THoma.s B Mcyhcr POEMS ROBERT BUCHANAN BOSTON ROBERTS BROTHERS 1866 UNIVERSITY PRESS : WELCH, BIGELOW, & Co., CAMBRIDGE. CONTENTS. UNDERTONES. POET'S PROLOGUE. P AGE To DAVID IN HEAVEN . . . . .3 THE UNDERTONES. I. PROTEUS 15 II. ADES, KING OF HELL .... 20 III. PAN 32 IV. THE NAIAD 45 V. THE SATYR 47 VI. VENUS ON THE SUN-CAR ... 57 VII. SELENE THE MOON 60 VIII. IRIS THE RAINBOW .... 63 IX. ORPHEUS THE MUSICIAN .... 65 X. POLYPHEME'S PASSION .... 69 XL PENELOPE . . . . . . 93 XII. SAPPHO 98 XIII. THE SIREN 100 XIV. A VOICE FROM ACADEME in M7G0060 iv CONTENTS. XV. PYGMALION THE SCULPTOR. 1. SHADOW 113 2. THE MARBLE LIFE . . . 114 3. THE SIN 118 4. DEATH IN LIFE .... 121 5. SHADOW 125 XVI. ANTONY IN ARMS . . . . 127 XVII. FINE WEATHER ON THE DIGENTIA. HORATIUS COGITANDIBUS . . .129 XVIII. FINE WEATHER BY BALE. VIRGIL TO HORACE . . ' . .142 XIX. THE SWAN-SONG OF APOLLO . . 150 POET'S EPILOGUE. To MARY ON EARTH 153 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. PREAMBLE 161 WILLIE BAIRD 167 LORD RONALD'S WIFE 181 POET ANDREW 186 WHITE LILY OF WEARDALE-HEAD . . . .201 THE ENGLISH HUSWIFE'S GOSSIP . . . 208 THE FAERY FOSTER-MOTHER 221 THE Two BABES 224 THE GREEN GNOME 250 HUGH SUTHERLAND'S PANSIES .... 253 CONTENTS. v THE LEGEND OF THE STEPMOTHER .... 266 THE WIDOW MYSIE 270 THE MINISTER AND THE ELFIN .... 279 THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE FAY . . . 282 VILLAGE VOICES 290 A LONDON IDYL 299 LANGLEY LANE 309 UNDERTONES POET'S PROLOGUE. TO DAVID IN HEAVEN. " Quo diversns abis? " " Quern Di diligunt, adolescens moritur.' T O ! the slow moon roaming ** Thro' fleecy mists of gloaming, Furrowing with pearly edge the jewel-powder'd sky ! Lo, the bridge moss-laden, Arch'd like foot of maiden, And on the bridge, in silence, looking upward, you and I ! Lo, the pleasant season Of reaping and of mowing The round still moon above, beneath, the river dusk- ily flowing ! 2. Violet-color'd shadows, Blown from scented meadows, Float, o'er us to the pine- wood dark from yonder dim corn-ridge ; The little river gushes Thro' shady sedge and rushes, And gray gnats murmur o'er the pools, beneath the mossy bridge ; 4 PROLOGUE. And you and I stand darkly, O'er the keystone leaning, And watch the pale mesmeric moon, in the time of gleaners and gleaning. 3- Do I dream, I wonder ? As, sitting sadly under A lonely roof in London, thro' the grim square pane I gaze ? Here of you I ponder, In a dream, and yonder The still streets seem to stir and breathe beneath the white moon's rays. By the vision cherish'd, By the battle braved, Do I but dream a hopeless dream, in the city that slew you, David ? 4- Is it fancy also, That the light which falls so - Faintly upon the stony street below me as I write, Near tall mountain passes Thro' churchyard weeds and grasses, Barely a mower's mile away from that small bridge, to-night ? And, where you are lying, Grass and flowers above you Is mingled with your sleeping face, as calm as the hearts that love you ? 5- Poet gentle-hearted, Are you then departed, TO DA VID IN HE A VEN. 5 And have you ceased to dream the dream we loved of old so well ? Has the deeply cherish'd Aspiration perish'd, And are you happy, David, in that heaven where you dwell ? Have you found the secret We,. so wildly, sought for, And is your soul enswath'd, at last, in the singing robes you fought for ? In some heaven star-lighted, Are you now united Unto the poet-spirits that you loved, of English race ? Is Chatterton still dreaming ? And, to give it stately seeming, Has the music of his last strong song passed into Keats's face ? Is Wordsworth there ? and Spenser ? Beyond the grave's black portals, Can the grand eye of Milton see the glory he sang to mortals ? 7- You at least could teach me, Could your dear voice reach me, Where I sit and copy out for men my sours strange speech, Whether it be bootless, Profitless, and fruitless, The weary aching upward strife to heights we cannot reach, 6 PROLOGUE. The fame we seek in sorrow, The agony we forego not, The haunting singing sense that makes us climb whither we know not. 8. Must it last forever, The passionate endeavor, Ay, have ye, there in heaven, hearts to throb and still aspire ? In the life you know now, Render'd white as snow now, Do fresher glory-heights arise, and beckon higher higher ? Are you dreaming, dreaming, Is your soul still roaming, Still gazing upward as we gazed, of old in the autumn gloaming ? 9- Lo, the book I hold here, In the city cold here ! I hold it with a gentle hand and love it as I may ; Lo, the weary moments ! Lo, the icy comments ! And lo, false Fortune's knife of gold swift-lifted up to slay! Has the strife no ending ? Has the song no meaning ? Linger I, idle as of old, while men are reaping or 10. Upward my face I turn to you, I long for you, I yearn to you, TO DA VI D IN HE A VEN. ^ The spectral vision trances me to utt'rance wild and weak ; It is not that I mourn you, ( To mourn you were to scorn you, For you are one step nearer to the beauty singers seek. But I want, and cannot see you, I seek and cannot find you, And, see ! I touch the book of songs you tenderly left behind you ! II. Ay, me ! I bend above it, With tearful eyes, and love it, With tender hand I touch the leaves, but cannot find you there ! Mine eyes are haunted only By that gloaming sweetly lonely, The shadows on the mossy bridge, the glamour in the air ! I touch the leaves, and only See the glory they retain not, The moon that is a lamp to Hope, who glorifies what we gain not ! 12. The aching and the yearning, The hollow undiscerning, Uplooking want I still retain, darken the leaves I touch, Pale promise, with much sweetness Solemnizing incompleteness, But ah, you knew so little then, and now you know so much ! By the vision cherish'd, By the battle bravdd, Have you, in heaven, shamed the song, by a loftier mu- sic, David ? PROLOGUE. I, who loved and knew you, In the city that slew you, Still hunger on, and thirst, and climb, proud-hearted and alone : Serpent-fears enfold me, Siren-visions hold me, And, like a wave, I gather strength, and gathering strength, I moan ; Yea, the pale moon beckons, Still I follow, aching, And gather strength, only to make a louder moan, in breaking ! 14. Tho' the world could turn from you, This, at least, I learn from you : Beauty and Truth, tho' never found, are worthy to be sought, The singer, upward-springing, Is grander than his singing, And tranquil self-sufficing joy illumes the dark of thought. This, at least, you teach me, In a revelation : That gods still snatch, as worthy death, the soul in its aspiration. And I think, as you thought, Poesy and Truth ought Never to lie silent in the singer's heart on earth ; Tho' they be discarded, Slighted, unrewarded, TO DAVID TN HEAVEN. 9 Tho', unto vulgar seeming, they appear of little worth, Yet tender brother-singers, Young or not yet born to us, May seek there, for the singer's sake, that love which sweeteneth scorn to us ! 16. While I sit in silence, Comes from mile on mile hence, From English Keats's Roman grave, a voice that sweet- ens toil ! Think you, no fond creatures Draw comfort from the features Of Chatterton, pale Phaethon, hurled down to sunless soil ? Scorch'd with sunlight lying, Eyes of sunlight hollow, But, see ! upon the lips a gleam of the chrism of Apollo ! 17- Noble thought produces Noble ends and uses, Noble hopes are part of Hope wherever she may be, Noble thought enhances Life and all its chances, And noble self is noble song, all this I learn from thee ! And I learn, moreover, 'Mid the city's strife too, That such faint song as sweetens Death can sweeten the singer's life too ! io PROLOGUE. 1 8. Lo, my Book ! I hold it In weary hands, and fold it Unto my heart, if only as a token I aspire ; And, by song's assistance, Unto your dim distance, My soul uplifted is on wings, and beckon'd higher, nigher. By the sweeter wisdom You return unspeaking, Though endless, hopeless, be the search, we exalt our souls in seeking. 19. Higher, yet, and higher, Ever nigher, ever nigher. To the glory we conceive not, let us toil and strive and strain ! The agonized yearning, The imploring and the burning, Grown awfuller, intenser, at each vista we attain, And clearer, brighter, growing, Up the gulfs of heaven wander, Higher, higher yet, and higher, to the Mystery we ponder ! 20. Yea, higher yet, and higher, Ever nigher, ever nigher, While men grow small by stooping and the reaper piles the grain, Can it then be bootless, Profitless and fruitless, TO DAVID IN HEAVEN. 11 The weary aching upward search for what we never gain? Is there not awaiting Rest and golden weather, Where, passionately purified, the singers may meet together ? 21. Up ! higher yet, and higher, Ever nigher, ever nigher, Thro' voids that Milton and the rest beat still with seraph-wings ; Out thro' the great gate creeping Where God hath put his sleeping A dewy cloud detaining not the soul that soars and sings, Up ! higher yet, and higher, Fainting nor retreating, Beyond the sun, beyond the stars, to the far bright realm of meeting ! 22. O Mystery ! O Passion ! To sit on earth, and fashion, What floods of music visibled may fill that fancied place ! To think, the least that singeth, Aspireth and upspringeth, May weep glad tears on Keats's breast and look in Milton's face ! When human power and failure Are equalized forever, And the one great Light that haloes all is the passion- ate bright endeavor ! (2 PROLOGUE. 23- But ah, that pale moon roaming Thro' fleecy mists of gloaming, Furrowing with pearly edge the jewel-powder'd sky, And ah, the days departed With your friendship gentle-hearted, And ah, the dream we dreamt that night, together, you and II Is it fashion'd wisely, To help us or to blind us, That at each height we gain we turn, and behold a heaven behind us ? THE UNDERTONES. Thou Fame 1 who makest of the singer's Life, Faint with the sweetness of its own desire, A statue of Narcissus, still and fair Forevermore, and bending evermore Over its beauteous image mirrored In the swift current of our human days, Eternally in act to clasp and kiss 1 O Fame, teach thou this flesh and blood to love Some beauteous counterpart, and while it bends, Tremulously gazing on the image, blow Thy trump aloud, and freeze it into stone I THE UNDERTONES. I. PROTEUS; OR, A PRELUDE. I. T NTO the living elements of things *- I, Proteus, mingle, seeking strange disguise : I track the Sun-god on an eagle's wings, Or look at horror thro' a murderer's eyes, In shape of horne'd beast my shadow glides Among broad-leave'd flowers that blow 'neath Afric tides. 2. Lo ! I was stirring in the leaves that shaded The Garden where the Man and Woman smiled : I saw them later, raimentless, degraded, The apple sour upon their tongues ; beguiled By the sweet wildness of the Woman's tears, I dropt in dew upon her lips, and stole Under her heart, a stirring human Soul, The blood within her tingling in mine ears ; And as I lay, I heard a voice that cried " Lo, Proteus, the unborn, shall wake to be Heir of the Woman's sorrow, yet a guide 1 6 THE UNDERTONES. Conducting back to immortality The spirit of the leaves of Paradise Shall lift him upward, to aspire and rise ! " Then sudden, I was conscious that I lay Under a heaven that gleam'd afar away : I heard the Man and Woman weeping, The green leaves rustling, and the Serpent creep- ing* The roar of beasts, the song of birds, the chime Of elements in sudden strife sublime, And overhead I saw the starry Tree, Eternity, Put forth the blossom Time. 3- A wind of ancient prophecy swept down, And wither'd up my beauty where I lay On Paris' bosom, in the Trojan town ; Troy vanish'd, and I wander'd far away, Till, lying on a Virgin's breast, I gazed Thro' infant eyes, and saw, as in a dream, The great god Pan whom I had raised and praised, Float huge, unsinew'd, down a mighty stream, With leaves and lilies heap'd about his head, And a weird music hemming him around, While, dropping from his nerveless fingers dead, A brazen sceptre plunged with hollow sound : A trackless Ocean wrinkling tempest-wing'd Open'd its darkness for the clay unking'd : Moreover, as he floated on at rest, With lips that flutter'd still in act to speak, An eagle, swooping down upon his breast, Pick'd at his songless lips with golden beak. PROTEUS. 17 4- There was a sound of fear and lamentation, The forests wail'd, the stars and moon grew pale, The air grew cloudy with the desolation Of gods that fell from realmless thrones like hail ; But as I gazed, the great god Pan awaking, Lookt in the Infant's happy eyes and smiled, And smiling died ; and like a sunbeam breaking From greenwood olden, rose a presence mild In exhalation from the clay, and stole Around the Infant in an auriole When, gladden'd by the glory of the child, Dawn gleam'd from p'ole to pole. 5- And, lo ! a shape with pallid smile divine Wander'd in Palestine ; And Adam's might was stately in his eyes, And Eve's wan sweetness glimmer'd on his cheek, And when he open'd heavenly lips to speak, I heard, disturbing Pilate into sighs, The rustle of those leaves in Paradise ! Then all was dark, the earth, and air, and sky, The sky was troubled and the earth was shaken, Beasts shriek'd, men shouted, and there came a cry, - " My God, I am forsaken ! " But even then, I smiled amid my tears, And saw in vision, down the future years, What time the cry still rung in heaven's dark dome, The likeness of his smile ineffable, Serenely dwell On Raphael, sunn'd by popes and kings at Rome, And Dante, singing in his Tuscan cell ! i8 THE UNDERTONES. But sudden, from the vapors of the north, Ice-bearded, snowy-visaged, Strength burst forth, Brandishing arms in death : 'T was Ades, frighted from his seat in Hell By that pale smile of peace ineffable, That with a sunny life-producing breath, Wreathed summer round the foreheads of the Dead, And troubled Hell's weird silence into joy. And with a voice that rent the pole he said, " Lo, I am Thor, the mighty to destroy ! " The accents ran to water on his mouth, The pole was kindled to a fiery glow, A breath of summer floated from the south And melted him like snow. 7- Yea thus, thro' change on change, Haunted forever by the leafy sound That sigh'd the Woman and the Man around, I, Proteus, range. A weary quest, a power to climb and soar, Yet never quit life's bitterness and starkness, The day behind me and the night before, This is my task forevermore ! I am the shadow of the inspiration Breath'd on the Man ; I am the sense alone, That, generation upon generation, Empowers the sinful Woman to atone By giving angels to the grave and weeping Because she knows not whither they are going ; I am the strife awake, the terror sleeping, The sorrow ever ebbing, ever flowing. PROTEUS. 19 Mine are the mighty names of power and worth, The seekers of the vision that hath fled, I bear the Infant's smile about the earth, And put the Cross on the aspirant's head, I am the peace on holy men who die, I waft as* sacrifice their fleeting breath, I am the change that is not change, for I Am deathless, being DEATH. 8. For, evermore I grow Wiser, with humbler power to feel and know ; For, in the end I, Proteus, shall cast All wondrous shapes aside but one alone, And stand (while round about me in the Vast Earth, Sun, Stars, Moon, as snow-flakes melt at last,) A Skeleton that, shadow'd by the Tree, Eternity, Holds in his hands the blossom Time full blown, And kneels before a Throne. 20 THE UNDERTONES. ADES, KING OF HELL. i. T) ENEATH the caves where sunless loam -L' Grows dim and reddens into gold ; 'Neath the fat earth-seams, where the cold Rains thicken to the flowery foam Fringing blue streams in summer zones ; Beneath the spheres where dead men's bones Change darkly thro' slow centuries to marl and glitter- ing stones ; 2. Orb'd in that rayless realm, alone, Far from the realm of sun and shower, A palpable god with godlike power, I, Ades, dwelt upon a throne ; Much darkness did my eyelids tire ; But thro' my veins the hid Sun's fire Communicated impulse, hope, thought, passion, and desire. 3- Eternities of lonely reign, Full of faint dreams of day and night And the white glamour of starry light, Oppress'd my patience into pain ; Upward I sent a voice of prayer That made a horror in the air : And " Ades craves a queen, O Zeus ! " shook heaven unaware. ADES, KING OF HELL. 21 4- The gods stopt short in full carouse, And listen'd. On the streams of Hell The whole effulgent conclave fell As in a glass. With soft-arch'd brows, And wings of dewy-tinctured dye, Moist Iris listen'd blushingly ; And Herd sought the soul of Zeus with coldly eager eye. 5- Then the clear hyaline grew cold And dim before the Father's face ; Gray meditation clothed the place ; And rising up Zeus cried, " Behold ! " And on Olumpos' crystal wall A kingly phantom cloudy and tall, Throned, sceptred, crown'd, was darkly apparition'd at the call. 6. " Behold him ! " Zeus the Father cried, With voice that shook my throne forlorn : Pale Hermes curl'd his lips in scorn, And Iris drew her bow aside ; Artemis paled and did not speak ; Sheer fear flush'd Aphrodite's cheek ; And only owl-eyed Pallas look'd with pitying smile and meek. 7- A weary night thro' earth and air The shadow of my longing spread, And not a goddess answered. 22 THE UNDERTONES. All nature darken'd at my prayer ; Which darkness earth and air did shroud, No star rain'd light, but, pale and proud, With blue-edged sickle Artemis cut her slow path thro' cloud. And when the weary dark was done, Beyond my sphere of realm upsprang, With smile that beam'd and harp that sang, Apollo piloting the Sun ; And conscious of him shining o'er, I watch'd my black and watery floor Wherein the wondrous upper-world is mirror'd ever- more. 9- When lo, there murmur'd on my brain, Like sound of distant waves, a sound That did my godlike sense confound And kiss'd my eyelids down in pain ; And far above I heard the beat Of musically falling feet, Hurl'd by the echoes of the earth down to my brazen seat. 10. And I was 'ware that overhead Walk'd one whose very motion sent A sweet immortal wonderment Thro' the deep dwellings of the Dead, And flush'd the seams of cavern and mine To gleams of gold and diamond shine, And made the misty dews' shoot up to kiss her feet divine. ADES, KING OF HELL. 23 II. By Zeus, the beat of those soft feet Thrill'd to the very roots of Hell, Troubling the mournful streams that fell Like snakes from out my brazen seat : Faint music reach'd me strange and slow, My conscious Throne gleam'd pale as snow, A beauteous vision vaguely fill'd the dusky* glass below. 12. When I beheld in that dark glass The phantom of a lonely maid, Who gather'd flowers in a green glade Knee-deep in dewy meadow-grass, And on a riverside. Behold, The sun that robed her round with gold, Mirror'd beneath me raylessly, loom'd white and round and cold. 13- Soft yellow hair that curl'd and clang Throbbed to her feet in softest showers, And as she went she gather'd flowers, And as she gather'd flowers she sang : It floated down my sulphurous eaves, That melody of flowers and leaves, Of vineyards, gushing purple wines, and yellow slanted sheaves. 14. Darkling I mutter'd, " It were choice Proudly to throne in solemn cheer So fair a queen, and ever to hear Such song from so divine a voice ! " 24 THE UNDERTONES. And with the wish I upward breathed A mist of fire that swiftly seethed Thro' shuddering earth-seams overhead, and round her warm knees wreathed. Whereon the caves of precious stones Grew bright as moonlight thrown on death, And red gold brighten'd, and the breath Drew greenness moist from fleshless bones ; And every cave was murmuring : " O River, cease to flow and sing, And bear the tall bride on thy banks to the footstool of thy king ! " 16. Then writhed the roots of forest trees In tortuous fear, till tremblingly Green leaves quaked round her. A sharp cry Went upward from the Oreades ; Low murmurs woke in bower and cave, With diapason in the wave : The River eddied darkly round, obeying as a slave. 17- Half stooping downward, while she held A flower in loosening fingers light ; The quick pink fading from the white Upon her cheek ; with eyes that welled Dark pansy thoughts from veins that dart Like restless snakes round the honeyed heart, And balmy breath that mildly blew her rose-red lips apart, ADES, KING OF HELL. 25 1 8. She listen'd stately, yet dismay'd ; And dimly conscious of some change That made the whispering place seem strange And awful, far from human aid ; And as the moaning Stream grew near, And whirl'd unto her with eddies clear, She saw my shadow in his waves and shrank away in fear. 19. " Small River, flowing with summer sound, Strong River, solemn Ades' slave, Flow unto her with gentle wave, And make an isle, and hem her round." The River, sad with gentle worth, Felt backward to that cave of earth, Where, troubled with my crimson eyes, he shudder'd into birth. 20. Him saw she trembling ; but unseen, Under long sedges lily-strew'd, Round creeping -roots of underwood, Low down beneath the grasses green Whereon she waited wondering-eyed, My servant slid with stealthy tide : Then like a fountain bubbled up and foam'd on either side. 21. And shrinking back she gazed in fear On his wild hair, and lo, an isle Around whose brim waves rose the while She cried, " O mother Ceres, hear ! " 26 THE UNDERTONES. Then sprang she wildly to and fro, Wilder than rain and white as snow. " O honor'd River, grasp thy prize, and to the footstool flow ! " 22. One swift sunbeam with sickly flare On white arms waving high did gleam, What time she shriek'd, and the strong Stream Leapt up and grasp'd her by the hair. And all was dark. With wild heads bow'd The forests murmur'd, and black cloud Split spumy on the mountain-tops with fire and portent loud! 23. - Then all was still as the Abyss, Save for the dark and bubbling water. And the far voice. " Bear Ceres' daughter Unto the kingly feet of Dis ! " Wherefore I rose upon my throne, And smote my kingdom's roof of stone ; Earth moan'd to her deep fiery roots Hell answer'd with a groan. 24. When swiftly waving sulphurous wings The Darkness brooded down in fear To listen. I, afar, could hear The coming River's murmurings ; My god-like eyes with flash of flame Peer'd up the chasm. As if in shame Of his slave-deed, darkly and slow, my trembling ser- vant came. ADES, KING OF HELL. 27 25. The gentleness of summer light, This Stream, my honor'd slave, possessed : The blue flowers mirror'd in his breast, And tire meek lamps that sweeten night, Had made his heart too mild to bear With other than a gentle care, And slow and solemn pace, a load so violet-eyed and fair! 26. Him saw I, as, thro' looming rocks, He glimmer'd like a serpent gray Whose moist coils hiss ; then, far away, Lo the dim gleam of golden locks, Lo a far gleam of glinting gold, Floating in many a throbbing fold, What time soft ripples panted dark on queenly eyelids cold. 27. Silently, with obeisance meet, In gentle arms escorting well The partner of eternal Hell, Thus flow'd, not halting, to my feet The gracious River with his load : Her with dark arm-sweep he bestow'd On my great footstool then again, with sharp shriek, upward flow'd. 28. So fair, so fair, so strangely fair, Dark from the waters lay my love ; And lo, I, Ades, stoop'd above, And shuddering touch'd the yellow hair 28 THE UNDERTONES. That made my beaded eyeballs close Awful as sunshine. Cold as snows, Pale-faced, dank-lidded, proud, she lay in wonderful repose. 29. And all the lesser Thrones that rise Around me, shook. With murmurous breath, Their Kings shook off eternal death, And with a million fiery eyes Glared red above, below, around, And saw me stooping fiery-crown'd ; And the white faces of the damn'd arose without a. sound. 30. As if an awful sunbeam, rife With living glory, pierced the gloom,' Bringing to spirits blind with doom The summers of forgotten life, Those pallid faces, mad and stern, Rose up in foam, and each in turn Roll'd downward, as a white wave breaks, and seem'd to plead and yearn. What time this horror loom'd beyond, Her soul was troubled into sighs : Stooping, throned, crown'd, I touch'd her eyes With dim and ceremonial wand ; And looking up, she saw and knew An awful love which did subdue Itself to her bright comeliness and gave her greeting due! ADES, KING OF HELL. 29 32. " Welcome ! " The rocks and chasms and caves, The million thrones and their black kings, The very snakes and creeping things, The very damn'd within the waves, Groan'd " welcome " ; and she heard with light Fingers that writhed in tresses bright, But when I touch'd her to the soul, she slowly rose her height. 33- While shadows of a reign eterne Quench'd the fine glint in her yellow hair, She rose erect more hugely fair, And, dark'ning to queenhood stern, She gazed into mine eyes and thence Drew black and subtle inference, Subliming the black godhead there with sunnier, sweeter sense. 34- Low at her feet, huge Cerberus Crouch'd groaning, but with royal look She stooping silenced him, and took The throne sublime and perilous That rose to hold her and upstream'd Vaporous fire : the dark void scream'd, The pale Eumenides made moan, with eyes and teeth that gleam'd. 35- Behold, she sits beside me now, A weighty sorrow in her mien, Yet gracious to her woes a queen ; The sunny locks about her brow 30 THE UNDERTONES. Shadow'd to godhead solemn, meet ; Throned, queen'd ; but round about her feet, Sweeten'd by gentle grass and flowers, the brackish waves grow sweet. 36. And surely, when the mirror dun Beneath me mirrors yellowing leaves, And reapers binding golden sheaves, And vineyards purple in the sun, .When fulness fills the plenteous year Of the bright upper-world, I hear The voice among the harvest-fields that mourns a daughter dear. 37- " Lo, Ceres mourns the bride of Dis," The old Earth moans, and rocks and hills, " Persephone " ; sad radiance fills The dripping horn of Artemis, Silverly shaken in the sky ; And a great frost-wind rushing by " Ceres will rob the eyes of Hell when seed-time draw- eth nigh." 38. And in the seed-time after snow, Down the long caves, in soft distress, Dry corn-blades tangled in her dress, The weary goddess wanders slow The million eyes of Hell are bent On my strange queen in wonderment, The ghost of Iris gleams across my waters impotent ! ADES, KING OF HELL. 31 39- And the sweet Bow bends mild and bland O'er rainy meadows near the light, When fading far along the night They wander upward hand-in-hand ; And like a phantom I remain, Chain'd to a throne in lonely reign, Till, sweet with greenness, moonlight-kiss'd, she wan- ders back again. 40. But when afar thro' rifts of gold And caverns steep'd in fog complete, I hear the beat of her soft feet, My kingdom totters as of old ; And, conscious of her sweeter worth, Her godhead of serener birth, Hell, breathing fire thro' flowers and leaves, feels to the upper-earth. 