman waits behind all this + For Raleigh. This is a play to cheat the soul + Of England, teach the people to applaud + The red fifth act." + Without another word we drifted down + For centuries it seemed, until we came + To Greenwich. + Then up the long white burnished reach there crept + Like little sooty clouds the two black boats + To meet us. + + "He is in the trap," said Ben, + "And does not know it yet. See, where he sits + By Stukeley as by a friend." + + Long after this, + We heard how Raleigh, simply as a child, + Seeing the tide would never serve him now, + And they must turn, had taken from his neck + Some trinkets that he wore. "Keep them," he said + To Stukeley, "in remembrance of this night." + + He had no doubts of Stukeley when he saw + The wherry close beside them. He but wrapped + His cloak a little closer round his face. + Our boat rocked in their wash when Stukeley dropped + The mask. We saw him give the sign, and heard + His high-pitched quavering voice--"IN THE KING'S NAME!" + Raleigh rose to his feet. "I am under arrest?" + He said, like a dazed man. + + And Stukeley laughed. + Then, as he bore himself to the grim end, + All doubt being over, the old sea-king stood + Among those glittering points, a king indeed. + The black boats rocked. We heard his level voice, + "_Sir Lewis, these actions never will turn out + To your good credit._" Across the moonlit Thames + It rang contemptuously, cold as cold steel, + And passionless as the judgment that ends all. + + * * * * + + Some three months later, Raleigh's widow came + To lodge a se'nnight at the Mermaid Inn. + His house in Bread Street was no more her own, + But in the hands of Stukeley, who had reaped + A pretty harvest ... + She kept close to her room, and that same night, + Being ill and with some fever, sent her maid + To fetch the apothecary from Friday Street, + Old "Galen" as the Mermaid christened him. + At that same moment, as the maid went out, + Stukeley came in. He met her at the door; + And, chucking her under the chin, gave her a letter. + "Take this up to your mistress. It concerns + Her property," he said. "Say that I wait, + And would be glad to speak with her." + The wench + Looked pertly in his face, and tripped upstairs. + I scarce could trust my hands. + "Sir Lewis," I said, + "This is no time to trouble her. She is ill." + "Let her decide," he answered, with a sneer. + Before I found another word to say + The maid tripped down again. I scarce believed + My senses, when she beckoned him up the stair. + Shaking from head to foot, I blocked the way. + "Property!" Could the crux of mine and thine + Bring widow and murderer into one small room? + "Sir Lewis," I said, "she is ill. It is not right! + She never would consent." + He sneered again, + "You are her doctor? Out of the way, old fool! + She has decided!" + "Go," I said to the maid, + "Fetch the apothecary. Let it rest + With him!" + She tossed her head. Her quick eyes glanced, + Showing the white, like the eyes of a vicious mare. + She laughed at Stukeley, loitered, then obeyed. + + And so we waited, till the wench returned, + With Galen at her heels. His wholesome face, + Russet and wrinkled like an apple, peered + Shrewdly at Stukeley, twinkled once at me, + And passed in silence, leaving a whiff of herbs + Behind him on the stair. + Five minutes later, + To my amazement, that same wholesome face + Leaned from the lighted door above, and called + "Sir Lewis Stukeley!" + Sir Judas hastened up. + The apothecary followed him within. + The door shut. I was left there in the dark + Bewildered; for my heart was hot with thoughts + Of those last months. Our Summer's Nightingale, + Our Ocean-Shepherd from the Main-deep Sea, + The Founder of our Mermaid Fellowship, + Was this his guerdon--at the Mermaid Inn? + Was this that maid-of-honour whose romance + With Raleigh, once, had been a kingdom's talk? + Could Bess Throckmorton slight his memory thus? + "It is not right," I said, "it is not right. + She wrongs him deeply." + I leaned against the porch + Staring into the night. A ghostly ray + Above me, from her window, bridged the street, + And rested on the goldsmith's painted sign + Opposite. + I could hear the muffled voice + Of Stukeley overhead, persuasive, bland; + And then, her own, cooing, soft as a dove + Calling her mate from Eden cedar-boughs, + Flowed on and on; and then--all my flesh crept + At something worse than either, a long space + Of silence that stretched threatening and cold, + Cold as a dagger-point pricking the skin + Over my heart. + Then came a stifled cry, + A crashing door, a footstep on the stair + Blundering like a drunkard's, heavily down; + And with his gasping face one tragic mask + Of horror,--may God help me to forget + Some day the frozen awful eyes of one + Who, fearing neither hell nor heaven, has met + That ultimate weapon of the gods, the face + And serpent-tresses that turn flesh to stone-- + Stukeley stumbled, groping his way out, + Blindly, past me, into the sheltering night. + + * * * * + + It was the last night of another year + Before I understood what punishment + Had overtaken Stukeley. Ben, and Brome-- + Ben's ancient servant, but turned poet now-- + Sat by the fire with the old apothecary + To see the New Year in. + The starry night + Had drawn me to the door. Could it be true + That our poor earth no longer was the hub + Of those white wheeling orbs? I scarce believed + The strange new dreams; but I had seen the veils + Rent from vast oceans and huge continents, + Till what was once our comfortable fire, + Our cosy tavern, and our earthly home + With heaven beyond the next turn in the road, + All the resplendent fabric of our world + Shrank to a glow-worm, lighting up one leaf + In one small forest, in one little land, + Among those wild infinitudes of God. + A tattered wastrel wandered down the street, + Clad in a seaman's jersey, staring hard + At every sign. Beneath our own, the light + Fell on his red carbuncled face. I knew him-- + The bo'sun, Hart. + He pointed to our sign + And leered at me. "That's her," he said, "no doubt, + The sea-witch with the shiny mackerel tail + Swishing in wine. That's what Sir Lewis meant. + He called it blood. Blood is his craze, you see. + This is the Mermaid Tavern, sir, no doubt?" + I nodded. "Ah, I thought as much," he said. + "Well--happen this is worth a cup of ale." + He thrust his hand under his jersey and lugged + A greasy letter out. It was inscribed + THE APOTHECARY AT THE MERMAID TAVERN. + + I led him in. "I knew it, sir," he said, + While Galen broke the seal. "Soon as I saw + That sweet young naked wench curling her tail + In those red waves.