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diff --git a/41693-0.txt b/41693-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8e00aa --- /dev/null +++ b/41693-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3627 @@ +*** 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]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 THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41693 *** |