32 THE UNDERTONES. III. PAN. T T is not well, ye gods, it is not well ! * Yea, hear me grumble rouse, ye sleepers, rouse Upon^ thick-carpeted Olumpos' top Nor, faintly hearing, murmur in your sloth, " 'T is but the voice of Pan the malcontent ! " Shake the sleek sunshine from ambrosial locks, Vouchsafe a sleepy glance at the far earth That underneath ye wrinkles dim with cloud, And smile, and sleep again ! ME, when at first The deep Vast murmur'd, and Eternity Gave forth a hollow sound while from its voids Ye blossom'd thick as flowers, and by the light Beheld yourselves eternal and divine, ME, underneath the darkness visible And calm as ocean when the cold Moon smooths The palpitating waves without a sound, Me, ye saw sleeping in a dream, white-hair'd, Low-lidded, gentle, aged, and like the shade Of the eternal self-unconsciousness Out of whose law YE had awaken'd gods Fair-statured, self-apparent, marvellous, Dove-eyed, and inconceivably divine. Over the ledges of high mountains, thro' The fulgent streams of dawn, soft-pillowe'd PAN: 33 On downy clouds that swam in reddening streaks Like milk wherein a crimson wine-drop melts, And far beyond the dark of vague low lands, Uprose Apollo, shaking from his locks Ambrosial dews, and making as he rose A murmur such as west winds weave in June. Wherefore the darkness in whose depth I sat Wonder'd : thro' newly-woven boughs, the light Crept onward to mine eyelids unaware, And fluttering o'er my wrinkled length of limb Like tremulous butterflies above a snake, Uisturb'd me, and I stirr'd, and open'd eyes, Then lifted up my eyes to see the light, And saw the light, and, seeing not myself, Smiled ! Thereupon, ye gods, the woods and lawns Grew populously glad with living things. A rod of stone beneath my heel grew bright, Writhing to life, and hissing drew swift coils O'er the upspringing grass ; above my head A birch unbound her silver-shimmering hair, Brightening to the notes of numerous birds ; And far dim mountains hollow'd out themselves To give forth streams, till down the mountain-sides The loosen'd streams ran flowing. Then a voice Came from the darkness as it roll'd away Under Apollo's sunshine-sandall'd foot, And the vague voice shriek'd " Pan ! " and woods and streams Sky-kissing mountains and the courteous vales, Cried " Pan ! " and earth's reverberating roots Gave forth an answer, " Pan ! " and stooping down His fiery eyes to scorch me from my trance, Unto the ravishment of his soft lyre 3 34 THE UNDERTONES. " Pan ! " sang Apollo : when the wide world heard, Brightening brightlier, till thro' murmurous leaves Pale wood-nymphs peep'd around me whispering Pan ! " And sweeter faces floated in the stream That gurgled to my ankle, whispering " Pan ! " And, clinging to the azure gown of air That floated earthward dropping scented dews, A hundred lesser spirits panted " Pan ! " And, far along an opening forest-glade, Beating a green lawn with alternate feet, " Pan ! " cried the satyrs leaping. Then all sounds Were hush'd for coming of a sweeter sound ; And rising up, with outstretch'd arms, I, Pan, Look'd eastward, saw, and knew myself a god. It was not well, ye gods, it 'was not well ! Star-guiders, cloud-compellers ye who stretch Ambrosia-dripping limbs, great-statured, bright, Silken and fair-proportion'd, in a- place Thick-carpeted with grass as soft as sleep ; Who with mild glorious eyes of liquid depth Subdue to perfect peace and calm eterne The mists and vapors of the nether-world, That curl up dimly from the nether-world And make a roseate mist wherein ye lie Soft-lidded, broad-foreheaded, stretch'd supine' In awful contemplations ye great gods, Who meditate your souls and find them fair Ye heirs of odorous rest it was not well ! For, with Apollo sheer above, I, Pan, In whom a gracious godhead lived and moved, Rose, glorious-hearted, and look'd down ; and lo, Goat-legs, goat-thighs, goat-feet, uncouth and rude, PAN. 35 And, higher, the breast and bowels of a beast, Huge thews and twisted sinews swoll'n like cords, And thick integument of bark-brown skin A hideous apparition masculine ! But in my veins a new and natural youth, In my great veins a music as of boughs When the cool aspen-fingers of the Rain Feel for the eyelids of the earth in spring, In every vein quick life ; within my soul The meekness of some sweet eternity Forgot ; and in mine eyes soft violet-thoughts That widen'd in the eyeball to the light, And peep'd, and trembled chilly back to the soul Like leaves of violets closing. By my lawns, My honey-flowing rivers,* by my woods Grape-growing, by my mountains down whose sides The slow flocks thread like silver streams at eve, By the deep comfort in the eyes of Zeus When the soft murmur of my peaceful dales Blows like a gust of perfume on his cheek, There where he reigns, cloud-shrouded by meek lives That smooth themselves like wings of doves and brood Over immortal themes for love of me I swear it was not well. Ay, ay, ye smile ; Ye hear me, garrulous, and turn again To contemplation of the slothful clouds That curtain ye for sweetness. Hear me, gods ! Not the ineffable stars that interlace The azure panoply of Zeus himself, Have surer sweetness than my hyacinths When they grow blue in gazing on blue heaven, 36 THE UNDERTONES. Than the white lilies of my rivers when In leafy spring Selena's silver horn Spills paleness, peace, and fragrance. And for these, For all the sensible or senseless things Which swell the sounds and sights of earth and air, I snatch some glory which of right belongs To ye whom I revile : ay, and for these, For all the sensible or senseless things Which swell the sounds and sights of earth and air, I will snatch fresher glory, fresher joy, Robbing your rights in heaven day by day, Till from my dispensation ye remove Darkness, and drought that parches thirsty skins, The stinging alchemy of frost, the agues That rack me in the season of wet winds Till, bit by bit, my bestial nether-man Peels off like bark, my green old age shoots up Godhead apparent, and I know myself Fair as becomes a god ! Ay, I shall do ! Not I alone am something garrulous, gods ! But the broad-bosom'd earth, whose countless young Moan " Pan ! " most piteously when ye frown In tempests, or when Thunder, waving wings, Groans crouching from your lightning spears, and then Springs at your lofty silence with a shriek ! Not I alone, low horror masculine, But earthquake-shaken hills, the dewy dales, Blue rivers as they flow, and boughs of trees, Yea, monsters, and the purblind race of men, Grow garrulous of your higher glory, gods ; Yearning unto it moan my name aloud, Climbing unto it shriek or whisper " Pan ! " Till from the far-off verdurous depths, from deep PAN. 37 Impenetrable woods whose wondrous roots Blacken to coal or redden into gold, I, stirring in this ancient dream of mine, Make answer and they hear. In Arcady I, sick of mine own envy, hollow'd out A valley, green and deep ; then pouring forth From the great hollow of my hand a stream Sweeter than honey, bade it wander on In blue and oily lapse to the far sea. Upon its banks grew flowers as thick as grass, Gum-dropping poplars and the purple vine, Slim willows dusty like the thighs of bees, And, further, stalks of corn and wheat and flax, And, even further, on the mountain sides White sheep and new-yean'd lambs, and in the midst Mild-featured shepherds piping. Was not this An image of your grander ease, O gods ? A faint sweet picture of your bliss, O gods ? They thank'd me, those sweet shepherds, with the smoke Of crimson sacrifice of lambkins slain, Rich spices, succulent herbs that savor meats ; And when they came upon me ere aware, Walk'd sudden on my presence where I piped By rivers lorn my mournful ditties old, Cried " Pan ! " and worshipp'd. Yet it was not well, Ye gods, it was not well, that I, who gave The harvest to these men, and with my breath Thicken'd the wool upon the backs of sheep, I, Pan, should in these purblind mortal forms Witness a loveliness more gently fair, Nearer to your dim loveliness, O gods ! Than my immortal wood-pervading self, Carelessly blown on by the rosy Hours, 38 THE UNDERTONES. Who breathe quick breath and smile before they die - Goat-footed, horn'd, a monster yet a god. By wanton Aphrodite's velvet limbs, I swear, ye amorous gods, it was not well ! Down the long vale of Arcady I chased A wood-nymph, unapparell'd and white-limb'd, From gleaming shoulder unto foot a curve Delicious, like the bow of Artemis : A gleam of dewy moonlight on her limbs ; Within her veins a motion as of waves Moon-led and silver-crested to the moon ; And in her heart a sweetness such as fills Uplooking maidens when the virgin orb Witches warm bosoms into snows, and gives The colorable chastity of flowers To the tumultuous senses curl'd within. Her, after summer noon, what time her foot Startled with moonlight motion milk-blue stalks Of hyacinths in a dim forest glade, Her saw I, and, uplifting eager arms, I rush'd around her as a rush of boughs, My touch thrill'd thro' her, she beheld my face, And like a gnat it stung her, and she fled. Down the green glade, along the verdurous shade, She screaming fled and I pursued behind : By Zeus, it was as though the forest moved Behind her, following ; and with shooting boughs, And bristling arms and stems, and murmurous leaves, It eddied after her my underwood Of bramble and the yellow-blossom'd furze Flung its thick growth around her waist, my trees Dropt thorns before her, and my growing grass PAN. 39 Put forth its green and sappy oils and slid Under her feet ; until, with streaming hair Like ravell'd sunshine torn 'mid scars and cliffs, Pale, breathless, and long-throated like a swan, With tongue that panted 'tween the foamy lips As the red arrow in a tulip's cup, She, coming swiftly on the river-side, Into the circle of a seclgy pool Plunged knee-deep, shrieking. Then I, thrusting arms To grasp her, touch'd her with hot hands that clung Like burrs to the soft skin ; while, writhing down Even as a fountain lessens gurglingly, She cried to Artemis, " Artemis, Artemis, Sweet goddess, Artemis, aid me, Artemis ! " And o'er the laurels on the river-side, Dark and low-fluttering, Daphne's hidden soul Breathed fearful hoar-frost, echoing " Artemis " ; When lo, above the sandy sunset rose The silver sickle of the green-gown'd witch, Which flicker'd thrice into a pallid orb, And thrice flash'd white across the forest leaves, And lo, the change ye wot of: melting limbs Black'ning to oozy sap of reeds, white hands Waving aloft and putting forth green shoots, The faint breath-bubbles circling in a pool, Last, the sharp voice's murmur dying away In the low lapping of the rippling pool, The melancholy motion of the pool, And the faint undertone of whispering reeds. By Latmos and its shepherd, was it well ? By smooth-chin'd Syrinx, was it well, O gods ? Yet mark. What time the pallid sickle wax'd Blue-edged and luminous o'er the black'ning west, 40 THE UNDERTONES. I, looming hideous in the smooth pool, stooped And pluck'd seven wondrous pipes of brittle reeds Wherein the wood-nymph's soul still flutter'd faint ; And these seven pipes I shaped to one, wherein I, Pan, with ancient and dejected head Nodding above its image in the pool, And large limbs stretch'd their length on shadowy banks, Did breathe such weird and awful ravishment, Such symmetry of sadness and sweet sound, Such murmurs of deep boughs and hollow cells, That neither bright Apollo's hair-strung lute, Nor Here's queenly tongue when her red lips Flutter to intercession of love-thoughts Throned in the counsel-keeping eyes of Zeus, Nor airs from heaven, blow sweetlier. Hear me, gods ! Behind her veil of azure, Artemis Turn'd pale and listen'd ; mountains, woods, and streams, And every mute and living thing therein, Marvell'd, and hush'd themselves to hear the end Yea, far away, the fringe of the green sea Caught the faint sound and with a deeper moan Rounded the pebbles on the shadowy shore. Whence, in the season of the pensive eve, The earth plumes down her weary, weary wings ; The Hours, each frozen in his mazy dance, Look scared upon the stars and seem to stand Stone-still, like chisell'd angels mocking Time ; And woods and streams and mountains, beasts and birds, And serious hearts of purblind men, are hush'd ; While music sweeter far than any dream Floats from the far-off silence, where I sit Wondrously wov'n about with forest boughs PAN. 41 Through which the moon peeps faintly, on whose leaves The unseen stars sprinkle a diamond dew And shadow'd in some water that not flows, But, pausing, spreads dark waves as smooth as oil To listen ! Am I over-garrulous, gods ? Thou pale-faced witch, green-kirtled, thou whose light Troubles the beardless shepherd where he sleeps On Latmos, am I over-garrulous? Nay, then, pale huntress of my groves, I swear The lily and the primrose 'neath thy heel Savor as fair as thee, as pure as thee, Drinking the lucid glamour of thy speed ; And on the cheeks of marriageable maids Dwelleth a pallor enviably sweet, Sweet as thy sweetest self, yet robb'd from thee. Snow-bosom'd lady, art thou proud? Then hark .*. . When last in the cool quiet of the night Thou glimmeredst dimly down with thy white nymphs, And brush'd these dewy lawns with buskin'd foot, I, Pan the scorn'd, into an oak-tree crept, And holding between thumb and finger thus A tiny acorn, dropt it cunningly In the small nest beneath thy snow-heap'd breasts, And thou didst pause in tumult, cried aloud, Then redden'd like a rose from breast to brow, Sharp-crimson like a rose from breast to brow, And trembled, aspen-hearted, timorous As new-yean'd lambs, and with a young doe's cry Startled amazed from thine own tremulous shade Faint-mirror'd in the dark and dewy lawn ! Ha, turn your mild grand eyes, O gods, and hear ! Why do I murmur darkly, do ye ask ? 42 THE UNDERTONES. What do I seek for, yearn for ? Why, not much. I would be milky-limb'd and straight and tall And pleasant-featured, like Apollo there ! I would be lithe and fair as Hermes is ; And, with that glittering sheath of god-like form, Trust me, could find for it a wit as keen As that which long ago did prick and pain The thin skin of the Sun-god. I would be Grand and fine-statured as becomes a god, A sight divine conceived harmoniously, A stately incarnation of my sweet Pipings in lonely places. There 's the worm ! Ay, ay,' the mood is on me, I am aged, White-bearded, and my very lifted hands Shake garrulously, and ye hear, and smile. By the faint undertone of this blind Earth, Swooning towards the pathway of the Sun With flowery pulses, leafy veins, whene'er She hears in intercession of new births My voice miraculous melancholy old, I swear not I alone, a sensible god, Shall keep these misproportions, worse than beast's ; While woods and streams, and all that dwell therein, And merest flowers, and the starr'd coils of snakes, Yea, purblind mortal men, inhale from heaven Such dews as give them heavenly seemliness, Communicably lovely as the shapes That doze on high Olumpos. Is it well ? Ye who compel the very clouds to forms Beauteous and purely beauteous, ere my rain Rends their white vestments into flowers to make My peaceful vales look lovely, gods, great gods, PAN. 43 I ask ye, is it well ? Ye answer not. But Earth has answer'd, and all things that grow, All things that live, all things that feel or see The interchanges of the sun and moon ; And with a yearning palpable and dumb, Yet conscious of some glory yet unborn, Of unfulfilled mysteries, I, Pan, Prophesy. In the time to come, in years Across whose vast I wearily impel These ancient, blear'd, and humble-lidded eyes, Some law more strong than I, yet part of me, Some power more piteous, yet a part of me, Shall hurl ye from Olumpos to the depths, And bruise ye back to that great darkness whence Ye blossom'd thick as flowers ; while I I, Pan The ancient haunting shadow of dim earths, Shall slough this form of beast, this wrinkled length, Yea, cast it from my feet as one who shakes A worthless garment off; and lo, beneath, Mild-featured manhood, manhood eminent, Subdued into the glory of a god, Sheer harmony of body and of soul, Wondrous, and inconceivably divine. Wherefore, ye gods, with this my prophecy I sadden those sweet sounds I pipe unseen. From dimly lonely places float the sounds To haunt the regions of the homeless air, Whatever changeful season ye vouchsafe To all broad worlds which, hearing, whisper, " Pan ! " And thence they reach the hearts of lonely men, Who wearily bear the burden and are pain'd To utterance of fond prophetic song, 44 THE UNDERTONES. Who singing smile, because the song is sweet, Who die, because they cannot sing the end. It is my care to keep the graves of such Thick-strewn and deep with grass and precious flowers Such as ye slumber on ; and to those graves, In sable vestments, ever comes the ghost Of my forgot and dumb eternity, Mnemosyne ; but what she broods on there I know not, nor can any wholly know, Mortal or god. The seasons come and go, In their due season perish rocks and trees, In their due season are the streams drain'd dry ; Earth dumbly changes, and those lonely men, Less blind than purblind mortals, sing and die ; But still, with hooded and dejected head, Above those graves ponders Mnemosyne ; While I remain to pipe my ditties old, And my new prophecy, in ancient woods And by the margins of unfortunate pools, My wondrous music dying afar away Upon the fringes of the setting sun. THE NAIAD. 45 IV. THE NAIAD. T^\IAN white-arm'd has given me this cool shrine, *-' Deep in the bosom of a wood of pine : The silver-sparkling showers That hive me in, the flowers * That prink my fountain's brim, are hers and mine ; And when the days are mild and fair, And grass is springing, buds are blowing, Sweet it is, 'mid waters flowing, Here to sit, and know no care, 'Mid the waters flowing, flowing, flowing, Combing my yellow, yellow hair. The ounce and panther down the mountain-side Creep thro' dark greenness in the eventide ; And at the fountain's brink Casting great shades they drink, Gazing upon me, tame and sapphire-eyed ; For, awed by my pale face, whose light Gleameth thro' sedge and lilies yellow. They, lapping at my fountain mellow, Harm not the lamb that in affright Throws in the pool so mellow, mellow, mellow, Its shadow small and dusky- white. 46 THE UNDERTONES. 3- Oft do the fauns and satyrs, flusht with play, Come to my coolness in the hot noon-day. Nay, once indeed, I vow By Dian's truthful brow, The great god Pan himself did pass this way, And, all in festal oak-leaves clad, His limbs among these lilies throwing, Watch'd the silver waters flowing, Listen'd to their music glad, Saw and heard them flowing, flowing, flowing, And ah ! his face was worn and sad ! Mild joys around like silvery waters fall ; But it is sweetest, sweetest far of all, In the calm summer night, When the tree-tops look white, To be exhaled in dew at Dian's call, Among my sister-clouds to move Over the darkness earth-bedimming, Milky-robed thro' heaven swimming, Floating round the stars above, Swimming proudly, swimming, proudly swimming, And waiting on the Moon I love. - 5- So tenderly I keep this cool green shrine, Deep in the bosom of a wood of pine ; Faithful thro' shade and sun, That service due and done May haply earn for me a place divine Among the white-robed deities THE SATYR. 47 That thread thro' starry paths, attending My sweet Lady, calmly wending Thro' the silence of the skies, Changing in hues of beauty never ending, Drinking the light of Dian's eyes. V. THE SATYR. 'T^HE trunk of this tree, -- Dusky-leaved, shaggy-rooted, Is a pillow well suited To a hybrid like me, Goat-bearded, goat-footed ; For the boughs of the glade Meet above me, and throw A cool pleasant shade On the greenness below ; Dusky and brown'd Close the leaves all around ; And yet, all the while, Thro' the boughs I can see A star, with a smile, Looking at me. 2. Full length I lie, On this mossy tree-knot, 48 THE UNDERTONES. With face to the sky, . The vast blue I see not ; And I start in surprise From my dim half-dream, With the moist white gleam Of the star in mine eyes : So strange does it seem That the star should beam From her crystal throne On this forest nook Of all others, and look Upon me alone : Ay, that yonder divine Soft face Should shine On this one place ; And, when things so fair Fill the earth and air, Should choose to be, Night after night, The especial light . Of a monster like me ! 3- Why, all day long, I run about With a madcap throng, And laugh and shout Silenus grips My ears, and strides On my shaggy hips, And up and down In an ivy crown Tipsily rides ; THE SATYR. 49 And when in a doze His eyelids close, Off he tumbles, and I Can his wine-skin steal, I drink and feel The grass roll sea-high Then with shouts and yells, Down mossy dells, I stagger after The wood-nymphs fleet, Who with mocking laughter And smiles retreat ; And just as I clasp A yielding waist, With a cry embraced, Gush ! it melts from.my grasp Into water cool, And bubble ! trouble ! Seeing double ! I stumble and gasp In some icy pool ! 4- All suborn me, Flout me, scorn me ! Drunken joys And cares are mine, Romp and noise, And the dregs of wine ; And whene'er in the night Diana glides by The spot where I lie, With her maids green-dight, I must turn my back 4 50 THE UNDERTONES, In a rude affright, And blindly fly From her shining track ; Or if only I hear Her bright footfall near, Fall with face to the grass, Not breathing for fear Till I feel her pass. 5- I am I know not what : Neither what I am, Nor what I am not I seem to have rollick'd, Ajid frolick'd, In this wood for aye, With a beast's delight Romping all day, Dreaming all night ! Yet I seem To remember awaking Just here, and aching With the last forsaking Tender gleam Of a droll strange dream. When I lay at mine ease, With a sense at my heart Of being a part Of the grass and trees And the scented earth, And of drinking the bright Subdued sunlight With a leafy mirth : THE SATYR. 51 Then behold, I could see A wood-nymph peeping Out of her tree, And closer creeping, Timorously Looking at me ! And still, so still, I lay until She trembled close to me, Soft as a rose to me, And I leapt with a thrill And a shout, and threw Arms around her, and press'd her, Kiss'd her, caress'd her, Ere she scream'd, and flew. Then I was 'ware Of a power I had To drink the air, Laugh and shout, Run about, And be consciously glad So I follow'd the maiden 'Neath shady eaves, Thro' groves deep-laden With fruit and leaves, Till, drawing near To a brooklet clear, I shuddering fled From the monstrous shape There mirrored Which seem'd to espy me, THE UNDERTONES. And grin and gape, And leap up high In the air with a cry, And fly me ! Whence I seem to have slowly Grown conscious of being A thing wild, unholy, And foul to the seeing. But ere I knew aught Of others like me, I would lie, fancy-fraught, In the greenness of thought, Beneath a green tree ; And seem to be deep In the scented earth-shade 'Neath the grass of the glade, In a strange half-sleep : When the wind seem'd to move me, The cool rain to kiss, The sunlight to love me, The stars in their bliss To tingle above me ; And I crept thro' deep bowers That were sparkling with showers And sprouting for pleasure, And I quicken'd the flowers To a joy without measure Till my sense seem'd consuming With warmth, and, upspringing, I saw the flowers blooming, And heard the birds singing! THE SATYR. 53 Wherever I range, Thro' the'greenery, That vision strange, Whatsoever it be, Is a part of me Which suffers not change. The changes of earth, Water, air, ever-stirring, Disturb me, conferring My sadness or mirth : Wheresoever I run, I drink strength from the sun ; The wind stirs my veins With the leaves of the wood, The dews and the rains Mingle into my blood. I stop short In my sport, Panting, and cower, While the blue skies darken With a sunny shower ; And I lie and hearken, In a balmy pain To the tinkling clatter, Fitter, patter, Of the rain On the leaves close to me, And sweet thrills pass Thro' and thro' me, Till I tingle like grass. When lightning with noise Tears the wood's green ceiling, 54 THE UNDERTONES. When the black sky's voice Is terribly pealing, I hide me, hide me, hide me, With wild averted face, In some terror-stricken place, While flowers and trees beside me, And every streamlet near, Darken, whirl, and wonder, Above, around, and under, And murmur back the thunder In a palpitating fear ! Ay ; and when the earth turns A soft bosom of balm To the darkness that yearns Above it, and grows To dark, dewy, and calm Repose, I, apart from rude riot, Partake of the quiet The night is bequeathing, Lie, unseen and unheard, In the greenness just stirr'd By its own soft breathing And my heart then thrills With a strange sensation Like the purl of rills Down moonlit hills That loom afar, With a sweet sensation Like the palpitation Of yonder star ! THE SATYR. 55 10. Thro' yonder bough Her white ray twinkles ; And on my brow She silently sprinkles A dewy rain, That lulls my brain To a dream of being Under the ground, Blind to seeing, Deaf to sound, Drinking a dew That drops from afar, And feeling unto The sweet pulse of a star, Who is beckoning me Though I cannot see ! And of suddenly blooming Up into the air, And, swooning, assuming The shape I wear ! While all fair things Fly night and day from me, Wave bright wings, And glimmer away from me ! n. She shines above me, And heareth not, Though she smiles on this spot And seems to love me. Here I lie aloof, Goat-footed, knock-kneed, A monster, indeed, 56 THE UNDERTOA r ES. From horns to hoof; And the star burns clearly With pearl-white gleam Have I merely Elream'd a dream ? 12. Did she hear me, I wonder ? She trembles upon Her throne and is gone ! The boughs darken under, Then thrill, and are stirr'd By the notes of a bird. The green grass brightens With pearly dew, And the whole wood whitens As the dawn creeps thro'. "Hoho!" that shout Flung the echoes about The boughs, like balls ! Who calls? 'T is the noisy rout Of my fellows upspringing' From sleep and dreaming, To the birds' shrill singing, The day's soft beaming : And they madly go To and fro, Though o' nights they are dumb. Hoho ! hoho ! I come ! I come ! Hark ! to the cry They reply : " Ha, there, ha ! " VENUS ON THE SUN-CAR. 57 "Hurrah!" "hurrah!" And starting afraid At the cries, In the depths of the glade Echo replies " Ho, there ! " " ho, there ! " By the stream below there The answer dies. VI. VENUS ON THE SUN-CAR. HPELL me, thou many-finger'd Frost, -* Coming and going like a ghost In leafless woods forsaken O Frost, that o'er him lying low Drawest the garment of the snow From silver cloud-wings shaken, And round bare boughs with strange device Twinest fantastic leaves of ice When will Adon waken ? Lo, dawn by dawn I rise afar Beside Apollo in his car, And, far below us wreathing, Thy fogs and mists are duskly curl'd Round the white slumber of the world, Like to its own deep breathing ; But crimson thro' the mist our light 58 THE UNDERTONES. Foameth and freezeth, till by night Snow-bosom'd hills we' fade on The pallid god, at my desire, Gives unto thee a breath of fire To reach the lips of Adon. Tell me, thou bare and wintry World, Wherein the winged flowers are curl'd Like pygmy spirits dozing O World, within whose lap he lies, With thy quick earth upon his eyes, In dim unseen reposing, Husht underneath the wind and storm, Still rosy-lipt in darkness warm Are Adon's eyes unclosing ? Lo, dawn by dawn I rise afar Beside Apollo in his car, Thro' voids of azure soaring, And gazing down on regions dead, With golden hair dishevelled, And claspe'd hands imploring. Wonderful creatures of the light Hover above thee, hanging bright Faint pictures glen and glade on : The pallid god, at my desire, Hideth in glimmering snows his fire, To reach the sleep of Adon. 3- Tell me, thou spirit of the Sun, Radiant-lock'd and awful one, Strong, constant, unforsaking Sun, by whose shadier side I sit, VENUS ON THE SUN-CAR. 59 And search thy fa^r 1 " An old man's tale, a tale for men gray-hair' d, Who wear, thro' second childhood, to the Lord.' IS two-and-thirty summers since I came To school the village lads of Inverburn. My father was a shepherd old and poor, Who, dwelling 'mong the .clouds on norland hills, His tartan plaidie on, and by his side His sheep-dog running, redden'd with the winds That whistle saltly south from Polar seas : I follow'd in his footsteps when a boy, And knew by heart the mountains round our home ; But when I went to Edinglass, to learn At college there, I look'd about the place, And heard the murmur of the busy streets Around me, in a dream ; and only saw The clouds that snorw around the mountain-tops, The mists that chase the phantom of the moon In lonely mountain tarns, and heard the while, Not footsteps sounding hollow to and fro, But winds sough-soughing thro' the woods of pine. Time pass'd ; and day by day those sights and sounds Grew fainter, till they troubled me no more. 168 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. O Willie, Willie, are you sleeping sound ? And can you feel the stone that I have placed Yonder above you ? Are you dead, my doo ? Or did you see the shining Hand that parts The clouds above, and becks the bonnie birds, Until they wing away, and human eyes, That watch them till they vanish in the blue, Droop and grow tearful ? Ay, I ken, I ken, I 'm talking folly, but I loved the child ! He was the bravest scholar in the school ! He came to teach the very dominie Me, with my lyart locks and sleepy heart ! O well I mind the day his mother brought Her tiny trembling tot with yellow hair, Her tiny poor-clad tot six summers old, And left him seated lonely on a form Before my desk. He neither wept nor gloom'd ; But waited silently, with shoeless feet Swinging above the floor ; in wonder eyed The maps upon the walls, the big blackboard, The slates and books and copies, and my own Gray hose and clumpy boots ; last, fixing gaze Upon a monster spider's web that fill'd One corner of the whitewash'd ceiling, watch'd The speckled traitor jump and jink about, Till he forgot my unfamiliar eyes, Weary and strange and old. " Come here, my bairn ! " And timid as a lamb he seedled up. What do they call ye ? " " Willie, " coo'd the wean, Up-peeping slyly, scraping with his feet. I put my hand upon his yellow hair, And cheer'd him kindly. Then I bade him lift The small black bell that stands behind the door WILLIE BAIRD. 169 And ring the shouting laddies from their play. " Run, Willie ! " And he ran, and eyed the bell, Stoop'd o'er it, seem'd afraid that it would bite, Then grasp'd it firm, and as it jingled gave A timid cry next laugh'd to hear the sound And ran full merry to the door and rang, And rang, and rang, while lights of music lit His pallid cheek, till, shouting, panting hard, In ran the big rough laddies from their play. Then rapping sharply on the desk I drove The laddies to their seats, and beckon'd up The stranger smiling, bade him seat himself And hearken to the rest. Two weary hours Buzz-buzz, boom-boom, went on the noise of school, While Willie sat and listen'd open-mouth'd ; Till school was over, and the big and small Hew home in flocks. But Willie stay'd behind. I beckon'd to the mannock with a smile, And took him on my knee and crack'd and talk'd. First, he was timid ; next, grew bashful ; next, He warm'd and told me stories of his home, His father, mother, sisters, brothers, all ; And how, when strong and big, he meant to buy A gig to drive his father to the kirk ; And how he long'd to be a dominie : Such simple prattle as I plainly see You smile at. But to little children God Has given wisdom and mysterious power Which beat the mathematics. Quczrere Verum in sylvis Academi, Sir, Is meet for men who can afford to dwell Forever in a garden, reading books 170 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Of morals and the logic. Good and well ! Give me such tiny truths as only bloom Like red-tipt gowans at the hallanstone, Or kindle softly, flashing bright at times, In faffing cottage fires ! The laddie still Was seated on my knee, when at the door We heard a scrape-scrape-scraping : Willie prick'd His ears and listen'd, then he clapt his hands " Hey ! Donald, Donald, Donald ! " [See ! the rogue Looks up and blinks his eyes he knows his name !] " Hey, Donald, Donald ! " Willie cried. At that I saw beneath me, at the door, a dog The very collie dozing at your feet, His nose between his paws, his eyes half closed. At sight of Willie, with a joyful bark He leapt and gamboll'd, eying me the while In queer suspicion ; and the mannock peep'd Into my face, while patting Donald's back " It 's Donald ! he has come to take me home ! " An old man's tale, a tale for men gray-hair'd, Who wear, thro' second childhood, to the grave ! I '11 hasten on. Thenceforward Willie came Daily to school, and daily to the door Came Donald trotting ; and they homeward went Together Willie walking slow but sure, And Donald trotting sagely by his side. [Ay, Donald, he is dead ! be still, old man !] What link existed, human or divine, Between the tiny tot six summers old, And yonder life of mine upon the hills WILLIE BAIRD. 