--The old man called it blood. + Blood is his craze, you see.--But you can tell + 'Tis wine, sir, by the foam. Malmsey, no doubt. + And that sweet wench to make you smack your lips + Like oysters, with her slippery tail and all! + Why, sir, no doubt, this was the Mermaid Inn." + + "But this," said Galen, lifting his grave face + To Ben, "this letter is from all that's left + Of Stukeley. The good host, there, thinks I wronged + Your Ocean-shepherd's memory. From this letter, + I think I helped to avenge him. Do not wrong + His widow, even in thought. She loved him dearly. + You know she keeps his poor grey severed head + Embalmed; and so will keep it till she dies; + Weeps over it alone. I have heard such things + In wild Italian tales. But _this_ was true. + Had I refused to let her speak with Stukeley + I feared she would go mad. This letter proves + That I--and she perhaps--were instruments, + Of some more terrible chirurgery + Than either knew." + + "Ah, when I saw your sign," + The bo'sun interjected, "I'd no doubt + That letter was well worth a cup of ale." + + "Go--paint your bows with hell-fire somewhere else, + Not at this inn," said Ben, tossing the rogue + A good French crown. "Pickle yourself in hell." + And Hart lurched out into the night again, + Muttering "Thank you, sirs. 'Twas worth all that. + No doubt at all." + + "There are some men," said Galen, + Spreading the letter out on his plump knees, + "Will heap up wrong on wrong; and, at the last, + Wonder because the world will not forget + Just when it suits them, cancel all they owe, + And, like a mother, hold its arms out wide + At their first cry. And, sirs, I do believe + That Stukeley, on that night, had some such wish + To reconcile himself. What else had passed + Between the widow and himself I know not; + But she had lured him on until he thought + That words and smiles, perhaps a tear or two, + Might make the widow take the murderer's hand + In friendship, since it might advantage both. + Indeed, he came prepared for even more. + Villains are always fools. A wicked act, + What is it but a false move in the game, + A blind man's blunder, a deaf man's reply, + The wrong drug taken in the dead of night? + I always pity villains. + I mistook + The avenger for the victim. There she lay + Panting, that night, her eyes like summer stars + Her pale gold hair upon the pillows tossed + Dishevelled, while the fever in her face + Brought back the lost wild roses of her youth + For half an hour. Against a breast as pure + And smooth as any maid's, her soft arms pressed + A bundle wrapped in a white embroidered cloth. + She crooned over it as a mother croons + Over her suckling child. I stood beside her. + --That was her wish, and mine, while Stukeley stayed.-- + And, over against me, on the other side, + Stood Stukeley, gnawing his nether lip to find + She could not, or she would not, speak one word + In answer to his letter. + + 'Lady Raleigh, + You wrong me, and you wrong yourself,' he cried, + 'To play like a green girl when great affairs + Are laid before you. Let me speak with you + Alone.' + + 'But I am all alone,' she said, + 'Far more alone than I have ever been + In all my life before. This is my doctor. + He must not leave me.' + + Then she lured him on, + Played on his brain as a musician plays + Upon the lute. + 'Forgive me, dear Sir Lewis, + If I am grown too gay for widowhood. + But I have pondered for a long, long time + On all these matters. I know the world was right; + And Spain was right, Sir Lewis. Yes, and you, + You too, were right; and my poor husband wrong. + You see I knew his mind so very well. + I knew his every gesture, every smile. + I lived with him. I think I died with him. + It is a strange thing, marriage. For my soul + (As if myself were present in this flesh) + Beside him, slept in his grey prison-cell + On that last dreadful dawn. I heard the throng + Murmuring round the scaffold far away; + And, with the smell of sawdust in my nostrils, + I woke, bewildered as himself, to see + That tall black-cassocked figure by his bed. + I heard the words that made him understand: + _The Body of our Lord--take and eat this!_ + I rolled the small sour flakes beneath my tongue + With him. I caught, with him, the gleam of tears, + Far off, on some strange face of sickly dread. + _The Blood_--and the cold cup was in my hand, + Cold as an axe-heft washed with waterish red. + I heard his last poor cry to wife and child.-- + Could any that heard forget it?--_My true God, + Hold you both in His arms, both in His arms._ + And then--that last poor wish, a thing to raise + A smile in some. I have smiled at it myself + A thousand times. + "_Give me my pipe_," he said, + "_My old Winchester clay, with the long stem, + And half an hour alone. The crowd can wait. + They have not waited half so long as I._" + And then, O then, I know what soft blue clouds, + What wavering rings, fragrant ascending wreaths + Melted his prison walls to a summer haze, + Through which I think he saw the little port + Of Budleigh Salterton, like a sea-bird's nest + Among the Devon cliffs--the tarry quay + Whence in his boyhood he had flung a line + For bass or whiting-pollock. I remembered + (Had he not told me, on some summer night, + His arm about my neck, kissing my hair) + He used to sit there, gazing out to sea; + Fish, and for what? Not all for what he caught + And handled; but for rainbow-coloured things, + The water-drops that jewelled his thin line, + Flotsam and jetsam of the sunset-clouds; + While the green water, gurgling through the piles, + Heaving and sinking, helped him to believe + The fast-bound