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@@ -1,42 +1,9 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lays and legends, by Edith Nesbit - -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: Lays and legends - (Second Series) - -Author: Edith Nesbit - -Release Date: December 23, 2012 [EBook #41693] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAYS AND LEGENDS *** - - - - -Produced by Mary Akers, Suzanne Shell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41693 *** Transcriber's note: The original hyphenation, spelling, and use of accented words has been retained. Italic text has been marked - with _underscores_. The word Branch[)i]dae" in the poem + with _underscores_. The word Branch[)i]dæ" in the poem "Apollo and the Men of Cyme" occurs three times. The [)i] represents the letter "i" with a breve accent above it. @@ -632,7 +599,7 @@ THE DEVIL'S DUE. A light more bright than any sun, A shade more dark than any night, A shape that human shape was none, - A cloud, a sense of winged might, + A cloud, a sense of wingëd might, And, like an infernal trumpet sound, Rang through the church's hush profound A voice. We listened horror-bound. @@ -1740,7 +1707,7 @@ IV. Her song of ceaseless sorrow, The night's slow feet pass, bringing The day when I rejoice; - Beloved beyond measure, + Belovèd beyond measure, Our bridal is to-morrow-- Oh, thrill the night with pleasure! Oh, let me hear thy voice! @@ -2182,7 +2149,7 @@ RONDEAU. -A MESALLIANCE. +A MÉSALLIANCE. I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear, @@ -2226,7 +2193,7 @@ THE LAST THOUGHT. -APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYME. +APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ. (Herodotus, I. 157-160.) @@ -2237,41 +2204,41 @@ APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYME. Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?" "We come to crave the counsel of Apollo-- - The men of Cyme he has counselled often-- + The men of Cymé he has counselled often-- Ask of the god an answer to our question, - Ask of Apollo here in Branch[)i]dae. + Ask of Apollo here in Branch[)i]dæ. "Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian, - Has sought in Cyme refuge and protection; + Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection; The Persian bids us yield--our hearts bid shield him, What does Apollo bid his servants do?" The Oracle replied--and straight returning - To Cyme ran the messengers fleet-footed, + To Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed, Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer: "Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will". - So when the men of Cyme heard the answer, + So when the men of Cymé heard the answer, They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant, But Aristodicus, loved of the city, Withstood their will,--and thus to them spake he. "Your messengers have lied--they have made merry In their own homes, they have not sought Apollo; - The god in Branch[)i]dae had never counselled + The god in Branch[)i]dæ had never counselled That we should yield our suppliant to the foe. "Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing, Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer, - _I_ would not yield the man who trusted Cyme-- + _I_ would not yield the man who trusted Cymé-- What--is the god of baser stuff than I?" So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens, - A second time to Branch[)i]dae they journeyed, + A second time to Branch[)i]dæ they journeyed, A second time beneath the purple shadows Passed through the laurels to Apollo's fane. - Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cyme + Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cymé Comes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia-- And she demands him, but we dare not yield him, Until we know what thou wouldst have us do. @@ -2281,7 +2248,7 @@ APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYME. Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to render Him who has come, a suppliant, to our gates." - So the Cymean spake. Apollo answered: + So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered: "Yield ye your suppliant--yield him to the Persians". Then Aristodicus bethought him further, And in this fashion craftily he wrought. @@ -2296,7 +2263,7 @@ APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYME. And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur, Rose in sweet chorus to the great god's ears. - Now round the temple went the men of Cyme, + Now round the temple went the men of Cymé, Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows, And a wild wind went moaning through the branches. The sunlight died, and all the sky grew gray. @@ -2318,7 +2285,7 @@ APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYME. Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered: "Lord, is it thus _thy_ suppliants are succoured, - What time thy Oracle bids men of Cyme + What time thy Oracle bids men of Cymé To yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?" Then on the hush of awful expectation @@ -2704,12 +2671,12 @@ THE BALLAD OF SIR HUGH. Sir Hugh passed down the turret stair, We held our breath in awe ... May my tongue wither ere it tell - The damned work we saw! + The damnèd work we saw! * * * * * When all was done, a shout went up - From that accursed crew, + From that accursèd crew, And from the chapel's silence dim Came forth in haste Sir Hugh. @@ -2810,7 +2777,7 @@ APRIL. The sun shines on the golden dome, The primroses in baskets come, With daffodils in sheaves, to cheer - The town with dreams of the crowned year. + The town with dreams of the crownèd year. We're both polite and insincere: Though neither says it, yet--at heart-- We mean to part. @@ -3185,14 +3152,14 @@ RUCKINGE CHURCH. The past's peace, and the future's faith profound. "_Ave Maria, - Gratia plena, + Gratiâ plena, Dominus tecum: Benedicta tu In mulieribus, Et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, Ora pro nobis peccatoribus - Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen._" + Nunc et in horâ mortis nostræ. Amen._" And all the soul of all the past was here-- A human heart that loved the great and good, @@ -3570,7 +3537,7 @@ INDEX. PAGE - APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYME, 98 + APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ, 98 APRIL, 123 BABY SONG, 49 @@ -3614,7 +3581,7 @@ INDEX. LOVE SONG, 89 LULLABY, 51 - MESALLIANCE, A, 96 + MÉSALLIANCE, A, 96 MILL, THE, 93 MODERN JUDAS, THE, 7 MORNING, 67 @@ -3657,361 +3624,4 @@ INDEX. 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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: Lays and legends - (Second Series) - -Author: Edith Nesbit - -Release Date: December 23, 2012 [EBook #41693] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAYS AND LEGENDS *** - - - - -Produced by Mary Akers, Suzanne Shell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - -Transcriber's note: - The original hyphenation, spelling, and use of accented - words has been retained. Italic text has been marked - with _underscores_. The word Branch[)i]dæ" in the poem - "Apollo and the Men of Cyme" occurs three times. The [)i] - represents the letter "i" with a breve accent above it. - - -[Illustration] - - - - - LAYS AND LEGENDS - - (SECOND SERIES) - - - BY - - E. NESBIT - - (_Mrs. Hubert Bland_) - - AUTHOR OF "LAYS AND LEGENDS," "LEAVES OF LIFE," - ETC. - - - _WITH PORTRAIT_ - - - LONDON - LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. - AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET - 1892 - - [_All Rights reserved_] - - - - -My thanks are due to the Editors and Publishers who have kindly -allowed me to use here verses written for them. - - - - - TO - - ALICE HOATSON, - - HELEN MACKLIN, - - AND - - CHARLOTTE WILSON, - - In token of indebtment. - - - - -ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS - - - - -BRIDAL BALLAD. - - - "Come, fill me flagons full and fair - Of red wine and of white, - And, maidens mine, my bower prepare-- - It is my wedding night. - - "And braid my hair with jewels bright, - And make me fair and fine-- - This is the day that brings the night - When my desire is mine." - - They decked her bower with roses blown, - With rushes strewed the floor, - And sewed more jewels on her gown - Than ever she wore before. - - She wore two roses in her face, - Two jewels in her e'en, - Her hair was crowned with sunset rays, - Her brows shone white between. - - "Tapers at the bed's foot," she saith, - "Two tapers at the head!" - It seemed more like the bed of death - Than like a bridal bed. - - He came; he took her hands in his, - He kissed her on the face; - "There is more heaven in thy kiss - Than in our Lady's grace". - - He kissed her once, he kissed her twice, - He kissed her three times o'er; - He kissed her brow, he kissed her eyes, - He kissed her mouth's red flower. - - "O Love, what is it ails thy knight? - I sicken and I pine; - Is it the red wine or the white, - Or that sweet kiss of thine?" - - "No kiss, no wine or white or red, - Can make such sickness be, - Lie down and die on thy bride-bed - For I have poisoned thee. - - "And though the curse of saints and men - Upon me for it be, - I would it were to do again - Since thou wert false to me. - - "Thou shouldst have loved or one or none, - Nor she nor I loved twain, - But we are twain thou hast undone, - And therefore art thou slain. - - "And when before my God I stand - With no base flesh between, - I shall hold up this guilty hand - And He shall judge it clean." - - He fell across the bridal bed - Between the tapers pale: - "I first shall see our God," he said, - "And I will tell thy tale. - - "And if God judge thee as I do, - Then art thou justified. - I loved thee and I was not true, - And that was why I died. - - "If I could judge thee, thou shouldst be - First of the saints on high; - But ah, I fear God loveth thee - Not half so dear as I!" - - - - -THE GHOST. - - - The year fades, as the west wind sighs, - And droops in many-coloured ways, - But your soft presence never dies - From out the pathway of my days. - - The spring is where you are, but still - You from your heaven to me can bring - Sweet dreams and flowers enough to fill - A thousand empty worlds with Spring. - - I walk the wet and leafless woods; - Your shadow ever goes before - And paints the russet solitudes - With colours Summer never wore. - - I sit beside my lonely fire; - The ghostly twilight brings your face - And lights with memory and desire - My desolated dwelling-place. - - Among my books I feel your hand - That turns the page just past my sight, - Sometimes behind my chair you stand - And read the foolish rhymes I write. - - The old piano's keys I press - In random chords until I hear - Your voice, your rustling silken dress, - And smell the violets that you wear. - - I do not weep now any more, - I think I hardly even sigh; - I would not have you think I bore - The kind of wound of which men die. - - Believe that smooth content has grown - Over the ghastly grave of pain-- - "Content!" ... O lips, that were my own, - That I shall never kiss again! - - - - -THE MODERN JUDAS. - - - For what wilt thou sell thy Lord? - "For certain pieces of silver, since wealth buys the world's - good word." - But the world's word, how canst thou hear it, while thy brothers - cry scorn on thy name? - And how shall thy bargain content thee, when thy brothers shall - clothe thee with shame? - - For what shall thy brother be sold? - "For the rosy garland of pleasure, and the coveted crown of gold." - But thy soul will turn them to thorns, and to heaviness binding - thy head, - While women are dying of shame, and children are crying for bread. - - For what wilt thou sell thy soul? - "For the world." And what shall it profit, when thou shalt have - gained the whole? - What profit the things thou hast, if the thing thou art be so mean? - Wilt thou fill, with the husks of having, the void of the - might-have-been? - - "But, when my soul shall be gone, - No more shall I fail to profit by all the deeds I have done! - And wealth and the world and pleasure shall sing sweet songs - in my ear - When the stupid soul is silenced, which never would let me hear. - - "And if a void there should be - I shall not feel it or know it; it will be nothing to me!" - It will be nothing to thee, and thou shalt be nothing to men - But a ghost whose treasure is lost, and who shall not find it - again. - - "But I shall have pleasure and praise!" - Praise shall not pleasure thee then, nor pleasure laugh in thy - days: - For as colour is not, without light, so happiness is not, without - Thy Brother, the Lord whom thou soldest--and the soul that thou hast - cast out! - - - - -THE SOUL TO THE IDEAL. - - - I will not hear thy music sweet! - If I should listen, then I know - I should no more know friend from foe, - But follow thy capricious feet-- - Thy wings, than mine so much more fleet-- - I will not go! - - I will not go away! Away - From reeds and pool why should I go - To where sun burns, and hot winds blow? - Here sleeps cool twilight all the day; - Do I not love thy tune? No, no! - I will not say! - - I will not say I love thy tune; - I do not know if so it be; - It surely is enough for me - To know I love cool rest at noon, - Spread thy bright wings--ah, go--go soon! - I will not see! - - I will not see thy gleaming wings, - I will not hear thy music clear. - It is not love I feel, but fear; - I love the song the marsh-frog sings, - But thine, which after-sorrow brings, - I will not hear! - - - - -A DEATH-BED. - -_A man of like passions with ourselves._ - - - It is too late, too late! - The wine is spilled, the altar violate; - Now all the foolish virtues of the past-- - Its joys that could not last, - Its flowers that had to fade, - Its bliss so long delayed, - Its sun so soon o'ercast, - Its faith so soon betrayed, - Its prayers so madly prayed, - Its wildly-fought-for right, - Its dear renounced delight, - Its passions and its pain-- - All these stand gray about - My bed, like ghosts from Paradise shut out, - And I, in torment, lying here alone, - See what myself have done-- - How all good things were butchered, one by one. - Not one of these but life has fouled its name, - Blotted it out with sin and loss and shame-- - Until my whole life's striving is made vain. - It is too late, too late! - My house is left unto me desolate. - - Yet what if here, - Through this despair too dark for dreams of fear, - Through the last bitterness of the last vain tear, - One saw a face-- - Human--not turned away from man's disgrace-- - A face divinely dear-- - A head that had a crown of thorns to wear; - If there should come a hand - Drawing this tired head to a place of rest - On a most loving breast; - And as one felt that one could almost bear - To tell the whole long sickening trivial tale - Of how one came so utterly to fail - Of all one once knew that one might attain-- - If one should feel consoling arms about, - Shutting one in, shutting the black past out-- - Should feel the tears that washed one clean again, - And turn, made dumb with love and shame, to hear: - "My child, my child, do I not understand?" - - - - -THE LOST SOUL AND THE SAVED. - - -I. - - Oh, rapture of infinite peace! - Many are weeping without; - From the lost crowd of these, - God, Thou hast lifted me out! - - Though strong be the devil's net, - Thy grace, O God, is more strong; - I never was tempted yet - To even the edge of wrong. - - The world never fired my brain, - The flesh never moved my heart-- - Thou hast spared me the strife and strain, - The struggle and sorrow and smart. - - The dreams that never were deeds, - The thought that shines not in word, - The struggle that never succeeds-- - Thou hast saved me from these, O Lord! - - I stood in my humble place - While those who aimed high fell low; - Oh the glorious gift of Thy grace - The souls of Thy saved ones know! - - And yet if in heaven at last, - When all is won and is well, - Dear hands stretch out from the past, - Dear voices call me from hell-- - - My love whom I long for yet, - My little one gone astray!