171 Among the mists and storms ? 'T is strange, 't is strange ! But when I look'd on Willie's face, it seem'd That I had known it in some beauteous life That I had left behind me in the north. This fancy grew and grew, till oft I sat The buzzing school around me and would seem To be among the mists, the tracks of rain, Nearing the hueless silence of the snow. Slowly and surely I began to feel That I was all alone in all the world, And that my mother and my father slept Far, far away, in some forgotten kirk Remember'd but in dreams. Alone at nights, I read my Bible more and Euclid less. For, mind you, like my betters, I had been Half scoffer, half believer ; on the whole, I thought the life beyond a useless dream, Best left alone, and shut my eyes to themes That puzzled mathematics. But at last, When Willie Baird and I grew friends, and thoughts Came to me from beyond my father's grave, I found 't was pleasant late at e'en to read My Bible haply, only just to pick Some easy chapter for my pet to learn Yet night by night my soul was guided on Like a blind man some angel hand convoys. I cannot frame in speech the thoughts that fill'd This gray old brow, the feelings dim and warm That soothed the throbbings of this weary heart ! But when I placed my hand on Willie's head, Warm sunshine tingled from the yellow hair Thro' trembling fingers to my blood within ; 172 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. And when I look'd in Willie's stainless eyes I saw the empty ether floating gray O'er shadowy mountains murmuring low with winds ; And often when, in his old-fashion'd way, He question'd me, I seem'd to hear a voice From far away, that mingled with the cries Haunting the regions where the round red sun Is all alone with God among the saow. Who made the stars ? and if within his hand He caught and held one, would his fingers burn ? If I, the gray-hair'd dominie, was dug From out a cabbage garden such as he Was found in ? if, when bigger, he would wear Gray homespun hose and clumsy boots like mine, And have a house to dwell in all alone ? Thus would he question, seated on my knee, While Donald (wheesht, old man !) stretch'd lyart limbs Under my chair, contented. .Open-mouth'd He hearken'd to the tales I loved to tell About Sir William Wallace and the Bruce, And the sweet lady on the Scottish throne, Whose crown was colder than a band of ice, Yet seem'd a sunny crown whene'er she smiled ; With many tales of genii, giants, dwarfs, And little folk that play at jing-a-ring On beds of harebells 'neath the silver moon ; Stories and rhymes and songs of Wonder-land : How Tammas Ercildoune in Elfland dwelt, How Galloway's mermaid comb'd her golden hair, How Tammas Thumb stuck in the spider's web, And fought and fought, a needle for his sword, Dyeing his weapon in the crimson blood Of the foul traitor with the poison'd fangs ! WILLIE BAIRD. 173 And when we read the Holy Book, the child Would think and think o'er parts he loved the best ; The draught of fish, the Child that sat so wise In the great Temple, Herod's cruel law To slay the weans, or oftenest of all The crucifixion of the Good Kind Man Who loved the weans and was a wean himself. He speir'd of death ; and were the sleepers cold Down in the dark wet earth ? and was it God That put the grass and flowers in the kirk-yard ? What kind of dwelling-place was heaven above ? And was it full of flowers ? and were there schools And dominies there ? and was it far away ? Then, with a look that made your eyes grow dim, Clasping his wee white hands round Donald's neck, " Do doggies gang to heaven ? " he would ask ; " Would Donald gang ? " and keek'd in Donald's face While Donald blink'd with meditative gaze, As if he knew full brawly what we said, And ponder'd o'er it, wiser far than we. But how I answer'd, how explain'd these themes I know not. Oft I could not speak at all. Yet every question made me think of things Forgotten, puzzled so, and when I strove To reason puzzled me so much the more, That, flinging logic to the winds, I went Straight onward to the mark in Willie's way, Took most for granted, laid down premises Of Faith, imagined, gave my wit the reins, And oft on nights at e'en, to my surprise, Felt palpably an angel's glowing face Glimmering down upon me, while mine eyes Dimm'd their old orbs with tears that came unbid To bear the glory of the light they saw. 174 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. So summer pass'd. Yon chestnut at the door Scatter'd its burnish'd leaves and made a sound Of wind among its branches. Every day Came Willie, seldom going home again Till near the sunset : wet or dry he came : Oft in the rainy weather carrying A big umbrella, under which he walk'd A little fairy in a parachute, Blown hither, thither, at the wind's wild will. Pleased was my heart to see his pallid cheeks Were gathering rosy-posies, that his eyes Were softer and less sad. Then, with a gust, Old Winter tumbled shrieking from the hills, His white hair blowing in the wind. The house Where Willie's mother lives is scarce a mile From yonder hallan, if you take a cut Before you reach the village, crossing o'er Green meadows till you reach the road again ; But he who thither goes along the road Loses a reaper's mile. The summer long Wee Willie came and went across the fields : He loved the smell of flowers and grass, the sight Of cows and sheep, the changing stalks of wheat, And he was weak and small. When winter came, Still caring not a straw for wind or rain Came Willie and the collie ; till by night Down fell the snow, and fell three nights and days, Then ceased. The ground was white and ankle-deep The window of the school was threaded o'er With flowers of hueless ice Frost's unseen hands Prick'd you from head to foot with tinging heat ; The shouting urchins, yonder on the green, WILLIE BAIRD. 175 Play'd snowballs. In the school a cheery fire Was kindled every day, and every day When Willie came he had the warmest seat, And every day old Donald, punctual, came To join us, after labor, in the lowe. Three days and nights the snow had mistily fall'n. It lay long miles along the country-side, White, awful, silent. In the keen cold air There was a hush, a sleepless silentness, And mid it all, upraising eyes, you felt God's breath upon your face ; and in your blood, Though you were cold to touch, was flaming fire, Such as within the bowels of the earth Burnt at the bones of ice, and wreath'd them round With grass ungrown. One day in school I saw, Through threaded window-panes, soft, snowy flakes Swim with unquiet motion, mistily, slowly, At intervals ; but when the boys were gone, And in ran Donald with a dripping nose, The air was clear and gray as glass. An hour Sat Willie, Donald, and myself around The murmuring fire, and then with tender hand I wrapt a comforter round Willie's throat, Button'd his coat around him close and warm, And off he ran with Donald, 'happy-eyed And merry, leaving fairy prints of feet Behind him on the snow. I watch'd them fade Round the white curve, and, turning with a sigh, Came in to sort the room and smoke a pipe Before the fire. Here, dreamingly and alone, I sat and smoked, and in the fire saw clear 176 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. The norland mountains, white and cold with snow That crumbled silently, and moved, and changed, When suddenly the air grew sick and dark, And from the distance came a hollow sound, A murmur like the moan of far-off seas. I started to my feet, look'd out, and knew The winter wind was whistling from the clouds To lash the snow-clothed plain, and to myself I prophesied a storm before the night. Then with an icy pain, an eldritch gleam, I thought of Willie ; but I cheer'd my heart, " He 's home, and with his mother, long ere this ! " While thus I stood the hollow murmur grew Deeper, the wold grew darker, and the snow Rush'd downward, whirling in a shadowy mist. I walk'd to yonder door and open'd it. Whirr ! the wind swung it from me with a clang, And in upon me with an iron-like crash Swoop'd in the drift. With pinch'd sharp face I gazed Out on the storm ! Dark, dark was all ! A mist, A blinding, whirling mist, of" chilly snow, The falling and the driven ; for the wind Swept round and round in clouds upon the earth, And birm'd the deathly drift aloft with moans, Till all was swooning darkness. Far above A voice was shrieking, like a human cry. I closed the door, and turn'd me to the fire, With something on my heart a load a sense Of an impending pain. Down the broad lum Came melting flakes that hiss'd upon the coal ; Under my eyelids blew the blinding smoke, And for a time I sat like one bewitch'd, WILLIE BAIRD. 177 Still as a stone. The lonely room grew dark, The flickering fire threw phantoms of the snow Along the floor and on the walls around ; The melancholy ticking of the clock Was like the beating of my heart. But, hush ! Above the moaning of the wind I heard A sudden scraping at the door ; my heart Stood still and listen'd ; and with that there rose An awsome howl, shrill as a dying screech, And scrape-scrape-scrape, the sound beyond the door ! I could not think I could not breathe a dark, Awful foreboding gript me like a hand, As opening the door I gazed straight out, Saw nothing, till I felt against my knees Something that moved and heard a moaning sound Then, panting, moaning, o'er the threshold leapt Donald the dog, alone, and white with snow. Down, Donald ! down, old man ! Sir, look at him ! I swear he knows the meaning of my words, And tho' he cannot speak, his heart is full ! See now ! see now ! he puts his cold black nose Into my palm and whines ! he knows, he knows ! Would speak, and cannot, but he minds that night ! The terror of my heart seem'd choking me : Dumbly I stared and wildly at the dog, Who gazed into my face and whined and moan'd, Leap'd at the door, then touched me with his paws, And lastly, gript my coat between his teeth, And pull'd and pull'd whiles growling, whining whiles Till fairly madden'd, in bewilder'd fear, 178 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. I let him drag me through the banging door Out to the whirling storm. Bareheaded, wild, The wind and snow-drift beating on my face Blowing me hither, thither, with the dog, I dash'd along the road. What follow'd seem'd An eerie, eerie dream! a world of snow, A sky of wind, a whirling howling mist Which swam around with hundred sickly eyes ; And Donald dragging, dragging, beaten, bruised, Leading me on to something that I fear'd An awful something, and I knew not what ! On, on, and farther on, and still the snow Whirling, the tempest moaning ! Then I mind Of groping, groping in the shadowy light, And Donald by me burrowing with his nose And whining. Next a darkness, blank and deep ! But then I mind of tearing thro' the storm, Stumbling and tripping, blind and deaf and dumb, And holding to my heart an icy load I clutch'd with freezing fingers. Far away It seem'd long miles on miles away I saw A yellow light unto that light I tore And last, remember opening a door And falling, dazzled by a blinding gleam Of human faces and a flaming fire, And with a crash of voices in my ears Fading away into a world of snow. When I awaken'd to myself, I lay In my own bed at home. I started up As from an evil dream and look'd around, And to my side came one, a neighbor's wife, Mother to two young lads I taught in school. With hollow, hollow voice I question'd her, WILLIE BAIRD. 179 And soon knew all : how a long night had pass'd Since, with a lifeless laddie in my arms, I stumbled horror-stricken, swooning, wild Into a ploughman's cottage : at my side, My coat between his teeth, a dog ; and how Senseless and cold I fell. Thence, when the storm Had pass'd away, they bore me to my home. I listen'd dumbly, catching at the sense ; But when the woman mention'd Willie's name, And I was fear'd to phrase the thought that rose, She saw the question in my tearless eyes And told me he was dead. 'T would weary you To tell the thoughts, the fancies, and the dreams That weigh'd upon me, ere I rose in bed, But little harm'd, and sent the wife away, Rose, slowly drest, took up my staff and went To Willie's mother's cottage. As I walk'd Though all the air was calm and cold and still, The blowing wind and dazzled snow were yet Around about. I was bewilder'd like ! Ere I had time to think I found myself Beside a truckle bed, and at my side A weeping woman. And I clench'd my hands, And look'd on Willie, who had gone to sleep. In death-gown white lay Willie fast asleep, His blue eyes closed, his tiny fingers clench'd, His lips apart a wee as if he breathed, His yellow hair kaim'd back, and on his face A smile yet not a smile a dim pale light Such as the Snow keeps in its own soft wings. Ay, he had gone to sleep, and he was sound ! i8o IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. And by the bed lay Donald watching still, And when I look'd he whined, but did not move. I turn'd in silence, with my nails stuck deep In my clench'd palms ; but in my heart of hearts I pray'd to God. In Willie's mother's face There was a cold and silent bitterness I saw it plain, but saw it in a dream, And cared not. So I went my way, as grim As one who holds his breath to slay himself. What follow'd that is vague as was the rest : A winter day, a landscape hush'd in snow, A weary wind, a horrid whiteness borne On a man's shoulder, shapes in black, o'er all The solemn clanging of an iron bell, And lastly me and Donald standing both Beside a tiny mound of fresh-heap'd earth, And while around the snow began to fall Mistily, softly, thro' the icy air, Looking at one another, dumb and cold. And Willie 's dead ! that 's all I comprehend Ay, bonnie Willie Baird has gone before : The school, the tempest, and the eerie pain, Seem but a dream, and I am weary like. I begg'd old Donald hard they gave him me And we have lived together in this house Long years with no companions. There 's no need Of speech between us. Here we dumbly bide, But know each other's sorrow, and we both Feel weary. When the nights are long and cold, And snow is falling as it falleth now, And wintry winds are moaning, here I dream Of Willie and the unfamiliar life LORD RONALD'S WIFE. 181 I left behind me on the norland hills ! " Do doggies gang to heaven ? " Willie ask'd ; And ah ! what Solomon of modern days Can answer that ? Yet here at nights I sit, Reading the Book, with Donald at my side ; And stooping, with the Book upon my knee, I sometimes gaze in Donald's patient eyes So sad, so human, though he cannot speak And think he knows that Willie is at peace, Far far away beyond the norland hills, Beyond the silence of the untrodden snow. LORD RONALD'S WIFE. T AST night I toss'd upon my bed, * ' Because I knew that she was dead : The curtains were white, the pane was blue, The moon peep'd through, And its eye was red " I would that my love were awake ! " I said. ii. Then I rose and the silver censer lit, And over the rushes lightly stept, Crept to the door and open'd it, And enter'd the room where my lady slept ; And the censer threw a glamour gray Over the bed on which she la-y, And sparkled on her golden hair, 1 82 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Smiled on her lip and melted there, And I shudder'd because she look'd so fair ; For the curtains were white, and the pane was blue, And the moon look'd through, And its eye was red : " I will hold her hand, and think," I said. in. And at first I could not think at all, Because her hand was so thin and cold ; The gray light flicker 'd along the wall, And I seem'd to be growing old ; I look'd in her face and could not weep, I hated the sound of mine own deep breath, Lest it should startle her from the sleep That seem'd too sweet and mild for death. I heard the far-off clock intone So slowly, so slowly Afar across the courts of stone, The black hound shook his chain with a moan, As the village clock chimed slowly, slowly, slowly. I pray'd that she might rise in bed, And smile and say one little word, " I long to see her eyes ! " I said . . . I should have shriek'd if she had stirr'd. IV. I never sinn'd against thee, Sweet ! And yet last night, when none could see . . I know not . . but from head to feet, I seem'd one scar of infamy : Perhaps because the fingers light I held had grown so worn and white, LORD RONALD'S WIFE. 183 Perhaps because you look'd so fair, With the thin gray light on your golden hair. v. You were warm, and I was cold, Yet you loved me, little one, I knew I could not trifle I was old I was wiser, carefuller, than you ; I liked my horse, I liked my hound, I liked to hear the trumpet sound, Over my wine I liked to chat, But soberly, for I had mind : You wanted that, and only that, You were as light as is the wind. At times, I know, it fretted me . I chid thee mildly now and then No fault of mine no blame to thee Women are women, men are men. At first you smiled to see me frown, And laughing leapt upon my knee, And kiss'd the chiding shadow down, And smooth'd my great beard merrily ; But then a change came o'er you, Sweet ! You walk'd about with pensive head ; You tried to read, and as you read Patted your small impatient feet : " She is wiser now ! " I smiling said . . And ere I doubted you were dead. VI. All this came back upon my brain While I sat alone at your white bedside, And I remember'd in my pain Those words you spoke before you died iS4 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. For around my neck your arms you flung, And smiled so sweet though death was near " I was so foolish and so young ! And yet I loved thee ! kiss me, dear ! " I put aside your golden hair, And kiss'd you, and you went to sleep ; And when I saw that death was there, My grief was cold, I could not weep ; And late last night, when you were dead, I did not weep beside your bed, For the curtains were white, and the pane was blue, And the moon look'd through, And its eye was red " How coldly she lies ! " I said. VII. Then loud, so loud, before I knew, The gray and black cock scream'd and crew, And I heard the far-off bells intone So slowly, so slowly, The black hound bark'd, and I rose with a groan, As the village bells chimed slowly, slowly, slowly. I dropp'd the hand so cold and thin, I gazed, and your face seem'd still and wise, And I saw the damp dull dawn stare in Like a dim drown'd face with oozy eyes ; And I open'd the lattice quietly, And the cold wet air came in on me, And I pluck'd two roses with fingers chill From the roses that grew at your window-sill, I pluck'd two roses, a white and a red, Stole again to the side of your bed, Raised the edge of your winding fold. LORD RONALDS WIFE. Dropp'd the roses upon your breast, Cover'd them up in the balmy cold, That none might know and there they rest ! And out at the castle-gate I crept Into the woods, and then . . I wept ! But to-day they carried you from here, And I follow'd your coffin with tearless cheek They knew not about the roses, dear ! I would not have them think me weak. VIII. And I am weary on my bed Because I know you are cold and dead ; And I see you lie in darkness, Sweet ! With the roses under your winding-sheet ; The days and nights are dreary and cold, And I am foolish, and weak, and old. 1 86 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. POET ANDREW. O Loom, that loud art murmuring What doth he hear thee say or sing? Thou hummest o'er the dead one's songs, He cannot choose but hark, His heart with tearful rapture throngs, But all his face grows dark. O cottage Fire, that burnest bright, What pictures sees he in thy light ? A city's smoke, a white, white face, Phantoms that fade and die, And last, the lonely burial-place On the windy hill hard by. IS near a year since Andrew went to sleep A winter and a summer. Yonder bed Is where the boy was born, and where he died, And yonder o'er the lowland is his grave : The nook of grass and gowans where in thought I found you standing at the set o' sun . . The Lord content us 't is a weary world. These five - and - twenty years I 've wrought and wrought In this same dwelling ; hearken ! you can hear The looms that whuzzle-whazzle ben the house, Where Jean and Mysie, lassies in their teens, And Jamie, and a neighbor's son beside, Work late and early. Andrew who is dead Was our first-born ; and when he crying came, With beaded een and pale Ald-farrant face, POET ANDREW. 187 Out of the darkness, Mysie and myseP Were young and heartsome ; and his smile, be sure, Made daily toil the sweeter. Hey, his kiss Put honey in the very porridge-pot ! His smile strung threads of sunshine on the loom ! And when he hung around his mother's neck, He deck'd her out in jewels and in gold That even ladies envied ! . . Weel ! . . in time Came other children, newer gems and gold, And Andrew quitted Mysie's breast for mine. So years roll'd on, like bobbins on a loom ; And Mysie and mysel' had work to do, And Andrew took his turn among the rest, No sweeter, dearer ; till, one Sabbath day, When Andrew was a curly-pated tot Of sunny summers six, I had a crack With Mister Mucklewraith the Minister, Who put his kindly hand on Andrew's head, Call'd him a clever wean, a bonnie wean, Clever at learning, while the mannikin Blush'd red as any rose, and peeping up Went twinkle-twinkle with his round black een ; And then, while Andrew laugh'd and ran awa', The Minister went deeper in his praise, And prophesied he would become in time A man of mark. This set me, thinking, sir, And watching, and the mannock puzzled me. Would sit for hours upon a stool and draw Uroll faces on the slate, while other lads Were shouting at their play ; dumbly would lie Beside the Lintock, sailing, piloting, Navies of docken-leaves a summer day ; Had learn'd the hymns of Doctor Watts by heart, 188 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. And as for old Scots songs, could lilt them a' From Yarrow Braes to Bonnie Bessie Lee And where he learn'd them, only Heaven knew ; And oft, altho' he feared to sleep his lane, Would cowrie at the threshold in a storm To watch the lightning, as a birdie sits, With fluttering fearsome heart and dripping wings. Among the branches. Once, I mind it weel, In came he, running, with a bloody nose, Part tears, part pleasure, to his fluttering heart Holding a callow mavis golden-bill'd, The thin white film of death across its een, And told us, sobbing, how a neighbor's son Harried the birdie 's nest, and how by chance He came upon the thief beside the burn Throwing the birdies in to see them swim, And how he fought him, till he yielded up This one, the one remaining of the nest ; And " O the birdie 's dying ! " sobb'd he sore, " The bonnie birdie 's dying ! " till it died ; And Andrew dug a grave behind the house, Buried his dead, and cover'd it with earth, And cut, to mark the grave, a grassy turf Where blew a bunch of gowans. After that, I thought and thought, and thick as bees the thoughts Buzz'd to the whuzzle-whazzling of the loom I could make naething of the mannikin ! But by and by, when Hope was making hay, And web-work rose, I settled it and said To the good wife, " 'T is plain that yonder lad Will never take to weaving and at school They say he beats the rest at all his tasks Save figures only : I have settled it : Andrew shall be a minister a pride POET ANDREW. 189 And comfort to us, Mysie, in our age : He shall to college in a year or twa (If fortune smiles as now) at Edinglass." You guess the wife open'd her een, cried " Foosh ! " And call'd the plan a silly senseless dream, A hopeless, useless castle in the air ; But ere the night was out, I talk'd her o'er, And here she sat, her hands upon her knees, Glow'ring and heark'ning, as I conjured up, Amid the fog and reek of Edinglass Life's peaceful gloaming and a godly fame. So it was broach'd, and after many cracks With Mister Mucklewraith, we plann'd it a', And day by day we laid a penny by To give the lad when he should quit the bield. And years wore on ; and year on year was cheer'd By thoughts of Andrew, drest in decent black. Throned in a Pulpit, preaching out the Word, A house his own, and all the country-side To touch their bonnets to him. Weel, the lad Grew up among us, and at seventeen His hands were genty white, and he was tall, And slim, and narrow-shoulder'd : pale of face, Silent, and bashful. Then we first began To feel how muckle more he knew than we, To eye his knowledge in a kind of fear, As folk might look upon a crouching beast, Bonnie, but like enough to rise and bite. Up came the cloud between us silly folk And the young lad that sat among his Books Amid the silence of the night ; and oft It pain'd us sore to fancy he would learn Enough to make him look with shame and scorn igo IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. On this old dwelling. 'T was his manner, sir ! He seldom lookt his father in the face, And when he walkt about the dwelling, seem'd Like one superior ; dumbly he would steal To the burnside, or into Lintlin Woods, With some new-farrant book, and when I peep'd, Behold a book of jingling-jangling rhyme, Fine-written nothings on a printed page ; And, press'd between the leaves, a flower perchance, Anemone or blue Forget-me-not, Pluckt in the grassy loanin'. Then I peep'd Into his drawer, among his papers there, And found you guess ? a heap of idle rhymes, Big-sounding, like the worthless printed book : Some in old copies scribbled, some on scraps Of writing paper, others finely writ With spirls and flourishes on big white sheets. I clench'd my teeth, and groan'd. The beauteous dream Of the good Preacher in his braw black dress, With house and income snug, began to fade Before the picture of a drunken loon Bawling out songs beneath the moon and stars, Of poet Willie Clay, who wrote a book About King Robert Bruce, and aye got fu', And scatter'd stars in verse, and aye got fu', Wept the world's sins, and then got fu' again, Of Ferguson, the feckless limb o' law, And Robin Burns, who gauged the whiskey-casks And brake the seventh commandment. So at once I up and said to Andrew, " You 're a fool ! You waste your time in silly senseless verse, Lame as your own conceit : take heed ! take heed ! Or, like your betters, come to grief erelong ! " POET ANDREW. 191 But Andrew flusht and never spake a word, Yet eyed me sidelong with his beaded een, And turn'd awa', and, as he turn'd, his look Half scorn, half sorrow stang me. After that, I felt he never heeded word of ours, And tho' we tried to teach him common sense He idled as he pleased ; and many a year, After I spake him first, that look of his Came dark between us, and I held my tongue, And felt he scorn'd me for the poetry's sake. This coldness grew and grew, until at last We sat whole nights before the fire and spoke No word to one another. One fine day, Says Mister Muckle wraith to me, says he, " So ! you 've a Poet in your house ! " and smiled ; " A Poet ? God forbid ! " I cried ; and then It all came out : how Andrew slyly sent Verse to the paper ; how they printed it In Poets' Corner ; how the printed verse Had ca't a girdle in the callant's head ; How Mistress Mucklewraith they thought half daft Had cut the verses out and pasted them In albums, and had praised them to her friends. I said but little ; for my schemes and dreams Were tumbling down like castles in the air, And all my heart seem'd hardening to stone. But after that, in secret stealth, I bought The papers, hunted out the printed verse, And read it like a thief; thought some were good, And others foolish havers, and in most Saw naething, neither common sense nor sound Words pottle-bellied, meaningless, and strange, That strutted up and down the printed page, Like Bailies made to bluster and look big. 192 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. 'T was useless grumbling. All my silent looks Were lost, all Mysie's flyting fell on ears Choke-full of other counsel ; but we talk'd In bed o' nights, and Mysie wept, and I Felt stubborn, wrothful, wrong'd. It was to be ! But mind you, though we mourn'd, we ne'er forsook The college scheme. Our sorrow, as we saw Our Andrew growing cold to homely ways, And scornful of the bield, but strengthen'd more Our wholesome wish to educate the lad, And do our duty by him, and help him on With our rough hands the Lord would do the rest, The Lord would mend or mar him. So at last, New-clad from top to toe in homespun cloth, With books and linen in a muckle trunk, He went his way to college ; and we sat, Mysie and me, in weary darkness here ; For tho' the younger bairns were still about, It seem'd our hearts had gone to Edinglass With Andrew, and were choking in the reek . Of Edinglass town. It was a grewsome fight, . Both for oursel's at home, and for the boy, That student life at college. Hard it was To scrape the fees together, but beside, The lad was young and needed meat and drink. We sent him meal and bannocks by the train, And country cheeses ; and with this and that, Though sorely push'd, he throve, though now and then With empty wame : spinning the siller out By teaching grammar in a school at night. Whiles he came home : weary old-farrant face Pale from the midnight candle ; bringing home POET ANDREW. 193 Good news of college. Then we shook awa' The old sad load, began to build again Our airy castles, and were hopeful Time Would heal our wounds. But, sir, they plagued me still Some of his ways ! When here, he spent his time In yonder chamber, or about the woods, And by the waterside, and with him books Of poetry, as of old. MyseP could get But little of his company or tongue ; And when we talkt, atweel, a kind of frost, My consciousness of silly ignorance, And worse, my knowledge that the lad himsel' Felt sorely, keenly, all my ignorant shame, Made talk a torture out of which we crept With burning faces. Could you understand One who was wild as if he found a mine Of golden guineas, when he noticed first The soft green streaks in a snowdrop's inner leaves ? And once again, the moonlight glimmering Thro' watery transparent stalks of flax ? A flower 's a flower ! . . . But Andrew snooved about, Aye finding wonders, mighty mysteries, In things that ilka learless cottar kenn'd. Now, 't was the falling snow or murmuring rain ; Now, 't was the laverock singing in the sun, And dropping slowly to the callow young ; Now, an old tune he heard his mother lilt ; And aye those trifles made his pallid face Flush brighter, and his een flash keener far, Then when he heard of yonder storm in France, Or a King's death, or, if the like had been, A city's downfall. 