quay a galleon plunging out + Superbly for Cathay. There would he sit + Listening, a radiant boy, child of the sea, + Listening to some old seaman's glowing tales, + His grey eyes rich with pictures-- + + Then he saw, + And I with him, that gathering in the West, + To break the Fleet Invincible. O, I heard + The trumpets and the neighings and the drums. + I watched the beacons on a hundred hills. + I drank that wine of battle from _his_ cup, + And gloried in it, lying against his heart. + I sailed with him and saw the unknown worlds! + The slender ivory towers of old Cathay + Rose for us over lilac-coloured seas + That crumbled a sky-blue foam on long shores + Of shining sand, shores of so clear a glass + They drew the sunset-clouds into their bosom + And hung that City of Vision in mid-air + Girdling it round, as with a moat of sky, + Hopelessly beautiful. O, yet I heard, + Heard from his blazoned poops the trumpeters + Blowing proud calls, while overhead the flag + Of England floated from white towers of sail-- + And yet, and yet, I knew that he was wrong, + And soon he knew it, too. + + I saw the cloud + Of doubt assail him, in the Bloody Tower, + When, being withheld from sailing the high seas + For sixteen years, he spread a prouder sail, + Took up his pen, and, walled about with stone, + Began to write--his _History of the World_. + And emperors came like Lazarus from the grave + To wear his purple. And the night disgorged + Its empires, till, O, like the swirl of dust + Around their marching legions, that dim cloud + Of doubt closed round him. Was there any man + So sure of heart and brain as to record + The simple truth of things himself had seen? + Then who could plumb that night? The work broke off! + He knew that he was wrong. I knew it, too! + Once more that stately structure of his dreams + Melted like mist. His eagles perished like clouds. + Death wound a thin horn through the centuries. + The grave resumed his forlorn emperors. + His empires crumbled back to a little ash + Knocked from his pipe.-- + He dropped his pen in homage to the truth. + The truth? _O, eloquent, just and mighty Death!_ + + Then, when he forged, out of one golden thought, + A key to open his prison; when the King + Released him for a tale of faerie gold + Under the tropic palms; when those grey walls + Melted before his passion; do you think + The gold that lured the King was quite the same + As that which Raleigh saw? You know the song: + + "Say to the King," quoth Raleigh, + "I have a tale to tell him; + Wealth beyond derision, + Veils to lift from the sky, + Seas to sail for England, + And a little dream to sell him, + Gold, the gold of a vision + That angels cannot buy." + + Ah, no! For all the beauty and the pride, + Raleigh was wrong; but not so wrong, I think, + As those for whom his kingdoms oversea + Meant only glittering dust. The fight he waged + Was not with them. They never worsted him. + + It was _The Destiny_ that brought him home + Without the Spanish gold.--O, he was wrong, + But such a wrong, in Gloriana's day, + Was more than right, was immortality. + He had just half an hour to put all this + Into his pipe and smoke it,-- + + The red fire, + The red heroic fire that filled his veins + When the proud flag of England floated out + Its challenge to the world--all gone to ash? + What! Was the great red wine that Drake had quaffed + Vinegar? He must fawn, haul down his flag, + And count all nations nobler than his own, + Tear out the lions from the painted shields + That hung his poop, for fear that he offend + The pride of Spain? Treason to sack the ships + Of Spain? The wounds of slaughtered Englishmen + Cried out--_there is no law beyond the line!_ + Treason to sweep the seas with Francis Drake? + Treason to fight for England? + If it were so, + The times had changed and quickly. He had been + A schoolboy in the morning of the world + Playing with wooden swords and winning crowns + Of tinsel; but his comrades had outgrown + Their morning-game, and gathered round to mock + His battles in the sunset. Yet he knew + That all his life had passed in that brief day; + And he was old, too old to understand + The smile upon the face of Buckingham, + The smile on Cobham's face, at that great word + _England_! + He knew the solid earth was changed + To something less than dust among the stars-- + And, O, be sure he knew that he was wrong, + That gleams would come, + Gleams of a happier world for younger men, + That Commonwealth, far off. This was a time + Of sadder things, destruction of the old + Before the new was born. At least he knew + It was his own way that had brought the world + Thus far, England thus far! How could he change, + Who had loved England as a man might love + His mistress, change from year to fickle year? + For the new years would change, even as the old. + No--he was wedded to that old first love, + Crude flesh and blood, and coarse as meat and drink, + The woman--England; no fine angel-isle, + Ruled by that male Salome--Buckingham! + Better the axe than to live on and wage + These new and silent and more deadly wars + That play at friendship with our enemies. + Such times are evil. Not of their own desire + They lead to good, blind agents of that Hand + Which now had hewed him down, down to his knees, + But in a prouder battle than men knew. + + His pipe was out, the guard was at the door. + Raleigh was not a god. But, when he climbed + The scaffold, I believe he looked a man. + And when the axe fell, I believe that God + Set on his shoulders that immortal head + Which he desired on earth. + + O, he was wrong! + But when that axe fell, not one shout was raised. + That mighty throng around that crimson block + Stood silent--like the hushed black cloud that holds + The thunder. You might hear the headsman's breath. + Stillness like that is dangerous, being charged, + Sometimes, with thought, Sir Lewis! England sleeps! + What if, one day, the Stewart should be called + To know that England wakes? What if a shout + Should thunder-strike Whitehall, and the dogs lift + Their heads along the fringes of the crowd + To catch a certain savour that I know, + The smell of blood and sawdust?