THG 
 UNIVGRSITY Oe CAUfORNlA 
 LIBRARY 
 
 CTSGUSH SCMINAR 

 
 
 Mf
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers^ Publications. 
 
 Jean Ingelow's Writings. 
 
 " Except Mrs. Browning, Jean Ingelow ia first among the women whom the 
 world calls poets." — The Indejie7ident. 
 
 " Miss Ingelow's new volume exhibits abundant evidence that time, study, and 
 devotion to lier vocation have both elevated and mellowed the powers of the most 
 gifted poetess we possess, now that Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Adelaide 
 Procter sing no more on earth. Lincolnshire has claims to be considered the 
 Arcadia of England at present, having given birth both to Mr. Tennyson and our 
 present Lady Laureate." — London Morning Star, 
 
 "We have read and reread, always with a better and softer heart We 
 
 wish everybody loved Jean Ingelow's writings, or, rather, that everybody would 
 read them, for their admiration would follow." — Providence Post. 
 
 POEMS. Illustr.atcd Edition, with One Hundred Pictures from 
 Drawings by tlie first Artists in England. In one quarto vol- 
 ume, bound in cloth, bevelled and gilt, price, $ 12.00 ; or in 
 Morocco, price, $ 18.00. 
 
 "The book is certainly among the most beautiful of the holiday offerings. 
 The lovers of the poet will not tolerate even this slightly qualified praise, but 
 pronounce it the most beautiful." 
 
 SONGS OF SEVEN". Illustrated Edition, small quarto, 
 
 bound in cloth, gilt, price $5.00 ; or in Morocco, price $ 8.00. 
 
 " This work is an acknowledged triumph of typographic art, with its delicate 
 creamy page and red-line border." 
 
 POEMS. The first volume. 
 
 A STORY OP DOOM, and Other Poems. 
 
 In two volumes, IGmo, cloth, gilt top, price $3.50; or sep- 
 arately, price $ 1.75 each. 
 
 In two volumes, 32mo, Blue and Gold Edition, price $ 3.00 ; 
 or separately, price $1.50 each. 
 
 Mailed to any address, post-paid, on receipt of price, by the 
 Publishers.
 
 yea7i Ingeloisus Writings, 
 
 QTUDIES FOR STORIES. Comprising Five Stories, 
 ^--^ with an Illustration to each Story. In one vol. i6mo. 
 Price, $ 1.50. 
 
 " Simple in style, warm with human affection, and written in faultless Eng- 
 lish, these five stories are studies for the artist, sermons for the thoughtful, and 
 a rare source of delight for all who can find pleasure in really good works of 
 prose fiction. . . . They are prose poems, carefully meditated, and exquisitely 
 touched in by a teacher ready to sympathize with every joy and sorrow." — 
 A theticBum. 
 
 Q TORIES TOLD TO A CHILD. Comprising Fourteen 
 
 ^^ Stories, with an Illustration to each Story, In one vol. 
 
 l6mo. Price, $ 1.75. 
 
 A cheaper edition, with Five Illustrations, Price, % 1.25. 
 
 "This is one of the most charming juvenile books ever laid on our table. It 
 is beautifully printed and bound, and profusely illustrated. The stories are 
 very interesting, and breathe a sweet, pure, happy Christian spirit. Jean In- 
 gelow, the noble English poet, second only to Mrs. Browning, bends easily and 
 gracefully from the heights of thought and fine imagination to commune with 
 the minds and hearts of children ; to sympathize with their little joys and sor- 
 rows ; to feel for their temptations. She is a safe guide for the little pilgrims ; 
 for her paths, though ' paths of pleasantness,' lead straight upward." — Grace 
 Greenwood in " Tlie Little Pilgrim." 
 
 P 
 
 OOR MATT ; OR, The Clouded Intellect. With an 
 Illustration. One vol. iSmo. Price, 60 cents. 
 
 " A lovely story, told in most sweet and simple language. There is a deep 
 spiritual significance in the character of the poor half-idiot boy, w-hich should 
 touch the hearts of 'children of a larger growth.'" — Grace Greenwood in 
 "The Little Pil^rimy 
 
 Mailed to any address, post-paid, on receipt of the price, by the 
 Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS.

 
 STORY OF DOOM 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 JEAN INGELOW 
 
 \\\ 
 
 » J 3 ' 3 , , , > J > ' ' 3 •> ' 
 
 ', , 3 , ' 3 3 J ' ', ' 1 ■>, 3 ' -, 1 3 ,3 
 
 ' 3 3 ' 3 3 3 3 3 J ' j ' , > ' ' 
 
 BOSTON 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS 
 
 1867
 
 
 AUTHOR S EDITION. 
 
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 «.« 
 
 
 University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
 Cambridge.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Dreams that came true i 
 
 Songs on the Voices of Birds. 
 
 Introduction. — Child and Boatman ... 23 
 
 The Nightingale heard by the Unsatisfied Heart 25 
 
 Sand Martins 26 
 
 A Poet in his Youth and the Cuckoo-Bird . 29 
 
 A Raven in a White Chine 36 
 
 The Warbling of Blackbirds .... 38 
 
 Sea-Mews in Winter-Time 39 
 
 Laurance 42 
 
 Songs of the Night Watches. 
 
 Introductory. — Evening 83 
 
 The First Watch. — Tired 84 
 
 The Middle Watch 91 
 
 The Morning Watch 96 
 
 Concluding. — Early Dawn 98 
 
 A Story of Doom 100 
 
 39SeS8
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 Contrasted Songs. 
 
 Sailing beyond Seas 201 
 
 Remonstrance 203 
 
 Song for the Night of Christ's Resurrection . 204 
 
 Song of Margaret 211 
 
 Song of the going away 212 
 
 A Lily and a Lute 214 
 
 Gladys and her Island 225 
 
 Songs with Preludes. 
 
 Wedlock 259 
 
 Regret 263 
 
 Lamentation 265 
 
 Dominion 268 
 
 Friendship 271 
 
 Winstanley 275 
 
 Notes 2S9
 
 ) >, ' ' 3 
 
 ■> ) 
 
 ■> 3 
 
 3 3 3 3 3 J 
 
 ) ,1 J > 3 3 3 , 3 3 3 ) 
 
 " '" \ t 'V » s-- ' '3' 
 
 ■^* -J "3*1 333 3 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 SAW in a vision once, our mother-sphere 
 
 The world, her fixed foredoomed oval tracing, 
 RoUinoj and rollina; on and restinir never, 
 While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing 
 The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear 
 Fled as she fled and huns; to her forever. 
 
 o 
 
 keatpi 
 
 Great|Heaven ! methought, how strange a doom to share. 
 
 Would I may never bear 
 
 Inevitable darkness after me 
 (Darkness endowed with drawings strong, 
 
 And sliadovvy hands that cling unendingly), 
 
 Nor feel that phantom-wings behind me sweep, 
 As she feels night pursuing through the long 
 
 Illimitable reaches of " the vasty deep." 
 
 God save you, gentlefolks. There was a man 
 Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, 
 1
 
 .' ' 2 ." ' •' : i'fJE^ :L^'EMfS\ TEIA T CAME TR UE. 
 
 Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran 
 
 Among the logs upon his hearth, and shed 
 A comfortable glow, both warm and dim, 
 On crimson curtains that encompassed him. 
 
 Right stately was his chamber, soft and white 
 The pillow, and his q'lilt was eider-down, 
 
 "What mattered it to him though all that night 
 
 The desolate driving cloud might lower and frown, 
 
 And winds were up the eddying sleet to chase. 
 
 That drave and drave and found no settling-place ? 
 
 What mattered it that leafless trees might rock, 
 Or snow might drift athwart his window-pane ? 
 
 He bare a charmed life against their shock. 
 Secure from cold, hunger, and weather stain ; 
 
 Fixed in his right, and born to good estate. 
 
 From common ills set by and separate. 
 
 From work and want and fear of want apart, 
 
 This man (men called him Justice Wilvermore), — 
 
 This man had comforted his cheerful heart 
 AVith all that it desired from every shore. 
 
 He had a right, — the right of gold is strong, — 
 
 He stood upon his right his whole life long. 
 
 Custom makes all things easy, and content 
 
 Is careless, therefore on the storm and cold, 
 As he lay waking, never a thought he spent,
 
 o 
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 Albeit across the vale beneath the wold, 
 Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, 
 A range of sordid hovels stretched away. 
 
 "What cause had he to think on them, forsooth ? 
 