194 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. He was born with love For things both great and small ; yet seem'd to prize The small things best. To me, it seem'd indeed The callant cared for nothing for itseP, But for some special quality it had To set him thinking, thinking, or bestow A tearful sense he took for luxury. He loved us in his silent fashion weel ; But in our feckless ignorance we knew 'T was when the humor seized him with a sense Of some queer power we had to waken up The poetry > ay, and help him in his rhyme ! A kind of patronizing tenderness, A pitying pleasure in our Scottish speech And homely ways, a love that made him note "Both ways and speech with the same curious joy .As fill'd him when he watch'd the birds and flowers. He was as sore a puzzle to us then As he had been before. It puzzled us, How a big lad, down-cheek'd, almost a man, Could pass his time in silly childish joys . . . Until at last, a hasty letter came From Andrew, telling he had broke awa' From college, pack'd his things, and taken train To London city, where he hoped (he" said) To make both fortune and a noble fame Thro' a grand poem, carried in his trunk ; How, after struggling on with bitter heart, He could no longer bear to fight his way Among the common scholars ; and the end Bade us be hopeful, trusting God, and sure The light of this old home would guide him still Amid the reek of evil. POET ANDREW. 195 Sae it was ! We twa were less amazed than you may guess, Though we had hoped, and fear'd, and hoped, sae long ! But it was hard to bear hard, hard to bear ! Our castle in the clouds was gone for good ; And as for Andrew other lads had ta'en The same mad path, and learn'd the bitter task Of poortith, cold, and tears. She grat. I sat In silence, looking on the fuffing fire, Where streets and ghaistly faces came and went, And London city crumbled down to crush Our Andrew ; and my heart was sick and cold. Erelong, the news across the country-side Speak quickly, like the crowing of a cock From farm to farm the women talkt it o'er On doorsteps, o'er the garden rails ; the men Got fu' upon it at the public-house, And whisper'd it among the fields at work. A cry was quickly raised from house to house, That all the blame was mine, and canker'd een Lookt cold upon me, as upon a kind Of upstart. " Fie on pride ! " the whisper said, The fault was Andrew's less than those who taught His heart to look in scorn on honest work, Shame on them ! but the lad, poor lad, would learn ! O sir, the thought of this spoil'd many a web In yonder tingling, tingling, in my ears, Until I fairly threw my gloom aside, Smiled like a man whose heart is light and young, And with a future-kenning happy look Threw up my chin, and bade them wait and see . . But, night by night, these een lookt Londonways, And saw my laddie wandering all alone 'Mid darkness, fog, and reek, growing afar 196 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF IN VERB URN. To dark proportions and gigantic shape Just as the figure of a sheep-herd looms, Awful and silent, thro' a mountain mist. Ye aiblins ken the rest At first, there came Proud letters, swiftly writ, telling how folk Now roundly call'd him " Poet, " holding out Bright pictures, which we smiled at wearily As people smile at pictures in a book, Vntrue but bonnie. Then the letters ceased, There came a silence cold and still as frost, We sat and hearken'd to our beating hearts, And pray'd as we had never pray'd before. Then lastly, on the silence broke the news That Andrew, far awa', was sick to death, And, weary, weary of the noisy streets, With aching head and weary hopeless heart, Was coming home from mist and fog and noise To grassy lowlands and the caller air. 'T was strange, 't was strange ! but this, the weary end Of all our bonnie biggins in the clouds, Came like a tearful comfort. Love sprang up Out of the ashes of the household fire, Where Hope was fluttering like the loose white film ; And Andrew, our own boy, seem'd nearer now To this old dwelling and our aching hearts Than he had ever been since he became Wise with book-learning. With an eager pain, I met him at the train and brought him home ; And when we met that sunny day in hairst, The ice that long had sunder'd us had thaw'd, We met in silence, and our een were dim. POET ANDREW. 197 Och, I can see that look of his this night ! Part pain, part tenderness, a weary look Yearning for comfort such as God the Lord Puts into parents' een. I brought him here. Gently we set him here beside the fire, And spake few words, and hush'd the noisy house ; Then eyed his hollow cheeks and lustrous een, His clammy hueless brow and faded hands, Blue vein'd and white like lily-flowers. The wife Forgot the sickness of his face, and moved With light and happy footstep but and ben, As though she welcomed to a merry feast A happy guest. In time, out came the truth : Andrew was dying : in his lungs the dust Of cities stole unseen, and hot as fire Burnt like a deil's red een that gazed at Death. Too late for doctor's skill, tho' doctor's skill We had in plenty ; but the ill had ta'en Too sure a grip. Andrew was dying, dying : The beauteous dream had melted like a mist The sunlight feeds on : a' remaining now Was Andrew, bare and barren of his pride, Stark of conceit, a weel-beloved child, Helpless to help himsel', and dearer thus, As when his yaumer* like the corn-craik's cry Heard in a field of wheat at dead o' night Brake on the hearkening darkness of the bield. And as he nearer grew to God the Lord, Nearer and dearer ilka day he grew To Mysie and mysel' our own to love, The world's no longer. For the first last time, We twa, the lad and I, could sit and crack * Yaumer, a child's cry. 198 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. With open hearts free-spoken, at our ease ; I seem'd to know as muckle then as he, Because I was sae sad. Thus grief, sae deep It flow'd without a murmur, brought the balm Which blunts the edge of worldly sense and makes Old people weans again. In this sad time, We never troubled at his childish ways ; We seem'd to share his pleasure when he sat List'ning to birds upon the eaves ; we felt Small wonder when we found him weeping o'er His old torn books of pencill'd thoughts and verse ; And if, outbye, I saw a bonnie flower, I pluckt it carefully and bore it home To my sick boy. To me, it somehow seem'd His care for lovely earthly things had changed, Changed from the curious love it once had been, Grown larger, bigger, holier, peacefuler ; And though he never lost the luxury Of loving beauteous things for poetry's sake, His heart was God the Lord's, and he was calm. Death came to lengthen out his solemn thoughts Like shadows to the sunset. So no more We wonder'd. What is folly in a lad Healthy and heartsome, one with work to do, Befits the freedom of a dying man. . . Mother, who chided loud the idle lad Of old, now sat her sadly by his side, And read from out the Bible soft and low, Or lilted lowly, keeking in his face, The old Scots songs that made his een so dim. I went about my daily work as one Who waits to hear a knocking at the door, POET ANDREW. 199 Ere Death creeps in and shadows those that watch ; And seated here at e'en i' the ingleside, I watch 'd the pictures in the fire and smoked My pipe in silence ; for my head was fu' Of many rhymes the lad had made of old (Rhymes I had read in secret, as I said), No one of which I minded till they came Unsummon'd, buzzing-buzzing in my ears Like bees among the leaves. The end drew near. Came Winter moaning, and the Doctor said That Andrew couldna live to see the Spring ; And day by day, while frost was hard at work, The lad grew weaker, paler, and the blood Came redder from the lung. One Sabbath day The last of winter, for the caller air Was drawing sweetness from the barks of trees When down the lane, I saw to my surprise A snowdrop blooming underneath a birk, And gladly pluckt the flower to carry home To Andrew. Ere I reach'd the bield, the air Was thick wi' snow, and ben in yonder room I found him, Mysie seated at his side, Drawn to the window in the old arm-chair, Gazing wi' lustrous een and sickly cheek Out on the shower, that waver'd softly down In glistening siller glamour. Saying naught, Into his hand I put the year's first flower, And turn'd awa' to hide my face ; and he . . . . He smiled . . and at the smile, I knew not why, It swam upon us, in a frosty pain, The end was come at last, at last, and Death Was creeping ben, his shadow on our hearts. 2co IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. We gazed on Andrew, call'd him by his name, And touch'd him softly . . and he lay awhile, His een upon the snow, in a dark dream, Yet neither heard nor saw ; but suddenly, He shook awa' the vision wi' a smile, Raised lustrous een, still smiling, to the sky, Next upon us, then dropt them to the flower That trembled in his hand, and murmur'd low, Like one that gladly murmurs to himsel', "Out of the Snow, the Snowdrop, out of Death Comes Life " ; then closed his eyes and made a moan, And never spake another word again. . . And you think weel of Andrew's book ? You think That folk will love him, for the poetry's sake, Many a year to come ? We take it kind You speak so weel of Andrew ! As for me, I can make naething of the printed book ; I am no scholar, sir, as I have said, And Mysie there can just read print a wee. Ay ! we are feckless, ignorant of the world ! And though 't were joy to have our boy again And place him far above our lowly house, We like to think of Andrew as he was When, dumb and wee, he hung his gold and gems Round Mysie's neck ; or as he is this night Lying asleep, his face to heaven, asleep, Near to our hearts as when he was a bairn, Without the poetry and human pride That came between us, to our grief, langsyne. WHITE LIL Y OF WEARDALE-HEAD. 201 WHITE LILY OF WEARDALE-HEAD. A NIGHT-PIECE. THE ELVES. ALL day the sunshine loves to dwell Upon the pool of Weardale Well ; But when the sunbeams shine no more The Monk stalks down the moonlit dell : His robe is black, his hair is hoar, He sits him down by Weardale Well ; He hears the water moan below, He sees a face as white as snow, His nightly penance there is done, And he shall never see the sun. THE MONK. Hear them, old Anatomy ! Down the glade I see them flee White-robed Elfins, three times three ! THE ELVES. Night by night, in pale moonlight, The Monk shall tell his story o'er, And the grinning Gnome with teeth of white Hearkeneth laughing evermore ; His nightly penance thus is done And he shall never see the sun ! 202 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. * THE GNOME. Ever new and ever old, Comrade, be thy story told, While the face as white as snow Sighs upon the pool below. THE MONK. " I love the sunshine," said White Lily of Weardale-head. And underneath the greenwood tree, She wander'd free, she wander'd bold ; The merry sun smiled bright to see, And turn'd her yellow hair to gold : Then the bee, and the moth, and the butterfly, Hunting for sweets in the wood-bowers fair, Rose from the blooms as she wander'd by, And play'd in the light of her shining hair. She sat her down by Weardale Well, And her gleaming ringlets rustled and fell, Clothing her round with a golden glow, And her shadow was light for the pool below ; Then the yellow adder fold in fold Writhed from his lair in the grass and roll'd W T ith glittering scales in a curl o' the gold : She stroked his head with her finger light, And he gazed with still and glistening eye ; And she laught and clapt her hands of white, And overhead the sun went by Thro' the azure gulfs of a cloudless sky : " All things that love the sun, love me, And O but the sun is sweet to see, And I love to look on the sun," said she. WHITE LILY OF WEARDALE-HEAD. 203 i But the Abbess gray of Lintlin Brae Hated to look on the light of day ; She mumbled prayers, she counted beads, She whipt and whipt her shoulders bare, She slept on a bed of straw and reeds, And wore a serk of horse's hair. By candlelight she sat and read, And heard a song from far-away, She cross'd herself and raised her head, " Who sings so loud ? " said the Abbess gray. I, who sat both early and late A shadow black at the Abbey gate : " Mater sacra, it is one Who wanders evermore in the sun, A little maiden of Weardale-head, Whose father and mother have long been dead, But she loves to wander in greenwood bowers, Singing and plucking the forest flowers." The Abbess frown'd, half quick, half dead, " There is a sin ! " the Abbess said. I found her singing a ditty wild, Her gleaming locks around her roll'd ; I seized her while she sang and smiled, And dragg'd her along by the hair of gold : The moth and butterfly, fluttering, Follow'd me on to Lintlin Brae, The adder leapt at my heart to sting, But with sandall'd heel I thrust it away ; And the bee dropt down ere I was 'ware On the hand that gript the yellow hair, And stang me deep, and I curs'd aloud, And the sun went in behind a cloud ! 204 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. THE ELVES. Nightly be his penance done ! He shall never see the sun ! THE MONK. The cell was deep, the cell was cold, It quench'd the light of her hair of gold ; One little loop alone was there, One little eye-hole letting in A slender ray of light as thin As a tress of yellow hair. " O for the sunshine ! " said White Lily of Weardale-head ; And in the dark she lay, Reaching her fingers small To feel the little ray That glimmer'd down the wall. And while she linger'd white as snow She heard a fluttering faint and low ; And stealing thro' the looplet thin The moth and butterfly crept in With golden shadows as they flew They waver'd up and down in air, Then dropping slowly ere she knew, Fell on her eyes and rested there : And O she slept with balmy sighs, Dreaming a dream of golden day, The shining insects on her eyes, Their shadows on her cheeks, she lay ; And while she smiled on pleasant lands, On the happy sky and wood and stream, I, creeping in with outstretch'd hands, Murder'd the things that brought the dream. WHITE LILY OF WEARDALE-IIEAD. 205 She woke and stretch'd her hands and smiled, Then gazed around with sunless eyes, Her white face gloom'd, her heart went wild, She sank with tears and sighs. " O for the sunshine ! " said White Lily of Weardale-head. And while she lay with cries and tears, There came a humming in her ears ; And stealing through the looplet thin The yellow honey-bee crept in, And hover'd round with summer sound Round and around the gloomy cell ; Then softly on her lips he fell, And moisten'd them with honey found Among the flowers by Weardale Well ; And O she smiled and sang a song, And closed her 'eyelids in the shade, And thought she singing walkt among The lily-blooms in the greenwood glade. I heard the song and downward crept, And enter'd cold and black as sin, And slew, although she raved and wept, The bee that brought the honey in : " O for the sunshine ! " said White Lily of Weardale-head. And while she lay as white as snow She heard a hissing sad and low ; And writhing through the looplet thin The little yellow snake crept in : His golden coils cast shadows dim, With glistening eye he writhed and crept, And while she smiled to welcome him, Into her breast he stole, and slept ; 20 6 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. And O his coils fell warm and sweet Upon her heart and husht its beat, And softest thrills of pleasure deep Ran through her, though she could not sleep, But lay with closed eyes awake, Her little hand upon the snake " All things that love the sun, love me, And O but the sun is sweet to see ! And I long to look on the sun," said she. Then down, on sandalPd foot;- 1 crept, To kill the snake that heal'd the pang, But up, with waving arms, she leapt, And out across the threshold sprang, And up the shadowy Abbey stairs, Past the gray Abbess at her prayers, Through the black court with leap and run, Out at the gate, and into the sun ! There for a space she halted, blind With joy to feel the light again, But heard my rushing foot behind, And sped along the Abbey lane ; The sunshine made her strong and fleet, As on she fled by field and fold, Her shining locks fell to her feet In ring on ring of living gold ; But the sun went in behind a cloud, As I gript her by the shining locks, I gript them tight, I laught aloud, The echoes rang through woods and rocks ; Moaning she droopt, then up she sprang, The adder leapt at my heart and stang, And like a flash o' the light she fell Into the depths of Weardale Well. WHITE LILY OF WEARDALE-HEAD. 207 The adder stang with fatal fang, Around I whirl'd and shriek'd and sprang, Then fell and struggled, clenching teeth ; Then to the oozy grass I clang, And gazed upon the pool beneath ; The white death-film was on mine eye, Yet look'd I down in agony ; And as I look'd in throes of death, In shining bubbles rose her breath And burst in little rings of light, And upward came a moaning sound ; But suddenly the sun shone bright, And all the place was gold around, And to the surface, calm and dead, Uprose White Lily of Weardale-head ; Her golden hair around her blown Made gentle radiance of its own ; Her face was turn'd to the summer sky With smile that seem'd to live and speak, The golden moth and butterfly, With glowing shadows, on her cheek ; And lying on her lips apart The honey-bee with wings of gold, And sleeping softly on her heart The yellow adder fold in fold ; And as I closed mine eyes to die, Overhead the sun went by Through the azure gulfs of a cloudless sky ! THE ELVES. All day the sunshine loves to dwell Upon the sleep of Weardale Well ; All day there is a gentle sound, And little insects pause and sing, 2c8 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF IN VERB URN. The butterfly and moth float round, The bee drops down with humming wing, And all the pool lies clear and cold, Yet glittering like hair of gold. All day the Monk in hollow shell Lies dumb among the Abbey-tombs, While, in the grass and honey-blooms, The adder basks by Weardale Well ; But the adder stings his heart by night : His tale is told, his penance done, His eyes are dark, they long for light, Yet they shall never see the sun ! THE ENGLISH HUSWIFE'S GOSSIP. A ploughman's English wife, bright-eyed, sharp-speech' d, Plump as a pillow, fresh as clothes new-bleach'd : The firelight dancing ruddy on her cheeks, Irons Tom's Sunday linen as she speaks. AT three-and-forty, simple as a child, Soft as a sheep, yet curious as a daw, Wise, cunning, in a fashion of his own, Queer, watchful, strange, a puzzle to us all : That's John! My husband's brother seven years Younger than Tom. When we were wed and one, John came to dwell with Tom and me for good, And now has dwelt beside us twenty years, THE ENGLISH HUSWIFE'S GOSSIP. 209 But now, at forty-three ?/ is breaking fast, Grows weaker, brain and body, every day. At times he works, and earns his meat and drink, At times is sick, and lies and moans in bed, Beside the noisy clishmaclavering He makes when he is glad. A natural ! Man-bodied, but in many things a child ; Unfinish'd somewhere where, the Lord knows best Who made and guards him ; wiser, craftier, Than Tom, or any other man I know, In tiny things few men perceive at all ; No fool at cooking, clever at his work, Thoughtful when Tom is senseless and unkind, Kind with a grace that sweetens silentness, But weak where other working-men are strong, And strong where they are weak. An angry word From one he loves, and off he creeps in pain Perhaps to ease his tender heart in tears. But easy-sadden'd, sir, is easy-pleased ! Give him the babe to nurse, he sits him down, Smiles like a woman, and is glad at heart. Crazed ? There 's the question ! Mister Muckle- wraith, Your friend and John's as well will answer "No!" And often has he scolded when I seem'd To answer " Yea." Of late the weary limbs Have tried the weary brain, that every day Grows feebler, duller ; yet the Minister Still stands his friend and helps him as he can. " Tender of heart," says Mister Mucklewraith, " Tender of heart, goodwife, is wise of head : If John is weak, his heart is to be blamed j And can the erring heart of mortal be 4 no IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. O'er gentle ? " Hey, 't is little ^use to talk ! The Minister is soft at heart as he ! Talk of the . . John ! and home again so soon ? The children are at school, the dinner o'er, Tom still is busy working at the plough. Weary ? then sit you down and rest awhile. John fears all strangers is ashamed to speak But stares and counts his ringers o'er as now, Yet trust him ! when you vanish he will tell The color of your hair, your hat, your clothes, The number of the buttons on your coat Eh, John ? he laughs as sly as sly can be ! Now, run to Tom as quickly as you can Say he is wanted by the gentleman [Tom knows the name] from Mister Mucklewraith's. Off, like an arrow from a bow, you see ! That 's nothing ! John would run until he dropt For me, and need no thanking but a smile, Would work and work his ringers to the bone, Do aught I asked, without or in the house, And just because I cheer him merrily And speak him kindly. Tom he little likes, And would not budge a single step to serve, For Tom is rough, and says I humor him, And mocks him for his silly childish ways. And Tom has reason to be wroth at times ! But yesterday John sat him on a stool, And ripp'd the bellows up, to find from where The wind came : slowly did it bit by bit, As sage as Solomon, and when 't was done Just scratch'd his head, still puzzled, creeping off THE ENGLISH HUSWIFE'S GOSSIP. 211 To some still corner in the lowland, there To think the puzzle out in place alone. There is his weakness curiosity ! Those watchful, prying, curious eyes of his, That like a cat's see better in the dark, Are ne'er at rest ; his hands and eyes and ears Are eager getting knowledge, when 't is got Lord knoweth in what corner of his head He hides it, but it ne'er sees light again ! Oft he reminds me of a painter lad Who came to Inverburn a summer since, Went poking everywhere with pallid face, Thought, painted, wander'd in the woods alone, Work'd a long morning at a leaf or flower, And got the name of clever. John and he Made friends a thing I never could make out ; But, bless my life ! it seem'd to me the lad Was just a John who had learnt to read, to write, and paint ! He buys a coat : what does he first, but count The pockets and the buttons one by one A mighty calculation sagely summ'd ; Our eldest daughter goes to Edinglass, Brings home a box John eyes the box with greed, And next, we catch him in the lassie's room, The box wide open, John upon the floor, And in his hand a bonnet, eyed and eyed, Turn'd o'er and o'er, examined bit by bit, Like something wondrous as a tumbled star; Our youngest has a gift a box of toys, A penny trumpet not a wink for John Till he has seen the whole, or by and by ai2 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. He gives the child a sixpence for the toy, And creeps away and cuts it up to bits In wonder and in joy. It makes me cry For fun to watch his pranks, the natural ! But think not, sir, that he was ever so : Nay ! twenty years ago but few could tell That he was simpler than the rest of men His step was firm, he kept his head erect, Could hold his tongue, because he knew full well That he was simpler-headed than the rest. JVow, when his wits have gone so fast asleep, He thinks he is the wisest man of men ! Yet, sir, his heart is kindly to the core, Tho' sensitive to touch as fly-trap flowers : He loves them best that seem to think him wise, Consult him, notice him, and those that mock His tenderness he never will forgive. Money he saves to 'buy the children gifts Clothes, toys, whate'er he fancies like to please And many of his ways so tender are, So gentle and so good, it fires my blood To see him vex'd and troubled. Just as a child ! He weeps in silence, if a little ill ; A cold, a headache he is going to die ; But then, beside, he can be trusted, sir ! (Ye cannot say the like of many men !) Tell him a secret, torture, death itself, Would fail to make him whisper and betray. Nay, sit you down and smoke? Ay, smoke your fill: Both John and father like their cutty-pipe ; Tom will be here as fast as he can come ; And I can crack and talk as well as work. THE ENGLISH HUSWIFE'S GOSSIP. 213 John, simple as be is, has had his cares : They came upon him in his younger days When he was tougher-headed, and I think They help'd to make him silly as he is : Time that has stolen all his little wits, By just a change of chances, might have made Our John another man and strengthen'd him. The current gave a swirl, and caught the straw, And John was doom'd to be a natural ! Oft when he sits and smokes his pipe and thinks, Ye know by his downcast eyes and quivering lips His heart is aching ; but he ne'er complains Of that the sorest thought he has to bear. We know he thinks of Jessie Glover then ; But let him be, till o'er his head the cloud Passes and leaves a meekness and a hush Upon the heart it shadow'd. Jessie, sir? She was a neighbor's daughter in her teens, A bold and forward huzzie, tho' her face Was % pretty in its way : a jet-black eye, Red cheeks, black eyebrows, and a comely shape The petticoat and short-gown suited well. In here she came and stood and talk'd for hours [Her tongue was like a bell upon a sheep Her very motion seem'd to make it jing] And, ere I guess'd it, John and she were friends. She pierced the silly with her jet-black eye, Humor'd him ever, seem'd to think him wise, Was serious, gentle, kindly, to his face, And, ere I guess'd, so flatter'd his conceit That, tho' his lips were silent at her side, He grew a mighty man behind her back, Held up his head in gladness and in pride, And seem'd to have an errand in the world. zi4 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. At first I laugh'd and banter'd with the rest " How 's Jessie, John ? " and " Name the happy day ' ; And " Have ye spoken to the minister ? " Thinking it just a joke ; and when the lass Would sit by John, her arm about his neck, Holding his hand in hers, and humor him, Yet laugh her fill behind the silly's back, I let it pass. I little liked her ways I guess'd her heart was tough as cobbler's wax Yet what of that ? 'T was but a piece of fun. A piece of fun ! 'T was serious work to John ! The hussy lured him with her wicked eyes, And danced about him, ever on the watch, Like pussie yonder playing with a mouse. I saw but little of them, never dream'd They met unknown to me ; but by and by The country-side was ringing with the talk That John and she went walking thro' the fields, Sat underneath the slanted harvest sheaves Watching the motion of the honeyed moon, Met late and early courted night and day John earnest as you please, and Jess for fun. I held my peace awhile, and used my eyes ! New bows and ribbons upon Jessie's back, Cheap brooches, and a bonnet once or twice, Proved that the piece of fun paid Jessie well, And showed why John, no longer spent his pence In presents to the boys. I saw it all, But, pitying John, afraid to give him pain, I spake to Jessie, sharply bade her heed, Cried " shame " upon her, for her heartlessness. The hussy laugh'd and coolly went her way, And after that came hither nevermore THE ENGLISH HUSWIFE'S GOSSIP. 215 To talk and clatter. But the cruel sport Went on, I found. One day, to my surprise, Up came a wagon to the cottage door, John walking by the side, and while I stared He quickly carried to the kitchen here, A table, chairs, a wooden stool, a broom, Two monster saucepans, and a washing tub, And last, a roll of blankets and of sheets. The wagon went away, here linger'd John Among the things, and blushing red says he, { ' I bought them all at Farmer Simpson's sale Ye '11 keep them till I need them for myself ! " And then walk'd out. Long time I stood and stared, Puzzled, amazed ; but by and by I saw The meaning of it all. Alas for John ! The droll beginning of a stock in trade For marriage stood before me. Jessie's eyes And lying tongue had made him fairly crazed, And ta'en the little wits he had to spare. With flushing face, set teeth, away I ran To Jessie found her washing at a tub, Half guilt, half soap-suds and I told her all ; And for a while she could not speak a word For laughter. " Shame upon ye, shame, shame, shame ! Thus to misuse the lad who loves ye so ! Mind, Jessie Glover, folks with scanty brains Have hearts that can be broken ! " Still she laugh'd ! While tears of mirth ran down her crimson cheeks And mingled with the frothy suds of soap ; But trust me, sir, I went not home again Till Jessie's parents knew her wickedness ; And last, I wrung a promise from her lips From that day forth to trouble John no more, To let him know her fondness was a joke, ii 6 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Pass by him in the street without a word, And, though perhaps his gentle heart might ache, Shake him as one would shake a drunken man Until his sleepy wits awoke again. I watch'd that Jessie Glover kept her word. That night, when John was seated here alone, Smoking his pipe, and dreaming as I guess'd Of Jessie Glover and a wedding ring, I stole behind him silently and placed My hand upon his shoulder: when he saw The shadow on my face, he trembled, flush'd, And knew that I was sad. I sank my voice, And gently as I could I spake my mind, Spake like a mother, told him he was wrong, That Jessie only was befooling him And laugh'd his love to scorn behind his back, And last, to soothe his pain, I rail'd at her, Hoping to make him angry. Here he sat, And let his pipe go out, and hung his head, And never answer'd back a single word. 