-- + + Ah, Sir Lewis, + 'Tis hard to find one little seed of right + Among so many wrongs. Raleigh was wrong, + And yet--it was because he loved his country + Next to himself, Sir Lewis, by your leave, + His country butchered him. You did not know + That I was only third in his affections? + The night I told him--we were parting then-- + I had begged the last disposal of his body, + Did he not say, with O, so gentle a smile, + "_Thou hadst not always the disposal of it + In life, dear Bess. 'Tis well it should be thine + In death!_"' + + 'The jest was bitter at such an hour, + And somewhat coarse in grain,' Stukeley replied. + 'Indeed I thought him kinder.' + + 'Kinder,' she said, + Laughing bitterly. + + Stukeley looked at her. + She whispered something, and his lewd old eyes + Fastened upon her own. He knelt by her. + 'Perhaps,' he said, 'your woman's wit has found + A better way to solve this bitter business.' + Her head moved on the pillow with little tossings. + He touched her hand. It leapt quickly away. + She hugged that strange white bundle to her breast, + And writhed back, smiling at him, across the bed. + + 'Ah, Bess,' he whispered huskily, pressing his lips + To that warm hollow where her head had lain, + 'There is one way to close the long dispute, + Keep the estates unbroken in your hands + And stop all slanderous tongues, one happy way. + We have some years to live; and why alone?' + 'Alone?' she sighed. 'My husband thought of that. + He wrote a letter to me long ago, + When he was first condemned. He said--he said-- + Now let me think--what was it that he said?-- + I had it all by heart. "_Beseech you, Bess, + Hide not yourself for many days_", he said.' + 'True wisdom that,' quoth Stukeley, 'for the love + That seeks to chain the living to the dead + Is but self-love at best!' + + 'And yet,' she said, + 'How his poor heart was torn between two cares, + Love of himself and care for me, as thus: + + _Love God! Begin to repose yourself on Him! + Therein you shall find true and lasting riches; + But all the rest is nothing. When you have tired + Your thoughts on earthly things, when you have travelled + Through all the glittering pomps of this proud world + You shall sit down by Sorrow in the end. + Begin betimes, and teach your little son + To serve and fear God also. + Then God will be a husband unto you, + And unto him a father; nor can Death + Bereave you any more. When I am gone, + No doubt you shall be sought unto by many + For the world thinks that I was very rich. + No greater misery can befall you, Bess, + Than to become a prey, and, afterwards, + To be despised.'_ + + 'Human enough,' said Stukeley, + 'And yet--self-love, self-love!' + + 'Ah no,' quoth she, + 'You have not heard the end: _God knows, I speak it + Not to dissuade you_--not to dissuade you, mark-- + _From marriage. That will be the best for you, + Both in respect of God and of the world._ + Was _that_ self-love, Sir Lewis? Ah, not all. + And thus he ended: _For his father's sake + That chose and loved you in his happiest times, + Remember your poor child! The Everlasting, + Infinite, powerful, and inscrutable God, + Keep you and yours, have mercy upon me, + And teach me to forgive my false accusers_-- + Wrong, even in death, you see. Then--_My true wife, + Farewell! + Bless my poor boy! Pray for me! My true God, + Hold you both in His arms, both in His arms!_ + I know that he was wrong. You did not know, + Sir Lewis, that he had left me a little child. + Come closer. You shall see its orphaned face, + The sad, sad relict of a man that loved + His country--all that's left to me. Come, look!' + She beckoned Stukeley nearer. He bent down + Curiously. Her feverish fingers drew + + The white wrap from the bundle in her arms, + And, with a smile that would make angels weep, + She showed him, pressed against her naked breast, + Terrible as Medusa, the grey flesh + And shrivelled face, embalmed, the thing that dropped + Into the headsman's basket, months agone,-- + The head of Raleigh. + Half her body lay + Bare, while she held that grey babe to her heart; + But Judas hid his face.... + 'Living,' she said, 'he was not always mine; + But--dead--I shall not wean him'-- + Then, I too + Covered my face--I cannot tell you more. + There was a dreadful silence in that room, + Silence that, as I know, shattered the brain + Of Stukeley.--When I dared to raise my head + Beneath that silent thunder of our God, + The man had gone-- + This is his letter, sirs, + Written from Lundy Island: "_For God's love, + Tell them it is a cruel thing to say + That I drink blood. I have no secret sin. + A thousand pound is not so great a sum; + And that is all they paid me, every penny. + Salt water, that is all the drink I taste + On this rough island. Somebody has taught + The sea-gulls how to wail around my hut + All night, like lost souls. And there is a face, + A dead man's face that laughs in every storm, + And sleeps in every pool along the coast. + I thought it was my own, once. But I know + These actions never, never, on God's earth, + Will turn out to their credit, who believe + That I drink blood._" + He crumpled up the letter + And tossed it into the fire. + "Galen," said Ben, + "I think you are right--that one should pity villains." + + * * * * + + The clock struck twelve. The bells began to peal. + We drank a cup of sack to the New Year. + "New songs, new voices, all as fresh as may," + Said Ben to Brome, "but I shall never live + To hear them." + + All was not so well, indeed, + With Ben, as hitherto. Age had come upon him. + He dragged one foot as in paralysis. + The critics bayed against the old lion, now, + And called him arrogant. "My brain," he said, + "Is yet unhurt although, set round with pain, + It cannot long hold out." He never stooped, + Never once pandered to that brainless hour. + His coat was thread-bare. Weeks had passed of late + Without his voice resounding in our inn. + + "The statues are defiled, the gods dethroned, + The Ionian movement reigns, not the free soul. + And, as for me, I have lived too long," he said. + "Well--I can weave the old threnodies