-- - No; God will make me forget - In His own wise wonderful way. - - Oh the infinite marvels of grace, - Oh the great atonement's cost! - Lifting my soul above - Those other souls that are lost! - - Mine are the harp and throne, - Theirs is the outer night. - This, my God, Thou has done, - And all that Thou dost is right! - - -II. - - Lost as I am--degraded, foul, polluted, - Sunk in deep sloughs of failure and of sin, - Yet is my hell by God's great grace commuted, - For what I lose the others yet may win. - - I--sport of flesh and fate--in all my living - Met the world's laughter and the Christian's frown, - Ever the spirit fiercely vainly striving, - Ever the flesh, triumphant, laughed it down. - - Down, lower still, but ever battling vainly, - Dying to win, yet living to be lost, - My soul through depths where all its guilt showed plainly - Into the chaos of despair was tossed. - - Yet not despair. I see far off a splendour; - Here from my hell I see a heaven on high - For those brave men whom earth could never render - Cowards as foul and beasts as base as I! - - Hell is not hell lit by such consolation, - Heaven were not heaven that lacked a thought like this-- - That, though my soul may never see salvation, - God yet saves all these other souls of His! - - The waves of death come faster, faster, faster; - Christ, ere I perish, hear my heart's last word-- - It was not I denied my Lord and Master; - The flesh denied Thee, not the spirit, Lord. - - And God be praised that other men are wearing - The white, white flower I trampled as I trod; - That all fail not, that all are not despairing, - That all are not as I, I thank Thee, God! - - - - -AT THE PRISON GATE. - -_And underneath us are the everlasting arms._ - - - Once by a foreign prison gate, - Deep in the gloom of frowning stone, - I saw a woman, desolate, - Sitting alone; - Immeasurable pain enwound - Infinite anguish lapped her round, - As the sea laps some sunken shore - Where flowers will blossom never more. - - Despair sat shrined in her dry eyes-- - Her heart, I thought, in blood must weep - For hopes that never more can rise - From their death-sleep; - And round her hovered phantoms gray-- - Ghosts of delight dead many a day; - And all the thorns of life seemed wed - In one sharp crown about her head. - - And all the poor world's aching heart - Beat there, I thought, and could not break. - Oh! to be strong to bear the smart-- - The vast heart-ache! - Then through my soul a clear light shone; - What I would do, my Lord has done; - He bore the whole world's crown of thorn-- - For her sake, too, that crown was worn! - - - - -THE DEVIL'S DUE. - - A priest tells how, in his youth, a church was built by the - free labour of love--as was men's wont in those days; and how - the stone and wood were paid for by one who had grown rich on - usury and the pillage of the poor--and of what chanced - thereafter. - - - Arsenius, priest of God, I tell, - For warning in your younger ears, - Humbly and plainly what befel - That year--gone by a many years-- - When Veraignes church was built. Ah! then - Brave churches grew 'neath hands of men: - We see not now their like again. - - We built it on the green hill-side - That leans its bosom o'er the town, - So that its presence, sanctified, - Might ever on our lives look down. - We built; and those who built not, they - Brought us their blessing day by day, - And lingered to rejoice and pray. - - For years the masons toiled, for years - The craftsmen wrought till they had made - A church we scarce could see for tears-- - Its fairness made our love afraid. - Its clear-cut cream-white tracery - Stood out against the deep bright sky - Like good deeds 'gainst eternity. - - In the deep roof each separate beam - Had its own garland--ivy, vine,-- - Giving to man the carver's dream, - In sight of men a certain sign-- - And all day long the workers plied. - "The church shall finished be," we cried, - "And consecrate by Easter-tide." - - Our church! It was so fair, so dear, - So fit a church to praise God in! - It had such show of carven gear, - Such chiselled work, without, within! - Such marble for the steps and floor, - Such window-jewels and such store - Of gold and gems the altar bore! - - Each stone by loving hands was hewn, - By loving hands each beam was sawn; - The hammers made a merry tune - In winter dusk and summer dawn. - Love built the house, but gold had paid - For that wherewith the house was made. - "Would love had given all!" we said. - - But poor in all save love were we, - And he was poor in all save gold - Who gave the gold. By usury - Were gained his riches manifold. - We knew that? If we knew, we thought - 'Tis good if men do good in aught, - And by good works may heaven be bought! - - At last the echo died in air - Of the last stroke. The silence then - Passed in to fill the church, left bare - Of the loving voice of Christian men. - The silence saddened all the sun, - So gladly was our work begun. - Now all that happy work was done. - - Did any voices in the night - Call through those arches? Were there wings - That swept between the pillars white-- - Wide pinions of unvisioned things? - The priests who watched the relics heard - Wing-whispers--not of bat or bird-- - And moan of inarticulate word. - - Then sunlight, morning, and sweet air - Adorned our church, and there were borne - Great sheaves of boughs of blossoms fair - To grace the consecration morn. - Then round our church trooped knight and dame; - Within, alone, the bishop came, - And the twelve candles leaped to flame. - - Then round our church the bishop went - With all his priests--a brave array. - There was no sign nor portent sent - As, glad at heart, he went his way, - Sprinkling the holy water round - Three times on walls and crowd and ground - Within the churchyard's sacred bound. - - Then--but ye know the function's scope - At consecration--all the show - Of torch and incense, stole and cope; - And how the acolytes do go - Before the bishop--how they bear - The lighted tapers, flaming fair, - Blown back by the sweet wavering air. - - The bishop, knocking at the door, - The deacon answering from within, - "Lift up your heads, ye gates, be sure - The King of Glory shall come in"-- - The bishop passed in with the choir. - Thank God for this--our soul's desire, - Our altar, meet for heaven's fire! - - The bishop, kneeling in his place - Where our bright windows made day dim, - With all heaven's glory in his face, - Began the consecration hymn: - "_Veni_," he sang, in clear strong tone. - Then--on the instant--song was done, - Its very echo scattered--gone! - - For, as the bishop's voice rang clear, - Another voice rang clearer still-- - A voice wherein the soul could hear - The discord of unmeasured ill-- - And sudden breathless silence fell - On all the church. And I wot well - There are such silences in hell. - - Taper and torch died down--went out-- - And all our church grew dark and cold, - And deathly odours crept about, - And chill, as of the churchyard mould; - And every flower drooped its head, - And all the rose's leaves were shed, - And all the lilies dropped down dead. - - There, in the bishop's chair, we saw-- - How can I tell you? Memories shrink - To mix anew the cup of awe - We shuddering mortals had to drink. - What was it? There! The shape that stood - Before the altar and the rood-- - It was not human flesh and blood! - - A light more bright than any sun, - A shade more dark than any night, - A shape that human shape was none, - A cloud, a sense of wingëd might, - And, like an infernal trumpet sound, - Rang through the church's hush profound - A voice. We listened horror-bound. - - "_Venio!_ Cease, cease to consecrate! - Love built the church, but it is mine! - 'Tis built of stone hewn out by hate, - Cemented by man's blood divine. - Whence came the gold that paid for this? - From pillage of the poor, I wis-- - That gold was mine, and mine this is! - - "Your King has cursed the usurer's gold, - He gives it to me for my fee! - Your church is builded, but behold - Your church is fair for me--for me! - Who robs the poor to me is given; - Impenitent and unforgiven, - His church is built for hell, not heaven!" - - Then, as we gazed, the face grew clear, - And all men stood as turned to stone; - Each man beheld through dews of fear - A face--his own--yet not his own; - His own face, darkened, lost, debased, - With hell's own signet stamped and traced, - And all the God in it effaced. - - A crash like thunder shook the walls, - A flame like lightning shot them through: - "Fly, fly before the judgment falls, - And all the stones be fallen on you!" - And as we fled we saw bright gleams - Of fire leap out 'mid joists and beams. - Our church! Oh, love--oh, hopes--oh, dreams! - - We stood without--a pallid throng-- - And as the flame leaped high and higher, - Shrill winds we heard that rushed along - And fanned the transports of the fire. - The sky grew black; against the sky - The blue and scarlet flames leaped high, - And cries as of lost souls wailed by. - - The church in glowing vesture stood, - The lead ran down as it were wax, - The great stones cracked and burned like wood, - The wood caught fire and flamed like flax: - A horrid chequered light and shade, - By smoke and flame alternate made, - Upon men's upturned faces played. - - Down crashed the walls. Our lovely spire-- - A blackened ruin--fell and lay. - The very earth about caught fire, - And flame-tongues licked along the clay. - The fire did neither stay nor spare - Till the foundations were laid bare - To the hot, sickened, smoke-filled air. - - There in the sight of men it lay, - Our church that we had made so fair! - A heap of ashes white and gray, - With sparks still gleaming here and there. - The sun came out again, and shone - On all our loving work undone-- - Our church destroyed, our labour gone! - - Gone? Is it gone? God knows it, no! - The hands that builded built aright: - The men who loved and laboured so, - Their church is built in heaven's height! - In every stone a glittering gem, - Gold in the gold Jerusalem-- - The church their love built waits for them. - - - - -LOVE IN JUNE. - - - Through the glowing meadows aflame - With buttercup gold I came - To the green, still heart of the wood. - A wood-pigeon cooed and cooed, - The hazel-stems grew close, - Like leaves round the heart of a rose, - Round the still, green nest that I chose. - - Then I gathered the bracken that grew - In a fairy forest all round, - And I laid it in heaps on the ground - With grass and blossoms and leaves. - I gathered the summer in sheaves, - And pale, rare roses a few, - And spread out a carpet meet - For the touch of my lady's feet. - - I waited; the wood was still; - Only one little brown bird - On a hazel swayed and stirred - With the impulse of his song; - And I waited, and time was long. - - Then I heard a step on the grass - In the path where the others pass, - And a voice like a voice in a dream; - And I saw a glory, a gleam, - A flash of white through the green - (Her arms and her gown are white); - And the summer sighed her name - As she and the sunshine came: - O sun and blue sky and delight! - O eyes and lips of my queen! - - What was done there or said - No one will ever know, - For nobody saw or heard - Save one little, brown, bright bird - Who swayed on a twig overhead, - And he will never betray; - But all who pass by that way, - As they near the spot where we lay - Among the blossoms and grass - Where the leaves and the ferns lay thick - (Though it lies out of reach, out of sight - Of the path where the world may pass), - Feel their heart and their pulse beat quick - In a measure that rhymes with the leaves and flowers, - That rhymes with the summer and sun, - With the lover to win or won, - With the wild-flower crown of delight, - The crown of love that was ours. - - - - -THE GARDEN. - - - My garden was lovely to see, - For all things fair, - Sweet flowers and blossoms rare, - I had planted there. - There were pinks and lilies and stocks, - Sweet gray and white stocks, and rose and rue, - And clematis white and blue, - And pansies and daisies and phlox. - And the lawn was trim, and the trees were shady, - And all things were ready to greet my lady - On the Life's-love-crowning day - When she should come - To her lover's home, - To give herself to me. - - I saw the red of the roses-- - The royal roses that bloomed for her sake. - "They shall lie," I said, "where my heart's hopes lie: - They shall droop on her heart and die." - I dreamed in the orchard-closes: - "'Tis here we will walk in the July days, - When the paths and the lawn are ablaze; - We will walk here, and look at our life's great bliss: - And thank God for this". - - I leaned where the jasmine white - Wreathed all my window round: - "Here we will lean, - I and my queen, - And look out on the broad moonlight. - For there shall be moonlight--bright-- - On my wedding-night." - - She never saw the flowers - That were hers from their first sweet hours. - The roses, the pinks, and the dark heartsease - Died in my garden, ungathered, forlorn. - Only the jasmine, the lilies, the white, white rose, - They were gathered--to honour and sorrow born. - They lay round her, touched her close. - The jasmine stars--white stars, that about our window their faint - light shed, - Lay round her head. - And the white, white roses lay on her breast, - And a long, white lily lay in her hand. - - They lie by her--rest with her rest; - But I, unhonoured, unblest-- - I stand outside, - In the ruined garden solitude-- - Where she never stood-- - On the trim green sod - Which she never trod; - And the red, red roses grow and blow,-- - As if any one cared - How they fared! - And the gate of Eden is shut; and I stand - And see the Angel with flaming sword-- - Life's pitiless Lord-- - And I know I never may pass. - Alas! alas! - O Rose! my rose! - I never may reach the place where she grows, - A rose in the garden of God. - - - - -PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES. - - - O God, let there be rain! - Rain, till this sky of gray - That covers us every day - Be utterly wept away, - Let there be rain, we pray, - Till the sky be washed blue again - Let there be rain! - - O God, let there be rain, - For the sky hangs heavy with pain, - And