'Twas hard, 'twas hard, to make him understand ! He could not, would not ! All his heart was wrapt In Jessie Glover ; and at twenty-three A. full-grown notion thrusts its roots so deep, 'Tis hard indeed to drag it up without Tearing the heart as well. Without a word He crept away to bed. Next morn, his eyes Were red with weeping but 'twas plain to see He thought I wrong'd both Jessie and himself. That morning Jessie pass'd him on the road : He ran to speak she toss'd her head and laugh'd And sneering pass'd him by. All day he wrought THE ENGLISH HUSWIFE'S GOSSIP. 217 In silence at the plough ne'er had he borne A pang so quietly. At gloaming hour Home came he, weary : here was I alone : Stubborn as stone he turn'd his head away, Sat on his stool before the fire and smoked ; Then while he smoked I saw his eyes were wet : "John ! " and I placed my hand upon his arm. He turn'd, seem'd choking, tried in vain to speak, Then fairly hid his face and wept aloud, But never wept again. The days pass'd on. I held my tongue, and left the rest to time, And warn'd both father and the boys. My heart Was sore for John ! He was so dumb and sad, Never complaining as he did of old, And toiling late and early. By and by, "Maggie, " says he, as quiet as a lamb, " Ye '11 keep the things I bought at Simpson's sale I do not need them now ! " and tried to smile, But could not. Well, I thank'd him cheerily, Nor seem'd to see his heart was aching so : Then after that the boys got pence from John, The smaller playthings, and the bigger clothes : He eased his heart by spending as of old His money on the like. Well may you cry Shame, shame on Jessie ! Heartless, graceless lass ! 'I could have whipt her shoulders with a staff ! But Him above had sorer tasks in store. Erelong the village, like a peal of bells, Rang out the tale that Jessie was a thief, Had gone to Innis Farm to work a week, 2i8 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF 1NVERBURN. And stolen Maggie Fleming's watch and chain They found them in her trunk, with scores of things From poorer houses. Woe to Jessie then If Farmer Fleming had unkindly been, Nor spared her for her sickly father's sake ! The punishment was spared she kept the shame ! The scandal rose, with jingling-jangling din, And chattering lassies, wives, and mothers join'd. At first she saw not that the sin was guess'd ; But slowly, one by one, her lassie friends, Her very bosom-gossips, shook her off: She heard the din, she blush'd and hid her face, Shrinking away and trembling as with cold, Like Eve within the garden when her mouth Was bitter with the apple of the Tree. One night, when John returned from work and took His seat upon the stool beside the fire, I saw he knew the truth. For he was changed ! His look was dark, his voice was loud, his eyes Had lost their meekness ; when we spoke to him, He flush'd and answer'd sharply. He had heard The tale of Jessie's shame and wickedness, What thought he of it all ? Believe me, sir, He was a riddle still : in many things So peevish and so simple, but in one His silly dream of Jessie Glover's face So manly and so dumb, with power to hide His sorrow in his heart and turn away Like one that shuts his eyes when men pass by But looks on Him. 'T was natural to think John would have taken angry spiteful joy In Jessie's fall, for he was ever slow Forgetting and forgiving injuries ; THE ENGLISH HUSWIFE'S GOSSIP. 219 But no ! his voice was dumb, his eyes were fierce, Yet chiefly when they mention'd Jess in scorn, He seem'd confused and would not understand, Perplext as when he breaks the children's toys. Now, bold as Jessie was, she could not bear The shame her sin had brought her, and whene'er We met she tingled to the finger-tips ; And soon she fled away to Edinglass To hide among the smoke. It came to pass, The Sabbath after she had flitted off, That Mister Muckle wraith (God bless him !) preach'd One of those gentle sermons low and sad Wherewith he gathers wheat for Him he serves : The text, Let him who is sinless cast the first Stone at the sinner ; and we knew he preach'd Of Jessie Glover. Hey ! to hear him talk Ye would have sworn that Jessie was a saint, An injured thing for folk to pet and coax ! But tho' ye know 't was folly, springing up Out of a heart so kindly to the core, Your eyes were dim with tears while hearkening He spake so low and sadly. John was there. And early down the stairs came John next day Drest in his Sabbath clothes. " I 'm going away," He whispers, " for a day or maybe two Don't be afraid if I 'm away at night, And do not speak to Tom " ; and off he ran Ere I could question. When the evening came, No sign of John ! Night pass'd, and not a sign ! Tom sought him far and near without avail. The next night came, and we were sitting here Weary and pensive, listening, listening, 220 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. To every step that pass'd, when in stept John, And sat beside the fire, and when we ask'd .Where he had been, he snapt us short and crept Away to bed. But by and by, I heard The truth from John himself, a truth indeed That was and is a puzzle, will remain A puzzle to the end. And can ye guess Where John had been ? Away in Edinglass, At Jessie Glover's side, holding her hand And looking in her eyes ! "Jessie! "he said; And while she stared stood scraping with his shoes, And humm'd and haw'd and stammer'd out a speech, Whose sense, made clear and shorten'd, came to this : The country folk that call'd her cruel names And mock'd her so, had done the same by him ! He did not give a straw for what they said ! He did not give a straw, and why should she ? And tho' she laugh'd before, perchance when folk MiscalPd her, frighten'd her from home and friends, She 'd turn to simple John and marry him ? For he had money, seven pound and more, And yonder in his home, to stock a house, He had the things he bought at Simpson's sale ; John Thomson paid him well, and he could work, And, if she dried her eyes and married him, Who cared for Tom and Maggie, and the folk That thought them crazed ? . . John, then and now ashamed, Said that she flung her arms about his neck, And wept as if her heart was like to break, THE FAERY FOSTER-MOTHER. 221 And told him sadly that it could not be. He scratch 'd his head, and stared, and answer'd naught His stock of words was done, but last, he forced His money in the weeping woman's hand, And hasten'd home as fast as he could run. He minds it still ! it haunts him night and day ! Ay, silly tho' he be, he keeps the thought Of Jess still hidden in his heart ; and now, Wearing away like snow-drift in the sun, If e'er he chance to see, on nights at home, One of the things he bought at Simpson's sale (I keep them still, tho' they are worn and old), His eyes gleam up, then glisten, then are dark. THE FAERY FOSTER-MOTHER. i. F) RIGHT Eyes, Light Eyes ! Daughter of a Fay! *-' I had not been a married wife a twelvemonth and a day, I had not nurst my little one a month upon my knee, When down among the blue-bell banks rose elfins three times three, They gript me by the raven hair, I could not cry for fear, They put a hempen rope around my waist and dragg'd me here, They made me sit and give thee suck as mortal mothers can, 222 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Bright Eyes, Light Eyes ! strange and weak and wan ! II. Dim Face, Grim Face ! lie ye there so still ? Thy red red lips are at my breast, and thou may'st suck thy fill ; But know ye, tho' I hold thee firm, and rock thee to and fro, 'T is not to soothe thee into sleep, but just to still my woe ? And know ye, when I lean so calm against the wall of stone, 'T is when I shut my eyes and try to think thou art mine own ? And know ye, tho' my milk be here, my heart is far away, Dim Face, Grim Face ! Daughter of a Fay ! in. Gold Hair, Cold Hair ! Daughter to a King ! Wrapt in bands, of snow-white silk with jewels glit- tering, Tiny slippers of the gold upon thy feet so thin, Silver cradle velvet-lined for thee to slumber in, Pygmy pages, crimson-hair'd, to serve thee on their knees, To bring thee toys and greenwood flowers and honey bags of bees, I was but a peasant lass, my babe had but the milk, Gold Hair, Cold Hair ! raimented in silk ! IV. Pale Thing, Frail Thing ! dumb and weak and thin, Altho' thou ne'er dost utter sigh thou 'rt shadow'd with a sin ; THE FAERY FOSTER-MOTHER. 223 Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy minnie is an elf, Upon a bed of rose's-leaves she lies and fans herself; And though my heart is aching so for one afar from me, I often look into thy face and drop a tear for thee, And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cotter's wife, Pale Thing, Frail Thing ! sucking at my life ! Weak Thing, Meek Thing ! take no blame from me, Altho' my babe may fade for lack of what I give to thee ; For though thou art a stranger thing, and though thou art my woe, To feel thee sucking at my breast is all the joy I know, It soothes me tho' afar away I hear my daughter call, My heart were broken if I felt no little lips at all ! If I had none to tend at all, to be its nurse and slave, Weak Thing, Meek Thing! I should shriek and rave ! VI. Bright Eyes, Light Eyes ! lying on my knee ! If soon I be not taken back unto mine own countree, To feel my own babe's little lips, as I am feeling thine, To smooth the golden threads of hair, to see the blue eyes shine, I '11 lean my head against the wall and close my weary eyes, And think my own babe draws the milk with balmy pants and sighs, And smile and bless my little one and sweetly pass away, Bright Eyes, Light Eyes ! Daughter of a Fay ! 224 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. THE TWO BABES. Hugh Baird his name : a fanner well to do, Who wars against the godly-worldly crew, Six days works hard and keeps his name from spot, But on the seventh likes his dinner hot. One hand imaginary guineas seeks Deep in the pockets of his tartan breeks, The other grips his gill, at which he sips With cordial smiles and smackings of the lips ; Meanwhile, within the sound of Sabbath bells, He tells this tale, and tipples as he tells. HERE 'S health and better fortune ! . . Houch, 't is strong ! But Sandie's whiskey is a drink for kings. That minnow of a man is Matthew Bell, Who holds as high a head at kirk or fair As stout Sir Walter, Laird of Wimplepen. The Lord preserve us ! did you mark the look The Saint vouchsafed the sinners as he pass'd, [The bona fide sinners, let me say !] Grown grim as Patience shivering in her sark, To see them frighting Truth, the nymph of wells, From water with a splash of whiskey neat, And 'tween the hours of kirk on Sabbath day Chatting in Sandie's parlor? That's the note The bantam crows ! From here to John o' Groat's Find me a mannikin who knows so much About the Book of Books, or half so much THE TWO BABES. ^2$ About that mighty work, the Ledger. Rich ? Ay, as his fields of golden-tassell'd wheat! Out of his hundred acres year by year He reaps a bonnetful of yellow gold, And lives on yonder hill, where silent Hairst Is lying like an angel yellow-hair 'd. Langsyne, a child was born to Matthew Bell As sweet a child as ever Howdie holds For sceptre, when she queens it in a house, And takes the goodman's easy-chair, and makes The sinner tremble at his own fireside ; And, when the lass was tall enough to touch Grim Matthew's watch-chain with her golden curls, Her mother died, whom country tattle said The farmer's dismal pictures of the Pit Had frighten'd up to heaven ere her time. But Maggie as they named her lived and grew, And, Sabbath-mad as Matthew ever was, He lack'd the power to cloud her infant smiles, And later, I believe he lack'd the heart, When o'er her mother's grave she laugh'd and play'd, Or, seated on her gloomy father's knee, Look'd her young sunshine on his sunless eyes. Thought Matthew most of Maggie's golden hair, Or of his golden wheat and golden wealth ? And did he dream of one whose gleaming locks Wound round the worms beneath the grass and flowers ? And did he fashion, as a father will, Pictures of Maggie in her bridal dress, With a grand tocher and a holy ring ? None knew, none knew ; but bonnie Maggie Bell Grew like a lily in the gloom a maid 15 226 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Slim, pale as any lily, when the shades Of sixteen summers wash'd with twilight dew The glow-worms in her hair, and dark'd her eyes From blue to deeper blue as shades of clouds Pass windily o'er the grass and leave their tints Under the lids of pansies wet with rain. Hey, poetry ! the whiskey is to blame. The holy house of Farmer Matthew kept John Calvin's Sabbath all the gloomy week ; And morn and night poor Maggie's head was dinn'd With Scripture phrases, and the puzzling texts Interpreted by Mammon on his knees. To sing, or dance, as other maidens use, To read a paper or a fairy tale, To eye her image in the looking-glass, Was stark damnation, prompted by the Deil. Weary was Maggie's lot ! Her yellow hair Was fasten'd up beneath a frowsy net, And hid beneath a bonnet strange to see For shape and fashion ; and her dress was mean From head to foot, with no fine-color'd bows Such as the purest-hearted lassies love. This grew and grew to such a pitch at last That when the lass in secret saved a pound, And bought herself a bonnet fit to wear, Her father threw the same upon the fire, And grumbled " Vanity," and glower'd and gioom'd, While Maggie wept. Then all her maiden friends Christen'd her Quaker Maggie ! and she mourn'd In secret that the world miscall'd her so : Till in her heart she hated Sabbath-day, And preaching, and the very Book itself, THE TWO BABES. 227 As things that made her life a life of scorn. What wonder if she look'd with jealous eyes At lovely ribbons in another's cap ? Thought far far less of what the preacher said Than of the giggling smiles the lassies cast At her old wear, from every pew around ? And when her father question'd of the text, Knew just as much about it as a child Who pastes his nose against a sweetie-shop Knows of the moon ? This kind of thing in time Made Maggie slightly sour in temper, dull And peevish as a school-boy in the sulks, Till, one fine day, the Farmer went his way And brought another wife to rule the roast. O, holy, holy, as the Pope's big Toe, Was Mistress Bell the second ! Half a yard Taller than Matthew, and a widow, Sir ! She was a woman of an ancient house, And stoop'd, they said, to Matthew's ploughman blood. Sir, she was tall and lean as Highland firs, Sharp-featured like an ancient Virtue vex'd With influenza and a constant hoast, Nose like a glowing cinder, sharp-cut mouth Drawn in and out with thin and oily cheeps, And small hen's eyes, whose twinkle seem'd to say, "O, am I not confess it am I not A credit to Creation ? " Day and night Her cry was, " Vanity, O vanity ! " And aye she hurl'd the vengeance of the skies At comely hizzies dimpling in their teens. You guess that when she came to Matthew's house, And cast her gaze on beauteous Maggie Bell, 228 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. She loved the maid no better than a bat Loves sunshine. There was scolding, there were tears ; This thing was wrong in Maggie, that thing wrong ; And Maggie mourn'd, and could not teach her lips To call the gray mare " mother " ; and for him, Grim Matthew, haply now and then a thrill Of fellow-feeling made his cankerous heart Pity his child a wee, but, bless my life ! It was as much as his old ears were worth To cross the Clishmaclaver he had wed. So Maggie Bell began to use her tongue, To answer back, returning scold for scold, To utter words that bit like adders' mouths ; But mind you, she was sorely vex'd and tried. Though mortals wrangle, still the sunshine falls ; The earth grows fruitful and the seasons change, While mortals come and go. Around the farm The land was spreading on from fence to fence, Acre on acre, golden rood on rood, And aye the money rang in Matthew's pouch ; For spite of all those pious ways of his, And spite his married troubles in the house, The canny farmer ne'er forsook the toil Of making and increasing. Nay, my friend ! O'er-clever was the loon for poor half crops And business neglected ! Year by year, His bank-books and his ledgers fatter grew Like o'er-fed leeches ; year by year" he throve ; And year by year, the farm that yonder lies, With slated room and whiten'd doors and walls, Stood up upon the hill 'mid harvest home Hid like a pearl in lady's yellow hair. THE TWO BABES. 229 Ere Maggie Bell had enter'd on her teens, One Robin Anderson, a long-limb'd lad, With pocket empty as a last year's nest, Came lounging to the farm and seeking work ; And Matthew set the stranger 'mong the wheat, Gave him a reaping hook and bade him shear, And ere the sunset made above the hills A mimic picture of the hairst, the lad Had earned a strong man's hire. Matthew was pleased ; Said little ; but he gave the boy a bed Out in the byre, and there the stranger slept Alone among the kine. A clever lad ! He wrought and shore, and earn'd both pence and praise, Strong as a stallion, modest as a mouse ; But hark you, when the Sabbath day came round, And Matthew cast his eyes around the kirk, Whom should he spy, a sheep among the flock, But Robin ! . . and the laddie's looks were cast Full modest on his book, his jet-black hair Was neatly comb'd behind his rabbit-ears, His poor old clothes were patch'd and cleanly brush'd, And butter soft seem'd melting in his mouth, And when he met his master's canker'd gaze, He blush'd like any maid and seem'd ashamed. A clever lad was Robin Anderson ! A clever, clever lad with fox's eyes ! . A clever, clever lad in lambkin's gear ! Kirk over, Matthew took him by the arm, And, with a grim inquisitorial look, Question'd the trembling lad upon the text, And scarce a word the Preacher dropt that day But Robin had by heart. Then Matthew Bell Was hugely pleased to see the lad so good 230 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF 2NVERBURN. So grand a worker with the reaping-hook. And such a pattern at his prayers beside : " Keep on, my lad," he said, " as you begin ; You '11 be a wealthy man, before you die And go to glory." After that, to kirk Went Robin, never missing night or morn. Next, later on, one Sabbath night, the lad Came stumping to the kitchen, in his hand An old torn Bible, and, with hums and haws, And mighty fear of giving some offence, Would have the Farmer open and expound A text that puzzled sore. Now, nothing pleased Old Matthew better than the like of this A chance of showing off the Grace of God, And his own Scripture learning, both at once. He smiled and took the Book, put on his specs, And read, and as he read expounded all, With godly-worldly comment of his own, Till Robin stared in awe, and saw it plain, And thank'd his teacher with a hungry look, And with a sigh that seem'd to rend his heart Wish'd he were half as holy, half as good, Or half as learn'd, as Matthew. After that, He came on other errands ben the house, Hearken'd to Matthew like a hungry sheep, And grew so pious, holy, and so good, That when the wheat was shorn and strain'd and put With golden glitter in the bank in town, Old Matthew paid the crowd of reapers off, But kept the creeshie Robin Anderson To do a laborer's work about the farm. A clever chiel was Robin Anderson ! He never spake bad words, ne'er tasted drink, THE TWO BABES. 231 Nor brake the seventh commandment ; he was deep In knowledge both of figures and the Book ; He taught himself to read and write and sum While sinners were at play. So day by day He throve and throve in Matthew Bell's esteem, And rose and rose ; till, when the house was storm'd By Mistress Bell the second, he arranged His cards so well, and seem'd so mild and meek, And play'd so well on the gray mare's conceit Seeming to think her, not a saint alone, But a braw woman with a beauteous face That Mistress Bell was won to like the man And tuck him under her maternal wing. To make the story short, this clever chiel, By dint of bowing, praying, laboring, Throve in the holy household, and so well, That Matthew later made hiir> overseer O'er all the fields, and ascertain'd in time The head and hand of Robin Anderson Were needful to his life as meat and drink. Meantime, poor Maggie ? Year by year the lass Had waited wearily and work'd and wept, Seeing her mother's pitying eyes look down Among the other stars that lit the sky; And aye she moan'd, " O mother, art thou there ? And may I come to meet thee, minnie mine ? " But spite of tears, and anger whose blue flame Burns out the sweetness of a comely face Sooner than tears, and spite of weary pain, Maggie was bonnie, bonnie, bonnie ! grew From bonnier to bonnier year by year ! Against her will, and in her heart's despite, Health loved her so that like an ivy's arm *32 IDYLS AA T D LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. It clung about her, would forsake her not. Giving and taking beauty. She was pale, But 't was the pallor of a lily flower Full-blooming, not the pallor of disease. The passionate appeals made day and night To one who shone above, put in her eyes Fresh-color'd gleams of heaven's own violet hue ; And aye the sunshine sparkling in her hair Tangled itself like ears of golden wheat ; And aye the tears she shed so often weigh'd Like dew-drops on a lily's stem, and gave Her gentle head a drooping grace more sweet Than ruddy-featured boldness. Sombre gear, Old-fashion'd raiment, and the like, but served To make this beauty plainer, as the night Shows off the modest moon. All scorn, all arts To hide her beauteousness and humble her, Were lost on Maggie Bell ! Darkly they fell, Coldly and gloomily, as murmuring rain Tumbles on beds of flowers ; and 'mid it all The flowers lift up their heads and vainly try To shake the drops away, and as they toyte They sparkle with a thousand diamond pearls, Looking the lovelier for the load they bear ! So time wore slowly on, till Maggie Bell Was sweet and twenty. Half the country side Went wild about her face, the other half Went wild about her dowry. What of that ? Old Matthew's canker'd eyes were looking high, Seeking a man of godliness and wealth To wed his child and multiply his fame ; And Mistress Bell would have no idle loons Come hanging round the farm 'twas neither right, THE TWO BABES. 233 Nor safe, nor delicate ; and, as it seem'd, The maid herself cared little for the sport, The juggling of the eyes and lips and mouth, Which long ago unpetticoated Eve First taught to breekless Adam Gardener. Strange she should take to Robin Anderson ; Yet so she did, though Matthew guess'd it not, And no suspicion of the friendship struck The Clishmaclaver. Many a kindly turn Sly Robin did for Maggie ; many a time He screen'd her from the storm ! I knew him well, And, just when Maggie's beauty was full-blown, I noticed that a change came over him : He went to kirk no less, but it was plain His thoughts were troublesome and ill at ease ; Often when spoken to, he started, blush'd, Seem'd shamed like one detected in a theft ; In kirk, forgot to look upon the book, And glinted nervously aroundabout. This puzzled me ; but Robin Anderson Was softer hearted than he wish'd to seem Had kindliness beneath his sombre gear Would smile and place his finger on his lips If now and then I mock'd his creeshie ways And, what was more, was passionate, I knew, In certain sad and fleshly vanities, Like other men, from Adam down to me. At last, J;he lily-flower on Maggie's cheek Grew sickly, and an icy glitter struck The sweetness from her eyes ; she answer'd back, To them that chid her, with an angry tongue ; And hollow, hollow, up and down the house, 234 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. With mixtie-maxtie echoes plump'd the foot That once had fall'n as soft as flakes of snow. Her father watch'd her with his yellow eye ; The Clishmaclaver shrugg'd her thin old back And sneer'd and mutter'd, daring not to speak Out loudly, for the lassie's fiend was up ; And Robin Anderson, with oily grace, Strove hard to make the sunder'd house agree, But vainly. By and by 't was plain to see That Maggie wander'd in a kind of mist, Confused and lost, for when you spake, and loud, She listen'd dreamily like one who hears The hollow chiming of a far-off bell ; And now the maiden who, though sorely tried, Had aye a pattern been of cleanly ways, Was heedless of the judgment of the world As nettles running ragged in a lane. This could not last for long. Came harvest-time, And reapers flock'd with hooks to Matthew's farm ; And round the farm, around, above, below, The fields rose thick and yellow with the grain ; And o'er the fields the buzzing^ murmur sped ; And o'er the fields the shadows of the clouds Pass'd dark, in patches, in their own soft wind. Ne'er had the moon's moist horn been fill'd so high With ripeness, gold, and fragrance. So the heart Of Matthew crow'd, as loud as any cock. But on the Sabbath day, the first of hairst, The Farmer and his wife sat ben the house With Robin Overseer, and crack'd and talk'd Of holy matters spiced with thoughts of gain, Till time for prayers ; and when the time was come, And all the house was summon'd, Matthew cried, THE TWO BABES 235 " Where 's Maggie ? " but no Maggie heard the cry ; And Mistress Bell went flyting thro' the farm, From room to room ; while from the house the call For Maggie pass'd into the fields and byres : But Maggie came not ; at the last upran A cotter's lass, barefooted, pale to see, Who cried with many a stammer, many a pause, " O mem ! O Mistress Bell ! O Mister Bell ! You 're looking oot for Maggie, are you no' ? But Maggie 's gane ! " " Gone ! " screech'd the quire, "gone where ? " " O mem, to Edinglass," the lassie cried. " I met her down the lawlan all her lane, And she was greeting sair, and when I look'd She stay'd and tellt me a', and bade me gie This message to her faither : ' Tell him, Meg, Says she, ' I 'm gaun awa',' says she, ' for gude, Ne'er to return, but that I pray the Lord May ne'er be hard wi' him as him wi' me, Nor bring him to as sair a shamefu' end ' ; And then wi' pale, pale face she slipt awa', Afore I kenn'd her meaning, and was gane ! " Sir, so it was. There was a wild to-do, Old Matthew glared and gloom'd like one gone wild, The Clishmaclaver fainted. Far and near The reapers search'd and search'd, along the roads, And down the village ; but they sought in vain. Yet Maggie reach'd not Edinglass that night, Nor the next night, nor many a night to come ; For as she ran beneath the moon, a swoon Struck her like blinding moonshine, and her limbs Just served to bear her to a cotter's door, And there, with clenching teeth and hands, she fell. 236 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. The cotter's wife, who knew her, bare her in ; And there she lay ; and ere the pallid dawn Stared in upon her with its dead man's eyes, There came the fitful crying of a child, And Maggie, white and shuddering, shriek'd to hear. Such news spreads quickly. Ere the day was done, Poor Maggie's shame was common whisper'd talk O'er all the country-side at cottage hearths, And in the harvest fields. The black news came To Matthew, where he wrought with hook himself (So eager was he for the harvest gain) Among the reapers ; and he call'd a curse On Maggie and her child, clenching his fists To scream his godly thunder ; lastly cried To Robin Anderson, whose eyes droop'd down : " Go to the lassie go and go at once And tell her, if she cross my path again, I draw my fist across her shameless face And tread her under foot ; and tell her, too, That, day or night, be 't sawing or be 't hairst, My prayers will call a curse upon her head ! " And Robin strode away without a word, As grim and gloomy as a thunder-cloud ; And ere an hour came back into the field, And told his master he had done his will. " What said she ? " ask'd the Farmer, frowning fierce, And ground his heel upon the stubbly soil. " Naught ! " answer'd Robin, short, and turn'd away, Biting his lips and scowling on the ground, And wrought in silence till the sun was set. THE TWO BABES. 237 II. O bitter, bitter was the Farmer's heart, And all his pleasure of the Hairst was sour'd ! But when the Clishmaclaver, giving tongue, Began that night to rail on Maggie's shame, Grim Matthew sharply bade her hold her peace, Nor mention Maggie more ; and Mistress Bell, Knowing the man was fierce to have his way, Stopt short and lookt as sour as buttermilk. Then all was dreary silence in the house ; And Matthew took the Book, put on his specs, And tried to read, but aye the specs grew dim With moisture from his eyes ; till, with a cry, Almost a curse, he closed the Book and rush'd Forth to the outer darkness. Who could sound The Farmer's thoughts ? and were they something sad And did pale Conscience put her mourning on ? I know not ; but for long and weary hours He wander'd out among the wheat ; near dawn Saw the moist stars that loosen'd one by one From Night's gray robe like jewels from a dress ; And at the break of day return'd with eyes Crimson, and not thro' weeping, with his cheeks As pale as frost upon a cold gray pane, But cats'-claws at the edges of the lips To show a selfish fiend was uppermost. You guess the neighbors, both the rich and poor, Were little loath to see so taken down The Farmer's pride and Mistress Bell's conceit. Clang, clang went Scandal, sounding like a chime 238 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. From cottage unto cottage, till the place Was jingling like a belfry out of tune. Then, with the cruel clangor in her ears, Poor Maggie clasp'd her child and fled away To Edinglass ; and in that cloud of life She faded like a brownie in a mist. The Clishmaclaver, though she made a fuss, Was strong in constitution, and her heart Not apt to break so easily : poor lamb, She bore her trouble like a saint in stone. But Matthew went about with mildew'd heart, Ne'er wept, and wrought as hard as any horse ; But he was absent, and his wandering eyes Dropt from your honest look to seek the ground ; His shoulders caught a trick of stooping so ! And when a lassie or a lad went wrong His voice was not so loud in stern rebuke, Among the gumlie Elders, as of old. The pious reaper. Robin Anderson, Seem'd also burden'd with a bitter load ; Shame weigh'd upon him ; once or twice, when vext At trifles, he was plainly heard to swear ; And when the harvest store was gather'd in, He came as from a funeral. The nights Grew long and cold, and so the winter pass'd ; And in the middle winter came a cry Which swept as crimson fire on Matthew's face, That Maggie lived in Edinglass the life Of thousands dead to dying. When the news One gusty gloaming reach'd the ingleside, The Farmer fairly fell on Robin's breast, And to the whistling of a winter wind Scream'd Maggie's mother's name and moan'd aloud. THE TWO BABES. 