anew." + And, filling his cup, he murmured, soft and low, + A new song, breaking on an ancient shore: + + + I + + Marlowe is dead, and Greene is in his grave, + And sweet Will Shakespeare long ago is gone! + Our Ocean-shepherd sleeps beneath the wave; + Robin is dead, and Marlowe in his grave. + Why should I stay to chant an idle stave, + And in my Mermaid Tavern drink alone? + For Kit is dead and Greene is in his grave, + And sweet Will Shakespeare long ago is gone. + + + II + + Where is the singer of the Faerie Queen? + Where are the lyric lips of Astrophel? + Long, long ago, their quiet graves were green; + Ay, and the grave, too, of their Faerie Queen! + And yet their faces, hovering here unseen, + Call me to taste their new-found oenomel; + To sup with him who sang the Faerie Queen; + To drink with him whose name was Astrophel. + + + III + + I drink to that great Inn beyond the grave! + --If there be none, the gods have done us wrong.-- + Ere long I hope to chant a better stave, + In some great Mermaid Inn beyond the grave; + And quaff the best of earth that heaven can save, + Red wine like blood, deep love of friends and song. + I drink to that great Inn beyond the grave; + And hope to greet my golden lads ere long. + + He raised his cup and drank in silence. Brome + Drank with him, too. The bells had ceased to peal. + Galen shook hands, and bade us all good-night. + Then Brome, a little wistfully, I thought, + Looked at his old-time master, and prepared + To follow. + "Good-night--Ben," he said, a pause + Before he spoke the name. "Good-night! Good-night! + My dear old Brome," said Ben. + And, at the door, + Brome whispered to me, "He is lonely now. + There are not many left of his old friends. + We all go out--like this--into the night. + But what a fleet of stars!" he said, and shook + My hand, and smiled, and pointed to the sky. + And, when I looked into the room again, + The lights were very dim, and I believed + That Ben had fallen asleep. His great grey head + Was bowed across the table, on his arms. + Then, all at once, I knew that he was weeping; + And like a shadow I crept back again, + And stole into the night. + There as I stood + Under the painted sign, I could have vowed + That I, too, heard the voices of the dead, + The voices of his old companions, + Gathering round him in that lonely room, + Till all the timbers of the Mermaid Inn + Trembled above me with their ghostly song: + + + I + + Say to the King, quoth Raleigh + I have a tale to tell him, + Wealth beyond derision, + Veils to lift from the sky, + Seas to sail for England + And a little dream to sell him,-- + Gold, the gold of a vision, + That angels cannot buy. + + + II + + Fair thro' the walls of his dungeon, + --What were the stones but a shadow?-- + Streamed the light of the rapture, + The lure that he followed of old, + The dream of his old companions, + The vision of El Dorado, + The fleet that they never could capture, + The City of Sunset-gold. + + + III + + Yet did they sail the seas + And, dazed with exceeding wonder, + Straight through the sunset-glory + Plunge into the dawn: + Leaving their home behind them, + By a road of splendour and thunder, + They came to their home in amazement + Simply by sailing on. + + + + +NEW POEMS + + + + +A WATCHWORD OF THE FLEET + + [_For purposes of recognition at night a small squadron of + Elizabethan ships, crossing the Atlantic, adopted as a + watchword the sentence: Before the world--was God._] + + + They diced with Death. Their big sea-boots + Were greased with blood. They swept the seas + For England; and--we reap the fruits + Of their heroic deviltries! + Our creed is in the cold machine, + The inhuman devildoms of brain, + The bolt that splits the midnight main, + Loosed at a lever's touch; the lean + Torpedo; "Twenty Miles of Power"; + The steel-clad Dreadnoughts' dark array! + Yet ... we that keep the conning tower + Are not so strong as they + Whose watchword we disdain. + + They laughed at odds for England's sake! + We count, yet cast our strength away. + One Admiral with the soul of Drake + Would break the fleets of hell to-day! + Give us the splendid heavens of youth, + Give us the banners of deathless flame, + The ringing watchwords of their fame, + The faith, the hope, the simple truth! + Then shall the Deep indeed be swayed + Through all its boundless breadth and length, + Nor this proud England lean dismayed + On twenty miles of strength, + Or shrink from aught but shame. + + Pull out by night, O leave the shore + And lighted streets of Plymouth town, + Pull out into the Deep once more! + There, in the night of their renown, + The same great waters roll their gloom + Around our midget period; + And the huge decks that Raleigh trod + Over our petty darkness loom! + Along the line the cry is passed + From all their heaven-illumined spars, + Clear as a bell, from mast to mast, + It rings against the stars: + _Before the world--was God._ + + + + +NEW WARS FOR OLD + + "_Peace with its luxury is the corrupter of Nations._" + + _Any militarist Journal._ + + + I + + Peace! When have we prayed for peace? + Over us burns a star + Bright, beautiful, red for strife! + Yours are only the drum and the fife + And the golden braid and the surface of life! + Ours is the white-hot war! + + + II + + Peace? When have we prayed for peace? + Ours are the weapons of men! + Time changes the face of the world! + Therefore your ancient flags are furled, + And ours are the unseen legions hurled + Up to the heights again! + + + III + + Peace? When have we prayed for peace? + Is there no wrong to right? + Wrong crying to God on high + Here where the weak and the helpless die, + And the homeless hordes of the city go by, + The ranks are rallied to-night! + + + IV + + Peace? When have we prayed for peace? + Are ye so dazed with words? + Earth, heaven, shall pass away + Ere for your passionless peace we pray! + Are ye deaf to the trumpets that call us to-day, + Blind to the blazing swords? + + + + +THE PRAYER FOR PEACE + + "_Unless public opinion can rise to the height of discussing + the substitution of law for force as a great world-movement, + the American