 "What cause that night beyond another night ? 
 He was familiar even from his youth 
 
 With their long ruin and their evil plight. 
 The wintry wind would search them like a scout, 
 The water froze within as freely as without. 
 
 He think upon them ? No ! They were forlorn. 
 So were the cowering inmates whom they held ; 
 
 A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness born, 
 Ever complaining : infancy or eld 
 
 Alike. But there was rent, or long; a"0 
 
 Those cottage roofs had met with overthrow. 
 
 For this they stood ; and what his thoughts might be 
 That winter night, I know not ; but I know 
 
 That, while the creeping flame fed silently 
 And cast upon his bed a crimson glow, 
 
 The Justice slept, and shortly in his sleep 
 
 He fell to dreaming, and his dream was deep. 
 
 He dreamed that over him a shadow came ; 
 
 And when he looked to find the cause, behold 
 Some person knelt between him and the flame : — 
 
 A cowering figure of one frail and old, —
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 A woman ; and she prayed as lie descried, 
 
 And spread her feeble hands, and shook and sighed. 
 
 " Good Heaven ! " the Justice cried, and being dis- 
 traught 
 
 He called not to her, but he looked again : 
 She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught 
 
 Upon her head ; and she did quake amain, 
 And spread her wasted hands and poor attire 
 To gather in the brightness of his fire. 
 
 " I know you, woman ! " then the Justice cried ; 
 
 " I know that woman well," he cried aloud ; 
 " The shepherd Aveland's widow : God me guide ! 
 
 A pauper kneeling on my hearth " : and bowed 
 The hag, like one at home, its warmth to share ! 
 " How dares she to intrude ? What does she here ? 
 
 " Ho, woman, ho ! " — but yet she did not stir, 
 Though from her lips a fitful plaining broke ; 
 
 " I '11 ring my people up to deal with her ; 
 
 I '11 rouse the house," he cried ; but while he spoke 
 
 He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed, 
 
 Another form, — a Darkness with a head. 
 
 Then in a rage, he shouted, " "Who are you ? " 
 For little in the 2;loom he misht discern. 
 
 " Speak out ; speak now ; or I will make you rue 
 The hour ! " but there was silence, and a stern.
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 5 
 
 Dark face from out the dusk appeared to lean, 
 And then again drew back, and was not seen. 
 
 " God ! " cried the dreaming man, right impiously, 
 " What have I done, that these my sleep affray ? " 
 
 " God ! " said the Phantom, " I appeal to Thee, 
 Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey." 
 
 " God ! " sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old, 
 
 " I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold." 
 
 Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, 
 
 "Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here \" 
 
 And lo ! it pointed in the failing light 
 
 Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, 
 
 " Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer ; 
 
 But first to tell her tale that kneeleth there." 
 
 « Her tale ! " the Justice cried. " A pauper's tale ! " 
 And he took heart at this so low behest, 
 
 And let the stoutness of his will prevail, 
 
 Demanding, " Is 't for her you break my rest ? 
 
 She went to jail of late for stealing wood, 
 
 She will again for this night's hardihood. 
 
 " I sent her ; and to-morrow, as I live, 
 I will commit her for this trespass here." 
 
 " Thou wilt not ! " quoth the Shadow, " thou wilt give 
 Her story words " ; and then it stalked anear 
 
 And showed a lowering face, and, dread to see, 
 
 A countenance of angered majesty.
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray, 
 With that material Darkness chiding him, 
 
 " If this must be, then speak to her, I pray, 
 And bid her move, for all the room is dim 
 
 By reason of the place she holds to-night : 
 
 She kneels between me and the warmth and light." 
 
 " With adjurations deep and drawings strong, 
 And with the power," it said, " unto me given, 
 
 I call upon thee, man, to tell thy wrong, 
 Or look no more upon the face of Heaven. 
 
 Speak ! though she kneel throughout the livelong night. 
 
 And yet shall kneel between thee and the light." 
 
 This when the Justice heard, he raised his hands, 
 
 And held them as the dead in efligy 
 Hold theirs, when carved upon a tomb. The bands 
 
 Of fate had bound him fast : no remedy 
 Was left : his voice unto himself was strange. 
 And that unearthly vision did not change. 
 
 He said, " That woman dwells anear my door, 
 Her life and mine began the selfsame day. 
 
 And I am hale and hearty : from my store 
 I never spared her aught : she takes her way 
 
 Of me unheeded ; pining, pinching care 
 
 Is all the portion that she has to share. 
 
 " She is a broken-down, poor, friendless wight. 
 Through labor and through sorrow early old ;
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. y 
 
 And I have known of this her evil plight, 
 
 Her scanty earnings, and her lodgment cold ; 
 A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be found : 
 She labored on my land the long year round. 
 
 " "What wouldst thou have me say, thou fiend abhorred ? 
 
 Show me no more thine awful visage srim. 
 If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord 
 
 That I have paid her wages. Cry to him ! 
 He has not much against me. None can say 
 I have not paid her wages day by day. 
 
 " The spell ! It draws me. I must speak again ; 
 
 And speak against myself ; and speak aloud. 
 The woman once approached me to complain, — 
 
 ' My wages are so low.' I may be proud ; 
 It is a fault." " Ay," quoth the Phantom fell, 
 " Sinner ! it is a fault : thou sayest well." 
 
 " She made her moan, ' My wages are so low.' " 
 
 " Tell on ! " " She said," he answered, " ' My best 
 days 
 
 Are ended, and the summer is but slow 
 
 To come ; and my good strength for work decays 
 
 By reason that I live so hard, and lie 
 
 On winter nights so bare for poverty.' " 
 
 " And you replied," — began the lowering shade, 
 " And I replied," the Justice followed on.
 
 8 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 " That wages like to mine my neighbor paid ; 
 
 And if I raised the was-es of the one 
 Straight should the others murmur ; furthermore, 
 The winter was as winters gone before. 
 
 " No colder and not longer." " Afterward ? " — 
 The Phantom questioned. " Afterward," he groaned, 
 
 " She said my neighbor was a right good lord, 
 Never a roof was broken that he owned ; 
 
 He gave much coal and clothing. ' Doth he so ? 
 
 "Work for my neighbor, then,' I answered. * Go ! 
 
 " ' You are full welcome.' Then she mumbled out 
 She hoped I was not angry ; hoped, forsooth, 
 
 I would forgive her : and I turned about, 
 And said I should be angry in good truth 
 
 If this should be again, or ever more 
 
 She dared to stop me thus at the church door." 
 
 " Then ? " quoth the Shade ; and he, constrained, said on, 
 " Then she, repi'oved, curtseyed herself away." 
 
 " Hast met her since ? " it made demand anon ; 
 And after pause the Justice answered, " Ay ; 
 
 Some wood was stolen ; my people made a stir: 
 
 She was accused, and I did sentence her." 
 
 But yet, and yet, the di'eaded questions came : 
 
 " And didst thou weigh the matter, — taking thought 
 Upon her sober life and honest fame ? "
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. ^ 
 
 "I gave it," he replied, with gaze distraught; 
 " I gave it, Fiend, the usual care ; I took 
 The usual pains ; I could not nearer look, 
 
 " Because, — because their pilfering had got head. 
 
 Wiuit wouldst thou more ? The neighbors pleaded hard, 
 'T is true, and many tears the creature shed ; 
 
 But I had vowed their prayers to disregard, 
 Heavily strike the first that robbed my land, 
 And put down thieving with a steady hand. 
 
 " She said she was not guilty. Ay, 't is true 
 
 She said so, but the poor are liars all. 
 O thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou ? Must I view 
 
 Thy darkness yet, and must thy shadow fall 
 Upon me miserable ? I have done 
 No worse, no more than many a scathless one." 
 
 " Yet," quoth the Shade, "if ever to thine ears 
 The knowledge of her blamelessness was brought, 
 
 Or others have confessed with dying tears 
 
 The crime she suffered for, and thou hast wrought 
 
 All reparation in thy power, and told 
 
 Into her empty hand thy brightest gold : — 
 
 " If thou hast honored her, and hast proclaimed 
 
 Her innocence and thy deplored wrong. 
 Still thou art nought; for thou shalt yet be blamed 
 
 In that she, feeble, came before thee strong, 
 1*
 
 10 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 And thou, in cruel haste to deal a blow, 
 
 Because thou hadst been angered, worked her woe. 
 
 " But didst thou right her ? Speak ! " The Justice sighed, 
 And beaded drops stood out upon his brow ; 
 
 " How could I humble me," forlorn he cried, 
 " To a base beggar ? Nay, I will avow 
 
 That I did ill. I will reveal the whole ; 
 
 I kept that knowledge in my secret soul." 
 