239 But ere the azure eyes of May, suffused With dewy rapture, open'd to behold A rainbow sowing flowers upon the spot Where winter buried lay, old Matthew Bell Forgot his shame and sorrow in a joy Just on the edge of finish, like a kiss That hangs in honey on a dewy lip, Melting in incompletion. For the stars Were smiling on the lap of Mistress Bell, Who promised brawly to obey the text, - " Be fruitful, multiply, replenish earth ! " In decent manner. So indeed it was ! When May with neck as white as curds and cream Peept blushing up 'mong roses white and red, And when the laverock resting on her wrist Went warbling up till it became a speck Of sunshine (O the whiskey !), round the neck Of cankerous Mistress Bell there hung a babe, As plump as ever cuddled mother's breast, A tiny stumpie-stowsie clutch'd with pride. O Matthew's heart was high ! his aged lungs Were rax'd like chanticleer's ! and in his joy He could have hugg'd the Howdie, had she been Less notable for snappishness and sneesh ! Great bliss he felt to have a son and heir, To keep his mem'ry holy in the land And multiply the siller. One there was In all the farm who seem'd to welcome not The little one the gladness and the hope. 'T was Robin Anderson. At twenty-eight, Sly Robin was a man of pith and power, Full six-feet high, with whiskers like a fox, And eyes set deep 'neath mathematic brows. 240 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. And Robin ever loudly vow'd himself (Though I, for one, knew better, as I said) Above all corporal lusts and vanities : He marry ? nay ! to buy a kiss in Kirk, Then strangle Freedom with an apron string, And waste his substance on a noisy pack Of tapsileeries ranged from big to small Like polisht pots within a public-house ! And when his joy was fullest, Robin came But little ben the farm ; and when in mirth They brought the chittering infant to his seat Beside the glowing kitchen fire, he gazed, And snigger'd out a feeble idiot smile, And with his great forefinger touch'd the child As one inspects a curious kind of fish, Seem'd half afraid 't would bite, and, sorely push'd, Confess'd 't was bonnie, with a long-drawn sigh, As if the bonnieness was sad to see. And ever after that, do all he could, And clever tho' he was to act a part, He never show'd a liking for the child ; Though what was stirring in his heart of hearts The Father, knew, He who for gracious ends Decrees his children shall be fathers too. He better could have dealt with one full-grown Than with a fretful, feckless, restless thing He lack'd the art to handle. So at last He fairly threw aside the slippery sham, And kept away as if the child had been A biting cankerous cur. All this, be sure, Pleased Matthew little, and the mother less, And she grew high, and Matthew he grew stiff, And both grew colder as the year wore on. THE TWO BABES. 241 This bother'd Robin sore. He spake few words, Toil'd stoutly, late and early, went to work, Blacken'd in sanctity to the finger-tips, And often rode to Edinglass to spend Whole day with country cousins, as he said. But oft, when none were near him, Robin heard, A weakly moaning voice among the wheat ; A tearful sobbing, sobbing, fill'd his ear, When mistily, sadly, fell the autumn rain ; And in his soul the image of a child Battled with fiends. I plainly saw the man Hated himself, and some cold snake that shed Its slime upon his heart ; and more than once I made a guess, which after-days proved true. Then once again came harvest, reapers reapt, And all was rich and yellow with the grain. O yellow, yellow waved the wealthy ears, And yellow, yellow thro' the misty stalks The sunshine drew its threads of liquid gold ; Hairst nodded, nodded, with a deep-drawn breath, The sun-tann'd reapers reapt, the golden showers Fell like a garment rustling to the knees Of beauty, and from fence to fence the shout Of reapers ran, and in among the sheaves Barefooted gleaners douk'd with brimming hands. O yellow, yellow waved the wealthy ears ! But in a field half-reap'd, and brightly paved With sparkling stubble, Robin work'd alone' His color'd handkerchief about his loins, And on his head a broad-brimm'd hat of straw. When sunny Noon was steaming, from the house Came Mistress Bell, and in her hands the babe, 16 ^4 t ^ IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. And down among the harvest-home she walk'd Raising the little one to see the fields, The reapers reaping, and the sun above ; And aye the mannock crow'd and waved his hands, And blink'd his azure eyes against the sun, And smiled and shone and leapt for all the world, Like a stray sunbeam flickering about The mother's bosom. As the stars arranged, Down to the very spot where Robin wrought, Down-bending 'neath the yellow as she came, Walk'd the goodwife whom love, and joy, and pride Of happy hairst, and fatness in the bud, Made almost bonnie. In the neighboring field Just then arose a clamor as of men In loud and fierce contention ; half surprised, Half curious, she placed the child with care Upon a cosey heap of fallen wheat, And hasten'd, fast as her old legs could run, To gaze and question o'er the low green hedge. As Fortune plann'd it, she had laid the bairn Close to the spot where Robin bound the sheaves ; And peeping underneath the sheaves of wheat The child (too wee to harbor malice !) saw The reaper, laugh'd, and blink'd its azure eyes, Stretch'd out its plump pink arms and cried aloud, And would have tumbled from its yellow bed Had Anderson not thrown his tools aside And ran to help it. " Now," the reaper thought, " I '11 watch the child till Mistress Bell returns, And this may help to heal the old offence ! " And while he thought, the mannikin lay still Blinking full sage as if it knew the doubt Of him, the gloomy man, whose hollow eyes Lookt at it half afraid. With that the Lord THE TWO BABES. 243 Bade His bright sunshine and His Harvest-home, His merry sights and sounds, His happy light, His peace and plenteousness of autumn gifts, Mix with the smiling of the little child And swim in vision on the reaper's heart. A gush like mother's milk fill'd Robin's heart, Warming that heart until it leapt for fun ; And with the harvest dazzling on his eyes The reaper laugh'd aloud and color'd red. Still Mistress Bell stay'd cracking at the hedge With one she knew, and part forgot her charge And part was dimly conscious it was safe. Was Robin daft, or drunk, or both at once ? For with a wheaten straw of feathery end He tickled, tan tied, at the infant's throat, And poked the honeyed dimples of its chin, Until the child crow'd loud and kick'd and scream'd, And flung its arms about, and jump'd for fun ; Till, fairly madden'd with a reckless glee, This holy man, this clever clever chiel, This big-boned reaper, Robin Anderson, Caught up the wean, and tost it in the air, And rock'd it in his arms and tousled it, And not a mother in her teens could be More glad, more tender. In the midst of all, Back came the mistress : Robin saw her not, But laugh'd, and tost the wean, and tousled it ; Till suddenly he turn'd and caught her eye : " What, Robin ! " and the reaper held the babe Between his hands, blushing with heat and shame, And eyed his little load with sheepish look As doubting whether he should hold it fast, Or let it tumble, scraping with his feet ; Till, gasping, gaping, like a startled hen, *44 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. She took the infant, gave him one long gaze, And walkt away as stupefied and dumb As if the very Deil had stolen up And wrought a miracle beneath her nose ! Hey ! Robin was as shamed as shamed could be, And bound the sheaves all day, with gloomy eyes That sought the ground. Then gloaming powder'd heaven With stars that floated silver in the air, And 'neath the stars Hairst sighing fell to sleep With misty breath and audible golden wings, And all the weary reapers reap'd no more. Long time stay'd Robin in the dark without, Grumbling, delaying, shamed, afraid to meet The eyes of women in the farm within ; But partly hunger moved and partly pride, And with a big defiant lounge he strode Into the kitchen, where the laborers, Women and men, with spoons of season'd wood, Were dipping at the smoking porridge-bowl. And there, between a strapping maiden's knees, Was Master Matthew Bell, the son and heir ! No Mistress Bell was there ; but when the child Saw Robin Anderson, he crow'd aloud, Kicking and laughing, tumbling on the knee, And Robin, ere he knew, was at his side, Tickling and tousling him, like one indeed That partly sported to defy the voice That said he could not sport, and casting round His quick defiant glances now and then, But with a secret honeyedness of heart. All stared none spoke a word ; but laughing eyes Sparkled, and looks of wonder pass'd about, THE TWO BABES. 245 While Robin's frenzy brighten'd, grew and grew, Till the wee treble and the big haw, haw ! Like a grand giant and a wee wee gnome, Rang merry, merry, merry ! After that, No better friends could dwell in Christendie Than Robin and the wean ; and, stranger still, After that night the art of pleasing it, And holding it, and hushing it in arms, Seem'd dull no longer, but so easy now, That Robin wonder'd how he came to deem Such things so hard to learn. The bridge once pass'd, Pons Asinorum, as I said at school, Robin cared little what he did or said. Beneath the very eyes of Mistress Bell And Matthew he would sport the child, and feel As little shame as any new-yean'd lamb ; And Matthew and the Mistress they were pleased ; And the ice thaw'd, and so the time wore on Till Hairst was shorn of every golden lock. But ah ! big Robin's heart was ill at ease : The secret snake still nestled there, and soil'd His very tongue with venom. Oftener, He took his journeys into Edinglass ; At home, he only brighten'd when his friend Was by to cheer him : then, and only then, He sported ; for on Sabbath he was first At kirk, with gloomy face and soot-black gear. But when the Hairst again had heavenward flown, An angel leaving gentle gifts behind, The child of Matthew's age fell sick, and all 246 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Was silence in the farm. Then doctors came And whisper'd learndd difference to the ticks Of learndd watches ; and a yaumer weak Was heard throughout the night. Matthew was mad, And Mistress Bell all tears ; but none paid heed To Robin, who would sit beside the fire, Glower at the coal, and heark with hungry ear ' To those that tiptoe stole about the house And whisper'd. Once, on silent shoeless feet, He crept into the little sleeping room, And saw the pale, pale babe on mother's lap : He look'd and could not speak a scalding heat Grew in his throat he stammer'd, blush'd, and stared ; But when he turn'd away his face was white With ghastly pain more terrible than tears. What felt he, thought he ? Is it fair to guess ? Perchance his thought was something like to this : " If wedded, I had such another child As lies before me, and the child should die For lack of such a love as I could give, Would all the gold and silver in the world Wipe from my soul that piteous baby-face ? Would twenty thousand prayers, pray'd day and night, Drown in the hearing of the Lord my God The cry my babe had utter'd as it died ? " And when the little one was fall'n asleep, Drest in its Sabbath clothes of white to keep Eternities of Sabbath in the grave, Old Matthew, groaning, stump'd about the house, Sour Elder though he was ; and Mistress Bell Wept low and bitter, with an eldritch grief, To which the woman's quaint uncomely face Gave double solemness ; for aye she kiss'd THE TWO BABES. 247 The frosty lips, and aye with tender care Sorted the clothes upon the white, white limbs, To make them look the sweeter, weeping sore. But in the silent hush of noon, one crept On tiptoe to the chamber where the child Lay, tiny, breathless, like a lily flower Under the thinly dropping misty dews Of gloaming, making where it lay in shade A faint and glow-worm glamour of its own. 'T was Robin ; and he touch'd the tiny hands, And look'd upon the baby face that Death Had fill'd with shadows ancient as the leaves That shaded Adam's garden ; and he gazed As one fresh-landed after years at sea Might gaze upon a flower reminding him Of meadows where he gamboll'd when a boy. ^ He shed no tears. Around his eyes there swam Two dewy rings, the mist of tears unshed, And in a dream, he heark'd, and seem'd to hear An infant cry from far away, and see Two hands uplifted from beneath his knees To draw him down and kiss him on the mouth ; And so he crept away, unseen, unheard, Hating the silence of the mourning house, Longing to break the silence with a shriek. Seven days the child had slumber'd under grass, And now the snow was falling in a mist And sowing snow-drops on the little grave, When Robin rode away to Edinglass On business of his own. Four days he stay'd ; And Matthew, in his sorrow, scarce took heed. 248 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. But standing at the threshold of the farm, One morning, Matthew saw a farmer's gig, Drawn by a piebald pony of his own, Come trotting up the road ; and in it sat A woman and a man. Up came the gig, And halted at the farm ; and with a cry Of wonder, even fear, the farmer saw That r>e who drove was Robin Anderson, And she that sat beside him with a child Tuck'd softly underneath her Paisley shawl His sinful daughter, Maggie. Both were pale, And dropt their eyes ; but Robin's teeth were set Together. Not a word could Matthew speak, But Robin help'd the lassie to the ground, And led her to the door ; and Matthew Bell Gave way, walk'd ben and backwards, stared and gasp'd, " What 's this ? What 's this ? And is it daft ye are ? And have you both forgotten ? " and his eyes Glitter'd on Maggie with a ghastly pain ; But Robin took him by the shoulder-blade, And push'd him ben the kitchen. " Wheesht a while ! " Said Robin ; " wheesht a while, and hear me out : May Clootie grip me, Matthew, I have been A hypocrite and villain, both in kirk And here, as friend and servant, in the farm. 'T was me brought Meg to sorrow and to shame But here I stand to take the shame myself And Meg 's my wife ! " The Farmer stared and gasp'd, Clutch'd at the empty air with eager hand, And spoke not. " Father ! " Maggie moan'd aloud ; At that he eyed her with a hungry look, As he would wither her, and answer'd naught. Then Robin said, " I take the shame myself, And Meg 's my honest wife ; and if your heart THE TWO BABES. 249 Is shut against us both, the world is wide, And we can go away, and we can work ; But if you care or sorrow for the lamb You late have laid beneath the kirkyard sod, Forgive poor Maggie for the bairnie's sake : Come, here am I, to take the shame myself, And Meg 's my wife ! " Then Maggie cried again, " Father ! " and as she spake drew back her shawl, And show'd her child asleep upon her breast, A picture of the other child asleep, And as she spake, it waken'd, gave a cry, And kick'd to run upon its rosy feet. Then, some say Matthew thought him of a slip Himself had made when he was warm and young ; Some that he knew full well 't would cost him dear To part with Robin ; others, that the wean, When Maggie set him down, ran toddling o'er, Peep'd in the Farmer's face, and laugh'd for fun, Pull'd at his watch-chain boldly with a cry, And did it all. But when the Farmer's wife Came creeping to the kitchen, 'with a scream Saw Maggie, lifted up her hands and groan'd, Old Matthew sharply turn'd and cut her short, And never looking at poor Maggie's face, Bade Robin seat himself and talk it o'er. That 's all, sir ! for a child might guess the rest ; Matthew came round, and Mistress Bell was forced To give a doubtful nod, and all was done. Robin had saved and scraped ; he bought a piece Of Matthew's land, where Maggie and her boy Were settled down for good. That tale was false Of Maggie's evil life in Edinglass ! 250 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF 1NVERBURN. But, sir, it is a truth that Robin's heart, In spite of all the cunning of his head, Gushing the milk of human kindness up, Drown'd the wee deil, Hypocrisy, therein ; That Robin's comely wife and Mistress Bell Meet every Sabbath, dying to be friends, And quarrel every Sabbath day for good. But ah ! to see the dreadful change that years Have wrought in Robin ! He is well-to-do, Has other weans beside the elbow-slip, That 's nothing singular ! But, sir, he 's fat ! He has been known to go to sleep in kirk ! And oft, within this very parlor here, 'T would give your heart a thrill to hear him sing " Corn Rigs," or " Tullochgorum ! " Such a change Can stolen sweets and fleshly vanities, Children and women, work in holy men, E'en clever lads like Robin ! . . Well, I 've done No more, unless you wish to see me fu' : I 've far to walk, and 't is the Sabbath day. THE GREEN GNOME. A MELODY. RING, sing ! ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! thorough dales and dells ! Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells ! THE GREEN GNOME. 251 And I gallop'd and I gallop'd on my palfrey white as milk, My robe was of the sea-green woof, my serk was of the silk; My hair was golden yellow, and it floated to my shoe, My eyes were like two harebells bathed in little drops of dew ; My palfrey, never stopping, made a music sweetly blent With the leaves of autumn dropping all around me as I went ; And I heard the bells, grown fainter, far behind me peal and play, Fainter, fainter, fainter, fainter, till they seem'd to die away; And beside a silver runnel, on a little heap of sand, I saw the green Gnome sitting, with his cheek upon his hand ; Then he started up to see me, and he ran with cry and bound, And drew me from my palfrey white, and set me on the ground : crimson, crimson were his locks, his face was green to see, But he cried, " O light-hair'd lassie, you are bound to marry me ! " He claspt me round the middle small, he kissed me on the cheek, He kissed me once, he kissed me twice I could not stir or speak ; He kissed me twice, he kissed me thrice but when he kissed again, 1 called aloud upon the name of Him who died for men ! 252 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Ring, sing ! ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! thorough dales and dells ! Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells ! O faintly, faintly, faintly, calling men and maids to pray, So faintly, faintly, faintly rang the bells afar away ; And as I named the Blessed Name, as in our need we can, The ugly green green Gnome became a tall and comely man ! His hands were white, his beard was gold, his eyes were black as sloes, His tunic was of scarlet woof, and silken were his hose ; A pensive light from Faeryland still linger'd on his cheek, His voice was like the running brook, when he began to speak : " O you have cast away the charm my step-dame put on me, Seven years I dwelt in Faeryland, and you have set me free! O I will mount thy palfrey white, and ride to kirk with thee, And by those little dewy eyes, we twain will wedded be!" Back we gallop'd, never stopping, he before and I behind, And the autumn leaves were dropping, red and yellow, in the wind, And the sun was shining clearer, and my heart was high and proud, As nearer, nearer, nearer, rang the kirk-bells sweet and loud, HUGH SUTHERLAND 'S PANSIES. 253 And we saw the kirk before us, as we trotted down the fells, And nearer, clearer, o'er us, rang the welcome of the bells ! Ring, sing ! ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! thorough dales and dells ! Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells ! HUGH SUTHERLAND'S PANSIES. A FLOWER-PIECE. The aged Minister of Inverburn, A heart of honey under features stem, Leans in the sunshine on the garden-pale, Pensive, yet happy, as he tells this tale, And he who listens sees the garden lie Blue as a little patch of fallen sky. "HPHE lily minds me of a maiden brow," -*- Hugh Sutherland would say ; " the marigold Is full and sunny like her yellow hair, The full-blown rose her lips with honey tipt ; But if you seek a likeness to her eye, Go to the pansy, friend, and find it there ! " " Ay, leeze me on the pansies ! " Hugh would say, Hugh Sutherland, the weaver, he who dwelt Here in the whitewashed cot you fancy so, Who knew the learned names of all the flowers, 254 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. And recognized the lily, tho' its head Rose in a ditch of dull Latinity ! Pansies ? You praise the ones that grow to-day Here in the garden : had you seen the place When Sutherland was living ! Here they grew, From blue to deeper blue, in midst of each A golden dazzle like a glimmering star, Each broader, bigger than a silver crown ; While here the weaver sat, his labor done, Watching his azure pets and rearing them, Until they seem'd to know his step and touch, And stir beneath his smile like living things 1 The very sunshine loved them, and would He Here happy, coming early, lingering late, Because they were so fair. Hugh Sutherland Was country-bred ; I knew him from the time When on a bed of pain he lost a limb, And rose at last, a lame and sickly lad, Apprenticed to the loom, a peevish lad, Mooning among the shadows by himself. Among these shadows, with the privilege Of one who loved, his flock, I sought him out, And gently as I could I won his heart ; And then, tho' he was young and I was old, We soon grew friends. He told his griefs to me, His joys, his troubles, and I help'd him on ; Yet sought in vain to drive away the cloud Deep pain had left upon his sickly cheek, And lure him from the shades that deepen'd it. Then Heaven took the task upon itself And sent an angel down among the flowers ! HUGH SUTHERLAND'S PANSIES. 255 Almost before I knew the work was done, I found him settled in this but and ben, Where, with an eye that brighten'd, he had found The sunshine loved his garden, and begun To rear his pansies. Sutherland was poor, Rude, and untutor'd ; peevish, too, when first The angel in his garden found him out ; But pansy-growing made his heart within Blow fresh and fragrant. When he came to share This cottage with a brother of the craft, Only some poor and sickly bunches bloom'd, Vagrant, though fair, among the garden-plots ; And idly, carelessly, he water'd these, Spread them and train'd them, till they grew and grew In size and beauty, and the angel thrust Its bright arms upward thro' the bright'ning sod, And clung around the sickly gardener's heart. Then Sutherland grew calmer, and the cloud Was fading from his face. Well, by and by, The country people saw and praised the flowers, And what at first had been an idle joy Became a sober, serious work for fame. Next, being won to send a bunch for show, He won a prize, a sixth or seventh rate ; And slowly gath'ring courage, rested not Till he had won the highest prize of all. Here in the sunshine and the shade he toil'd Early and late in joy, and, by and by, Rose high in fame ; for not a botanist, A lover of the flowers, poor man or rich, Came to the village, but the people said, " Go down the lane to Weaver Sutherland's, And see his pansies ! " 256 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Thus the summers pass'd, And Sutherland grew gentler, happier ; The angel God had sent him clung to him : There grew a rapturous sadness in his tone When he was gladdest, like the dewiness That moistens pansies when they bloom the best ; And in his face there dawn'd a gentle light Like that which softly clings about a flow'r, And makes you love it. Yet his heart was glad, More for the pansies' sakes than for his own : His eye was like a father's, moist and bright, When they were praised ; and, as I said, they seem'd To make themselves as beauteous as they could, 'Smiling to please him. Blessings on the flowers ! They were his children ! Father never loved His little darlings more, or for their sakes Fretted so dumbly ! Father never bent More tenderly above his little ones, In the still watches of the night, when sleep Breathes balm upon their eyelids ! Night and day Poor Hugh was careful for the gentle things Whose presence brought a sunshine to the place Where sickness dwelt : this one was weak and small, And needed watching like a sickly child ; This one so beauteous, that it shamed its mates And made him angry with its beauteousness. " I cannot rest ! " cried Hughie with a smile, " I scarcely snatch a moment to myself, They plague me so ! " Part fun, part earnest, this : He loved the pansies better than he knew. Ev'n in the shadow of his weaving room They haunted him and brighten'd on his soul : Daily while busy working at the loom The humming-humming seem'd a melody HUGH SUTHERLAND'S PANSIES. 257 To which the pansies sweetly grew and grew, A leaf unrolling soft to every note, A change of colors with the change of sound ; And walking to the door to rest himself, Still with the humming-humming in his ears, He saw the flowers and heard a melody They made in growing. Pleasure such as this, So exquisite, so lonely, might have pass'd Into the shadowy restlessness of yore ; But wholesome human contact saved him here, And kept him fresh and meek. The people came To stir him with their praise, and he would show The medals and the prizes he had got As proud and happy as a child who gains A prize in school. The angel still remain'd In winter, when the garden-plots were bare, And deep winds piloted the shriven snow : He saw its gleaming in the cottage fire, While, with a book of botany on his knee, He sat and hunger'd for the breath of spring. The angel of the flowers was with him still ! Here beds of roses sweeten'd all the page ; Here lilies whiter than the falling snow Crept gleaming softly from the printed lines ; Here dewy violets sparkled till the book Dazzled his eyes with rays of misty blue ; And here, amid a page of Latin names, All the sweet Scottish flowers together grew With fragrance of the summer. Hugh and I Were still fast friends, and still I help'd him on ; 17 258 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. And often in the pleasant summer-time, The service over, on the Sabbath day, I join'd him in the garden, where we sat And chatted in the sun. But all at once It came upon me that the gardener's hand Had grown less diligent ; for tho' 't was June The garden that had been the village pride Look'd but the shadow of its former self; And ere a week was out I saw in church Two samples fairer far than any blown In Hughie's garden, blooming brighter far In sweeter soil. What wonder that a man, Loving the pansies as the weaver did A skilful judge, moreover should admire Sweet Mary Moffat's sparkling pansy-eyes ? The truth was out. The weaver play'd the game (I christen'd it in sport that very day) Of " Love among the Pansies ! " As he spoke, Telling me all, I saw upon his face The peevish cloud that it had worn in youth ; I cheer'd him as I could, and bade him hope : " You both are poor, but, Sutherland, God's flowers Are poor as well ! " He brighten'd as I spoke, And answer'd, " It is settled ! I have kept The secret till the last, lest ' nay ' should come And spoil it all ; but ' ay ' has come instead, And all the help we wait for is your own ! " Even here, I think, his angel clung to him. The fairies of his garden haunted him With similes and sympathies that made His likes and dislikes, though he knew it not. Beauty he loved if it was meek and mild, HUGH SUTHERLAND'S PANSIES. 259 And like his pansies tender ev'n to tears ; And so he chose a maiden pure and low, Who, like his garden pets, had love to spare, Sunshine to cast upon his pallid cheek, And yet a tender clinging thing, too weak To bloom uncared for and unsmiled upon. Soon Sutherland and she he loved were one, And bonnily a moon of honey gleam'd At night among the flowers ! Amid the spring That follow'd, blossom'd with the other buds A tiny maiden with her mother's eyes. The little garden was itself again, The sunshine sparkled on the azure beds ; The angel Heaven had sent to save a soul Stole from the blooms and took an infant shape ; And wild with pleasure, seeing how the flowers Had given her their choicest lights and shades, The father bore his baby to the font And had her christen'd PANSY. After that, Poor Hugh was happy as the days were long, Divided in his cares for all his pets, And proudest of the one he loved the best. The summer found him merry as a king, Dancing the little one upon his knee Here in the garden, while the plots around Gleam'd in the sun, and seem'd as glad as he. But moons of honey wane, and summer suns Of wedlock set to bring the autumn in ! Hugh Sutherland, with wife and child to feed, Wrought sore to gain his pittance in a world 260 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. His pansies made so fair. Came Poverty With haggard eyes to dwell within the house ; When first she saw the garden she was glad, And, seated on the threshold, smiled and span. But times grew harder, bread was scarce as gold, A shadow fell on Pansy and the flowers ; And when the strife was sorest, Hugh received An office lighter work and higher pay To take a foreman's place in Edinglass. 