arbitration proposals cannot be carried out._" + + _Sir Edward Grey._ + + + + + I + + Dare we--though our hope deferred + Left us faithless long ago-- + Dare we let our hearts be stirred, + Lift them to the light and _know_, + Cast away our cynic shields, + Break the sword that Mockery wields, + _Know_ that Truth indeed prevails, + And that Justice holds the scales? + Britain, kneel! + Kneel, Imperial Commonweal! + + + II + + Dare we know that this great hour, + Dawning on thy long renown, + Marks the purpose of thy power, + Crowns thee with a mightier crown, + Know that to this purpose climb + All the blood-red wars of Time? + If indeed thou _hast_ a goal + Beaconing to thy warrior soul, + Britain, kneel! + Kneel, Imperial Commonweal! + + + III + + Dare we know what every age + Writes with an unerring hand, + Read the midnight's moving page, + Read the stars and understand,-- + Out of Chaos ye shall draw + Linked harmonies of Law, + Till around the Eternal Sun + All your peoples move in one? + Britain, kneel! + Kneel, Imperial Commonweal! + + + IV + + Dare we know that wearied eyes + Dimmed with dust of every day + _Can_, once more, desire the skies + And the glorious upward way? + Dare we, if the Truth should still + Vex with doubt our alien will, + Take it to our Maker's throne, + Let Him speak with us alone? + Britain, kneel! + Kneel, Imperial Commonweal! + + + V + + _Dare we cast our pride away? + Dare we tread where Lincoln trod? + All the Future, by this day, + Waits to judge us and our God! + Set the struggling peoples free! + Crown with Law their Liberty! + Proud with an immortal pride, + Kneel we at our Sister's side! + Britain, kneel! + Kneel, Imperial Commonweal!_ + + + + +THE SWORD OF ENGLAND + + (_Written during a European war crisis_) + + + Not as one muttering in a spell-bound sleep + Shall England speak the word; + Not idly bid the embattled lightnings leap, + Nor lightly draw the sword! + + Let statesmen grope by night in a blind dream, + The cold clear morning star + Should like a trophy in her helmet gleam + When England sweeps to war! + + Not like a derelict, drunk with surf and spray, + And drifting down to doom; + But like the Sun-god calling up the day + Should England rend that gloom. + + Not as in trance, at some hypnotic call, + Nor with a doubtful cry; + But a clear faith, like a banner above us all, + Rolling from sky to sky. + + She sheds no blood to that vain god of strife + Whom striplings call "renown"; + She knows that only they who reverence life + Can nobly lay it down; + + And these will ride from child and home and love, + Through death and hell that day; + But O, her faith, her flag, must burn above, + Her soul must lead the way! + + + + +THE DAWN OF PEACE + + + Yes--"on our brows we feel the breath + Of dawn," though in the night we wait! + An arrow is in the heart of Death, + A God is at the doors of Fate! + The spirit that moved upon the Deep + Is moving through the minds of men: + The nations feel it in their sleep, + A change has touched their dreams again. + + Voices, confused, and faint, arise, + Troubling their hearts from East and West. + A doubtful light is in their skies, + A gleam that will not let them rest: + The dawn, the dawn is on the wing, + The stir of change on every side, + Unsignalled as the approach of Spring, + Invincible as the hawthorn-tide. + + Have ye not heard it, far and nigh, + The voice of France across the dark, + And all the Atlantic with one cry + Beating the shores of Europe?--hark! + Then--if ye will--uplift your word + Of cynic wisdom! Once again + Tell us He came to bring a sword, + Tell us He lived and died in vain. + + Say that we dream! Our dreams have woven + Truths that out-face the burning sun: + The lightnings, that we dreamed, have cloven + Time, space, and linked all lands in one! + Dreams! But their swift celestial fingers + Have knit the world with threads of steel, + Till no remotest island lingers + Beyond the world's one Commonweal. + + Tell us that custom, sloth, and fear + Are strong, then name them "common-sense"! + Tell us that greed rules everywhere, + Then dub the lie "experience": + Year after year, age after age, + Has handed down, thro' fool and child, + For earth's divinest heritage + The dreams whereon old wisdom smiled. + + Dreams are they? But ye cannot stay them, + Or thrust the dawn back for one hour! + Truth, Love, and Justice, if ye slay them, + Return with more than earthly power: + Strive, if ye will, to seal the fountains + That send the Spring thro' leaf and spray: + Drive back the sun from the Eastern mountains, + Then--bid this mightier movement stay. + + It is the Dawn of Peace! The nations + From East to West have heard a cry,-- + "Through all earth's blood-red generations + By hate and slaughter climbed thus high, + Here--on this height--still to aspire, + One only path remains untrod, + One path of love and peace climbs higher! + Make straight that highway for our God." + + + + +THE BRINGERS OF GOOD NEWS + + + Like fallen stars the watch-fires gleamed + Along our menaced age that night! + Our bivouacked century tossed and dreamed + Of battle with the approaching light. + + Rumors of change, a sea-like roar, + Shook the firm earth with doubt and dread: + The clouds, in rushing legions bore + Their tattered eagles overhead. + + I saw the muffled sentries rest + On the dark hills of Time. I saw + Around them march from East to West + The stars of the unresting law. + + I knew that in their mighty course + They brought the dawn, they brought the day; + And that the unconquerable force + Of the new years was on the way. + + I heard the feet of that great throng! + I saw them shine, like hope, afar! + Their shout, their shout was like a song, + And O, 'twas not a song of war! + + Yet, as the whole world with their tramp + Quivered, a signal-lightning spoke, + A bugle warned our darkling camp, + And, like a thunder-cloud, it woke. + + Our searchlights raked the world's wide ends. + O'er the dark hills a grey light crept. + Down, through the light, that host of friends + We took for foemen, triumphing swept. + + The old century could not hear their cry, + How should it hear the song they sang? + _We bring good news!