we, who walk upon earth, - We find our days not of worth; - None blesses the day of our birth, - We question of death's day in vain,-- - Let there be rain! - - O God, let there be rain - Till the full-fed earth complain. - Yea, though it sweep away - The seeds sown yesterday - And beat down the blossoms of May - And ruin the border gay: - In storm let this gray noon wane, - Let there be rain! - - O God, let there be rain - Till the rivers rise a-main! - Though the waters go over us quite - And cover us up from the light - And whelm us away in the night - And the flowers of our life be slain, - O God, let there be rain! - - O God, let there be rain, - Out of the gray sky, rain! - To wash the earth and to wash the sky - And the sick, sad souls of the folk who sigh - In the gray of a sordid satiety. - Open Thy flood-gates, O God most High, - And some day send us the sun again. - O God, let there be rain! - - - - -A GREAT INDUSTRIAL CENTRE. - - - Squalid street after squalid street, - Endless rows of them, each the same, - Black dust under your weary feet, - Dust upon every face you meet, - Dust in their hearts, too,--or so it seems-- - Dust in the place of dreams. - - Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives, - Here men hardly have heard her name. - Work is the end and aim of their lives-- - Work, work, work! for their children and wives; - Work for a life which, when it is won, - Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun! - - Work--one dark and incessant round - In black dull workshops, out of the light; - Work that others' ease may abound, - Work that delight for them may be found, - Work without hope, without pause, without peace, - That only in death can cease. - - Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun, - What of these men, at work in the night? - God will ask you what you have done; - Their lives be required of you--every one-- - Ye, who were glad and who liked life well, - While they did your work--in hell! - - - - -LONDON'S VOICES - -SPEAK TO TWO SOULS--WHO THUS REPLY: - - -I. - - In all my work, in all the children's play, - I hear the ceaseless hum of London near; - It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear - Its never-ending wail, by night and day. - So many millions--is it vain to pray - That all may win such peace as I have here, - With books, and work, and little children dear?-- - That flowers like mine may grow along their way? - - Through all my happy life I hear the cry, - The exceeding bitter cry of human pain, - And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by. - I can do nothing--even hope is vain - That the bright light of peace and purity - In those lost souls may ever shine again! - - -II. - - 'Mid pine woods' whisper and the hum of bees - I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood: - "Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good. - Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!" - I left the mill, the meadows and the trees, - And came to do the little best I could - For these, God's poor; and, oh, my God, I would - I had a thousand lives to give for these! - - What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong? - Yet, when the voice said, "Come!" how could I stay? - The foe is mighty, and the battle long - (And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May), - And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong; - But, while these fight, I dare not turn away. - - - - -THE SICK JOURNALIST. - - - Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain! - One's heart and one's eyes on fire, - And never a spark in one's brain. - The stupid paper and ink, - That might be turned into gold, - Lie here unused - Since one's brain refused - To do its tricks--as of old. - One can suffer still, indeed, - But one cannot think any more. - There's no fire in the grate, - No food on the plate, - And the East-wind shrieks through the door. - The sunshine grins in the street: - It used to cheer me like wine, - Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat; - And the children are crying for bread to eat - And I cannot write a line! - - Molly, my pet--don't cry, - Father can't write if you do-- - And anyhow, if you only knew, - It's hard enough as it is. - There, give old daddy a kiss, - And cuddle down on the floor; - We'll have some dinner by-and-by. - Now, fool, try! Try once more! - Hold your head tight in your hands, - Bring your will to bear! - The children are starving--your little ones-- - While you sit fooling there. - Beth, with her golden hair; - Moll, with her rough, brown head-- - Here they are--see! - Against your knee, - Waiting there to be fed!-- - I cannot bear their eyes. - Their soft little kisses burn-- - They will cry again - In vain, in vain, - For the food that I cannot earn. - - If I could only write - Just a dozen pages or so - On "The Prospects of Trade," or "The Irish Question," or "Why are - Wages so Low?"-- - The printers are waiting for copy now, - I've had my next week's screw, - There'll be nothing more till I've written something, - Oh, God! what am I to do? - If I could only write! - The paper glares up white - Like the cursed white of the heavy stone - Under which _she_ lies alone; - And the ink is black like death, - And the room and the window are black. - Molly, Molly--the sun's gone out, - Cannot you fetch it back? - Did I frighten my little ones? - Never mind, daddy dropped asleep-- - Cuddle down closely, creep - Close to his knee - And daddy will see - If he can't do his writing. Vain! - I shall never write again! - Oh, God! was it like a love divine - To make their lives hang on my pen - When I cannot write a line? - - - - -TWO LULLABIES. - - -I. - - Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear, - Thee shall no want or pain come near; - Sleep softly on thy downy nest, - Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast. - - Thy cradle is all silken lined, - Wrought roses on thy curtains twined, - Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread, - With soft white pillows for thy head. - - Much gold those little hands shall hold, - And wealth about thy life shall fold, - And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife, - Nor the low ills of common life. - - These little feet shall never tread - Except on paths soft-carpeted, - And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine - To deck that darling head of thine. - - Thou shalt have overflowing measure - Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure, - And thou shalt be right charitable - With all the crumbs that leave thy table. - - And thou shalt praise God every day - For His good gifts that come thy way, - And again thank Him, and again, - That thou art not as other men. - - For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall-- - 'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all; - And when all's spent that life has given, - Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven. - - -II. - - Sleep, little baby, sleep, - Though the wind is cruel and cold, - And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in - Is old and ragged and thin; - And my hand is too frozen to hold-- - Yet my bosom's still warm--so creep - Close to thy mother, and sleep! - - Sleep, little baby, and rest, - Though we wander alone through the night, - And there is no food for me, - No shelter for me and thee. - Through the windows red fires shine bright, - And tables show, heaped with the best-- - But there's naught for us there--so rest. - - Sleep, you poor little thing! - Just as pretty and dear - As any fine lady's child. - Oh, but my heart grows wild!-- - Is it worth while to stay here? - What good thing from life will spring - For you--you poor little thing? - - Sleep, you poor little thing! - Mine, my treasure, my own-- - I clasp you, I hold you close, - My darling, my bird, my rose! - Rich mothers have hearts like stone, - Or else some help they would bring - To you--you poor little thing! - - Sleep, little baby, sleep-- - If some good, rich mother would take - My dear, I would kiss thee, and then - Never come near thee again-- - Not though my heart should break! - I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake-- - For the river is dark and deep, - And gives sleep, little baby, sleep! - - - - -BABY SONG. - - -I. - - Sleep, baby, sleep! - The greeny glow-worms creep, - The pigeons to their cote are gone - And, to their fold, the sheep. - - Rest, baby, rest! - The sun sinks in the west, - The daisies all have gone to sleep, - The birds are in the nest. - - Sleep, baby, sleep! - The sky grows dark and deep, - The stars watch over all the world, - God's angels guard thy sleep. - - -II. - - Wake, baby dear! - The good, glad morning's here; - The dove is cooing soft and low, - The lark sings loud and clear. - - Wake, baby, wake! - Long since the day did break, - The daisy buds are all uncurled, - The sun laughs in the lake. - - Wake, baby dear! - Thy mother's waiting near, - And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun, - And all things bright and dear. - - - - -LULLABY. - - - Sleep, my darling; mother will sing - Soft low songs to her little king, - Nobody else must listen or hear - The pretty secrets I tell my dear. - - Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may-- - Sorrow dawns with the dawning day, - Sleep, my baby, sleep, my dear, - Soon enough will the day be here. - - Lie here quiet on mother's arm, - Safe from harm; - Nestled closely to mother's breast, - Sleep and rest! - - Mother feels your breath's soft stir - Close to her; - Mother holds you, clasps you tight, - All the night. - - When the little Jesus lay - On the manger's hay, - He was a Baby, if tales tell true, - Just like you. - - And He had no crown to wear - But His bright hair; - And such kisses as I give you - He had too. - - Mary never loved her Son - More than I love my little one; - And her Baby never smiled - More divinely than my little child. - - Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may-- - Sorrow dawns with the dawning day; - Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear, - All too soon will the day be here. - - - - -AN EAST-END TRAGEDY. - - - You said that you would never wed: - "My love, my life's one work lie here, - 'Mid crowded alleys, dank and drear, - Where all life's flower-petals are shed!" - You said. - - I heard: I bowed to what I heard; - I bowed my head and worshipped you-- - So brave, so beautiful, so true-- - How could I doubt a single word - I heard? - - My sweet, white lily! All the street, - As you passed by, grew clean again; - The fallen, blackened souls of men - Looked heavenward when men heard your feet, - My sweet. - - But one came, dared to woo, and won-- - He heard your vows, and laughed at them; - He plucked my lily from its stem-- - Sacred to all men under sun, - But one! - - - - -HERE AND THERE. - - - Ah me, how hot and weary here in town - The days crawl by! - How otherwise they go my heart records, - Where the marsh meadows lie - And white sheep crop the grass, and seagulls sail - Between the lovely earth and lovely sky. - - Here the sun grins along the dusty street - Beneath pale skies: - Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet, - Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries-- - Through these I hear the song that the sea sings - To the far meadowlands of Paradise. - - O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn-- - O long sweet days-- - O changing, unchanged skies, straight dykes all gay - With sedge and water mace-- - O fair marsh land desirable and dear-- - How far from you lie my life's weary ways! - - Yet in my darkest night there shines a star - More fair than day; - There is a flower that blossoms sweet and white - In the sad city way. - That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam, - That star shines only when the skies are gray. - - For here fair peace and passionate pleasure wane - Before the light - Of radiant dreams that make our lives worth life, - And turn to noon our night: - We fight for freedom and the souls of men-- - Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight! - - - - -MOTHER. - - - A little room with scanty grace - Of drapery or ordered ease; - White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards,-- - But there's a hum of summer bees, - The sun sends through the quiet place - The scent that honeysuckle hoards. - - Outside, the little garden glows - With sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright; - Beyond lie meadow, lane, and wood - Where trail the briony and wild rose, - And where grow blossoms of delight - In an inviolate solitude. - - Through that green world there blows an air - That cools my forehead even here - In this sad city's riotous roar-- - And from that room my ears can hear - Tears and the echo of a prayer, - And the world's voice is heard no more. - - - - -A BALLAD OF CANTERBURY. - - - Across the grim, gray, northern sea - The Danish warships went, - Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty men - On blood and plunder bent; - And they landed on a smiling land-- - The garden-land of Kent. - - They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn, - They set the ricks aflame; - They slew the men with axe and sword, - They slew the maids with shame; - Until, to Canterbury town, - Made mad with blood, they came. - - Archbishop Alphege walked the wall - And looked down on the foe. - "Now fly, my lord!" his monks implored, - "While yet a man may go!" - "Shame on you, monks of mine," he cried, - "To shame your bishop so! - - "What, would you have the shepherd flee, - Like any hireling knave? - What, leave my church, my poor--God's poor, - To a dark and prayerless grave? - No! by the body of my Lord, - _My_ skin I will not save!" - - And when men heard his true, strong word, - They bore them as men should. - For twenty nights and twenty days - The foemen they withstood, - And, day and night, shone tapers bright, - And incense veiled the rood. - - The warriors manned the walls without, - The monks prayed on within, - Till Satan, wroth to see how prayer - And valour fared to win, - Whispered a traitor, who stole out - And let the foemen in. - - Then through the quiet church there ran - A sudden breath of fear; - The monks made haste to bar the door, - And hide the golden gear; - And to their lord once more they cried, - "Hide, hide! the foe is here!" - - Through all the church's windows showed - The sudden laugh of flame; - Along the street went trampling feet, - And through the smoke there came - The voice of women, calling shrill - Upon the Saviour's name. - - And "Hide! oh, hide!" the monks all cried, - "Nor meet such foes as these!" - "Be still," he said, "hide if ye will, - Live on, and take your ease! - By my Lord's death, _my_ latest breath, - Like His, shall speak of peace!" - - He strode along the dusky aisle, - And flung the church doors wide; - Bright armour shone, and blazing homes - Lit up the world outside, - And in the streets reeled to and fro - A bloody human tide. - - The mailed barbarians laughed aloud - To see the brave blood flow; - They trampled on the breast and hair - Of girls their swords laid low, - And on the points of reeking