 "Hear him!" the Phantom muttered; "hear this man, 
 O changeless God upon the judgment throne." 
 
 With that, cold tremors through his pulses ran, 
 And lamentably he did make his moan ; 
 
 While, with its arms upraised above his head, 
 
 The dim dread visitor aj^proached his bed. 
 
 " Into these doors," it said, " which thou hast closed, 
 Daily this woman shall from henceforth come ; 
 
 Her kneeling form shall yet be interposed 
 
 Till all thy wretched hours have told their sum ; 
 
 Shall yet be interposed by day, by night, 
 
 Between thee, sinner, and the warmth and light. 
 
 " Remembrance of her want shall make thy meal 
 Like ashes, and thy wrong thou shalt not right. 
 
 But what ! Nay, verily, nor wealth nor weal 
 From henceforth shall afford thy soul delight. 
 
 Till men shall lay thy head beneath the sod, 
 
 There shall be no deliverance, saith my God."
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. u 
 
 " Tell me thy name," the dreamuig Justice cried ; 
 
 " By what appointment dost thou doom me thus ? " 
 " 'T is well that thou shoul Jst know me," it replied, 
 
 " For mine thou art, and nought shall sever us ; 
 From thine own lips and life I draw my force : 
 The name thy nation give me is Rejiorse." 
 
 This when he heard, the dreaming man cried out, 
 And woke affrighted ; and a crimson glow 
 
 The dying ember shed. Within, without, 
 In eddying rings the silence seemed to flow ; 
 
 The wind had lulled, and on his forehead shone 
 
 The last low gleam ; he was indeed alone. 
 
 " O, I have had a fearful dream," said he ; . 
 
 " I will take warning and for mercy trust ; 
 The fiend Remorse shall never dwell with me : 
 
 I will repair that wrong, I will be just, 
 I will be kind, I will my ways amend." 
 Now the jirst dream is told unto its end. 
 
 Anigh the frozen mere a cottage stood, 
 
 A piercing wind swept round and shook the door, 
 
 The shrunken door, and easy way made good. 
 And drave long drifts of snow along the floor. 
 
 It sparkled there like diamonds, for the moon 
 
 Was shining in, and night was at the noon. 
 
 Before her dying embers, bent and pale, 
 A woman sat because her bed was cold ;
 
 12 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 She heard the wind, the driving sleet and hail, 
 
 And she was hunger-bitten, weak and old ; 
 Yet while she cowered, and while the casement shook, 
 Upon her trembling knees she held a book, — 
 
 A comfortable book for them that mourn, 
 And good to raise the courage of the poor ; 
 
 It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the bourne, 
 Their Elder Brother, from His home secure, 
 
 That for them desolate He died to win, 
 
 Repeating, " Come, ye blessed, enter in." 
 
 "What thought she on, this woman ? on her days 
 Of toil, or on the supperless night forlorn ? 
 
 1 think not so ; the heart but seldom weighs 
 With conscious care a burden always borne ; 
 
 And she was used to these things, had grown old 
 
 In fellowship with toil, hungei", and cold. 
 
 Then did she think how sad it was to live 
 Of all the good this world can yield bereft ? 
 
 No, her untutored thoughts she did not give 
 To such a theme ; but in their warp and weft 
 
 She wove a prayer : then in the midnight deep 
 
 Faintly and slow she fell away to sleep. 
 
 A strange, a marvellous sleep, which brought a dream, 
 
 And it was this : that all at once she heard 
 The pleasant babbling of a little stream
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 That ran beside her door, and then a bird 
 Broke out in songs. She looked, and lo ! the rime 
 And snow had melted ; it was summer time ! 
 
 And all the cold was over, and the mere 
 
 Full sweetly swayed the flags and rushes green ; 
 
 The mellow sunlight poured right warm and clear 
 Into her casement, and thereby were seen 
 
 Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wandering bees 
 
 Were hovering round the blossom-laden trees. 
 
 She said, " I will betake me to my door, 
 
 And will look out and see this wondrous sisrht. 
 
 How summer is come back, and frost is o'er, 
 And all the air warm waxen in a night." 
 
 "With that she opened, but for fear she cried, 
 
 For lo ! two Angels, — one on either side. 
 
 And while she looked, with marvelling measureless, 
 The Angels stood conversing face to face, 
 
 But neither spoke to her. " The Avilderness," { 
 One Angel said, " the solitary place. 
 
 Shall yet be glad for Him." And then full fain 
 
 The other Angel answered, " He shall reign." 
 
 And when the woman heard, in wonderinj; wise. 
 She whispered, " They are speaking of my Lord." 
 
 And straightway swept across the open skies 
 Multitudes like to these. They took the word. 
 
 13
 
 14 
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 Tliat flock of Angels, " He shall come again, 
 
 My Lord, my Lord ! " they sang, " and He shall reign ! " 
 
 Then they, drawn up into the blue o'er-head, 
 Right happy, shining ones, made haste to flee ; 
 
 And those before her one to other said, 
 
 " Behold He stands aneath yon almond-tree." 
 
 Tliis when the woman heard, she fain had gazed, 
 
 But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed. 
 
 After she looked, for this her dream was deep ; 
 
 She looked, and there was nought beneath the tree ; 
 Yet did her love and longing overleap 
 
 The fear of Angels, awful though they be, 
 And she passed out between the blessed things. 
 And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings. 
 
 O, all the happy world was in its best, 
 
 The trees were covered thick with buds and flowers, 
 And these were dropping honey ; for the rest, 
 
 Sweetly the birds were piping in their bowers ; 
 Across the grass did groups of Angels go. 
 And Saints in pairs were walking to and fro. 
 
 Then did she pass toward the almond-tree. 
 And none she saw beneath it : yet each Saint 
 
 Upon his coming meekly bent the knee, 
 
 And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint. 
 
 And then a 'lighting Angel neared the place, 
 
 And folded his fair wings before his face.
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 She also knelt, and spread her aged hands 
 As feeling for the sacred human feet; 
 
 She said, " Mine eyes are held, but if He stands 
 Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat 
 
 Except He bless me." Then, O sweet ! O fair ! 
 
 Some words were spoken, but she knew not where. 
 
 She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke, 
 Or dropt upon her from the realms above ; 
 
 " AYhat wilt thou, woman ? " in the dream He spoke, 
 " Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I love ; 
 
 Long have I counted up thy mournful years,' 
 
 Once I did weep to wipe away thy tears." 
 
 She said : " My one Redeemer, only blest, 
 
 I know Thy voice, and from my yearning heart 
 
 Draw out my deep desire, my great request, 
 My prayer, that I might enter where Thou art. 
 
 Call me, O call from this world troublesome, 
 
 And let me see Thy face." He answered, " Come." 
 
 Here is the ending of the second dream. 
 
 It is a frosty morning, keen and cold, 
 Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream, 
 
 And snow lies sparkling on the desert wold ; 
 With savory morning meats they spread the board, 
 But Justice Wilvermore will walk abroad, 
 
 " Bring me my cloak," quoth he, as one in haste. 
 " Before you breakfast, sir ? " his man replies. 
 
 IS
 
 1 6 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 "Ay," quoth lie quickly, and he will not taste 
 
 Of aught before him, but in urgent Avise 
 As he would fain some carking cave allay, 
 Across the frozen field he takes his way. 
 
 "A dream ! how strange that it should move mc so, 
 'T was but a dream," quoth Justice Wilvermore : 
 
 " And yet I cannot ^^eace nor pleasure know, 
 For wrongs I have not heeded heretofore ; 
 
 Silver and gear the crone shall have of me, 
 
 And dwell for life in yonder cottage free. 
 
 *' For visions of the nisrht are fearful things, 
 Remorse is dread, though merely in a di'eam ; 
 
 I will not subject me to visitings 
 
 Of such a sort again. I will esteem 
 
 My peace above my pride. From natures rude 
 
 A little gold will buy me gratitude. 
 
 " The woman shall have leave to gather wood. 
 As much as she may need, the long year round ; 
 
 She shall, I say, — moreover, it were good 
 Yon other cottage roofs to render sound. 
 
 Thus to my soul the ancient peace restore, 
 
 And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wilvermore. 
 
 "With that he nears the door : a frosty rime 
 Is branching over it, and drifts are deep 
 Against the wall. He knocks, and there is time, —
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. ly 
 
 (For none doth open), — time to list the sweep 
 And whistle of the wind along the mere 
 Through beds of stiffened reeds and rushes sere. 
 