_ It pierced the sky! + _We bring good news!_ The welkin rang. + + One shout of triumph and of faith; + And then--our shattering cannon roared! + But, over the reeking ranks of death, + The song rose like a single sword. + + _We bring good news!_ Red flared the guns! + _We bring good news!_ The sabres flashed! + And the dark age with its own sons + In blind and furious battle clashed. + + A swift, a terrible bugle pealed. + The sulphurous clouds were rolled away. + Embraced, embraced, on that red field, + The wounded and the dying lay. + + _We bring good news!_ Blood choked the word, + --_We knew you not; so dark the night!-- + O father, was I worth your sword? + O son, O herald of the light!_ + + _We bring good news!_--The darkness fills + Mine eyes!--Nay, the night ebbs away! + And, over the everlasting hills, + The great new dawn led on the day. + + + + +THE LONELY SHRINE + + (_A few months after the Milton Ter-centenary._) + + + I + + The crowd has passed away, + Faded the feast, and most forget! + Master, we come with lowly hearts to pay + Our deeper debt. + + + II + + High they upheld the wine, + And royally, royally drank to thee! + Loud were their plaudits. Now the lonely shrine + Accepts our knee. + + + III + + All dark and silent now! + Master, thy few are faithful still, + And nightly hear thy brooks that warbling flow + By Siloa's hill. + + + + +AT NOON + + (AFTER THE FRENCH OF VERLAINE) + + + The sky is blue above the roof, + So calm, so blue; + One rustling bough above the roof + Rocks, the noon through. + + The bell-tower in the sky, aloof, + Tenderly rings! + A bird upon the bough, aloof, + Sorrows and sings. + + My God, my God, and life is here + So simple and still! + Far off, the murmuring town I hear + At the wind's will.... + + _What hast thou done, thou, weeping there? + O quick, the truth! + What hast thou done, thou, weeping there, + With thy lost youth?_ + + + + +TO A FRIEND OF BOYHOOD LOST AT SEA + + + O warm blue sky and dazzling sea, + Where have you hid my friend from me? + The white-chalk coast, the leagues of surf + Laugh to the May-light, now as then, + And violets in the short sweet turf + Make fragmentary heavens again, + And sea-born wings of rustling snow + Pass and re-pass as long ago. + + Old friend, do you remember yet + The days when secretly we met + In that old harbor years a-back, + Where I admired your billowing walk, + Or in that perilous fishing smack + What tarry oaths perfumed your talk, + The sails we set, the ropes we spliced, + The raw potato that we sliced, + + For mackerel-bait--and how it shines + Far down, at end of the taut lines!-- + And the great catch we made that day, + + Loading our boat with rainbows, quick + And quivering, while you smoked your clay + And I took home your "Deadwood Dick" + In yellow and red, when day was done + And you took home my Stevenson? + + Not leagues, as when you sailed the deep, + But only some frail bars of sleep + Sever us now! Methinks you still + Recall, as I, in dreams, the quay, + The little port below the hill: + And all the changes of the sea, + Like some great music, can but roll + Our lives still nearer to the goal. + + + + +OUR LADY OF THE TWILIGHT + + + Our Lady of the Twilight + From out the sunset-lands + Comes gently stealing o'er the world + And stretches out her hands, + Over the blotched and broken wall, + The blind and foetid lane, + She stretches out her hands and all + Is beautiful again. + + No factory chimneys can defile + The beauty of her dress: + She stoops down with her heavenly smile + To heal and love and bless: + All tortured things, all evil powers, + All shapes of dark distress + Are turned to fragrance and to flowers + Beneath her kind caress. + + Our Lady of the Twilight, + She melts our prison-bars! + She makes the sea forget the shore, + She fills the sky with stars, + And stooping over wharf and mill, + Chimney and shed and dome, + Turns them to fairy palaces, + Then calls her children home. + + She stoops to bless the stunted tree, + And from the furrowed plain, + And from the wrinkled brow she smooths + The lines of care and pain: + Hers are the gentle hands and eyes + And hers the peaceful breath + That ope, in sunset-softened skies, + The quiet gates of death. + + _Our Lady of the Twilight, + She hath such gentle hands, + So lovely are the gifts she brings + From out the sunset-lands, + So bountiful, so merciful + So sweet of soul is she; + And over all the world she draws + Her cloak of charity._ + + + + +THE HILL-FLOWERS + + "_I will lift up mine eyes to the hills"_ + + + I + + _Moving through the dew, moving through the dew, + Ere I waken in the city--Life, thy dawn makes all things new! + And up a fir-clad glen, far from all the haunts of men, + Up a glen among the mountains, oh my feet are wings again!_ + + Moving through the dew, moving through the dew, + O mountains of my boyhood, I come again to you, + By the little path I know, with the sea far below, + And above, the great cloud-galleons with their sails of rose and snow; + + As of old, when all was young, and the earth a song unsung + And the heather through the crimson dawn its Eden incense flung + From the mountain-heights of joy, for a careless-hearted boy, + And the lavrocks rose like fountain sprays of bliss that ne'er could cloy, + + From their little beds of bloom, from the golden gorse and broom, + With a song to God the Giver, o'er that waste of wild perfume; + Blowing from height to height, in a glory of great light, + While the cottage-clustered valleys held the lilac last of night, + + So, when dawn is in the skies, in a dream, a dream, I rise, + And I follow my lost boyhood to the heights of Paradise. + Life, thy dawn makes all things new! Hills of Youth, I come to you, + Moving through the dew, moving through the dew. + + + II + + Moving through the dew, moving through the dew, + Floats a brother's face to meet me! Is it you? Is it you? + For the night I leave behind keeps these dazzled eyes still blind! + But oh, the little hill-flowers, their scent is wise and kind; + + And I shall not lose the way from the darkness to the day, + While dust can cling as their scent clings to memory for aye; + And the least link in the chain can recall the whole again, + And heaven at last resume its far-flung harvests, grain by grain. + + To the hill-flowers clings my dust, and tho' eyeless Death may thrust + All else into the darkness, in their heaven I put my trust; + And a dawn shall bid me climb to the little spread of thyme + Where first I heard the ripple of the fountain-heads of rhyme. + + And a fir-wood that I know, from dawn to sunset-glow, + Shall whisper to a lonely sea, that swings far, far below. + Death, thy dawn makes all things new. Hills of Youth, I come to you, + Moving through the dew, moving through the dew. + + + + +THE CAROL OF THE FIR-TREE + + + Quoth the Fir-tree, "Orange and vine" + _Sing 'Nowell, Nowell, Nowell'!