spears - Tossed babies to and fro. - - Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamed - Against the dark red tide. - "Forbear, your cup of guilt is full! - Your sins are red," he cried; - "Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whom - The King of Heaven died!" - - Drunken with blood and lust of fight, - Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane. - "Stand thou and see us shear thy sheep - Before thy foolish fane! - Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep, - That thou mayst know their pain!" - - He stood, and saw his monks all slain; - The altar steps ran red; - In horrid heaps men lay about, - The dying with the dead; - And the east brightened, and the sky - Grew rosy overhead. - - Then from the church a tiny puff - Of smoke rose 'gainst the sky, - Out broke the fire, and flame on flame - Leaped palely out on high, - Till but the church's walls were left - For men to know it by. - - And when the sweet sun laughed again - O'er fields and furrows brown, - The brave archbishop hid his eyes, - Until the tears dropped down - On the charred blackness of the wreck - Of Canterbury town. - - * * * * * - - "Now, Saxon shepherd, send a word - Unto thy timid sheep, - And bid them greaten up their hearts, - And to our feet dare creep, - And bring a ransom here which we, - Instead of thee, may keep!" - - Archbishop Alphege stood alone, - Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed; - Loaded with chains, with aching heart, - And wounded in the side; - And in his hour of utmost pain - Thus to the Dane replied: - - "Ye men of blood, my blood shall flow - Before this thing shall be; - If I be held till ransom come, - I never shall be free; - For by God's heart, God's poor shall never - Be robbed to ransom me!" - - They flung him in a dungeon dark, - They heaped on him fresh chains, - They promised him unnumbered ills - And unimagined pains; - But still he said, "No English shall - Be taxed to profit Danes!" - - Six months passed by; no ransom came; - Their threats had almost ceased, - When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve, - A great and brutal feast; - And they sent and dragged the Christian man - Before the pagan beast. - - Down the great hall, from east to west, - The long rough tables ran; - They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer, - And then the drink began-- - At last in all that mighty hall - Was not one sober man. - - 'Twas then they brought the bishop forth - Before the drunken throng; - And "Send for ransom!" Thorkill cried, - "You are weak, and we are strong, - Or, by the hand of Thor, you die-- - We have borne with you too long!" - - The savage faces of the Danes - Leered redly all around; - The bones of beasts and empty cups - Lay heaped upon the ground, - And 'mid the crowd of howling wolves - The Christian saint stood bound. - - He looked in Thorkill's angry eyes - And knew what thing should be, - Then spake: "By God, who died to save - The poor, and me, and thee, - Thou art not strong enough--God's poor - Shall not be taxed for me!" - - "Gold! Give us gold, or die!" All round - The rising tumult ran. - "I give my life, I give God's word, - I give what gifts I can! - Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves? - Find you some other man!" - - And, as he spake, the whole crowd rose - With one fierce shout and yell; - They flung at him the bones of beasts, - They aimed right strong and well. - "O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!" - The bishop cried--and fell. - - * * * * * - - And so men call him "Saint," yet some - Deemed this an unearned crown, - Since 'twas not for the Church or faith - He laid his brave life down; - But otherwise men deemed of it - In Canterbury town. - - "Not for the Church he died," they said, - "Yet he our saint shall be, - Since for Christ's poor he gave his life, - So for Christ's self died he. - 'Who does it to the least of these, - Has done it unto Me!'" - - - - -MORNING. - - - It was about the time of day - When all the lawns with dew are wet; - I wandered down a steep wood-way, - And there I met with Margaret-- - Her hands were full of boughs of may. - - It was the merest chance we met: - I could not find a word to say, - And she was silent too--and yet - For hand and lips I dared to pray-- - And Margaret did not say me nay. - - Still on my lips her kisses stay, - Her eyes are like the violet; - Will time take this joy, too, away, - And ever teach me to forget-- - And to forget without regret-- - The dawn, the woods, and Margaret? - - - - -THE PRAYER. - - - They talk of money and of fame, - Would make a fortune or a name, - And gold and laurel both must be - For ever out of reach of me. - - And if I asked of God or fate - The gift most gracious and most great, - It would not be such gifts as these - That I should pray for on my knees. - - No, I should ask a greater grace-- - A little, quiet, firelit place, - Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where she - Should hold my baby on her knee. - - There she should sit and softly sing - The songs my heart hears echoing; - And I, made pure by joy, should come - Not all unworthy to our home. - - But if I dared to ask this grace, - Would not God laugh out in my face? - Since gold and fame indeed are His - To give, but, ah! not this, not this! - - - - -THE RIVER MAIDENS. - - - When autumn winds the river grieve, - And autumn mists about it creep, - The river maids all shivering leave - The stream, and singing, sink to sleep. - - The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snow - Alike are impotent to break - The spell of sleep that laid them low-- - The lovely ladies will not wake. - - But when the spring with lavish grace - Strews blossom on the river's breast, - Flowers fall upon each sleeping face - And break the deep and dreamless rest. - - Then with white arms that gleam afar - Through alders green and willows gray, - They rise where sedge and iris are, - And laugh beneath the blossomed May. - - They lie beside the river's edge, - By fields with buttercups a-blaze; - They whisper in the whispering sedge, - They say the spell the cuckoo says. - - And when they hear the nightingale - And see the blossomed hawthorn tree, - What time the orchard pink grows pale-- - The river maidens beckon me. - - Through all the city's smoke appear - White arms and golden hair a-gleam, - And through the noise of life I hear - "Come back--to the enchanted stream. - - "Come back to water, wood and weir! - See what the summer has to show! - Come back, come back--we too are here." - I hear them calling, and I go. - - But when once more my dripping oar - Makes music on the dreaming air, - I vainly look to stream and shore - For those white arms that lured me there. - - I listen to the singing weir, - I hold my breath where thrushes are, - But I can never, never hear - The voice that called me from afar. - - Only when spring grows fair next year, - Even where sin and cities be, - I know what voices I shall hear, - And what white arms will beckon me. - - - - -ON THE MEDWAY. - - -I. - - In summer evening, love, - We glide by grassy meadows, - Red sun is shining, - Day is declining, - Peace is around, above. - The poplar folds on high - Dark wings against the sky; - Through dreaming shadows - On we move, - Silently, you and I. - - And seaward still we row, - By sedge and bulrush sliding, - Breezes are sending - Ripples unending - Over the way we go. - Above the poplar tree - The moon sails white and free, - The boat goes gliding - Swift or slow, - But ever towards the sea. - - -II. - - Dip, drip, in and out - The rhythmic oars move slowly, - Mist-kissed, round about - The pale sky reddens wholly; - Chill, still, through waxing light - Mystical and tender, - Morn, born of starlit night, - Clothes herself with splendour. - - Rose-glows in eastern sky, - In the north faint flushes; - Boat, float idly by - Past the sedge and rushes! - Here, near the willow screen - River-gods bathe gaily; - White, bright against the green, - Poets see them daily. - - See, we, we alone - Greet this fresh sun-waking, - Too few, who hail day done, - See it in the making! - Sad, glad, we two see - Dawn the earth adorning, - Sigh: "Why can no noon be - Worth so gold a morning?" - - -III. - - It was beside a wide, white weir, - Where the foam dances in the sun, - The butterflies are fair this year, - And o'er the weir there hovered one-- - A far-off cottage curled its smoke - Against a blue and perfect sky; - There love triumphant laughed and woke, - And we were silent--you and I. - - Love stirred in sleep, reached out his hands, - And sighed, and smiled, and stood upright, - Then fell the careful cobweb bands - With which our will had bound his might; - His royal presence made us still, - Our will was water, matched with his; - Like water-spray he broke our will - And joined our lips in our first kiss. - - -IV. - - Look out! The stars are shining, - The dew makes gray the meadow! - The jasmine stars are twining - About your window bright; - The glow-worms green are creeping - On lawns all dressed in shadow, - The roses all are sleeping-- - Good-night, my heart, good-night! - - The nightingale is singing - Her song of ceaseless sorrow, - The night's slow feet pass, bringing - The day when I rejoice; - Belovèd beyond measure, - Our bridal is to-morrow-- - Oh, thrill the night with pleasure! - Oh, let me hear thy voice! - - From cloudy confines sliding, - The moon sails white and splendid; - No roses now are hiding - The glory of their grace; - So, if my song thou hearest-- - For thee begun and ended-- - Light up the night, my dearest, - And let me see thy face! - - -V. - - O gleaming, gliding river, - Where ash and alder lean, - Where sighing sedges shiver - By willows gray and green; - Upon thy shifting shadows - The yellow lily lies, - And all along thy meadows - Grow flowers of Paradise. - - The red-roofed village sleeping, - Soft sounds of farm and fold, - The dappled shadows creeping, - The sunset's rose and gold, - Twilight of mist and glamour, - Noontide of sunlit ease, - How, 'mid life's sordid clamour, - Our hearts will long for these! - - Yet, since at heart we treasure - These weirs and woods and fields, - This crown of lovely leisure - Which Kentish country yields-- - These, these are ours for ever, - Though dream-sweet days be done; - Through all our dreams our river - Will evermore flow on. - - -VI. - - When all is over, lay me down - Far from this dull and jaded town, - Not in a churchyard's ordered bound, - But in some wide green meadow-ground. - - No stone upon me! Above all - Let no cold railing's shadows fall - Across my rest. Dead, let me be - What no one may be living--free. - - Let no one mourning garments wear, - And if you love me, shed no tear; - Don't weight me with a clay-built heap, - But plant the daisies where I sleep. - - There is a certain field I know, - I met my dear there, years ago; - Perhaps, if you should speak them fair, - They'd let you lay her lover there. - - Laid there, perhaps my ears would hear - The ceaseless singing of the weir, - The soft wind sighing thro' the grass, - And hear the little children pass. - - Or, if my ears were stopped with clay - From all sweet sounds of night and day, - I should at least (so lay me there) - Sleep better there than anywhere! - - - - -THE BETROTHAL. - - - There is none anywhere - So beautiful as she nor half so dear; - My heart sings ever when she draweth near, - Because she is so good and sweet and fair. - - I may not be the one - To break the cloistered stillness of her life, - To teach her passion and love and grief and strife, - And lead her through the garden of the sun. - - For I am sad and wise; - I have no hopes, no dreams, no fancies--none; - Yet she has taught me that I am alone, - And what men mean who talk of Paradise. - - But, when her joybells ring, - I think, perhaps, that I shall hear and sigh - And wish the roses did not have to die, - And that the birds might never cease to sing. - - - - -A TRAGEDY. - - -I. - - Among his books he sits all day - To think and read and write; - He does not smell the new-mown hay, - The roses red and white. - - I walk among them all alone, - His silly, stupid wife; - The world seems tasteless, dead and done-- - An empty thing is life. - - At night his window casts a square - Of light upon the lawn; - I sometimes walk and watch it there - Until the chill of dawn. - - I have no brain to understand - The books he loves to read; - I only have a heart and hand - He does not seem to need. - - He calls me "Child"--lays on my hair - Thin fingers, cold and mild; - Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer, - I wish I were a child! - - And no one sees and no one knows - (He least would know or see) - That ere Love gathers next year's rose - Death will have gathered me; - - And on my grave will bindweed pink - And round-faced daisies grow; - _He_ still will read and write and think, - And never, never know! - - -II. - - It's lonely in my study here alone - Now you are gone; - I loved to see your white gown 'mid the flowers, - While, hours on hours, - I studied--toiled to weave a crown of fame - About your name. - - I liked to hear your sweet, low laughter ring; - To hear you sing - About the house while I sat reading here, - My child, my dear; - To know you glad with all the life-joys fair - I dared not share. - - I thought there would be time enough to show - My love, to throw - Some day with crowns of laurel at your feet - Love's roses sweet; - I thought I could taste love when fame was won-- - Now both are done! - - Thank God, your child-heart knew not how to miss - The passionate kiss - Which I dared never give, lest love should rise - Mighty, unwise, - And bind me, with my life-work incomplete, - Beside your feet. - - You never knew, you lived and were content; - My one chance went; - You died, my little one, and are at rest-- - And I, unblest, - Look at these broken fragments of my life, - My child, my wife. - - - - -LOVE. - - -I. - -_THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH FOR THE STAR._ - - The wide, white woods are still as death or sleep, - Silent with snow and sunshine and crisp air, - Save when the brief, keen, sudden breezes sweep - Through frozen fern-leaves rustling everywhere. - No leaves are here, nor buds for gathering, - But in her garden--risen from Summer's tomb - To bear the gospel of eternal Spring-- - The Christmas roses bloom. - - O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of days - Pure from all sordid soil and worldly stain, - Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways-- - Ah that such dreams should always be in vain! - We, too, in bitterest sorrow's wintry hour, - Too chill to let the redder roses blow, - We, too, had our delicious hidden flower - That blossomed in life's snow. - - O heart, if we again might hope to be - Pure as the snow or Christmas roses white! - If dreams and deeds might but be one to me, - And one to thee be duty and delight! - If that may ever be, one hand we know - Must beckon us along the way she goes, - The hand of her--as pure as any snow, - And sweet as any rose. - - -II. - -_WORSHIP._ - - I passed beneath the stately Norman portal, - I trod the