'T was hard, 'twas hard to leave the little place He loved so dearly ; but the weaver look'd At Mary, saw the sorrow in her face, And gave consent, happy at heart to think His dear ones would not want. To Edinglass They went and settled. Thro' the winter hours Bravely the weaver toil'd ; his wife and child Were happy, he was heartsome, tho' his taste Was grassy lowlands and the caller air. The cottage here remain'd untenanted, The angel of the flowers forsook the place, The sunshine faded, and the pansies died. Two summers pass'd ; and still in Edinglass The weaver toil'd, and ever when I went Into the city, to his house I hied, A welcome guest Now first, I saw a change Had come to Sutherland : for he was pale And peevish, had a venom on his tongue, And hung the under-lip like one that doubts. Part of the truth I heard, and part I saw, But knew too late, when all the ill was done ! At first, poor Hugh had shrunk from making friends, And pored among his books of botany, HUGH SUTHERLAND'S PANSIES. 261 And later, in the dull dark nights he sat, A dismal book upon his knee, and read : A book no longer full of leaves and flowers, That glimmer'd on the soul's sweet consciousness, Yet seem'd to fill the eye, a dismal book, Big-sounding Latin, English dull and dark, And not a breath of summer in it all. The sunshine perish'd in the city's smoke, The pansies grew no more to comfort him, And he began to spend his nights with those Who waste their substance in the public-house : The flowers had lent a sparkle to his talk, Which pleased the muddled wits of idle men ; Sought after, treated, liked by one and all, He took to drinking ; and at last lay down Stupid and senseless on a rainy night, And ere he waken'd caught the flaming fire, Which gleams to white-heat on the face and burns Clear crimson in the lungs. But it was long, Ere any knew poor Hughie's plight ; and, ere He saw his danger, on the mother's breast Lay Pansy withering, tho' the dewy breath Of spring was floating like a misty rain Down from the mountains. Then the tiny flower Folded its leaves in silence, and the sleep That dwells in winter on the pansy-beds Fell on the weaver's house. At that sad hour I enter'd, scarcely welcomed with a word Of greeting : by the hearth the woman sat Weeping full sore, her apron o'er a face Haggard with midnight watching, while the man Cover'd his bloodshot eyes and cursed himself. 262 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Then leaning o'er, my hand on his, I said : " She could not bear the smoke of cities, Hugh ! God to His Garden has transplanted her, Where summer dwells forever and the air Is fresh and pure ! " But Hughie did not speak ; I saw full plainly that he blamed himself ; And ere the day was out he bent above His little sleeping flower, and wept, and said : " Ay, sir ! she wither'd, wither'd like the rest, Neglected ! " and I saw his heart was full. & When Pansy slept beneath the churchyard grass Poor Hughie's angel had return'd to Heaven, And all his heart was dark. His ways grew strange, Peevish, and sullen ; often he would sit And drink alone ; the wife and he grew cold, And harsh to one another ; till at last A stern physician put an end to all, And told him he must die. No bitter cry, No sound of wailing rose within the house After the Doctor spoke, but Mary mourn'd In silence, Hughie smoked his pipe and set His teeth together, at the ingleside. Days pass'd ; the only token of a change Was Hughie's face, the peevish cloud of care Seem'd melting to a tender gentleness. After a time, the wife forgot her grief, Or could at times forget it, in the care Her husband's sickness brought. I went to them As often as I could, for Sutherland Was dear to me, and dearer for his sin. Weak as he was he did his best to toil, But it was weary work ! By slow degrees, HUGH SUTHERLAND'S PANSIES. 263 When May was breathing on the sickly bunch Of mignonette upon the window-sill, I saw his smile was softly wearing round To what it used to be, when here he sat Rearing his flowers ; altho' his brow at times Grew cloudy, and he gnaw'd his under lip. At last I found him seated by the hearth, Trying to read : I led his mind to themes Of old langsyne, and saw his eyes grow dim. " O sir," he cried, " I cannot, cannot rest ! Something I long for, and I know not what, Torments me night and day ! " I saw it all, And sparkling with the brilliance of the thought, Look'd in his eyes and caught his hand, and cried, " Hugh, it 's the pansies ! Spring has come again, The sunshine breathes its gold upon the air And threads it through the petals of the flowers, Yet here you linger in the dark ! " I ceased And watch'd him. Then he trembled as he said, " I see it now, for as I read the book The lines and words, the Latin seem'd to bud, And they peep'd thro'." He smiled, like one ashamed, Adding in a low voice, " I long to see The pansies ere I die ! " What heart of stone Could throb on coldly, sir, at words like those ? Not mine, not mine ! Within a week poor Hugh Had left the smoke of Edinglass behind, And felt the wind that runs along the lanes, Spreading a carpet of the grass and flowers For June the sunny-hair'd to walk upon. In the old cottage here he dwelt again : The place was wilder than it once had been, 264 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF 1NVERBURN. But buds were blowing green around about, And with the glad return of Sutherland The angel of the flowers came back again. The end was near, and Hugh was wearied out, And like a flower was closing up his leaves Under the dropping of the gloaming dews. And daily, in the summer afternoon, I found him seated on the threshold there, Watching his flowers, and all the place, I thought, Brighten'd when he was nigh. Now first I talk'd Of heavenly hopes unto him, and I knew The angel help'd me. On the day he died The pain had put its shadow on his face, And words of doubt were on his tremulous lips. " Ah, Hughie, life is easy ! " I exclaim'd, " Easier, better than we know ourselves : 'T is pansy-growing on a mighty scale, And God above us is the gardener. The fairest win the prizes, that is just, But all the flowers are dear to God the Lord : The Gardener loves them all, He loves them all ! " He saw the sunshine on the pansy-beds And brighten'd. Then by slow degrees he grew Cheerful and meek as dying man could be, And as I spoke there came from far-away The faint sweet melody of Sabbath bells. And "Hugh," I said, "if God the Gardener Neglected those he rears as you have done Your pansies and your Pansy, it were ill For we who blossom in His garden. Night And morning He is busy at His work. He smiles to give us sunshine, and we live : He stoops to pluck us softly, and our hearts HUGH SUTHERLAND'S PANSIES. 265 Tremble to see the darkness, knowing not It is the shadow He, in stooping, casts. He pluckt your Pansy so, and it was well. But, Hugh, though some be beautiful and grand, Sime sickly, like yourself, and mean and poor, He loves them all, the Gardener loves them all ! " Then later, when no longer he could sit Out on the threshold, and the end was near, We set a plate of pansies by his bed To cheer him. " He is coming near," I said, " Great is the garden, but the Gardener Is coming to the corner where you bloom So sickly ! " And he smiled, and moan'd, " I hear ! " And sank upon his pillow wearily. His hollow eyes no longer bore the light, The darkness gather'd round him as I said, " The Gardener is standing at your side, His shade is on you and you cannot see : Lord, that lovest both the strong and weak, Pluck him and wear him ! " Even as I pray'd, 1 felt the shadow there and hid my face ; But when I look'd again the flower was pluck'd, The shadow gone : the sunshine thro' the blind Gleam'd faintly, and the widow'd woman wept. 266 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. THE LEGEND OF THE STEPMOTHER. AS I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, ** Under the grass as I lay so deep, As I lay asleep in my cotton serk Under the shade of Our Lady's kirk, I waken 'd up in the dead of night, I waken'd up in my death-serk white, And I heard a cry from far away, And I knew the voice of my daughter May : " Mother, mother, come hither to me ! Mother, mother, come hither and see ! Mother, mother, mother dear, Another mother is sitting here : My body is bruised, and in pain I cry, On straw in the dark afraid I lie, I thirst and hunger for drink and meat, And mother, mother, to sleep were sweet ! " I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep. II. I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep, Up I rose from my grave so deep ! The earth was black, but overhead The stars were yellow, the moon was red ; And I walk'd along all white and thin, THE LEGEND OF THE STEPMOTHER, 267 And lifted the latch and enter'd in, And reach'd the chamber as dark as night, And though it was dark my face was white : " Mother, mother, I look on thee ! Mother, mother, you frighten me ! For your cheeks are thin and your hair is gray ! " But I smiled, and kiss'd her fears away, I smooth'd her hair and I sang a song, And on my knee I rock'd her long : " O mother, mother, sing low to me ; I am sleepy now, and I cannot see ! " I kiss'd her, but I could not weep, And she went to sleep, she went to sleep. in. As we lay asleep, as we lay asleep, My May and I, in our grave so deep, As we lay asleep in the midnight mirk, Under the shade of Our Lady's kirk, I waken'd up in the dead of night, Though May my daughter lay warm and white, And I heard the cry of a little one, And I knew 't was the voice of Hugh my son : " Mother, mother, come hither to me ! Mother, mother, come hither and see ! Mother, mother, mother dear, Another mother is sitting here : My body is bruised and my heart is sad, But I speak my mind and call them bad ; I thirst and hunger night and day, And were I strong I would fly away ! " I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep ! 268 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. IV. I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep, Up I rose from my grave so deep, The earth was black, but overhead The stars were yellow, the moon was red ; And I walk'd along all white and thin, And lifted the latch and enter'd in. " Mother, mother, and art thou here ? I know your face, and I feel no fear ; Raise me, mother, and kiss my cheek, For oh I am weary and sore and weak." I smooth'd his hair with a mother's joy, And he laugh'd aloud, my own brave boy ; I raised and held him on my breast, Sang him a song, and bade him rest. " Mother, mother, sing low to me ; I am sleepy now and I cannot see ! " I kiss'd him, and I could not weep, As he went to sleep, as he went to sleep. v. As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, With my girl and boy in my grave so deep, As I lay asleep, I awoke in fear, Awoke, but awoke not my children dear, And heard a cry so low and weak From a tiny voice that could not speak ; I heard the cry of a little one, My bairn that could neither talk nor run, My little, little one, uncaress'd, Starving for lack of the milk of the breast ; And I rose from sleep and enter'd in, And found my little one pinch 'd and thin, And croon'd a song and hush'd its moan, THE LEGEND OF THE STEPMOTHER. 269 And put its lips to my white breastbone ; And the red, red moon that lit the place Went white to look at the little face, And I kiss'd and kiss'd, and I could not weep, As it went to sleep, as it went to sleep. VI. As it lay asleep, as it lay asleep, I set it down in the darkness deep, Smooth'd its limbs and laid it out, And drew the curtains around about ; Then into the dark, dark room I hied Where he lay awake at the woman's side, And though the chamber was black as night, He saw my face, for it was so white ; I gazed in his eyes, and he shriek'd in pain, And I knew he would never sleep again, And back to my grave went silently, And soon my baby was brought to me ; My son and daughter beside me rest, My little baby is on my breast ; Our bed is warm and our grave is deep, But he cannot sleep, he cannot sleep ! 270 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. THE WIDOW MYSIE. AN IDYL OF LOVE AND WHISKEY. Tom Love, a man "prepared for friend or foe, Whisker'd, well-featured, tight from top to toe." O WIDOW MYSIE, smiling, soft, and sweet ! O Mysie, buxom as a sheaf of wheat ! O Mysie, Widow Mysie, late Monroe, Foul fall the traitor-face that served me so ! Mysie Love, a second time a bride, 1 pity him who tosses at your side, Who took, by honeyed smiles and speech misled, A beauteous bush of brambles to his bed ! You saw her at the ploughing match, you ken, Ogling the whiskey and the handsome men : The smiling woman in the Paisley shawl, Plump as a partridge, and as broad as tall, With ribbons, bows, and jewels fair to see, Bursting to blossom like an apple-tree, And every ribbon, bow, and jewel fine Perfumed like apple blossoms dipt in wine. Ay, that was Mysie, now two score and ten, Now Madam Love of Bungo in the Glen ! Ay, that was Mysie, tho' her looks no more Dazzle with beams of brightness as of yore ! The tiny imps that nested in her eyes, Winning alike the wanton and the wise, Have ta'en the flame that made my heart forlorn Back to the nameless place where they were born. THE WIDOW MYSIE. 2^l years roll on, and fair things fade and pine ! Twelve sowings since and I was twenty-nine : With ploughman's coat on back, and plough in hand, 1 wrought at Bungo on my father's land, And all the neighbor-lassies, stale or fair, Tried hard to net my father's son and heir. My heart was lightsome, cares I had but few, I climb'd the mountains, drank the mountain dew, Could sit a mare as mettlesome as fire, Could put the stone with any in the shire, Had been to college, and had learn'd to dance, Could blether thro' my nose like folks in France, And stood erect, prepared for friend or foe, Whisker'd, well-featured, tight from top to toe. " A marriageable man, for every claim Of lawful wedlock fitted," you exclaim ? But, sir, of all that men enjoy or treasure, Wedlock, I fancied, was the driest pleasure. True ; seated at some pretty peasant's side, Under the slanted sheaves I loved to hide, Lilting the burthen of a Scottish tune, To sit, and kiss perchance, and watch the moon, Pillow'd on breasts like beds of lilies white Heaving and falling in the pale moonlight ; But rather would have sat with crimson face Upon the cutty-stool with Jean or Grace, Than buy in kirk a partner with the power To turn the mountain dew of Freedom sour. I loved a comely face, as I have said, But sharply watch'd the maids who wish'd to wed, I knew their arts, was not so cheaply won, They loved my father's Siller, not his Son. 272 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Still, laughing in my sleeve, I here and there Took liberties allow'd my father's heir, Stole kisses from the comeliest of the crew, And smiled upon the virgin nettles too. So might the game have daunder'd on till this, And lasted till my father went to bliss, But Widow Mysie came, as sly as sin, And settled in the " William Wallace " Inn. The Inn had gone to rack and loss complete Since Simpson drown'd himself in whiskey neat ; And poor Jock Watt who follow'd in his shoes, Back'd by the sourest, gumliest of shrews, (The whiskey vile, the water never hot, , The very sugar sour'd by Mistress Watt,) Had found the gossips, grumbling, groaning, stray To Sandie Kirkson's, half a mile away. But hey ! at Widow Mysie's rosy face, A change came o'er the spirits of the place, The fire blazed high, the shining pewter smiled, The glasses glitter'd bright, the water boil'd, Grand was the whiskey, Highland born and fine, And Mysie, Widow Mysie, was divine ! O sweet was Widow Mysie, sweet and sleek ! The peach's blush and down were on her cheek, And there were dimples in her tender chin For Cupids small to hunt for honey in ; Dark-glossy were her ringlets, each a prize, And wicked, wicked were her beaded eyes ; Plump was her figure, rounded and complete, And tender were her tiny tinkling feet ! All this was nothing to the warmth and light That seem'd to hover o'er her day and night ; THE WIDOW MYSIE. 273 Where'er she moved, she seem'd to soothe and please With honeyed murmurs as of honeyed bees ; Her small plump hands on public missions flew Like snow-white doves that flying crow and coo ; Her feet fell patter, cheep, like little mice ; Her breath was soft with sugar and with spice ; And when her finger so ! your hand would press, You tingled to the toes with loveliness, While her dark eyes, with lessening zone in zone, Flasht sunlight on the mirrors of your own, Dazzling your spirit with a wicked sense That seem'd more innocent than innocence ! Sure one so beauteous and so sweet had graced And cheer'd the scene, where'er by Fortune placed ; But with a background of the pewter bright, Whereon the fire cast gleams of rosy light, With jingling glasses round her, and a scent Of spice and lemon-peel where'er she went, What wonder she should to the cronies seem An angel in a cloud of toddy steam ? What wonder, while I sipt my glass one day, She, and the whiskey, stole my heart away ? She was not loath ! for, while her comely face Shone full on other haunters of the place, From me she turn'd her head and peep'd full sly With just the corner of her roguish eye, And blush'd so bright my toddy seem'd to glow Beneath the rosy blush and sweeter grow ; And once, at my request, she took a sip, And honeyed all the liquor with her lip. " Take heed ! for Widow Mysie's game is plain," The gossips cried, but warn'd me all in vain : 18 274 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Like sugar melting at the toddy's kiss, My very caution was dissolved in bliss, Fear died forever with a mocking laugh, And Mysie's kisses made his epitaph. Kisses ? Ay, faith, they follow'd score on score, After the first I stole behind the door, And linger'd softly on these lips of mine Like Massic whiskey drunk by bards divine. But O the glow, the rapture, and the glee ! That night she let me draw her on my knee, When bliss thrill'd from her to my finger-tips, Then eddied wildly to my burning lips, From which she drank it back with kisses fain, Then blush'd and glow'd and breathed it back again, - Till, madden'd with the ecstasy divine, I clasp'd her close and craved her to be mine, And thrilling, panting, struggling up to fly, She breathed a spicy "Yes " with glistening eye, And while my veins grew bright, my heart went wild, Fell like a sunbeam on my heart, and smiled ! The deed thus done, I hied me home, you say, And rued my folly when I woke next day ? Nay ! all my business was to crave and cry That Heaven would haste the holy knot to tie, Though " Mysie lass," I said, " my gold and gear Are small, and will be small for many a year, Since father is but fifty years and three, And tough as cobbler's wax, though spare and wee ! " " Ah, Tarn," she sigh'd, " there 's nothing there to rue, - The gold, the gear, that Mysie wants is you ! " And brightly clad, with kisses thrilling through me, Clung like a branch of trembling blossoms to me. THE WIDOW MYSIE. 275 I found my father making up his books, With yellow eyes and penny-hunting looks. " Father," I said, " I 'm sick of single life, And will, if you are willing, take a wife." " Humph," snapt my father, "(six and four are ten, And ten are twenty.) Marry ? who ? and when ? " " Mistress Monroe," I said, " that keeps the inn." At that he shrugg'd his shoulders with a grin : " I guess'd as much ! the tale has gone the round ! Ye might have stay'd till I was underground ! But please yourself, I 've nothing to refuse, Choose where you will, you 're old enough to choose ; But mind," he added, blinking yellow eye, " I '11 handle my own guineas till I die ! Frankly I own, you might have chosen worse, Since you have little siller in your purse : The Inn is thriving, if report be true, And Widow Mysie has enough for two ! " " And if we wait till he has gone his way, Why, Mysie, I '11 be bald, and you '11 be gray," I said to Mysie, laughing at her side. " O, let him keep his riches," she replied, " He 's right ! there 's plenty here for you and I ! May he live long ; and happy may he die ! " " O Mysie, you 're an angel," I return'd, With eye that glisten'd dewily and yearn'd. Then running off she mix'd, with tender glee, A glass of comfort, sat her on my knee. " Come, Tarn ! " she cried, " who cares a fig for wealth ? Ay, let him keep it all, and here 's his health ! " And added, shining brightly on my breast, " Ah, Tarn, the siller 's worthless, Love is best v 276 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. O Widow Mysie, wert thou first sincere, When tender accents trembled on mine ear, Like bees that o'er a flower will float and fleet, And ere they light make murmurs honey-sweet ? Or was the light that render'd me unwise, Guile's the sweet Quaker with the downcast eyes ? Widow Mysie, not at once are we Taught the false scripture of Hypocrisy ; Even pink Selfishness has times, I know, When thro' his fat a patriot's feelings glow ; Falsehood first learns her nature with a sigh, And puts on mourning for her first-born Lie. Days pass'd ; and I began, to my amaze, To see a colder light in Mysie's gaze ; Once when, with arm about her softly wound, 1 snatch'd a kiss, she snapt and flusht and frown'd ; But oftener her face a shadow wore, Such as had never darken'd it before ; I spoke of this, I begg'd her to explain, She tapt my cheek, and smiled, and mused again. But, in the middle of my love-alarm, The Leech's watch went "tick" at Bungo Farm ; My father sicken'd, and his features cold Retain'd the hue, without the gleam, of gold. Then Mysie soften'd, sadden'd, and would speak Of father's sickness with a dewy cheek ; When to the Inn I wander'd, unto me, Lightly, as if she walk'd on wool, came she, And " Is he better ? " " Is he changed at all ? " And " Heaven help him ! " tenderly would call. " So old, so ill, untended and alone ! He is your father, Tom, and seems my own ! " THE WIDOW MYSIE. 277 And musing stood, one little hand of snow Nestling and fluttering on my shoulder so ! But father sicken'd on, and then one night, When we were sitting in the ingle-light, " O Tom," she cried, u I have it ! I should ne'er Forgive myself for staying idly here, While he, your father, lack'd in his distress The love, the care, a daughter's hands possess : He knows our troth, he will not say me nay ; But let me nurse him as a daughter may, And he may live, for darker cases mend, To bless us and to join us in the end ! " " But, Mysie " " Not a word, the thing is plann'd," She said, and stopt my mouth with warm white hand. She went with gentle eyes that very night, Stole to the chamber like a moonbeam white ; My father scowl'd at first, but soon was won, The keep was carried, and the deed was done. O Heaven ! in what strange Enchanter's den, Learnt she the spells wherewith she conquer'd men ? When to that chamber she had won her way, The old man's cheek grew brighter every day ; She smooth'd the pillows underneath his head, She brought sweet music roundabout his bed, She made the very mustard-blisters glow With fire as soft as youthful lovers know, The very physic bottles lost their gloom, And seem'd like little fairies in the room, The very physic, charm'd by her, grew fine, Rhubarb was honey, castor-oil was wine. Half darkly, dimly, yet with secret flame That titillated up and down his frame, The grim old man lay still, with hungry eye 278 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Watching her thro' the room on tiptoe fly ; She turn'd her back, his cheek grew dull and dim ! She turn'd her face, its sunshine fell on him ! Better and better every day grew he, Colder and colder grew his nurse to me, Till up he leapt, with fresher life astir, And only sank again to kneel to her. " Mysie ! " I cried, with flushing face, too late Stung by the pois'nous things whose names I hate, Which in so many household fires flit free, The salamanders, Doubt and Jealousy, " Mysie ! " and then, in accents fierce and bold, Demanded why her looks had grown so cold ? She trembled, flush'd, a tear was in her eye, She dropt her gaze, and heaved a balmy sigh, Then spoke with tender pauses low and sad : Had I a heart ? I frankly own'd I had. Could I without a conscience-qualm behold My white-hair'd father, weak, untended, old, Who had so very short a time to live, Reft of the peace a woman's hands can give ? " Mysie ! " I shriek'd, with heart that seem'd to rend, With glaring eyes, and every hair on end. Clasping her little hands, " O Tarn," she cried, " But for my help your father would have died ; Bliss ! to have saved your filial heart that sorrow ! But for my help, why, he may die to-morrow. Go, Tom ! this weak warm heart I cannot trust To utter more be generous ! be just ! I long have felt I say it in humility A sort of kind of incompatibility ! Go, Tarn ! Be happy ! Bless you ! Wed another ! Ah, I shall ever love you as a mother ! " THE MINISl^ER AND THE ELFIN. 279 Sir, so it was. Stunn'd, thunder-stricken, wild, I raved, while father trembled, Mysie smiled ; O'er all the country-side the scandal rang, And ere I knew, the bells began to clang ; And shutting eyes and stopping ears, as red As ricks on fire, I blushing turn'd and fled. Twelve years have pass'd since I escaped the net, And father, tough as leather, lingers yet, A gray mare rules, the laugh has come to me, I sport, and thank my stars that I am free ! If Mysie likes her bargain ill or well, Only the Deil, who won it her, can tell ; But she, who could so well his arts pursue, May learn a trick to cheat her Teacher too. THE MINISTER AND THE ELFIN. WHO among ye will win for me The soul of the Preacher of Woodilee ? For he prays, he preaches, he labors sore, He cheats me alike of rich and poor, And his cheek is pale with a thought divine, And I would, I would, that he were mine ! " " O surely I will win for thee The Minister of Woodilee ; Round and around the elfin tree, Where we are fleeting in company, The Minister of Woodilee, Laughing aloud, shall dance with me ! " 280 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. II. The Minister rode in the white moonshine, His face was pale with his thought divine, And he saw beneath the greenwood tree As sweet a maiden as well could be : My hair of gold to my feet fell bright, My eyes were blue, and my brow was white, My limbs were fresh as the curds of lime Mingled with drops of the red red wine, And they shone thro' my dress o' the silk with gleam Like a lover's face thro' a thin light dream ; But the sickness of death was in mine ee, And my face was pallid and sad to see, And I moan'd aloud as he came near, And I heard him mutter a prayer in fear ! in. But the Minister, when he look'd on me, Leapt down and set my head on his knee, Wet my lips with the running stream, And I open'd my eyes as in a dream, I open'd my eyes and look'd on him, And his head whirl'd round and his cheek grew dim, I kiss'd him twice, I kiss'd him thrice, Till he kiss'd again with lips of ice, Till he kiss'd again with lips of stone, And clasp'd me close to his cold breastbone ; And tho' his face was weary and sad, He laugh'd aloud and seem'd mad, seem'd mad. Then up to my feet I leapt in glee, And round and round and around went we, Under the moonlit greenwood tree. THE MINISTER AND THE ELFIN. 