_ + "Have their honour: I have mine!" + _In Excelsis Gloria!_ + "I am kin to the great king's house," + _Ring 'Nowell, Nowell, Nowell'!_ + "And Lebanon whispers in my boughs." + _In Excelsis Gloria!_ + + Apple and cherry, pear and plum, + _Winds of Autumn, sigh 'Nowell_'! + All the trees like mages come + _Bending low with 'Gloria'!_ + Holding out on every hand + _Summer pilgrims to Nowell!_ + Gorgeous gifts from Elfin-land. + _And the May saith 'Gloria'!_ + + Out of the darkness--who shall say + _Gold and myrrh for this Nowell!_ + How they win their wizard way? + _Out of the East with 'Gloria'!_ + Men that eat of the sun and dew + _Angels laugh and sing, 'Nowell.'_ + Call it "fruit," and say it "grew"! + _Into the West with 'Gloria'!_ + + "Leaves that fall," whispered the Fir + _Through the forest sing 'Nowell'!_ + "I am winter's minister." + _In Excelsis Gloria!_ + Summer friends may come and go, + _Up the mountain sing 'Nowell.'_ + Love abides thro' storm and snow. + _Down the valley, 'Gloria'!_ + + "On my boughs, on mine on mine," + _Father and mother, sing 'Nowell'!_ + "All the fruits of the earth shall twine." + _Bending low with 'Gloria.'_ + "Sword of wood and doll of wax" + _Little children, sing 'Nowell.'_ + "Swing on the stem was cleft with the axe!" + _Craftsmen all, a 'Gloria.'_ + + "Hear! I have looked on the other side." + _Out of the East, O sing 'Nowell'!_ + "Because to live this night I died!" + _Into the West with 'Gloria.'_ + "Hear! In this lighted room I have found" + _Ye that seek, O sing 'Nowell'!_ + "The spell that worketh underground." + _Ye that doubt, a 'Gloria.'_ + + "I have found it, even I," + _Ye that are lowly, sing 'Nowell'!_ + "The secret of this alchemy!" + _Ye that are poor, a 'Gloria.'_ + "Look, your tinsel turneth to gold." + _Sing 'Nowell! Nowell! Nowell!'_ + "Your dust to a hand for love to hold!" + _In Excelsis Gloria._ + + "Lay the axe at my young stem now!" + _Woodman, woodman, sing 'Nowell.'_ + "Set a star on every bough!" + _In Excelsis Gloria!_ + "Hall and cot shall see me stand," + _Rich and poor man, sing 'Nowell'!_ + "Giver of gifts from Elfin-land." + _Oberon, answer 'Gloria.'_ + + "Hung by the hilt on your Christmas-tree" + _Little children, sing 'Nowell'!_ + "Your wooden sword is a cross for me." + _Emperors, a 'Gloria.'_ + "I have found that fabulous stone" + _Ocean-worthies, cry 'Nowell.'_ + "Which turneth all things into one," + _Wise men all, a 'Gloria.'_ + + "It is not ruby nor anything" + _Jeweller, jeweller, sing 'Nowell'!_ + "Fit for the crown of an earthly King:" + _In Excelsis Gloria!_ + "It is not here! It is not there!" + _Traveller, rest and cry 'Nowell'!_ + "It is one thing and everywhere!" + _Heaven and Earth sing 'Gloria.'_ + + "It is the earth, the moon, the sun," + _Mote in the sunbeam, sing 'Nowell'!_ + "And all the stars that march as one." + _In Excelsis Gloria!_ + "Here, by the touch of it, I can see" + _Sing, O Life, a sweet Nowell!_ + "The world's King die on a Christmas-tree." + _Answer, Death, with 'Gloria.'_ + + "Here, not set in a realm apart," + _East and West are one 'Nowell'!_ + "Holy Land is in your Heart!" + _North and South one 'Gloria'!_ + "Death is a birth, birth is a death," + _Love is all, O sing 'Nowell'!_ + "And London one with Nazareth." + _And all the World a 'Gloria.'_ + + "And angels over your heart's roof sing" + _Birds of God, O pour 'Nowell'!_ + "That a poor man's son is the Son of a King!" + _Out of your heart this 'Gloria'!_ + "Round the world you'll not away" + _In your own soul, they sing 'Nowell'!_ + "From Holy Land this Christmas Day!" + _In your own soul, this 'Gloria.'_ + + + + +LAVENDER + + + Lavender, lavender + That makes your linen sweet; + The hawker brings his basket + Down the sooty street: + The dirty doors and pavements + Are simmering in the heat: + He brings a dream to London, + And drags his weary feet. + + Lavender, lavender, + From where the bee hums, + To the loud roar of London, + With purple dreams he comes, + From ragged lanes of wild-flowers + To ragged London slums, + With a basket full of lavender + And purple dreams he comes. + + Is it nought to you that hear him? + With the old strange cry + The weary hawker passes, + And some will come and buy, + And some will let him pass away + And only heave a sigh, + But most will neither heed nor hear + When dreams go by. + + _Lavender, lavender! + His songs were fair and sweet, + He brought us harvests out of heaven, + Full sheaves of radiant wheat; + He brought us keys to Paradise, + And hawked them thro' the street; + He brought his dreams to London, + And dragged his weary feet._ + + Lavender, lavender! + He is gone. The sunset glows; + But through the brain of London + The mystic fragrance flows. + Each foggy cell remembers, + Each ragged alley knows, + The land he left behind him, + The land to which he goes. + + +The End + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Collected Poems, by Alfred Noyes + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLLECTED POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 30599.txt or 30599.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/5/9/30599/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Josephine Paolucci and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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