stones that pilgrim feet have trod, - I passed between the pillars tall and slender, - That yearn to heaven as man's soul yearns to God. - - The coloured glory of the pictured windows - Fell on me as I kneeled before the shrine - Where, round the image of the Mother-maiden, - The countless flames of love-lit tapers shine. - - The hymn rose on the wings of children's voices, - The incense thrilled my soul to voiceless prayer - With scent of dear dead days, and years forgotten-- - And all the soul of all the past was there. - - But in my heart as there I kneeled before her, - Not to the Mother-maid the winged prayers flew-- - They passed her by and sought, instead, your presence; - The incense of my soul was burned for you. - - For you, for you were all the tapers lighted, - For you the flowers were on the altar laid, - For you the hymn rose thrilling through the chancel - To the clerestory's mysteries of shade. - - To you the anthems of a thousand churches - Rose where the taper-pointed flames burned clear; - To you--through all these leagues of deathly distance, - To you--as unattainable as dear. - - Dear as the dreams life never brings to blossom, - Lost as the seeds hope sowed, which never grew, - Pure as the love which only you could waken, - Prayer, incense, tears, and love were all for you! - - -III. - -_SPLENDIDE MENDAX._ - - When God some day shall call my name - And scorch me with a blaze of shame, - Bringing to light my inmost thought - And all the evil I have wrought, - - Tearing away the veils I wove - To hide my foulness from my love, - And leaving my transgressions bare - To the whole heaven's clear, cold air-- - - When all the angels weep to see - The branded, outcast soul of me, - One saint at least will hide her face-- - She will not look at my disgrace. - - "At least, O God, O God Most High, - He loved me truly!" she will cry, - And God will pause before He send - My soul to find its fitting end. - - Then, lest heaven's light should leave her face - To think one loved her and was base, - I will speak out at judgment day-- - "I never loved her!" I will say. - - - - -LOVE SONG. - - - Light of my life! though far away, - My sun, you shine, - Your radiance warms me every day - Like fire or wine. - - Life of my heart! in every beat - This sad heart gives, - It owns your sovereignty complete, - By which it lives. - - Heart of my soul! serene and strong, - Eyes of my sight! - Together we can do no wrong, - Apart, no right. - - - - -THE QUARREL. - - - Come down, my dear, from this high, wind-swept hill, - Where the wild plovers scream against the sky; - Down in the valley everything is still-- - We also will be silent, you and I. - - Come down, and hold my hand as we go down. - A gleam of sun has dyed the west afar; - The lights come out down in the little town, - 'Neath the first glimmer of the evening star. - - Did my heart forge the bitter words I said? - Did your heart breed those bitterer replies-- - Spoken with plovers wheeling overhead - In the gray pallor of the cheerless skies? - - Is it worth while to quarrel and upbraid, - Life being so little and love so great a thing? - The price of all life's follies has been paid - When we, true lovers, fall to quarrelling. - - Here is the churchyard; swing the gate and pass - Where the sharp needles of the pines are shed. - Tread here between the mounds of flowered grass; - Tread softly over these forgotten dead. - - We are alive, and here--O love! O wife! - While life is ours, and we are yours and mine, - How dare we crush the blossom of our life? - How dare we spill love's sacramental wine? - - Kiss me! Forget! We two are living now, - And life is all too short for love, my dear. - When one of us beneath these flowers lies low, - The other will remember we kissed here. - - Some one some day will come here all alone - And look out on the desolated years, - With bitter tears of longing for the one - Who will not then be here to dry the tears! - - - - -CHANGE. - - - There's a little house by an orchard side - Where the Spring wears pink and white; - There's a garden with pansies and London pride, - And a bush of lad's delight. - Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seen - As trim as a garden can be, - And the grass of the orchard is much more green - Than most of the grass you see. - - There used to be always a mother's smile - And a father's face at the door, - When one clambered over the orchard stile, - So glad to be home once more. - But now I never go by that way, - For when I was there of late, - A stranger was cutting the orchard hay, - And a stranger leaned on the gate. - - - - -THE MILL. - - - The wheel goes round--the wheel goes round - With drip and whir and plash, - It keeps all green the grassy ground, - The alder, beech and ash. - The ferns creep out 'mid mosses cool, - Forget-me-nots are found - Blue in the shadow by the pool-- - And still the wheel goes round. - - Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel, - The foam is white like cream, - The merry waters dance and reel - Along the stony stream. - The little garden of the mill, - It is enchanted ground, - I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still, - And still the wheel goes round. - - The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round, - And life's wheel too must go-- - But all their clamour has not drowned - A voice I used to know. - Her window's blank. The garden's bare - As her chill new-made mound, - But still my heart's delight is there, - And still the wheel goes round. - - - - -RONDEAU. - - - A red, red rose, all wet with dew, - With leaves of green by red shot through, - And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that brings - Delicious memories of lost things, - A red rose, sweet--yet sad as rue. - - 'Twas a red rose you gave me--you - Whose gifts so sacred were, and few-- - And that is why your lover sings - A red, red rose. - - I sing--with lute untuned, untrue, - And worse than other lovers do, - Because perplexing memory stings-- - Because from your green grave there springs, - With your spilt life-blood coloured through, - A red, red rose. - - - - -A MÉSALLIANCE. - - - I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear, - I live in splendour and state; - But I'd give it all to be young once more, - And steal through the old low-lintelled door, - To watch at the orchard gate. - - There are flowers by thousands these ball-rooms bear, - Fair blossoms, wondrous and new; - But all the flowers that a hot-house grows - I would give for the scent of a certain rose - That a cottage garden grew! - - Oh, diamonds that sparkle on bosom and hair, - Oh, rubies that glimmer and glow-- - I am tired of my bargain and tired of you! - I would give you all for a daisy or two - From a little grave I know. - - - - -THE LAST THOUGHT. - - - It's weary lying here, - While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near, - And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room, - When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom-- - Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are-- - So far away, so far! - - They say that I shall die-- - And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by: - But oh! my red-roofed village--I should die with more content - Could I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent, - And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door, - For one who comes no more. - - - - -APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ. - -(Herodotus, I. 157-160.) - - - "What be these messengers who come fleet-footed - Between the images that guard our roadway, - Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels-- - Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?" - - "We come to crave the counsel of Apollo-- - The men of Cymé he has counselled often-- - Ask of the god an answer to our question, - Ask of Apollo here in Branch[)i]dæ. - - "Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian, - Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection; - The Persian bids us yield--our hearts bid shield him, - What does Apollo bid his servants do?" - - The Oracle replied--and straight returning - To Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed, - Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer: - "Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will". - - So when the men of Cymé heard the answer, - They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant, - But Aristodicus, loved of the city, - Withstood their will,--and thus to them spake he. - - "Your messengers have lied--they have made merry - In their own homes, they have not sought Apollo; - The god in Branch[)i]dæ had never counselled - That we should yield our suppliant to the foe. - - "Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing, - Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer, - _I_ would not yield the man who trusted Cymé-- - What--is the god of baser stuff than I?" - - So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens, - A second time to Branch[)i]dæ they journeyed, - A second time beneath the purple shadows - Passed through the laurels to Apollo's fane. - - Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cymé - Comes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia-- - And she demands him, but we dare not yield him, - Until we know what thou wouldst have us do. - - "Our arm is weak against the power of Persia, - The foe is strong, and our defences slender; - Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to render - Him who has come, a suppliant, to our gates." - - So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered: - "Yield ye your suppliant--yield him to the Persians". - Then Aristodicus bethought him further, - And in this fashion craftily he wrought. - - All round the temple, in the nooks and crannies - Of carven work made by man's love and labour, - In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded, - The swallows and the sparrows built their nests. - - And all day long their floating wings made beauty - About the temple and the whispering laurels, - And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur, - Rose in sweet chorus to the great god's ears. - - Now round the temple went the men of Cymé, - Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows, - And a wild wind went moaning through the branches. - The sunlight died, and all the sky grew gray. - - Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide, - And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened, - And, in the heart of every man beholding, - The anger of the immortal gods made night. - - Then from the hid shrine of the inner temple - Came forth a voice more beautiful than music, - More terrible than thunder and wild waters, - And more to be desired than summer sun. - - "O thou most impious of all impious mortals, - Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple, - And torn away the homes of those who trust me, - Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?" - - Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered: - "Lord, is it thus _thy_ suppliants are succoured, - What time thy Oracle bids men of Cymé - To yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?" - - Then on the hush of awful expectation - Following the challenge of the too-bold mortals, - Broke the god's voice, unspeakably melodious - With all the song and sorrow of the world:-- - - "Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinning - Against the gods ye may the sooner perish-- - And come no more to question at my temple - Of yielding suppliants who have trusted you!" - - - - -AT THE PRIVATE VIEW. - - - Yes, that's my picture. "Great," you say? - The crowd says it will make my name-- - A name I'd gladly throw away - For a certain unseen star's pure ray. - I want success I've missed--not fame. - - You see the mother kneeling there, - The child who cries for bread in vain. - The hard straw bed, the window bare, - The rags, the rat, the broken chair, - The misery and cold and pain. - - But what you don't see--(never will!)-- - Is what was there while yet I drew - The lines--which are not drawn so ill, - Put on the colours--worthy still - Of praise from critics such as you. - - I used to paint all day, to pour - My soul out as I painted--see - There, to the life, the rotten floor, - The rags, the damp, the broken door, - For those your world will honour me. - - But, though if here my models were, - You should not find a line drawn wrong, - Yet there is food for my despair, - But half my picture's finished fair; - Words without music are not song. - - Sometimes I almost caught the tune, - Then changing lights across the sky, - Turned gray morn to red afternoon, - I had to drop my brush too soon, - Lay the transfigured _palette_ by. - - That woman did not kneel on there, - When once my back was turned, I know, - She used to leave the broken chair - And show her face and its despair: - Oh--if I could have seen her so! - - About her neck child-arms clung close, - Close to her heart the child-heart crept, - My room could tell you--if it chose. - There was a picture, then--God knows! - And I--who might have painted--slept. - - Then when birds bade the world prepare - For dawn--ere yet the East grew wan, - She stepped back to the canvas there, - Wearing the look she will not wear - When eyes like yours and mine look on. - - And when the mother kneeled once more, - While birds grew shrill, and shadows faint, - The child's white face the one look bore, - Which to my eyes it never wore, - Which I would give my soul to paint. - - * * * * * - - Hung, as you see--upon the line-- - But when I laid the varnish on - And left my two--Fate laughed, malign, - "Farewell to that last hope of thine, - Thy chance of painting them is gone!" - - - - -A DIRGE IN GRAY. - - - Larranagas! Thank you, thank you! - Not a knife. I never use one-- - I've the right thing on my watch-chain - Which some fool or other gave me-- - Takes the end off in a second-- - Sharp as life bites off our pleasures. - - See! The soft wreath upward curling, - Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows; - Blue as skies in mild October; - Vague, elusive as delight is. - Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow to - When they're looked at by a dreamer! - - Waves that moan--cold, gray, and curling, - On a shore where gray rocks break them; - Skies where gray and blue are blended - As our life blends joy and sorrow. - Angel wings, and smoke of battles, - Lines of beauty, curved perfection! - - Half-shut eyes see many marvels; - Gazed at through one's half-closed lashes - Wreaths of smoke take shapes uncanny-- - Beckoning hands and warning fingers-- - But the gray cloud always somehow - Ends by looking like a woman. - - Like a woman tall and slender, - Gowned in gray, with eyes like twilight, - Soft, and dreamy, and delicious. - Through my half-shut eyes I see her-- - Through my half-dead life am conscious - Of her pure, perpetual presence. - - Then the gray wreaths spread out broadly - Till they make a level landscape, - Toneless, dull, and very rainy-- - And an open grave--I saw it. - Through the rain I heard the falling - Of the tears the heart sheds inly. - - Oh, I