281 IV. He leapt on his steed and home rode he, The Minister of Woodilee ; And when at the door of the manse he rein'd, With blood his lips were damp'd and stain'd, And he pray'd a prayer for his shame and sin, And dropt a tear as he enter'd in, But the smile divine from his face had fled, When he laid him down on his dying bed. v. " O thanks, for thou hast won for me The Minister of Woodilee, Who nevermore, O nevermore, Shall preach and pray and labor sore, And cheat me alike of rich and poor, For the smile divine no more wears he, Hasten and bring his soul to me ! " VI. O, off I ran his soul to win, And the gray gray manse I enter'd in, And I saw him lying on his bed, With salt and candle at his head ; But when he turn'd him weary and weak, A smile and a tear were on his cheek, And he took my hand and kiss'd it thrice Tho' his lips were clammy cold as ice. " O wherefore, wherefore kiss thou sae One who has stolen thy life away ? " Then over his face sae pale with pain The thought divine came back again, 282 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. And " I love thee more for the shame," he said, " I love thee more on my dying bed, And I cannot, cannot love thee less, Tho' my heart is wae for its wickedness ; I love thee better, I love thee best, Sweet Spirit that errest and wanderest ; Colder and colder my blood doth run, I pray for thee, pray for thee, little one ! " Then I heard the bell for the dying toll, And I reach'd out hands to seize his soul, But I trembled and shriek'd to see as he died An angel in white at his bedside, And I fled away to the greenwood tree, Where the elves were fleeting in company, And I hate my immortality, And 't were better to be a man and dee ! THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE FAY. A MELODY. THE LITTLE FAY. YOU are the gray gray Troll, With the great green eyes, But I love you, gray gray Troll, You are so wise ! Tell me, this sweet morn, Tell me all you know, Tell me. was I born ? Tell me, did I grow ? THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE FAY. 283 Fell I from the blue, Like a drop of rain, Then, as violets do, Blossom'd up again ? Why am I so frail ? Why am I so small ? Why am I so pale ? Why am I at all ? Tell me ! while I lie On this lily-bed, While the dragon-fly, With his round red Eye, Floats above my head. THE TROLL. When the summer day Makes the greenwood gay And the blue sky clear, What do you do and say ? What do you see and hear ? THE LITTLE FAY. When the summer day Makes the greenwood gay And the blue sky clear, I roam wherever I may, And I feel no fear ; I rise from my bed of an acorn-cup, And shake the dew from my hair and eyes, Then I stoop to a dew-drop and drink it up, And it seems to strengthen my wings to rise ; Then I fly ! I fly ! I rise up high, High as the greenwood tree, The humming-bee and the butterfly, 284 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. And the moth with its broad brown wings, go by, While down on the leaf of an oak I lie, Curl'd up where none can see ! But I seem to hear strange voices call, Like the hum of a distant waterfall, Sighing and saddening me ; And still I lie and hearken there, Swinging and floating high in air, And the voices make me sad and pale, Till the sunbeams go, And the large green fly with his silken sail Floats by me slow, And the leaves grow dark and are lightly roll'd, The soft boughs flutter, the dews fall cold, And the shadows grow, Before I know ! And down I fall to the side of the stream, And with palpitating silver gleam I see it flow, As the moon comes out above the place, And I stoop to drink, and smile to trace The water-kelpie's cold strange face Gleaming below. THE TROLL. When the night is blue, And the moon shines thro' The boughs of the greenwood tree, What do you say and do ? What do you hear and see ? THE LITTLE FAY. When the night is blue, And the moon shines thro' THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE FAY. 285 The boughs of the greenwood tree, Round my acorn-cup the dew Sparkles silverlee ! And I lie so still, while up in the air Open the little dewy eyes, And the moon goes by with her yellow hair, The kelpie hides his face and cries ; And I lie ! I lie ! With little eye That twinkles near the ground, And the dismal bat goes screaming by, And from far away comes the corn-craik's cry, And I seem to hear a human sigh And a human kiss's sound ; And I know not why, but unaware Fold little hands and pray a prayer, And all things sigh around : The moon grows white, the green leaves moan, The brown moth flits with a weary drone, The elfins cry as they flit and fleet, And the small stars sadder seem ; Then I pray the more, and my lips are sweet With some sweet theme ! I press my lips together tight, And pray till my face grows wan and white, And the dim stars beam As in a dream ; And I pray, though I know not why I pray, I pray, though I know not what I say, And the moon-rays round me stream, The greenwood shakes, the wild wind speaks, A fiend slides by with bloodless cheeks, The wild-hair'd kelpie waves arms and shrieks With teeth that gleam ! a86 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. THE TROLL. Then why art them so frail ? Why art thou so small ? Why art thou so pale ? Why art thou at all ? Shall I tell thee, little soul ? Shall I still thy cries ? THE LITTLE FAY. O tell me, gray gray Troll, You are so wise ! THE TROLL. With a soul love-laden, On a summer day, A mortal maiden Gave her heart away ; For the sun was glowing Under greenwood tree, The flowers were blowing, And the stream was flowing, And, coming, going, Humm'd the honey-bee ; And all sweet sounds and all sweet things, Whatever shines, whatever sings, From the bees whose horns were chiming In the pleasant forest bowers, To the little fairies rhyming In the sugar 'd cells of flowers, Said, " Love him ! love him ! love him ! " And she blush'd and sigh'd to hear, And murmur'd, " Yes, I love him ! I cannot choose but love him ! He is so dear ! " THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE FAY. 287 THE LITTLE FAY. O see, thou gray gray Troll, The stream whirls round and sighs ! Around thy brow, gray Troll, Float moths and butterflies ! Afar strange echoes roll, The kelpie starts and cries ! The great fly looks at me With his round red eyes, And the wasp and honey-bee Above me fall and rise, O pause not, gray gray Troll, You are so wise ! THE TROLL. With a soul love-laden, On a summer night, The mortal maiden Lay pale and white ; And the white moon, flying O'er the boughs, could see The maiden lying, Sighing and dying, Under greenwood tree ; And her lover stoop'd in the pale moonshine, And his eye was cold as the salt sea-brine, And there came a sound From underground, And a voice that said : " She is mine ! she is mine ! " Then the maiden, clinging To her lover's side, Kiss'd him softly, And smiled and died. a88 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. But a gentle Fairy, Who saw it all, Turn'd the kiss she gave him To a Spirit small, To a gentle Spirit With a pale sad face, To a gentle Spirit To guard this place ; And the little Spirit, In sun and shade, Haunted the greenwood, And sigh'd and pray'd : Praying, praying, Upon this spot, It knew not wherefore, For it knew not what. And all sweet sounds and all sweet things, Whatever shines, whatever sings, From the bees whose hours were chiming In the pleasant forest-bowers, To the little fairies rhyming In the sugar'd cells of flowers, Have heard the Spirit praying And join'd its gentle cry, Have caught the Spirit's sorrow And pray'd they knew not why ; And all sweet sounds and all sweet things, Whatever shines, whatever sings, In the end shall follow The little Fay, As she floateth upward, And floating upward Shall sing and say : " When the sun was shining THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE FAY. 289 On the summer day, When the mortal maiden Gave her heart away, We whisper'd, whisper'd, In the maiden's ear, Saying, ' Love him ! love him ! And have no fear ! ' And she said, ' I love him ! He is so dear ! ' " Then the Greater Spirit On His throne shall hear. THE LITTLE FAY. You have told me why I am frail and small ! You have told me why I am here at all ! I pay thy wisdom With kisses three, Stronger, longer, My prayers shall be. I love you, gray gray Troll, With the great green eyes, I love you, gray gray Troll, You are so wise. 290 IDYLS AA?D LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. VILLAGE VOICES. I. JANUARY WIND. i. r T^HE wind, wife, the wind ; how it blows, how it blows ; It grips the latch, it shakes the house, it whistles, it screams, it crows, It dashes on the window-pane, then rushes off with a cry, Ye scarce can hear your own loud voice, it clatters so loud and high ; And far away upon the sea it floats with thunder-call, The wind, wife, the wind, wife ; the wind that did it all ! ii. The wind, wife, the wind ; how it blew, how it blew ; The very night our boy was born, it whistled, it scream'd, it crew ; And while you moan'd upon your bed, and your heart was dark with fright, I swear it mingled with the soul of the boy you bore that night ; It scarcely seems a winter since, and the wind is with us still, The wind, wife ; the wind, wife ; the wind that blew us ill! VILLAGE VOICES. 291 III. The wind, wife, the wind ; how it blows, how it blows ! It changes, shifts, without a cause, it ceases, it comes and goes ; And David ever was the same, wayward, and wild, and bold, For wilful lad will have his way, and the wind no hand can hold ; But ah ! the wind, the changeful wind, was more in the blame than he ; The wind, wife j the wind, wife, that blew him out to sea ! IV. The wind, wife, the wind ; now 't is still, now 't is still ; And as we sit I seem to feel the silence shiver and thrill, 'T was thus the night he went away, and we sat in silence here, We listen'd to our beating hearts, and all was weary and drear; We long'd to hear the wind again, and to hold our David's hand, The wind, wife ; the wind, wife, that blew him out from land! v. The wind, wife, the wind ; up again, up again ! It blew our David round the world, yet shriek'd at our window-pane ; And ever since that time, old wife, in rain, and in sun, and in snow, Whether I work or weary here, I hear it whistle and blow, 292 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. It moans around, it groans around, it wanders with scream and cry The wind, wife ; the wind, wife ; may it blow him home to die ! II. APRIL RAIN. I. SHOWERS, showers, naught but showers, and it wants a week of May, Flowers, flowers, summer flowers, are hid in the green and the gray ; Green buds and gray shoots cover their sparkling gear, They stir beneath, they long to burst, for the May is so near, so near, While I spin and I spin, and the fingers of the Rain Fall patter, pitter, patter, on the pane. n. Showers, showers, silver showers, murmur and softly sing, Flowers, flowers, summer flowers, are swelling and hearkening ; It wants a week of May, when John and I will be one, The flowers will burst, the birds will sing, as we walk to church in the sun, So patter goes my heart, in a kind of pleasant pain, To the patter, pitter, patter of the Rain. VILLAGE VOICES. 293 III. SUMMER MOON. SUMMER Moon, O Summer Moon, across the west you fly, You gaze on half the earth at once with sweet and steadfast eye ; Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, were I aloft with thee, I know that I could look upon my boy who sails at sea. n. Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, you throw your silver showers Upon a glassy sea that lies round shores of fruit and flowers, The blue tide trembles on the shore, with murmuring as of bees, And the shadow of the ship lies dark near shades of orange trees. in. Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, now wind and storm have fled, Your light creeps thro' a cabin-pane and lights a flaxen head: He tosses with his lips apart, lies smiling in your gleam, For underneath his folded lids you put a gentle dream. 294 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. IV. Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, his head is on his arm, He stirs with balmy breath and sees the moonlight on the Farm, He stirs and breathes his mother's name, he smiles and sees once more The Moon above, the fields below, the shadow at the door. v. Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, across the lift you go, Far south you gaze and see my Boy, where groves of orange grow ! Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, you turn again to me, And seem to have the smile of him who sleeps upon the sea. IV. DECEMBER SNOW. I. THE cold, cold snow ! the snow that lies so white ! The moon and stars are hidden, there is neither warmth nor light : I wonder, wife, I wonder, wife, where Jeanie lies this night ? II. 'T is cold, cold, cold, since Jeanie went away, The world has changed, I sit and wait, and listen night and day, VILLAGE VOICES. 29$ The house is silent, silent, and my hair has grown so gray: 'T is cold, cold, cold, wife, since Jeanie went away. in. And tick ! tick ! tick ! the clock goes evermore, It chills me, wife, it seems to keep our child beyond the door ; I watch the firelight shadows as they float upon the floor, * And tick ! tick ! tick ! wife, the clock goes evermore ! IV. 'T is cold, cold, cold! 'twere better she were dead, Not that I heed the Minister, and the bitter things he said, But to think my lassie cannot find a place to lay her head : 'T is cold, cold, cold, wife, better she were dead ! v. The cold, cold snow ! the snow that lies so white ! Beneath the snow her little one is hidden out of sight, But up above, the wind blows keen, there 's neither warmth nor light, I wonder, wife, I wonder, wife, where Jeanie lies this night! NOTE. THE preceding poems, both the Idyls and the Legends, are more or less dramatic, in so far as the writer, in no instance save the "Preamble," speaks in his own per- son. This leads to a variety of style, which may or may not be a recommendation. All the scenes are Scottish ; but the speakers, with one exception, are educated men, who, al- though they sometimes have recourse to Scottish phrases and idioms, do not habitually employ the vernacular. The Weaver, who tells the tale of " Poet Andrew," uses Scot- tish words liberally, but it has not always been thought necessary to represent his actual pronunciation. To print "auld" for "old," "cauld" for "cold," " o'" for "of," and the like, is to confuse, not vivify or verify, the text ; and, indeed, the actual pronunciation is arbitrary and contradic- tory in the extreme. The author subjoins a brief glossary of the few words and phrases with which English readers can have any difficulty. Aiblins, perhaps. Bailie, a civic dignitary correspond- ing to the English alderman. Bannock, a thick oaten cake. Bicld, small rustic building. Biggin, ditto. Birk, birch-tree. Bonnet, a man's cap. Breeks, breeches. Brawly, finely, excellently. But and ben, the front and back rooms of a house of two apart- ments. Gallant, lad. Caller, fresh, cool Ckittering, chattering as with cold. Clishmaclaver, a tedious, fidgety person. Clootie, Satanus. Corn-craik, the bird known in Eng- land as the land-rail. Cowrie, to stoop down. Crack, to talk. Daft, mad, silly. Dee, to die. Deil, devil. Dominie, schoolmaster. Doo, dove. Douk, to dip down, as a bather in water. Een, eyes. Eldritch, weird. NOTE. 297 Eerie, dismal. Fash, to trouble. Feckless, silly. Flyte, to scold. Fu', full, used in the sense of being full of liquor, intoxicated. Gowan, daisy. Gloaming', twilight. Gumlie, gloomy. Harrie, to rob. HalZanstone, threshold-stone. Hairst, harvest. Howdie, midwife. Ilka, each. Ken, know. Keek, to peep. Kirk, church. Lyart, speckled black and white. Laverock, lark. L earless, unlearned. Lum, chimney. Mannock, little man. Minnie, mother. Mixtie-niaxtie, confusedly mixed, Mucklc, much. Old-farrant, old-fashioned. Poortith, poverty. Reek, smoke. Sark, serk, shirt. Sough, a word expressing the sound of the wind through trees. Speir, to ask, inquire. Sneesh, snuff. Sweetie-shop, sweetmeat-shop. Tocher, dowry. Toyte, to rock from side to side. Unco, very. Wame, stomach. Wean, child. Whiles, sometimes ; whiles, whiles sometimes, at others. Whuzzle-whazzle, word expressing the sound of looms. A LONDON IDYL. HEY, rain, rain, rain ! It patters down the glass and on the sill, And splashes underneath, along the lane, Then gives a kind of scream, and lies quite still One likes to hear it, tho', when one is ill : Rain, rain, rain, rain ! Hey, how it pours and pours ! Rain, rain, rain, rain ! A weary day for poor girls out-o'-doors ! I n. Ah, don't ! that kind of comfort makes me cry, And, Parson, since I 'm bad, I want to die. The roaring of the street, The tramp, tramp, tramp, of feet, The sobbing, sobbing of the weary Rain, Have gone into the aching of my brain. I 'm lost and weak, and can no longer bear To wander like a shadow here and there, As useless as a stone, tired out, and sick ! So that they put me down to slumber quick, It does not matter where. No one will miss me ; all will hurry by, And never cast a thought on one so low ; Fine gentles miss fine ladies when they go, But folk care naught for such a thing as I. 300 A LONDON IDYL. III. 'Tis bad, I know, to talk like that, too bad! Joe, tho' he 's often hard, is strong and true [ Ah, Joe meant well !] and there 's the Baby too ! But I 'm so tired and sad. I 'm glad it was a boy, sir, very glad. A man can fight along, can say his say, Is not look'd down upon, holds up his head, And at a push can always earn his bread : Men have the best of it, in many a way. But ah ! 't is hard indeed for girls to keep Decent and honest, tramping in the town, Their best but bad, made light of, beaten down, For ever wearying, wearying, for sleep. If they grow hard, go wrong, from bad to badder, Why, Parson dear, they 're happier being blind : They get no thanks for being good and kind, The better that they are, they feel the sadder ! IV. Nineteen ! nineteen ! Only nineteen, and yet so old, so old ; I feel like fifty, Parson, I have been So wicked, I suppose, and life 's so cold ! Ah, cruel are the wind and rain and snow, And I 've been out for years among them all : I scarce remember being weak and small Like Baby there, it was so long ago. It does not seem that I was born, but woke One day in a dark room High up among the smoke, And trembled at the roaring of the gloom That hung around me [for you could not see The people from our window, only stone, A LONDON IDYL. 301 Deep walls, black pits, and lanes, tho' drearily You heard the deep streets groan] ; And I was all alone, and looking out, And listening in a dream ; And far between the housetops was a gleam Of water winding silver-like about. That was the River. It look'd cool and deep, And as I watch'd, I felt it slipping past, As if it smoothly swept along in sleep, Gleaming and gliding fast ; And so I lean'cl upon the sill and hearken'd To the strange hum, while all the roofs became Cover'd with thin sick flame, And with a dusky thrill the River darken'd ; Till coldly, coldly, on the roofs there lighten'd A pale sad silver light from heaven shed, And with a sweep that made me sick and frighten'd The yellow Moon roll'd up above my head ; And down below me groan'd the noise and trade, And O ! I felt alive, and was afraid, And cold, and hungry, shrieking out for bread. v. All that is like a dream ! It don't seem true! Father was dead and mother left, you see, To work for little brother Ned and me, And up among the roofs we grew and grew ; Lock'd in whole days high up, while mother char'd In people's houses ; only now and then We slipt away into the streets, and stared At the big crowds of women and of men. And I was six, but Ned was only three, And thin and weak and weary ; and one day, While mother was away, 302 A LONDON IDYL. He put his little head upon my knee, And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb, But look'd quite strange and old, For when I touch'd him, shook him, spoke to him, He smiled and grew so cold ; Then I was frighten'd and cried out, and none Could hear me, and I sat and nursed his head, Watching the smoky window while the Sun Peep'd in upon his face and made it red ; And I began to cry ; till mother came, Knelt down and scream'd, and named the good GOD'S name, And told me he was dead. Well, when she put his night-gown on, and weeping Put him among the rags upon his bed, I thought that brother Ned was only sleeping, And took his little hand and felt no fear ; But, when the place grew gray and cold and drear, And the round Moon came creeping, creeping, creeping, Over the roofs and put a silver shade All round the cold, cold bed where he was laid, I sobb'd and was afraid. VI. Ah, yes, it 's like a dream ! for time pass'd by, And I went out into the smoky air, Fruit-selling, Parson, trudging wet or dry, Winter and summer, weary, cold, and bare ; And when old mother laid her down to die, And parish buried her, I did not cry, And hardly seem'd to care ; I was too hungry and too dull ; beside, The roar o' streets had made me dry as dust : It took me all my time, howe'er I tried, A LONDON IDYL. 303 To keep my limbs alive and earn a crust ; I had no time for weeping, And when I was not out amid the roar, Or standing frozen at the play-house door, Why, I was coil'd upon my straw, and sleeping. Ah, pence were hard to gain ! Some girls were pretty, too, but I was plain : Fine ladies never stopp'd and look'd and smiled, And gave me money for my face's sake. That made me hard and angry when a child, But now it thrills my heart and makes it ache ! The pretty ones, poor things, what could they do, Fighting and starving in the wicked town, But go from bad to badder, down, down, down, Being so poor and yet so pretty too ? Never could bear the like of that, ah no ! Better have starved outright than gone so low ! For often late at night A face that I had known when mild and meek Pass'd by with fearful smile and painted cheek, Gleam'd in the gas, and faded out of sight. VII. But I 've no call to boast. I might have been As wicked, Parson dear, in my distress, But for your friend, you know the one I mean ? The tall pale lady in the mourning dress. Though we were cold at first, that wore away, She was so mild and young, And had so soft a tongue, And eyes to sweeten what she loved to say. She never seem'd to scorn one, no, not she, And (what was best) she seemed as sad as me ! Not one of those that make a girl feel base, 304 A LONDON IDYL. And call her names, and talk of her disgrace, And frighten one with thoughts of flaming Hell And fierce LORD GOD with black and angry brow, But soft and mild, and sensible as well, And O I loved her, and I love her now. She did me good for many and many a day, More good than pence could ever do, I swear, For she was poor, with little pence to spare, Learn'd me to read and quit low words, and pray. And, Parson, tho' I never understood How such a life as mine was meant for good, And could not understand How one she said was wicked, ever could Go to your better land Among a troop so grand, I liked to hear her talk of such a place, And thought of all the angels she was best, Because her soft voice soothed me, and her face Made my words gentle, put my heart at rest. VIII. Ah ! sir, 't was very lonesome. Night and day, Save when the sweet Miss came, I was alone ; Moved on and hunted thro' the streets of stone, And ev'n in dreams afraid to rest or stay. Then, other girls had lads to work and strive for, I envied them, and did not know 't was wrong, And often, very often, used to long For some one I could like and keep alive for. Marry ? Not they ! They can't afford to be so good, you know ; But many of them, tho' they step astray, Indeed don't mean to- sin so much, or go Against what 's decent. Only 't is their way. A LONDON IDYL. 305 And many might do worse than that, may be, If they had ne'er a one to fill a thought, It sounds half wicked, but poor girls like me Must sin a little, to be good in aught. IX. So I was glad when I began to see That costermongering Joe had fancied me ; And when, one night, he took me to the play Over on Surrey side, and offer'd fair, That we should take a little room and share Our earnings, why, I could not answer " nay ! " And that 's a year ago ; and tho' I 'm bad, I 've been as true to Joe as girl could be ; I don't complain a bit of Joe, dear lad, Joe never, never meant but well ; and we Have had as fresh and fair a time, I think, As one could hope, since we are both so low : Joe likes me, never gave me push or blow, When sober : only, he was wild in drink. But then, we don't mind beating when a man Is angry, if he likes us and keeps straight, Works for his bread and does the best he can ; 'T is being left and slighted that we hate. x. And so the Baby 's come, and I shall die ! And tho' 't is hard to leave poor Baby here, Where folk will think him bad, and all 's so drear, The great LORD GOD knows better far than I. Ah, don't ! 't is kindly, but it pains me so ! You say I 'm wicked, and I want to go ! " GOD'S kingdom," Parson, dear ? Ah nay, ah nay ! That must be like the country, which I fear : 306 A LONDON IDYL. I saw the country once, one summer day, And I would rather die in London here. XI. For I was sick of hunger, cold, and strife, And took a sudden fancy in my head To try the country, and to earn my bread Out among fields, where, I had heard, one's life Was easier and brighter. So, that day, I took my basket up and stole away, Early at morning. As I went along, Trembling and loath to leave the busy place, I felt that I was doing something wrong, And fear'd to look policemen in the face. And all was dim : the streets were gray and wet After a rainy night : and all was still ; I held my shawl around me with a chill. And dropt my eyes from every face I met ; Until the streets began to fade, the road Grew fresh and clean and wide, Fine houses where the gentlefolk abode, And gardens full of flowers, on every side : That made me walk the quicker, on, on, on, As if I were asleep with half-shut eyes, And all at once I saw to my surprise The houses of the gentlefolk were gone, And I was standing still, Shading my face, upon a high green hill, And the bright sun was blazing, And all the blue above me seem'd to melt To burning flashing gold, while I was gazing On the great smoky cloud where I had dwelt. A LONDON IDYL. 307 XII. 1 11 ne'er forget that day. All was so bright And strange. Upon the grass around my feet The rain had hung a million drops of light ; The air, too, was so clear and warm and sweet It seem'd a sin to breathe it. All around Were hills and fields and trees that trembled thro' A burning blazing fire of gold and blue, And there was not a sound, Save a bird singing, singing, and a kind Of sighing from the grass upon the ground. I turn'd away, like one grown deaf and blind. Then, with my heavy hand upon my chest, Because the bright air pain'd me, trembling, sighing, I stole into a dewy field to rest, And O the green green grass where I was lying Was fresh and living, and the bird sang loud, Out of a golden cloud, And I was looking up at him and crying ! XIII. The hours they slipt away \. and by and by The sun grew red, big shadows fill'd the sky, The air grew damp with dew, And the dark night was coming down, I knew. Well, I was more afraid than ever then, And felt that I should die in such a place ; So back to London town I turn'd my face, And crept into the great black streets, again ; And when I breathed the smoke and heard the roar, Why, I was better, for in London here My heart was busy, and I felt no fear. I never saw the country any more. And I have stay'd in London well or ill, 308 A LONDON IDYL. I dared not stay out yonder if I could, For one feels dead, and all looks pure and good, I could not bear a life so bright and still. All that I want is sleep, Under the flags and stones, so deep, so deep ! GOD won't be hard on one so mean, but He Perhaps will let a tired girl slumber sound There in the deep cool darkness underground ; And I shall waken up in time, may be, Better and stronger, not afraid to see The great still Light that folds Him round and round ! XIV. See ! there 's a bit of sunshine thro' the pane, How cool and moist it looks amid the rain ! I like to hear the splashing of the drops On the house tops, And the loud humming of the folk that go Along the streets below ! I like the smoke and roar, I am so bad, They make a low one hard and still her cares . . . There 's Joe ! I hear his foot upon the stairs ! He must be wet, poor lad ! He will be angry, like enough, to. find Another little life to clothe and keep, But show him Baby, Parson, speak him kind, And tell him Doctor thinks I 'm going to sleep. A hard hard life is his, he need be strong And rough, to earn his bread and get along; I think he will be sorry when I go, And leave the little one and him behind. .* I hope he '11 see another to his mind To keep him straight and tidy. Poor old Joe ! LANGLEY LANE. A LOVE POEM. T N all the land, range up, range down, -L Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet, As Langley Lane in London town, Just out of the bustle of square and street ? Little white cottages all in a row, Gardens where bachelors'-buttons grow, Swallows' nests in roof and wall, . And up above the still blue sky Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by, I seem to be able to see it all ! For now, in summer, I take my chair, And sit outside in the sun, and hear The distant murmur of street and square, And the swallows and sparrows chirping near ; And Fanny, who lives just over the way, Comes running many a time each .day With her little hand's touch so warm and kind, And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek, And the little live hand seems to stir and speak, For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. Fann^is sweet thirteen, and she Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear, And I am older by summers three, Why should we hold one another so dear ? 310 L ANGLE Y LANE. Because she cannot utter a word, Nor hear the music of bee or bird, The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call ! Because I have never seen the sky, Nor the little singers that hum and fly, Yet know she is gazing upon them all ! For the sun is shining, the swallows fly, The bees and the blue-flies murmur low, And I hear the water-cart go by, With its cool splash-splash down the dusty row And the little one close at my side perceives Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves, Where birds are chirping in summer shine, And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, Though she cannot hear, can the singers see, And the little soft fingers flutter in mine ! Hath not the dear little hand a tongue, When it stirs on my palm for the love of me ? Do I not know she is pretty and young ? Hath not my soul an eye to see ? 'T is pleasure to make one's bosom stir, To wonder how things appear to her, That I only hear as they pass around ; And as long as we sit in the music and light, She is happy to keep God's sight, And / am happy to keep God's sound. Why, I know her face, though I am blind, I made it of music long ago : Strange large eyes and dark hair twined Round the pensive light of a brow of snow ; And when I sit by my little one, LANG LEY LANE. 311 And hold her hand and talk in the sun, And hear the music that haunts the place, I know she is raising her eyes to me, And guessing how gentle my voice must be, And seeing the music upon my face. Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer, (I know the fancy is only vain,) I should pray ; just once, when the weather is fair, To see little Fanny and Langley Lane ; Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear The voice of the friend that she holds so dear, The song of the birds, the hum of the street, It is better to be as we have been, Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen, To make God's heaven more strange and sweet ! Ah ! life is pleasant in Langley Lane ! There is always something sweet to hear ! Chirping of birds or patter of rain ! And Fanny, my little one, always near ! And though I am weakly and can't live long, And Fanny my darling is far from strong, And though we can never married be, What then ? since we hold one another so dear, For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, And the pleasure that only one can see ? THE END. Cambridge : Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. fcl