 "If she be out, I have my pains for nought," 
 He saith, and knocks again, and yet once more, 
 
 But to his ear nor step nor stir is brought ; 
 And after pause, he doth unlatch the door 
 
 And enter. No : she is not out, for see 
 
 She sits asleep 'mid frost-work winterly. 
 
 Asleep, asleep before her empty grate, 
 
 Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord call. 
 "What, dame," he saith, and comes toward hei* 
 straight, 
 
 " Asleep so early ! " But whate'er befall, 
 She sleepeth ; then he nears her, and behold 
 He lays a hand on hers, and it is cold. 
 
 Then doth the Justice to his home return ; 
 
 From that day forth he wears a sadder brow ; 
 His hands are opened, and his heart doth learn 
 
 The patience of the poor. He made a vow 
 And keeps it, for the old and sick have shared 
 His gifts, their sordid homes he hath repaired. 
 
 And some he hath made happy, but for him 
 
 Is happiness no more. He doth repent, 
 And now the light of joy is waxen dim, 
 
 B
 
 1 8 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 Are all his steps toward the Highest sent ; 
 He looks for mercy, and he waits release 
 Above, for this world doth not yield him peace. 
 
 Night after night, night after desolate night, 
 Day after day, day after tedious day, 
 
 Stands by his fire, and dulls its gleamy light, 
 Paceth behind or meets him in the way ; 
 
 Or shares the path by hedgerow, mere, or stream, 
 
 The visitor that doomed him in his dream. 
 
 Thy kingdom come. 
 I heard a Seer cry, — " The wilderness. 
 
 The solitary place. 
 Shall yet be glad for Him, and He shall bless 
 (Thy kingdom come) with his revealed face 
 The forests ; they shall drop their precious gum. 
 And shed for Him their balm : and He shall yield 
 The grandeur of His speech to charm the field. 
 
 " Then all the soothed winds shall drop to listen, 
 
 (Thy kingdom come,) 
 Comforted waters waxen calm shall glisten 
 With bashful tremblement beneath His smile : 
 
 And Echo ever the while 
 Shall take, and in her awful joy repeat. 
 The laughter of His lips — (thy kingdom come) : 
 And hills that sit apart shall be no longer dumb ;
 
 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. jg 
 
 No, they shall shout and shout, 
 Rainuig their lovely loyalty along the dewy plain : 
 And valleys round about, 
 
 " And all the well-contented land, made sweet 
 
 AVith flowers she opened at His feet. 
 Shall answer ; shout and make the welkin ring 
 And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, and sing; 
 
 Her cup being full to the brim. 
 
 Her poverty made rich with Him, 
 Her yearning satisfied to its utmost sura, — 
 Lift up thy voice, O earth, prepare thy song, 
 
 It shall not yet be long. 
 Lift up, O earth, for He shall come again. 
 Thy Lord ; and He shall reign, and He shall reign, — 
 
 Thy kingdom come."
 
 SONGS 
 
 ON 
 
 THE VOICES OF BIRDS
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 CHILD AND BOATMAN. 
 
 i|AIlTIN, I wonder who makes all the songs." 
 • You do, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, I wonder how they come." 
 " Well, boy, I wonder what you '11 wonder next ! " 
 " But somebody must make them ? " 
 
 " Sure enough." 
 " Does your wife know ? " 
 
 " She never said she did." 
 " You told me that she knew so many things." 
 " I said she Avas a London woman, sir, 
 And a fine scholar, but I never said 
 She knew about the songs." 
 
 « I wish she did." 
 " And I wish no such thing ; she knows enough, 
 She knows too much already. Look you now. 
 This vessel 's off the stocks, a tidy craft." 
 " A schooner, Martin ? " 
 
 " No, boy, no ; a brig. 
 Only she 's schooner rigged, — a lovely craft."
 
 24 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 " Is she for me ? O, thank you, Martin, dear. 
 What shall I call her ? " 
 
 " "Well, sir, what you please." 
 " Then write on her ' The Eas^le.' " 
 
 " Bless the child ! 
 Eagle ! why, yoa know naught of eagles, you. 
 When we lay off the coast, up Canada way, 
 And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell, 
 That was the place for eagles ; bald they were, 
 With eyes as yellow as gold." 
 
 " 0, Martin, dear, 
 Tell me about them." 
 
 " Tell ! there 's nought to tell, 
 Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." 
 " Snored ? " 
 
 " Ay, I tell you, snored ; they slept upright 
 In the great oaks by scores ; as true as time, 
 If I 'd had aught upon my mind just then, 
 I would n't have walked that wood for unknown gold ; 
 It Avas most awful. When the moon was full, 
 I 've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch. 
 When she got low. I 've seen them plunge like stones. 
 And come up fighting with a fish as long, 
 Ay, longer than my arm ; and they would sail, — 
 When tliey had struck its life out, — they would sail 
 Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes, 
 And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed 
 Grand as a frigate on a wind." 
 
 « My ship. 
 
 o
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 She must be called ' The Eagle ' after these. 
 And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs 
 When you go in at dinner-time." 
 
 « Not I." 
 
 25 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE 
 UNSATISFIED HEART 
 
 WHEN in a May-day hush 
 Chanteth the Missel-thrush 
 The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous 
 stirs ; 
 When Robin-redbreast sings, 
 We think on budding springs, 
 And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers. 
 
 But thou in the trance of light 
 
 Stayest the feeding night, 
 And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance wise. 
 
 And casts at our glad feet, 
 
 In a wisp of fancies fleet. 
 Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies. 
 
 Her central thought full well 
 Thou hast the wit to tell. 
 To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so ; 
 
 2
 
 26 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 The moral of moonlight 
 To set in a cadence bright, 
 And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none did 
 know. 
 
 I have no nest as thou, 
 
 Bird on the blossoming bough, 
 Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul, 
 
 Chanting, " forego thy strife, 
 
 The spirit out-acts the life, 
 But MUCH is seldom theirs who can perceive the whole. 
 
 " Thou drawest a perfect lot 
 
 All thine, but holden not. 
 Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide ; 
 
 There might be sorer smart 
 
 Than thine, far-seeing heart, 
 "Whose fate is stiU to yearn, and not be satisfied." 
 
 I 
 
 SAND MARTINS. 
 
 PASSED an inland-cliff precipitate ; 
 From tiny caves peeped many a sooty poll ; 
 In each a mother-martin sat elate. 
 
 And of the news delivered her small soul.
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 27 
 
 Fantastic chatter ! hasty, glad, and gay, 
 Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell : 
 
 " Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day ? " 
 " Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well." 
 
 And heark'ninjT. I was sure their little ones 
 Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made 
 
 Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns, 
 For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed ; — 
 
 And visions of the sky as of a cup 
 
 Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand, 
 
 And quivering air-waves trembling up and up, 
 And blank stone faces marvellously bland. 
 
 " When should the young be fledged and with them hie 
 Where costly day drops down in crimson light ? 
 
 (Fortunate countries of the firefly 
 
 Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night, 
 
 "And the immortal moon takes turn with them.) 
 When should they pass again by that red land, 
 
 Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem 
 To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand ? 
 
 " When should they dip their breasts again and play 
 In slumberous azure pools, clear as the air, 
 
 Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day, 
 Stalking amid the lotus blossom fair?
 
 28 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 " Then, over podded tamarinds bear their flight, 
 While cassias blossom in the zone of calms. 
 
 And so betake them to a south sea-bight. 
 To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms 
 
 " Whose roots are in the spray. 0, haply there 
 
 Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to find 
 
 A frigate standinsr in to make more fair 
 The loneliness unaltered of mankind. 
 
 " A frigate come to water : nuts would fall, 
 
 And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed 
 strand. 
 
 While northern talk would ring, and there withal 
 The martins would desire the cool north land. 
 
 " And all would be as it had been before ; 
 
 Again at eve there would be news to tell ; 
 Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er, 
 
 'Gossip, bow wags the world?' 'Well, gossip, 
 well.' "
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIEDS. 29 
 
 A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND THE 
 CUCKOO-BIRD. 
 
 ONCE upon a time, I lay 
 Fast asleep at dawn of clay ; 
 Windows open to the south, 
 Fancy pouting her sweet mouth 
 To my ear. 
 