saw it! I remember - Leafless branches, dripping, dripping, - Through a chill not born of Autumn. - To that grave tends all my dreaming-- - Oh, I saw it, I remember ... - By that grave all dreaming ended! - - - - -THE WOMAN'S WORLD. - - - Oh! to be alone! - To escape from the work, the play, - The talking, everyday; - To escape from all I have done, - And all that remains to do. - To escape, yes, even from you, - My only love, and be - Alone, and free. - - Could I only stand - Between gray moor and gray sky - Where the winds and the plovers cry, - And no man is at hand. - And feel the free wind blow - On my rain-wet face, and know - I am free--not yours--but my own. - Free--and alone! - - For the soft fire-light - And the home of your heart, my dear, - They hurt--being always here. - I want to stand up--upright - And to cool my eyes in the air - And to see how my back can bear - Burdens--to try, to know, - To learn, to grow! - - I am only you! - I am yours--part of you--your wife! - And I have no other life. - I cannot think, cannot do, - I cannot breathe, cannot see; - There is "us," but there is not "me"-- - And worst, at your kiss, I grow - Contented so. - - - - -THE LIGHTHOUSE. - - - Above the rocks, above the waves - Shines the strong light that warns and saves. - So you, too high for storm or strife, - Light up the shipwreck of my life. - - The lighthouse warns the wise, but these - Not only sail the stormy seas; - Towards the light the foolish steer - And, drowning, read its meaning, dear. - - And, if the lamp by chance allure - Some foolish ship to death, be sure - The lamp will to itself protest: - "His be the blame! I did my best!" - - - - -TO A YOUNG POET. - - - Tired of work? Then drop away - From the land of cheerful day! - Pen the muse, and drive the pen - If you'd stay with living men. - - Fancy fails? Then pluck from those - Gardens where her blossom blows; - Trim the buds and wire them well, - And your bouquet's sure to sell. - - Write, write, write! Produce, produce! - Write for sale, and not for use. - This is a commercial age! - Write! and fill your ledger page. - - If your soul should droop and die, - Bury it with undimmed eye. - Never mind what memory says-- - Soul's a thing that never pays! - - - - -THE TEMPTATION. - - - Let me go! I cannot be - All you think me, pure and true: - Those brave jewel-names crown you, - They were trampled down by me. - - Horrid ghosts rise up between - You and me; I dare not pass! - What might be is dead; what was - Is its poison, O my Queen! - - I should wither up your life, - Blacken, blight its maiden flower; - You would live to curse the hour - When you made yourself my wife. - - Yet, your hand held out, your eyes - Pleading, longing, brimmed with tears ... - I have lived in hell for years: - Do not show me Paradise. - - Lest I answer: "Take me, then! - Take me, save me if you can, - Worse than any other man, - Loving more than other men." - - - - -THE BALLAD OF SIR HUGH. - - - The castle had been held in siege, - While thrice three weeks went past, - And still the foe no vantage gained - And still our men stood fast. - - We held the castle for our king - Against our foes and his; - Stout was our heart, as man's must be - In such brave cause as this. - - But Sir Hugh walked the castle wall, - And oh! his heart was sore, - For the foe held fast the only son - His dead wife ever bore. - - The castle gates were firm and fast, - Strong was the castle wall, - Yet bore Sir Hugh an aching heart - For the thing that might befal. - - He looked out to the pearly east, - Ere day began to break: - "God save my boy till evensong," - He said, "for Mary's sake!" - - He looked out on the western sky - When the sun sank, blood-red: - "God keep my son till morning light - For His son's sake," he said. - - And morn and eve, and noon and night, - His heart one prayer did make: - "God keep my boy, my little one, - For his dear dead mother's sake!" - - At last, worn out with bootless siege-- - Our walls being tall and stout-- - The rebel captain neared our gates - With a flag of truce held out. - - "A word, Sir Hugh, a word with you, - Ere yet it be too late; - We have a prisoner and would know - What is to be his fate. - - "Yield up your castle, or he dies! - 'Tis thus the bargain stands: - His body in our hands we hold, - His life is in your hands!" - - Sir Hugh looked down across the moat - And, in the sunlight fair, - He saw the child's blue, frightened eyes - And tangled golden hair. - - He saw the little arms held out; - The little voice rang thin: - "O father dear, undo the gates! - O father--let me in!" - - Sir Hugh leaned on the battlements; - His voice rang strong and true: - "My son--I cannot let thee in, - As my heart bids me do; - - "If I should open and let thee in, - I let in, with thee, shame: - And that thing never shall be done - By one who bears our name! - - "For honour and our king command - And we must needs obey; - So bear thee as a brave man's son, - As I will do this day." - - The boy looked up, his shoulders squared, - Threw back his bright blond hair: - "Father, I will not be the one - To shame the name we bear. - - "And, whatsoever they may do, - Whether I live or die, - I'll bear me as a brave man's son, - For that, thank God, am I!" - - Then spake Sir Hugh unto the foe, - He spake full fierce and free: - "Ye cowards, deem ye, ye have affair - With cowards such as ye be? - - "What? I must yield my castle up, - Or else my son be slain? - I trow ye never had to do - Till now with honest men! - - "'Tis but by traitors such as you - That such foul deeds be done; - Not to betray his king and cause - Did I beget my son! - - "My son was bred to wield the sword - And hew down knaves like you, - Or, at the least, die like a man, - As he this day shall do! - - "And, since ye lack a weapon meet - To take so good a life - (For your coward steel would stain his blood), - Here--take his father's knife!" - - With that he flung the long knife down - From off the castle wall, - It glimmered and gleamed in the brave sunlight, - Full in the sight of all. - - Sir Hugh passed down the turret stair, - We held our breath in awe ... - May my tongue wither ere it tell - The damnèd work we saw! - - * * * * * - - When all was done, a shout went up - From that accursèd crew, - And from the chapel's silence dim - Came forth in haste Sir Hugh. - - "And what may mean this clamour and din?" - "Sir Hugh, thy son is dead!" - "I deemed the foe had entered in, - But God is good!" he said. - - We stood upon the topmost tower, - Full in the setting sun; - Shamed silence grew in the traitor's camp - Now that foul deed was done. - - See! on the hills the gleam of steel, - Hark! threatening clarions ring, - See! horse and foot and spear and shield - And the banner of the king! - - And in the camp of those without, - Hot tumult and cold fear, - For the traitor only dares be brave, - Until his king be near! - - We armed at speed, we sallied forth, - Sir Hugh was at our head; - He set his teeth and he marked his path - By a line of traitors, dead. - - He hacked his way straight to the churl - Who did the boy to death, - He swung his sword in his two strong hands - And clove him to the teeth. - - And while the blade was held in the bone, - The caitiffs round him pressed, - And he died, as one of his line should die, - With three blades in his breast. - - And when they told the king these things, - He turned his head away, - And said: "A braver man than I - Has fallen for me this day!" - - - - -FEBRUARY. - - - The Spring's in the air-- - Here, there, - Everywhere! - Though there's scarce a green tip to a bud, - Spring laughs over hill and plain, - As the sunlight turns the lane's mud - To a splendour of copper one way, of silver the other; - And longings one cannot smother, - And delight that sings through the brain, - Turn all one's life into glory-- - 'Tis the old new ravishing story-- - The Spring's here again! - - When the leaves grew red - And dead, - We said: - "See how much more fair - Than the green leaves shimmering - Are the mists and the tints of decay!" - In the dainty dreamings that lighted the gray November, - Did our hearts not remember - The green woods--and linnets that sing? - Ah, we knew Spring was lost, and pretended - 'Twas Autumn we loved. Lies are ended; - Thank God for the Spring! - - - - -APRIL. - - - Who calls the Autumn season drear? - It was in Autumn that we met, - When under foot dead leaves lay wet - In the black London gardens, dear. - The fog was yellow everywhere, - And very thick in Finsbury Square, - Where in those days we used to meet. - I used to buy you violets sweet - From flower-girls down by Moorgate Street. - 'Twas Autumn then--can we forget?-- - When first we met. - - Who says that Spring is dear and fair? - It is in Spring-time that we part, - And weary heart from weary heart - Turns, as the birds begin to pair. - The sun shines on the golden dome, - The primroses in baskets come, - With daffodils in sheaves, to cheer - The town with dreams of the crownèd year. - We're both polite and insincere: - Though neither says it, yet--at heart-- - We mean to part. - - - - -JUNE. - - - Oh, I'm weary of the town, - Where life's too hard for smiling--and the dreary houses frown, - And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats - Upon the miles of dusty roofs--the dreary squares and streets; - This sun that gilds the great St. Paul's--the golden cross and dome, - Is this the same that shines upon our little church at home? - - Our little church is gray, - It stands upon a hill-side--you can see it miles away, - The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor. - I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door, - When all the wood and meadow with June's sunshine were ablaze,-- - Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn't nowadays. - - There are elm trees all around - Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound, - And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar, - And you hear the low of cattle--where the red farm buildings are; - Oh! on that grass to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune, - And forget the cruel city--on this first blue day of June! - - The grass is high--I know; - And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow; - But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day-- - It would only be to count my dead--whom God has taken away. - That graveyard where the daisies grow--not yet my heart can bear - To pass that way--but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there! - - - - -JULY. - - - The night hardly covers the face of the sky, - But the darkness is drawn - Like a veil o'er the heaven these nights in July, - A veil rent at dawn, - When with exquisite tremors the poplar leaves quiver, - And a breeze like a kiss wakes the slumbering river, - And the light in the east keener grows--clearer grows, - Till the edge of the clouds turn from pearl into rose, - And o'er the hill's shoulder--the night wholly past-- - The sun peeps at last! - - Come out! there's a freshness that thrills like a song, - That soothes like a sleep; - And the scent of wild thyme on the air borne along, - Where the downs slope up steep. - There's such dew on the earth and such lights in the heaven, - Lost joys are forgotten, old sorrows forgiven, - And the old earth looks new--and our hearts seem new-born, - And stripped of the cere-clothes which long they have worn-- - And hope and brave purpose awaken anew - 'Mid the sunshine and dew. - - - - -NOVEMBER. - - - Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by - Across the gold sun and blue sky, - Which still are there eternally. - Above the sodden garden-bed - Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead, - Where the tall lily bent its head - Over carnations white and red. - - The leafless poplars, straight and tall, - Stand by the gray-green garden wall, - From which such rare fruit used to fall. - In the verandah, where of old - Sweet August spent the roses' gold, - Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold - Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold. - - And we, by cosy fireside, muse - On what the Fates grant, what refuse; - And what we waste and what we use. - Summer returns--despite the rain - That weeps against the window-pane. - Who'd weep--'mid fame and golden gain-- - For youth, that does not come again? - - - - -ROCHESTER CASTLE. - - - Blue sky, gray arches, and white, white cloud; - Gray eyes, white hands, and a free, white crowd - Of wheeling, whirling, fluttering things-- - Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings. - Thousands of pigeons all the year - Fly in and out of the arches here. - - What prisoned hands have torn at the stone - Where your soft hand lies--oh my heart!--alone? - What prisoned eyes have grown blind with tears - To see what we see after all these years-- - The free, broad river go smoothly by - And the free, blithe birds 'neath the free, blue sky? - - And now--O Time, how you work your will! - --The pitiless walls are standing still, - But the wall-flowers blossom on every ledge, - And the wild rose garlands the walls' sheer edge, - And where once the imprisoned heart beat low, - The beautiful pigeons fly to and fro! - - In the sad, stern arches they build and pair, - As happy as dreams and as free as air, - And sorrow and longing and life-long pain - Man brings not into these walls again; - And yet--O my love, with the face of flowers-- - What do we bring in these hearts of ours? - - - - -RUCKINGE CHURCH. - - - "And we said how dreary and desolate and forlorn the church - was, and how long it was since any music but that of the - moth-eaten harmonium and the heartless mixed choir had sounded - there. And we said: 'Poor old church! it will never hear any - true music any more'. Then she turned to us from the door of - the Lady Chapel, which was plastered and whitewashed, and had a - stove and the Evangelical Almanac in it, and her eyes were full - of tears. And, standing there, she sang 'Ave Maria'--it was - Gounod's music, I think--with her voice and her face like an - angel's. And while she sang a stranger came to the church door - and stood listening, but he did not see us. Only we saw that he - loved her singing. And he went away as soon as the hymn was - ended, we also soon following, and the church was left lonely - as before."--_Extract from our Diary._ - - The boat crept slowly through the water-weeds - That greenly cover all the waterways, - Between high banks where ranks of sedge and reeds - Sigh one sad secret all their quiet days, - Through grasses, water-mint and rushes green - And flags and strange wet blossoms, only seen - Where man so seldom comes, so briefly stays. - - From the high bank the sheep looked calmly down, - Unscared to see my boat and me go by; - The elm trees showed their dress of golden brown - To winds that should disrobe them presently; - And a marsh sunset flamed across the wold, - And the still water caught the lavished gold, - The primrose and the purple of the sky. - - The boat pressed ever through the weeds and sedge - Which, rustling, clung her steadfast prow around; - The iris nodded at the water's edge, - Bats in the elm trees made a ghostly sound; - With whirring wings a wild duck sprang to sight - And flew, black-winged, towards the crimson light, - Leaving my solitude the more profound. - - We moved towards the church, my boat and I-- - The church that at the marsh edge stands alone; - It caught the reflex of the sunset sky - On golden-lichened roof and gray-green stone. - Through snow and shower and sunshine it had stood - In the thronged graveyard's infinite solitude, - While many a year had come, and flowered, and gone. - - From the marsh-meadow to the field of graves - But just a step, across a lichened wall. - Thick o'er the happy dead the marsh grass waves, - And cloudy wreaths of marsh mist gather and fall, - And the marsh sunsets shed their gold and red - Over still hearts that once in torment fed - At Life's intolerable festival. - - The plaster of the porch has fallen away - From the lean stones, that now are all awry, - And through the chinks a shooting ivy spray - Creeps in--sad emblem of fidelity-- - And wreathes with life the pillars and the beams - Hewn long ago--with, ah! what faith and dreams!-- - By men whose faith and dreams have long gone by. - - The rusty key, the heavy rotten door, - The dead, unhappy air, the pillars green - With mould and damp, the desecrated floor - With bricks and boards where tombstones should have been - And were once; all the musty, dreary chill-- - They strike a shudder through my being still - When memory lights again that lightless scene. - - And where the altar stood, and where the Christ - Reached out His arms to all the world, there stood - Law-tables, as if love had not sufficed - To all the world has ever known of good! - Our Lady's chapel was a lightless shrine; - There was no human heart and no divine, - No odour of prayer, no altar, and no rood. - - There was no scent of incense in the air, - No sense of all the past breathed through the aisle, - The white glass windows turned to mocking glare - The lovely sunset's gracious rosy smile. - A vault, a tomb wherein was laid to sleep - All that a man might give his life to keep - If only for an instant's breathing while! - - Cold with my rage against the men who held - At such cheap rate the labours of the dead, - My heart within me sank, while o'er it swelled - A sadness that would not be comforted; - An awe came on me, and I seemed to face - The invisible spirit of the dreary place, - To hear the unheard voice of it, which said:-- - - "Is love, then, dead upon earth? - Ah! who shall tell or be told - What my walls were once worth - When men worked for love, not for gold? - Each stone was made to hold - A heartful of love and faith; - Now love and faith are dead, - Dead are the prayers that are said, - Nothing is living but Death! - - "Oh for the old glad days, - Incense thick in the air, - Passion of thanks and of praise, - Passion of trust and of prayer! - Ah! the old days were fair, - Love on the earth was then, - Strong were men's souls, and brave: - Those men lie in the grave, - They will live not again! - - "Then all my arches rang - With music glorious and sweet, - Men's souls burned as they sang, - Tears fell down at their feet, - Hearts with the Christ-heart beat, - Hands in men's hands held fast; - Union and brotherhood were! - Ah! the old days were fair, - Therefore the old days passed. - - "Then, when later there came - Hatred, anger and strife, - The sword blood-red and the flame - And the stake and contempt of life, - Husband severed from wife, - Hearts with the Christ-heart bled: - Through the worst of the fight - Still the old fire burned bright, - Still the old faith was not dead. - - "Though they tore my Christ from the cross, - And mocked at the Mother of Grace, - And broke my windows across, - Defiling the holy place-- - Children of death and disgrace! - They spat on the altar stone, - They tore down and trampled the rood, - Stained my pillars with blood, - Left me lifeless, alone-- - - "Yet, when my walls were left - Robbed of all beauty and bare, - Still God cancelled the theft, - The soul of the thing was there. - In my damp, unwindowed air - Fugitives stopped to pray, - And their prayers were splendid to hear, - Like the sound of a storm that is near-- - And love was not dead that day. - - "Then the birds of the air built nests - In these empty shadows of mine, - And the warmth of their brooding breasts - Still warmed the untended shrine. - His creatures are all divine; - He is praised by the woodland throng, - And my old walls echoed and heard - The passionate praising word, - And love still lived in their song. - - "Then came the Protestant crew - And made me the thing you have known-- - Whitewashed and plastered me new, - Covered my marble and stone-- - Could they not leave me alone? - Vain was the cry, for they trod - Over my tombs, and I saw - Books and the Tables of Law - Set in the place of my God. - - "And love is dead, so it seems! - Shall I never hear again - The music of heaven and of dreams, - Songs of ideals of men? - Great dreams and songs we had then, - Now I but hear from the wood - Cry of a bat or a bird. - Oh for love's passionate word - Sent from men's hearts to the Good! - - "Sometimes men come, and they sing, - But I know not their song nor their voice; - They have no hearts they can bring, - They have no souls to rejoice, - Theirs is but folly and noise. - Oh for a voice that could sing - Songs to the Queen of the blest, - Hymns to the Dearest and Best, - Songs to our Master, her King!" - - The church was full of silence. I shut in - Its loss and loneliness, and went my way. - Its sadness was not less its walls within - Because I wore it in my heart that day, - And many a day since, when I see again - Marsh sunsets, and across the golden plain - The church's golden roof and arches gray. - - * * * * * - - Along wet roads, all shining with late rain, - And through wet woods, all dripping, brown and sere, - I came one day towards the church again. - It was the spring-time of the day and year; - The sky was light and bright and flecked with cloud - That, wind-swept, changeful, through bright rents allowed - Sun and blue sky to smile and disappear. - - The sky behind the old gray church was gray-- - Gray as my memories, and gray as I; - The forlorn graves each side the grassy way - Called to me "Brother!" as I passed them by. - The door was open. "I shall feel again," - I thought, "that inextinguishable pain - Of longing loss and hopeless memory." - - When--O electric flash of ecstasy! - No spirit's moan of pain fell on my ear-- - A human voice, an angel's melody, - God let me in that perfect moment hear. - Oh, the sweet rush of gladness and delight, - Of human striving to the heavenly light, - Of great ideals, permanent and dear! - - All the old dreams linked with the newer faith, - All the old faith with higher dreams enwound, - Surged through the very heart of loss and death - In passionate waves of pure and perfect sound. - The past came back: the Christ, the Mother-maid, - The incense of the hearts that praised and prayed, - The past's peace, and the future's faith profound. - - "_Ave Maria, - Gratiâ plena, - Dominus tecum: - Benedicta tu - In mulieribus, - Et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. - Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, - Ora pro nobis peccatoribus - Nunc et in horâ mortis nostræ. Amen._" - - And all the soul of all the past was here-- - A human heart that loved the great and good, - A heart to which the great ideals were dear, - One that had heard and that had understood, - As I had done, the church's desolate moan, - And answered it as I had never done, - And never willed to do and never could. - - I left the church, glad to the soul and strong, - And passed along by fresh earth-scented ways; - Safe in my heart the echo of that song - Lived, as it will live with me all my days. - The church will never lose that echo, nor - Be quite as lonely ever any more; - Nor will my soul, where too that echo stays. - - - - -RYE. - - - A little town that stands upon a hill, - Against whose base the white waves once leaped high; - Now spreading round it, even, green and still, - The placid pastures of the marshes lie. - - The red-roofed houses and the gray church tower - Bear half asleep the sunshine and the rain; - They wait, so long have waited, for the hour - When the wild, welcome sea shall come again. - - The lovely lights across the marshes pass, - The dykes grow fair with blossom, reed and sedge; - The patient beasts crop the long, cool, green grass, - The willows shiver at the water's edge; - - But the town sleeps, it will not wake for these. - The sea some day again will round it break, - Will surge across these leagues of pastoral peace, - And then the little town will laugh, and wake. - - - - -THE BALLAD OF THE TWO SPELLS. - - - "Why dost thou weep?" the mass priest said; - "Fair dame, why dost thou weep?" - "I weep because my lord is laid - In an enchanted sleep. - - "It was upon our bridal day - The bitter thing befel, - My love and lord was lured away - By an ill witch's spell. - - "She lured him to her hidden bower - Among the cypress trees, - And there she holdeth manhood's flower - Asleep across her knees." - - "Pray to our Father for His aid, - God knows ye need it sore." - "O God of Heaven, have I not prayed? - But I will pray no more. - - "God will not listen to my prayer, - And never a Saint will hear, - Else should I stand beside him there, - Or he be with me here. - - "But there he sleeps--and I wake here - And wet my bread with tears-- - And still they say that God can hear, - And still God never hears. - - "If I could learn a mighty spell, - Would get my love awake, - I'd sell my soul alive to hell, - And learn it for his sake. - - "So say thy mass, and go thy way, - And let my grief alone-- - Teach thou the happy how to pray - And leave the devil his own." - - * * * * * - - Within the witch's secret bower - Through changeful day and night, - Hour after priceless golden hour, - Lay the enchanted knight. - - The witch's arms about him lay, - His face slept in her hair; - The devil taught her the spell to say - Because she was so fair. - - And all about the bower were flowers - And gems and golden gear, - And still she watched the slow-foot hours - Because he was so dear. - - Watched in her tower among the trees - For his long sleep to break; - And still he lay across her knees - And still he did not wake. - - What whisper stirs the curtain's fold? - What foot comes up the stair? - What hand draws back the cloth of gold - And leaves the portal bare? - - The night wind sweeps through all the room, - The tapers fleer and flare, - And from the portal's outer gloom - His true love enters there. - - "Give place, thou wicked witch, give place, - For his true wife is here, - Who for his sake has lost heaven's grace - Because he was so dear. - - "My soul is lost and his is won; - Thy spells his sleep did make, - But I know thy spell, the only one - Can get my lord awake." - - The witch looked up, her shining eyes - Gleamed through her yellow hair-- - (She was cast out of - Paradise Because she was so fair). - - "Speak out the spell, thou loving wife, - And what it beareth, bide, - Go--bring thy lover back to life - And give thy lord a bride." - - The wife's soul burned in every word - As low she spoke the spell, - Weeping in heaven, her angel heard, - One, hearing, laughed in hell. - - And when the spell was spoken through, - Sudden the knight awoke - And turned his eyes upon the two-- - And neither of them spoke. - - He did not see his pale-faced wife - Whom sorrow had made wise, - He only saw the light of life - Burn in the witch's eyes. - - He only saw her bosom sweet, - Her golden fleece of hair, - And he fell down before her feet - Because she was so fair. - - She stooped and raised him from the floor - And held him in her arms; - She said: "He would have waked no more - For any of my charms. - - "You only could pronounce the spell - Would set his spirit free; - And you have sold your soul to hell - And wakened him--for me! - - "I hold him now by my blue eyes - And by my yellow hair, - He never will miss Paradise, - Because I am so fair." - - The wife looked back, looked back to see - The golden-curtained place, - Her lord's head on the witch's knee, - Her gold hair on his face. - - "I would my soul once more were mine, - Then God my prayer would hear - And slay my soul in place of thine - Because thou art so dear!" - - - - -IN MEMORIAM - -PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. - - - When you were tired and went away, - I said, amid my new heart-ache: - "When I catch breath from pain some day, - I will teach grief a worthier way, - And make a great song for his sake!" - - Yet there is silence. O my friend, - You gave me love such years ago-- - A child who could not comprehend - Its worth, yet kept it to the end-- - How can I sing when you lie low? - - Not always silence. O my dear, - Not when the empty heart and hand - Reach out for you, who are not near. - If you could see, if you could hear, - I think that you would understand. - - The grief that can get leave to run - In channels smooth of tender song - Wins solace mine has never won. - I have left all my work undone, - And only dragged my grief along. - - Many who loved you many years - (Not more than I shall always do), - Will breathe their songs in your dead ears; - God help them if they weep such tears - As I, who have no song for you. - - You would forgive me, if you knew! - Silence is all I have to bring - (Where tears are many, words are few); - I have but tears to bring to you, - For, since you died, I cannot sing! - - - - -RONDEAU. - -TO AUSTIN DOBSON. - - - Your dainty Muse her form arrays - In soft brocades of bygone days. - She walks old gardens where the dews - Gem sundials and trim-cut yews - And tremble on the tulip's blaze. - The magic scent her charm conveys - Which lives on when the rose decays. - She had her portrait done by Greuze-- - Your dainty Muse! - - Mine's hardier--walks life's muddy ways - Barefooted; preaches, sometimes prays, - Is modern, is advanced, has views; - Goes in for lectures, reads the news, - And sends her homespun verse to praise - Your dainty Muse! - - - - -RONDEAU. - -TO W. E. HENLEY. - - - Dream and delight had passed away, - Their springs dried by the dusty day, - And sordid fetters bound me tight, - Forged for poor song by money-might; - I writhed, and could not get away. - There might have been no flowering may - In all the world--life looked so gray - With dust of railways, choking quite - Dream and delight. - - When, lo! your white book came my way, - With scent of honey-buds and hay, - Starshine and day-dawns pure and bright, - The rose blood-red, the may moon-white. - I owe you--would I could repay-- - Dream and delight. - - - - -TO WALTER SICKERT. - -(IN RETURN FOR A SIGHT OF HIS PICTURE "RED CLOVER".) - - - There is a country far away from here-- - A world of dreams--a fair enchanted land-- - Where woods bewitched and fairy forests stand, - And all the seasons rhyme through all the year. - - The greenest meadows, deepest skies, are there; - There grows the rose of dreams, that never dies; - And there men's heads and hands and hearts