 She turned a globe 
 In her slender hand, her robe 
 Was all spangled ; and she said, 
 As she sat at my bed's head, 
 " Poet, poet, what, asleep ! 
 Look ! the ray runs up the steep 
 To your rooi'," Then in the golden 
 Essence of romances olden, 
 Bathed she my entranced heart. 
 And she gave a hand to me. 
 Drew me onward, " Come ! " said she ; 
 And she moved with me apart, 
 Down the lovely vale of Leisure. 
 
 Such its name was, I heard say, 
 For some Fairies trooped that way ; 
 Common people of the place, 
 Taking their accustomed pleasure, 
 (All the clocks being stopped) to race
 
 30 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 Down the slope on palfreys fleet. 
 Bridle bells made tinkling sweet ; 
 And they said, " What signified 
 Faring home till eventide : 
 There were pies on every shelf, 
 And the bread would bake itself." 
 But for that I cared not, fed, 
 As it veere, with angels' bread. 
 Sweet as honey ; yet next day 
 All foredoomed to melt away ; 
 Gone before the sun waxed hot, 
 Melted manna that was not. 
 
 Rock-doves' poetry of plaint, 
 Or the starling's courtship quaint ; 
 Heart made much of, 't was a boon 
 Won from silence, and too soon 
 Wasted in the ample air : 
 Building rooks for distant were. 
 Scarce at all would speak the rills, 
 And I saw the idle hills. 
 In their amber hazes deep. 
 Fold themselves and go to sleep. 
 Though it was not yet high noon. 
 
 Silence ? Rather music brought 
 From the spheres ! As if a thought, 
 Having taken wings, did fly 
 Through the reaches of the sky.
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 31 
 
 Silence ? No, a sumptuous sigh 
 That had found embodiment, 
 That had come across the deep 
 After months of wintry sleep, 
 And with tender heavings went 
 Floating up the fii-mament. 
 
 " 0," I mourned, half slumbering yet, 
 " 'T is the voice of mi/ regret, — 
 Mine ! " and I awoke. Full sweet 
 Saffron sunbeams did me greet ; 
 And the voice it spake again, 
 Dropped from yon blue cup of liglit 
 Or some cloudlet swan's-down white 
 On my soul, that drank full fain 
 The sharp joy — the sweet pain — 
 Of its clear, right innocent, 
 Unreproved discontent. 
 
 How it came — where it went — 
 Who can tell ? The open blue 
 Quivered with it, and I, too, 
 Trembled. I remembered me 
 Of the springs that used to be, 
 "When a dimpled white-haired child, 
 Shy and tender and half wild, 
 In the meadows I had heard 
 Some way off the talking bird. 
 And had felt it marvellous sweet,
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 For it laughed : it did me greet, 
 Calling me : yet, hid away 
 In the woods, it would not play. 
 No. 
 
 And all the world about, 
 While a man will work or sing, 
 Or a child pluck flowers of spring, 
 Thou wilt scatter music out, 
 Rouse him with thy wandering note, 
 Changeful fancies set afloat, 
 Almost tell with thy clear throat, 
 But not quite, — the wonder-rife. 
 Most sweet riddle, dark and dim, 
 That he searcheth all his life, 
 Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth ; 
 And so winnowing of thy wings. 
 Touch and trouble his heart's strings. 
 That a certain music soundeth 
 In that wondrous instrument. 
 With a trembling upward sent. 
 That is reckoned sweet above 
 By the Greatness sm'named Love. 
 
 " 0, 1 hear thee in the blue ; 
 Would that I might wing it too ! 
 to have what hope hath seen ! 
 O to be what might have been !
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 " O to set my life, sweet bird, 
 To a tune that oft I heard 
 "When I used to stand alone 
 Listening to the lovely moan 
 Of the swaying pines o'erhead, . 
 "While, a-gathering of bee-bread 
 For their living, murmured round, 
 As the pollen dropped to ground, 
 All the nations from the hives ; 
 And the little brooding wives 
 On each, nest, brown dusky things, 
 Sat with gold-dust on their wings. 
 Then beyond (more sweet than all) 
 Talked the tumbling waterfall ; 
 And there were, and there were not 
 (As might fall, and form anew 
 Bell-hung drops of honey -dew) 
 Echoes of — I know not what ; 
 As if some right-joyous elf, 
 "While about his own affairs, 
 "Whistled softly otherwheres. 
 Nay, as if our mother dear, 
 "Wrapped in sun-warm atmosphere, 
 Laughed a little to herself. 
 Laughed a little as she rolled. 
 Thinking on the days of old. 
 
 " Ah ! there be some hearts, I wis, 
 To which nothing comes amiss. 
 
 33
 
 34 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 Mine was one. Mucli secret wealth 
 I was heir to : and by stealth, 
 When the moon was fully grown, 
 And she thought herself alone, 
 I have heard her, ay, right well, 
 Shoot a silver messa2;e down 
 To the unseen sentinel 
 Of a still, snow-thatched town. 
 
 " Once, awhile ago, I peered 
 In the nest where Spring was reared. 
 There, she quivering her fair wings. 
 Flattered March with chirrupings ; 
 And they fed her ; nights and days. 
 Fed her mouth with much sweet food, 
 And her heart with love and praise, 
 Till the wild thing rose and flew 
 Over woods and water-springs. 
 Shaking off the morning dew 
 In a rainbow from her winss. 
 
 " Once (I will to you confide 
 More), once in forest wide, 
 I, benighted, overheard 
 Marvellous mild echoes stirred. 
 And a calling half defined, 
 And an answering from afar ; 
 Somewhat talked with a star. 
 And the talk was of mankind.
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 2>S 
 
 " ' Cuckoo, cuckoo ! ' 
 Float anear in upper blue : 
 Art thou yet a prophet true ? 
 Wilt thou say, ' And having seen 
 Things that be, and have not been, 
 Thou art free o' the world, for naught 
 Can despoil thee of thy thought ' ? 
 Nay, but make me music yet, 
 Bird, as deep as my regret, 
 For a certain hope hath set, 
 Like a star ; and left me heir 
 To a crying for its hght, 
 An aspiring infinite, 
 ■ And a beautiful despair ! 
 
 " Ah ! no more, no more, no more 
 I shall lie at thy shut door, 
 Mine ideal, my desired, 
 Dreaming thou wilt open it, 
 And step out, thou most admired, 
 By my side to fare, or sit, 
 Quenching hunger and all drouth 
 With the wit of thy fair mouth. 
 Showing me the wished prize 
 In the calm of thy dove's eyes. 
 Teaching me the wonder-rife 
 Majesties of human life, 
 All its fairest possible sum. 
 And the grace of its to come.
 
 36 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 " What a difference ! Why of late 
 
 All sweet music used to say, 
 
 ' She will come, and with thee stay 
 
 To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' 
 
 Now it murmurs, ' Wait, wait, wait ! ' " 
 
 A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. 
 
 I SAW when I looked up, on either hand, 
 A pale high chalk-cliff, reared aloft in white ; 
 A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land, — 
 Toward the sea, an open yawning bight. 
 
 The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue, 
 Washed in the bight ; above with angry moan 
 
 A raven, that was robbed, sat up in view, 
 Croaking and crying on a ledge alone. 
 
 " Stand on thy nest, spread out thy fateful wings, 
 With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood. 
 
 For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like things. 
 Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food. 
 
 " Cry, thou black prophetess ! cry, and despair. 
 None love thee, none ! Their father was thy foe. 
 
 Whose father in his youth did know thy lair, 
 And steal thy little demons long ago.
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 37 
 
 " Thou maclest many childless for their sake, 
 And picked out many eyes that loved the light. 
 
 Cry, thou black prophetess ! sit up, awake, 
 
 Forebode ; and ban them thi-ough the desolate night." 
 
 Lo ! while I spake it, with a crimson hue 
 The dipping sun endowed that silver flood, 
 
 And all the cliffs flushed red, and up she flew, 
 The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood. 
 
 " Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is not thine, 
 Thou aged priestess of fell doom, and fate. 
 
 It is not blood : thy gods are making wine, 
 They spilt the must outside their city gate, 
 
 " And stained their azure pavement with the lees : 
 They will not listen though thou cry aloud. 
 
 Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling at her ease, 
 Nor hears ; the fair hag. Luck, is in her shroud. 
 
 " They heed not, they withdraw the sky-hung sign : 
 Thou hast no charm against the favorite race ; 
 
 Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine : 
 There is no justice in tbeir dwelling-place 1 
 
 " Safe in their father's house the boys shall rest, 
 Though thy fell brood dotli stark and silent lie ; 
 
 Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy nest : 
 Cry, thou black prophetess I lift up ! cry, cry ! "
 
 38 
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS. 
 