and eyes - Are never, as here, too tired to find them fair. - - Thither, when life becomes too hard to bear, - The poet and the painter steal away - To watch those glories of the night and day - Which here the days and nights so seldom wear. - - In that brave land I, too, have part and lot. - Dim woods, lush meadows, little red-roofed towns, - Walled flowery gardens, wide gray moors and downs; - Sedge, meadow-sweet, and wet forget-me-not; - - The Norman church, with whispering elm trees round; - A certain wood where earliest violets grow; - One wide still marsh where hidden waters flow; - The cottage porch with honey-buds enwound-- - - These are my portion of enchanted ground, - To these the years add somewhat in their flight; - Some wood or field, deep-dyed in heart's delight, - Becomes my own--treasure to her who found. - - To my dream fields your art adds one field more, - A field of red, red clover, blossoming, - Where the sun shines, and where more skylarks sing - Than ever in any field of mine before. - - - - -OLD AGE. - - - Between the midnight and the morn - When wake the weary heart and head, - Troops of gray ghosts from lands forlorn - Keep tryst about my sleepless bed. - - I hear their cold, thin voices say: - "Your youth is dying; by-and-by - All that makes up your life to-day, - Withered by age, will shrink and die!" - - Will it be so? Will age slay all - The dreams of love and hope and faith-- - Put out the sun beyond recall, - And lap us in a living death? - - Will hearts grown old forget their youth? - And hands grown old give up the strife? - Shall we accept as ordered truth - The dismal anarchy of life? - - Better die now--at once be free - Of hope and fear--renounce the whole: - For of what worth would living be - Should one--grown old--outlive one's soul? - - Yet see: through curtains closely drawn - Creeps in the exorcising light; - The sacred fingers of the dawn - Put all my troop of ghosts to flight. - - And then I hear the brave Sun's voice, - Though still the skies are gray and dim: - "Old age comes never--Oh, rejoice-- - Except to those who beckon him. - - "All that youth's dreams are nourished by, - By that shall dreams in age be fed-- - Thy noble dreams can never die - Until thyself shall wish them dead!" - - - - -INDEX. - - - PAGE - - APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ, 98 - APRIL, 123 - - BABY SONG, 49 - BALLAD OF CANTERBURY, 58 - BALLAD OF SIR HUGH, 114 - BALLAD OF TWO SPELLS, 145 - BETROTHAL, THE, 80 - BRIDAL BALLAD, 1 - - CHANGE, 92 - - DEATH-BED, A, 12 - DEVIL'S DUE, THE, 20 - DIRGE IN GRAY, A, 106 - - EAST-END TRAGEDY, AN, 53 - - FEBRUARY, 121 - - GARDEN, THE, 33 - GHOST, THE, 5 - GREAT INDUSTRIAL CENTRE, A, 38 - - HERE AND THERE, 55 - - IN MEMORIAM PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON, 151 - - JUNE, 125 - JULY, 127 - - LAST THOUGHT, THE, 97 - LIGHTHOUSE, THE, 110 - LONDON'S VOICES, 40 - LOST SOUL AND THE SAVED, THE, 14 - LOVE:-- - 1. THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH - FOR THE STAR, 84 - 2. WORSHIP, 85 - 3. SPLENDIDE MENDAX, 87 - LOVE IN JUNE, 30 - LOVE SONG, 89 - LULLABY, 51 - - MÉSALLIANCE, A, 96 - MILL, THE, 93 - MODERN JUDAS, THE, 7 - MORNING, 67 - MOTHER, 57 - - NOVEMBER, 129 - - OLD AGE, 157 - ON THE MEDWAY, 73 - - PRAYER, THE, 68 - PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES, 36 - PRISON GATE, AT THE, 18 - PRIVATE VIEW, AT THE, 103 - - QUARREL, THE, 90 - - RIVER MAIDENS, THE, 70 - ROCHESTER CASTLE, 131 - RONDEAU, A, 95 - RONDEAU. TO AUSTIN DOBSON, 153 - RONDEAU. TO W. E. HENLEY, 154 - RUCKINGE CHURCH, 133 - RYE, 144 - - SOUL TO THE IDEAL, THE, 10 - SICK JOURNALIST, THE, 42 - - TEMPTATION, THE, 112 - TO WALTER SICKERT, 155 - TO A YOUNG POET, 111 - TRAGEDY, A, 81 - TWO LULLABIES, 45 - - WOMAN'S WORLD, THE, 108 - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lays and legends, by Edith Nesbit - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAYS AND LEGENDS *** - -***** This file should be named 41693-8.txt or 41693-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/6/9/41693/ - -Produced by Mary Akers, Suzanne Shell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -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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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/41693-8.zip b/41693-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 34cb525..0000000 --- a/41693-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/41693-h.zip b/41693-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 2a6f0b5..0000000 --- a/41693-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/41693-h/41693-h.htm b/41693-h/41693-h.htm index 169f5e1..e4c03a2 100644 --- a/41693-h/41693-h.htm +++ b/41693-h/41693-h.htm @@ -2,7 +2,7 @@ "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> <title> The Project Gutenberg's eBook of Lays And Legends (Second Series) by E. Nesbit. @@ -169,46 +169,7 @@ hr.c20 </style> </head> <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lays and legends, by Edith Nesbit - -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: Lays and legends - (Second Series) - -Author: Edith Nesbit - -Release Date: December 23, 2012 [EBook #41693] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAYS AND LEGENDS *** - - - - -Produced by Mary Akers, Suzanne Shell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41693 ***</div> <div class="transnote"> <p>Transcriber's note:<br /> @@ -909,7 +870,7 @@ thereafter.</p> <div class="line i0h">A light more bright than any sun,</div> <div class="line i1h">A shade more dark than any night,</div> <div class="line i0h">A shape that human shape was none,</div> -<div class="line i1h">A cloud, a sense of wingëd might, +<div class="line i1h">A cloud, a sense of wingëd might, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">26</a></span></div> <div class="line i0h">And, like an infernal trumpet sound,</div> <div class="line i0h">Rang through the church's hush profound</div> @@ -2258,7 +2219,7 @@ thereafter.</p> <div class="line i1h">Her song of ceaseless sorrow,</div> <div class="line i0h">The night's slow feet pass, bringing</div> <div class="line i3h">The day when I rejoice;</div> -<div class="line i0h">Belovèd beyond measure,</div> +<div class="line i0h">Belovèd beyond measure,</div> <div class="line i1h">Our bridal is to-morrow—</div> <div class="line i0h">Oh, thrill the night with pleasure!</div> <div class="line i3h">Oh, let me hear thy voice!</div> @@ -2811,7 +2772,7 @@ thereafter.</p> <hr class="c20" /> -<h3>A MÉSALLIANCE.</h3> +<h3>A MÉSALLIANCE.</h3> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> @@ -2864,7 +2825,7 @@ thereafter.</p> <hr class="c20" /> -<h3>APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ.</h3> +<h3>APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ.</h3> <p class="center">(Herodotus, I. 157-160.)</p> @@ -2877,13 +2838,13 @@ thereafter.</p> </div> <div class="stanza"> <div class="line i0f">"We come to crave the counsel of Apollo—</div> -<div class="line i0h">The men of Cymé he has counselled often—</div> +<div class="line i0h">The men of Cymé he has counselled often—</div> <div class="line i0h">Ask of the god an answer to our question,</div> -<div class="line i2h">Ask of Apollo here in Branchĭdæ.</div> +<div class="line i2h">Ask of Apollo here in Branchĭdæ.</div> </div> <div class="stanza"> <div class="line i0f">"Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian,</div> -<div class="line i0h">Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection;</div> +<div class="line i0h">Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection;</div> <div class="line i0h">The Persian bids us yield—our hearts bid shield him,</div> <div class="line i2h">What does Apollo bid his servants do?"</div> </div> @@ -2892,12 +2853,12 @@ thereafter.</p> <div class="stanza"> <div class="line i0h">The Oracle replied—and straight returning</div> -<div class="line i0h">To Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed,</div> +<div class="line i0h">To Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed,</div> <div class="line i0h">Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer:</div> <div class="line i2">"Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will".</div> </div> <div class="stanza"> -<div class="line i0h">So when the men of Cymé heard the answer,</div> +<div class="line i0h">So when the men of Cymé heard the answer,</div> <div class="line i0h">They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant,</div> <div class="line i0h">But Aristodicus, loved of the city,</div> <div class="line i2h">Withstood their will,—and thus to them spake he.</div> @@ -2905,18 +2866,18 @@ thereafter.</p> <div class="stanza"> <div class="line i0f">"Your messengers have lied—they have made merry</div> <div class="line i0h">In their own homes, they have not sought Apollo;</div> -<div class="line i0h">The god in Branchĭdæ had never counselled</div> +<div class="line i0h">The god in Branchĭdæ had never counselled</div> <div class="line i2h">That we should yield our suppliant to the foe.</div> </div> <div class="stanza"> <div class="line i0f">"Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing,</div> <div class="line i0h">Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer,</div> -<div class="line i0h"><em>I</em> would not yield the man who trusted Cymé—</div> +<div class="line i0h"><em>I</em> would not yield the man who trusted Cymé—</div> <div class="line i2h">What—is the god of baser stuff than I?"</div> </div> <div class="stanza"> <div class="line i0h">So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens,</div> -<div class="line i0h">A second time to Branchĭdæ they journeyed,</div> +<div class="line i0h">A second time to Branchĭdæ they journeyed,</div> <div class="line i0h">A second time beneath the purple shadows</div> <div class="line i2h">Passed through the laurels to Apollo's fane.</div> </div> @@ -2924,7 +2885,7 @@ thereafter.</p> <p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">100</a></span></p> <div class="stanza"> -<div class="line i0h">Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cymé</div> +<div class="line i0h">Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cymé</div> <div class="line i0h">Comes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia—</div> <div class="line i0h">And she demands him, but we dare not yield him,</div> <div class="line i2h">Until we know what thou wouldst have us do.</div> @@ -2936,7 +2897,7 @@ thereafter.</p> <div class="line i2h">Him who has come, a suppliant, to our gates."</div> </div> <div class="stanza"> -<div class="line i0h">So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered:</div> +<div class="line i0h">So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered:</div> <div class="line i0f">"Yield ye your suppliant—yield him to the Persians".</div> <div class="line i0h">Then Aristodicus bethought him further,</div> <div class="line i2h">And in this fashion craftily he wrought.</div> @@ -2957,7 +2918,7 @@ thereafter.</p> <p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">101</a></span></p> <div class="stanza"> -<div class="line i0h">Now round the temple went the men of Cymé,</div> +<div class="line i0h">Now round the temple went the men of Cymé,</div> <div class="line i0h">Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows,</div> <div class="line i0h">And a wild wind went moaning through the branches.</div> <div class="line i2h">The sun-light died, and all the sky grew gray.</div> @@ -2983,7 +2944,7 @@ thereafter.</p> <div class="stanza"> <div class="line i0h">Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered:</div> <div class="line i0f">"Lord, is it thus <em>thy</em> suppliants are succoured,</div> -<div class="line i0h">What time thy Oracle bids men of Cymé</div> +<div class="line i0h">What time thy Oracle bids men of Cymé</div> <div class="line i2h">To yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?"</div> </div> @@ -3477,14 +3438,14 @@ thereafter.</p> <div class="line i0h">Sir Hugh passed down the turret stair,</div> <div class="line i1h">We held our breath in awe ...</div> <div class="line i0h">May my tongue wither ere it tell</div> -<div class="line i1h">The damnèd work we saw!</div> +<div class="line i1h">The damnèd work we saw!</div> </div> <hr class="c15" /> <div class="stanza"> <div class="line i0h">When all was done, a shout went up</div> -<div class="line i1h">From that accursèd crew,</div> +<div class="line i1h">From that accursèd crew,</div> <div class="line i0h">And from the chapel's silence dim</div> <div class="line i1h">Came forth in haste Sir Hugh.</div> </div> @@ -3606,7 +3567,7 @@ thereafter.</p> <div class="line i0h">The primroses in baskets come, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">124</a></span></div> <div class="line i0h">With daffodils in sheaves, to cheer</div> -<div class="line i0h">The town with dreams of the crownèd year.</div> +<div class="line i0h">The town with dreams of the crownèd year.</div> <div class="line i0h">We're both polite and insincere:</div> <div class="line i1h">Though neither says it, yet—at heart—</div> <div class="line i5">We mean to part.</div> @@ -4062,14 +4023,14 @@ lonely as before."—<i>Extract from our Diary</i>.</p> </div> <div class="stanza"> <div class="line i4">"<i>Ave Maria,</i></div> -<div class="line i4h"><i>Gratiâ plena,</i></div> +<div class="line i4h"><i>Gratiâ plena,</i></div> <div class="line i4h"><i>Dominus tecum:</i></div> <div class="line i4h"><i>Benedicta tu</i></div> <div class="line i4h"><i>In mulieribus,</i></div> <div class="line i4h"><i>Et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus.</i></div> <div class="line i4h"><i>Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,</i></div> <div class="line i4h"><i>Ora pro nobis peccatoribus</i></div> -<div class="line i4h"><i>Nunc et in horâ mortis nostræ. Amen.</i>"</div> +<div class="line i4h"><i>Nunc et in horâ mortis nostræ. Amen.</i>"</div> </div> <p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">143</a></span></p> @@ -4556,7 +4517,7 @@ Clover".</span>)</p> <td><span class="small">PAGE</span></td> </tr> <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Apollo and the Men of Cymé</span>,</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Apollo and the Men of Cymé</span>,</td> <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td> </tr> <tr> @@ -4684,7 +4645,7 @@ Clover".</span>)</p> <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td> </tr> <tr> - <td class="tdlt"><span class="smcap">Mésalliance, A</span>,</td> + <td class="tdlt"><span class="smcap">Mésalliance, A</span>,</td> <td class="tdrt"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td> </tr> <tr> @@ -4798,383 +4759,7 @@ Clover".</span>)</p> </table> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lays and legends, by Edith Nesbit - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAYS AND LEGENDS *** - -***** This file should be named 41693-h.htm or 41693-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/6/9/41693/ - -Produced by Mary Akers, Suzanne Shell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -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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