 WHEN I hear the waters fretting, 
 When I see the chestnut letting 
 All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, " Alas the 
 day!" 
 Once with magical sweet singing, 
 Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, 
 That awakes no more while April hours wear themselves 
 away. 
 
 In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, 
 Sweet as air, and all beguiling ; 
 And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope and down 
 the dell ; 
 And we talked of joy and splendor 
 That the years unborn would render. 
 And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew 
 it well. 
 
 Piping, fluting, " Bees are humming, 
 
 April 's here, and summer 's coming ; 
 Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride 
 and joy ; 
 
 Think on us in alleys shady. 
 
 When you step a graceful lady ; 
 For no fairer day have we to hope for, Uttle girl and boy.
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 39 
 
 " Laugh and play, lisping waters, 
 Lull our downy sons and daughters ; 
 Come, O wind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy wander- 
 ings coy ; 
 When they wake we '11 end the measure 
 With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, 
 And a ' Hey down derry, let 's be merry ! little girl and 
 boy!'" 
 
 SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME, 
 
 I WALKED beside a dark gray sea, 
 And said, " world, how cold thou art ! 
 Thou poor white world, I pity thee, 
 For joy and warmth from thee depart. 
 
 " Yon rising wave licks off the snow, 
 Winds on the crag each other chase, 
 
 In little powdery whirls they blow 
 The misty fragments down its face. 
 
 " The sea is cold, and dark its rim, 
 Winter sits cowering on the wold, 
 
 And I beside this watery brim. 
 Am also lonely, also cold."
 
 40 
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 
 
 I spoke, and drew toward a rock, 
 
 "Where many mews made twittering sweet ; 
 Their wings upreared, the clustering flock 
 
 Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. 
 
 A rock but half submerged, the sea 
 Ran up and washed it while they fed ; 
 
 Their fond and foolish ecstasy 
 A wondering in my fancy bred. 
 
 Joy companied with every cry, 
 
 Joy in their food, in that keen wind, 
 
 That heaving sea, that shaded sky, 
 And in themselves, and in their kind. 
 
 The phantoms of the deep at play ! 
 
 What idless graced the twittering things ; 
 Luxurious paddUngs in the spray, 
 
 And delicate lifting up of wings. 
 
 Then all at once a flight, and fast 
 The lovely crowd flew out to sea ; 
 
 If mine own life had been recast, 
 
 Earth had not looked more changed to me. 
 
 " "Where is the cold ? Yon clouded skies 
 Have only dropt their curtains low 
 
 To shade the old mother where she lies 
 Sleeping a little, 'neath the snc^w.
 
 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 41 
 
 " The cold is not in crag, nor scar, 
 
 Not in the snows that hip the lea, 
 Not in yon wings that beat afar, 
 
 Delighting, on the crested sea ; 
 
 " No, nor in yon exultant wind 
 
 That shakes the oak and bends the pine. 
 
 Look near, look in, and thou shalt find 
 No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine ! " 
 
 With that I felt the gloom depart. 
 
 And thoughts within me did unfold, 
 Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart, — 
 
 I walked in joy, and was not cold.
 
 LAURANCE. 
 
 I. 
 
 E knew she did not love him ; but so long 
 As rivals were unknown to him, he dwelt 
 At ease, and did not find his love a pain. 
 
 He had much deference in his nature, need 
 
 To honor — it became him ; he was frank, 
 
 Fresh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and strong, — 
 
 Looked all things straight in the face. So when she came 
 
 Before him first, he looked at her, and looked 
 
 No more, but colored to his healthful brow. 
 
 And wished himself a better man, and thought 
 
 On certain things, and wished they were undone. 
 
 Because her girlish innocence, the grace 
 
 Of her umblemished pureness, wrought in him 
 
 A longing and aspiring, and a shame 
 
 To think how wicked was the world, — that world 
 
 "Which he must walk in, — while from her (and such 
 
 As she was) it was hidden ; there was made 
 
 A clean path, and the girl moved on like one 
 
 In some enchanted ring.
 
 LA URANCE. 
 
 In his young heart 
 She reigned, with all the beauties that she had, 
 And all the virtues that he rightly took 
 For granted ; there he set her with her crown, 
 And at her first enthronement he turned out 
 Much that was best away, for unaware 
 His thoughts grew noble. She was always there 
 And knew it not, and he grew like to her 
 And like to what he thought her. 
 
 Now he dwelt 
 With kin that loved him well, — two fine old folk, 
 A rich, right honest yeoman, and his dame, — 
 Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir. 
 
 To these, one daughter had been born, one child, 
 And as she grew to woman, " Look," they said, 
 " She must not leave us ; let us build a wing. 
 With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange ; 
 There may she dwell, with her good man, and all 
 God sends them." Then the girl in her first youth 
 Married a curate, — handsome, poor in purse, 
 Of gentle blood and manners, and he lived 
 Under her father's roof, as they had planned. 
 
 Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled 
 The house with children ; four were born to them. 
 Then came a sickly season ; fever spread 
 Among the poor. The curate, never slack 
 In duty, praying by the sick, or worse. 
 
 43
 
 44 LAU RANGE. 
 
 Burying the dead, when all the air was clogged 
 With poisonous mist, was stricken ; long he lay 
 Sick, almost to the death, and when his head 
 He lifted from the jjillow, there was left 
 One only of that pretty flock : his girls, 
 His three, were cold beneath the sod ; his boy, 
 Their eldest born, remained. 
 
 The drooping wife 
 Bore her great sorrow in such quiet wise, 
 That first they marvelled at her, then they tried 
 To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief, 
 Lamenting, and not spai-ing ; but she sighed, 
 " Let me alone, it will not be for long." 
 Then did her mother tremble, murmuring out, 
 " Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon. 
 O, when you see this other little face, 
 You will, please God, be comforted." 
 
 She said, 
 *' I shall not live to see it " ; but she did, — 
 A little sickly face, a wan, thin face. 
 Then she grew eager, and her eyes were bright 
 When she would plead with them : " Take me away, 
 Let me go south ; it is the bitter blast 
 That chills my tender babe ; she cannot thrive 
 Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." 
 Then all they journeyed south together, mute 
 With past and coming sorrow, till the sun, 
 In gardens edging the blue tideless main, 
 Warmed them and calmed the aching at their hearts.
 
 LA URANCE. 45 
 
 And all went better for a while ; but not 
 For long. They sitting by the orange-trees 
 Once rested, and the wife was very still : 
 One woman with narcissus flowers heaped up 
 Let down her basket from her head, but paused 
 With pitying gesture, and drew near and stooped, 
 Taking a white wild face upon her breast, — 
 The little babe on its poor mother's knees, 
 None marking it, none knowing else, had died. 
 
 The fading mother could not stay behind, 
 Her heart was broken ; but it awed them most 
 To feel they must not, dared not, pray for life. 
 Seeing she longed to go, and went so gladly. 
 
 After, these three, who loved each other well, 
 Bi-ought their one child away, and they were best 
 Together in the wide old grange. Full oft 
 The father with the mother talked of her, 
 Their daughter, but the husband nevermore ; 
 He looked for solace in his work, and gave 
 His mind to teach his boy. And time went on. 
 Until the grandsire prayed those other two 
 " Now part with him ; it must be ; for his good : 
 He rules and knows it ; choose for him a school, 
 Let him have all advantages, and all 
 Good training that should make a gentleman." 
 
 With that they parted from their boy, and lived
 
 46 LAURANCE. 
 
 Longing between his holidays, and time 
 
 Sped ; he grew on till he had eighteen years. 
 
 His father loved him, wished to make of him 
 
 Another parson ; but the farmer's wife 
 
 Murmured at that : " No, no, they learned bad ways, 
 
 They ran in debt at college ; she had heard 
 
 That many rued the day they sent their boys 
 
 To college " ; and between the two broke in 
 
 His grandsire : " Find a sober, honest man, 
 
 A scholar, for our lad should see the world 
 
 While he is young, that he may marry young. 
 
 He will not settle and be satisfied 
 
 Till he has run about the world awhile. 
 
 Good lack, I longed to travel in my youth, 
 
 And had no chance to do it. Send him off, 
 
 A sober man being found to trust him with, 
 
 One with the fear of God before his eyes." 
 
 And he prevailed ; the careful flither chose 
 
 A tutor, young, — the worthy matron thought, — 
 
 In truth, not ten years older than her boy. 
 
 And glad as he to range, and keen for snows, 
 
 Desert, and ocean. And they made strange choice 
 
 Of where to go, left the sweet day behind, 
 
 And pushed up north in whaling ships, to feel 
 
 What cold was, see the blowing whale come up, 
 
 And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet sun 
 
 Went round and round, crowd on the clear blue berg. 
 
 Then did the trappers have them ; and they heard
 
 LA URANCE. 
 
 Nightly the whistHng calls of forest-men 
 
 That mocked the forest wonners ; and they saw 
 
 Over the open, raging up like doom, 
 
 The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes, — 
 
 The bisons. So were three years gone like one ; 
 
 And the old cities di'ew them for a while, 
 
 Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine ; 
 
 They have hid many sons hard by their seats, 
 
 But all the air is stirring with them still, 
 
 The waters murmur of them, skies at eve 
 
 Are stained with their rich blood, and every sound 
 
 Means men. 
 
 At last, the fourth year running out, 
 The youth came home. And all the cheerful house 
 Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame 
 "Was full of joy. But in the father's heart 
 Abode a painful doubt. " It is not well ; 
 He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. 
 I do not care that my one son should sleep 
 Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake 
 Only to ride to cover." 
 
 Not the less 
 The grandsire pondered. " Ay, the boy must WORK 
 Or SPEND ; and I must let him spend ; just stay 
 Awhile with us, and then from time to time 
 Have leave to be away with those fine folk 
 With whom, these many years, at school, and now, 
 During his sojourn in the foreign towns, 
 He has been made familiar." Thus a month 
 
 47
 
 48 LA URANCE. 
 
 Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth, 
 
 The quick elastic step, and joyous mind, 
 
 Ever expectant of it knew not what, 
 
 But something higher than has e'er been born 
 
 Of easy slumber and sweet competence. 
 
 And as for him, — the while they thought and thought 
 
 A comfortable instinct let him know 
 
 How they had waited for him, to complete 
 
 And give a meaning to their lives ; and still 
 
 At home, but with a sense of newness there, 
 
 And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days, 
 
 He oft — invading of his father's haunts, 
 
 The study where he passed the silent morn — 
 
 Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy 
 
 The piled-up books, uncut as yet ; or wake 
 
 To guide with him by night the tube, and search. 
 
 Ay, think to find new stars ; then risen betimes. 
 
 Would ride about the farm, and list the talk 
 
 Of his hale grandsire. 
 
 But a day came round, 
 When, after peering in his mother's room. 
 Shaded and shuttered from the light, he oped 
 A door, and found the rosy grandmother 
 Ensconced and happy in her special pride, 
 Her storeroom. She was corking syrups rare, 
 And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. 
 Here after choice of certain cates well known. 
 He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease. 
 Sang as he watched her, till right suddenly,
 
 LA URANCE. 4q 
 
 As if a new thought came, " Goody," quoth he, 
 " What, think you, do they want to do with me ? 
 "What have they iDlanned for me that I should do ? " 
 
 " Do, laddie ! " quoth she faltering, half in tears ; 
 "Are you not happy with us, not content? 
 Why would ye go away ? There is no need 
 That ye should DO at all. 0, bide at home. 
 Have we not plenty ? " 
 
 " Even so," he said ; 
 " I did not wish to go." 
 
 " Nay, then," quoth she, 
 " Be idle ; let me see your blessed face. 
 What, is the horse your father chose for you 
 Not to your mind ? He is ? Well, well, remain ; 
 Do as you will, so you but do it here. 
 You shall not want for money." 
 
 But, his arms 
 Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth 
 With comical discomfiture. 
 
 « What, then," 
 She sighed, " what is it, child, that you would like ? " 
 « Why," said he, " farming." 
 
 And she looked at him. 
 Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find 
 Some fitness in the worker for the work. 
 And she found none. A certain grace there was 
 Of movement, and a beauty in the face. 
 Sun-browned and healthful beauty that had come 
 
 3 D
 
 50 
 
 LA URANCE. 
 
 From his grave father ; and she thought, " Good lack, 
 
 A farmer ! he is fitter for a duke. 
 
 He walks ; why, how he w^alks ! if I should meet 
 
 One like him, whom I knew not, I should ask, 
 
 And who may that be ? " So the foolish thought 
 
 Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half ashamed, 
 
 " We planned to make of you — a gentleman." 
 
 And with engaging sweet audacity 
 
 She thought it nothing less, — he, looking up, 
 
 "With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, 
 
 " And hav'n't you done it ? " Quoth she, lovingly, 
 
 " I think we have, laddie ; I think we have." 
 
 " Then," quoth he, " I may do what best I like ; 
 
 It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise 
 
 To lielp me in it, and to let me farm ; 
 
 I think of getting into mischief else ! " 
 
 " Is ! do ye, laddie ? " quolh the dame, and laughed. 
 
 " But ask my gi-andfather," the youth went on, 
 
 " To let me have the farm he bought last year, 
 
 The little one, to manage. I like land ; 
 
 I want some." And she, womanlike, gave way 
 
 Convinced ; and promised, and made good her word. 
 
 And that same night upon the matter spoke, 
 
 In presence of the father and the son. 
 
 " Roger," quoth she, " our Laurance wants to farm ; 
 I think he mio;ht do worse." The father sat 
 Mute but right glad. The grandson breaking in
 
 LA URANCE. 5 1 
 
 Set all his wish and his ambition forth ; 
 
 But cunningly the old man hid his joy, 
 
 And made conditions with a faint demur. 
 
 Then pausing, " Let your father speak," quoth he ; 
 
 " I am content if he is " : at his word 
 
 The parson took him, ay, and, parson like, 
 
 Put a rehgious meaning in the work, 
 
 Man's earliest work, and wished his son God speed. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thus all were satisfied, and day by day. 
 
 For two sweet years a happy course was theirs ; 
 
 Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young 
 
 Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife, — 
 
 A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen 
 
 Of sight and hearing to the delicate 
 
 Beauty and music of an altered world ; 
 
 Began to walk in that mysterious light 
 
 Which doth reveal and yet transform ; which gives 
 
 Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, 
 
 Intenser meaning ; in disquieting 
 
 Lifts up ; a shining light : men call it Love. 
 
 Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved ; 
 A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. 
 She never turned from him with sweet caprice, 
 Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hope. 
 Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low,
 
 52 
 
 LAURANCE. 
 
 But excellent in youthful grace came up ; 
 And ere his words were ready, passing on, 
 Had left him all a-tremble ; yet made sure 
 That by her own true will, and fixed intent, 
 She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit 
 He knew she did not love him, yet so long 
 As of a rival unaware, he dwelt 
 All in the present, without fear, or hope, 
 Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, 
 And could not get his head above its wave 
 To reach the far horizon, or to mark 
 Whereto it drifted him. 
 
 So long, so long ; 
 Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate, 
 Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale 
 All in the tolling out of noon. 
 
 'T was thus : 
 Snow-time was come ; it had been snowing hard ; 
 Across the churchyard path he walked ; the clock 
 Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch, 
 Half turning, through a sense that came to him 
 As of some presence in it, he beheld 
 His love, and she had come for shelter there ; 
 And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, 
 The blush of happiness ; and one held up 
 Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped 
 Toward it, sitting by her. her eyes 
 "Were full of peace and tender light : they looked 
 One moment in the ungraced lover's face
 
 LA URANCE. i 
 
 While he vras parsing ia the snow ; and he 
 Eeceived the story, while he raised his hat 
 Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, 
 And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on ; 
 And in a certain way he marked the snow, 
 And walked, and came upon the open heath ; 
 And in a certain way he marked the cold. 
 And walked as one that had no starting-place 
 Might walk, but not to any certain goal. 
 
 And he strode on toward a hollow part, 
 Where from the hillside gravel had been dug^ 
 And he was conscious of a cry, and went 
 Dulled in his sens-e, as though he heard it not ; 
 Till a small farmhouse drudge, a half-grown girl, 
 Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay 
 Against the bushes, crying, " God ! O God, 
 my good God, He sends us help at last." 
 
 Then looking hard upon her, came to him 
 The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth 
 Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed, 
 And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child 
 That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes. 
 
 " I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears ; 
 " Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child. 
 As praying him to take it ; and he did ; 
 And gave to her the shawl, and swathed his charge
 
 54 
 
 LAU RANGE. 
 
 In the foldings of his plaid ; and when it thrust 
 
 Its small round face against his breast, and felt 
 
 With small red hands for warmth, — unbearable 
 
 Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart, 
 
 For the poor upland dwellers had been out 
 
 Since morning dawn, at early milking-time, 
 
 "Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now. 
 
 Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, 
 
 Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on. 
 
 That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child 
 
 Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling through 
 
 The great white storm coming, and coming yet, 
 
 And coming till the world confounded sat 
 
 With all her fair familiar features gone, 
 
 The mountains muffled in an eddying swirl, 
 
 He led or bore them, and the little one 
 
 Peered from her shelter, pleased ; but oft would mourn 
 
 The elder, " They will beat me : my can, 
 
 I left my can of milk upon the moor. 
 
 And he compared her trouble with his own. 
 
 And had no heart to speak. And yet 't was keen ; 
 
 It filled her to the putting down of pain 
 
 And hunger, — what could his do more ? 
 
 He brought 
 The children to their home, and suddenly 
 Regained himself, and wondering at himself. 
 That he had borne, and yet been dumb so long. 
 The weary wailing of the girl : he paid 
 Money to buy her pardon ; heard them say,
 
 LA URANCE. 
 
 " Peace, we have feared for you ; forget the milk, 
 It is uo matter ! " aud Avent forth again 
 And waded in the snow, and quietly 
 Considered in his patience what to do 
 With all the dull remainder of his days. 
 
 With dusk he was at home, and felt it good 
 
 To hear his kindred talking, for it broke 
 
 A mocking, endless echo in his soul, 
 
 " It is no matter ! " and he could not choose 
 
 But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame 
 
 His spirit, " Peace, it is no matter ; peace, 
 
 It is no matter ! " For he felt that all 
 
 Was as it had been, and his father's heart 
 
 Was easy, knowing not how that same day 
 
 Hope with her tender colors and delight 
 
 (He should not care to have him know) were dead ; 
 
 Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear, 
 
 It was no matter. And he heard them talk 
 
 Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields, 
 
 And profitable markets. 
 
 All for him 
 Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam 
 About his head, whenever there was pause ; 
 " It is no matter ! " And his greater self 
 Arose in him and fought. " It matters much, 
 It matters all to these, that not to-day 
 Nor ever they should know it. I will hide 
 The wound ; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. 
 
 55
 
 56 LAURANCE. 
 
 What ! shall I make these three to drink of rue, 
 Because my cup is bitter ? " And he thrust 
 Himself in thought away, and made his ears 
 Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem 
 Another, to make answer, when they spoke, 
 As there had been no snowstorm, and no porch, 
 And no despair. 
 
 So this went on awhile. 
 Until the snow had melted from the wold, 
 And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane, 
 Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. 
 Then, even to trembling he was moved : his speech 
 Faltered ; but when the common kindly words 
 Of greeting were all said, and she passed on, 
 He could not bear her sweetness and his pain. 
 "Mui'iel!" he cried; and when she heard her name, 
 She turned. " You know I love you," he broke out : 
 She answered " Yes," and sighed. 
 
 " O pardon me, 
 Pardon me," quoth the lover ; " let me rest 
 In certainty, and hear it from your mouth : 
 Is he with whom I saw you once of late 
 To call you wife ? " "I hope so," she replied ; 
 And over all her face the rose-bloom came. 
 As thinking on that other, unaware 
 Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, 
 Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, 
 Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, 
 A quickened sense of his great impotence
 
 LAURANCE. 57 
 
 To drive away the doom got hold on him ; 
 He set his teeth to force the unbearable 
 Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes 
 Flashed as with flame. 
 
 And she, all overawed 
 And mastered by his manhood, waited yet, 
 And trembled at the deep she could not sound ; 
 A passionate nature in a storm ; a heart 
 Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp 
 Of an immortal love. 
 
 " Farewell," he said, 
 Recovering words, and when she gave her hand, 
 " My thanks for your good candor ; for I feel 
 That it has cost you something." Then, the blush 
 Yet on her face, she said : " It was your due : 
 But keep this matter from your friends and kin, 
 We would not have it known." Then cold and proud, 
 Because there leaped from under his straight lids. 
 And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise, — 
 " He wills it, and I therefore think it well." 
 Thereon they parted ; but from that time forth, 
 Whether they met on festal eve, in field, 
 Or at the church, she ever bore herself 
 Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain, 
 The disapproval hastily betrayed 
 And quickly hidden hurt her. " 'T was a grace," 
 She thought, " to tell this man the thing he asked, 
 And he rewards me with surprise. I like 
 No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed 
 3*
 
 58 LAURANCE. 
 
 Where lie Dcstowed it." 
 
 But the spring came on : 
 Looking to wed in April all her thoughts 
 Grew loving ; she would fain the world had waxed 
 More happy with her happiness, and oft 
 Walking among the flowerj woods she felt 
 Their loveliness reach down into her heart, 
 And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, 
 The rapture that was satisfied with light, 
 The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite 
 Expansion, through the lovely longed-for spring. 
 
 And as for him, — (Some narrow hearts there are 
 
 That suffer blight when that they fed upon 
 
 As something to complete their being fails, 
 
 And they retire into their holds and jDine, 
 
 And long restrained grow stern. But some there are 
 
 That in a sacred want and hunger rise. 
 
 And draw the misery home and live with it. 
 
 And excellent in honor wait, and will 
 
 That somewhat good should yet be found in it. 
 
 Else wherefore were they born ?), — and as for him. 
 
 He loved her, but his peace and welfare made 
 
 The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange 
 
 Threw open wide its hospitable doors 
 
 And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers, 
 
 Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. 
 
 In him the eyes at home were satisfied, 
 
 And if he did but laugh the ear approved.
 
 LA URANCE. 
 
 What then ? He dwelt among them as of old, 
 And taught his mouth to smile. 
 
 And time went on, 
 Till on a morning, when the perfect spring 
 Rested among her leaves, he journeying home 
 After short sojourn in a neighboring town, 
 Stopped at the little station on the line 
 That ran between his woods ; a lonely place 
 And quiet, and a woman and a child 
 Got out. lie noted them, but walking on 
 Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled 
 By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love. 
 And she was sitting on a rustic seat 
 That overlooked the line, and he desired 
 "With longing indescribable to look 
 Upon her face again. And he drew near. 
 She was right happy ; she was waiting there. 
 He felt that she was waiting for her lord. 
 She cared no whit if Laurance went or stayed. 
 But answered when he spoke, and dropped her cheek 
 In her fair hand. 
 
 And he, not able yet 
 To force himself away, and never more 
 Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers, 
 And wild anemone, for many a clump 
 Grew all about him, and the hazel rods 
 Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard 
 The stopping train, and felt that he must go ; 
 His time was come. There was nought else to do 
 
 59
 
 60 LAURANCE. 
 
 Oi' hope for. "Witli the blossom he drew near, 
 
 And would have had her take it from his hand ; 
 
 But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, 
 
 And then remembering him and his long love, 
 
 She said, " I thank you ; pray you now forget, 
 
 Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes 
 
 Softened ; but he was dumb, till through the trees 
 
 Suddenly broke upon their quietude 
 
 The woman and her child. And Muriel said, 
 
 " What will you ? " She made ansAver quick and keen, 
 
 " Your name, my lady ; 't is your name I want, 
 
 Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased, 
 
 But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, 
 
 As if considering in how short a while 
 
 It would be changed, she lifted up her face 
 
 And gave it, and the little child drew near 
 
 And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. 
 
 Then Laurance, not content to leave them so. 
 
 Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke, — 
 
 " Your errand with this lady ? " — " And your right 
 
 To ask it ? " she broke out with sudden heat 
 
 And passion : " What is that to you ! Poor child ! 
 
 Madam ! " And Muriel lifted up her face 
 
 And looked, — they looked into each other's eyes. 
 
 " That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman cried, 
 " That man with whom you think to wed so soon. 
 You must not heed him. What ! the world is full
 
 LAURANCE. 6 1 
 
 Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, 
 Better than lie, — that I should say it ! — ftir 
 Better," And down her fece the large tears ran, 
 And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up. 
 Taking a terrible meaning from her words ; 
 And Laurance stared about him half in doubt 
 If this were real, for all things were so blithe, 
 And soft air tossed the little flowers about ; 
 The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped, 
 Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both 
 Were quiet, gazing in each other's eyes. 
 
 He found his voice, and spoke : " This is not well, 
 
 Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong ; 
 
 A man that could desert and plan to wed 
 
 "Will not his purpose yield to God and right. 
 
 Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, 
 
 If you be come this day to urge a claim, 
 
 You will not tell me that your claim will hold ; 
 
 'T is only, if I read aright, the old. 
 
 Sorrowful, hateful story ! " 
 
 Muriel sighed, 
 With a dull patience that he marvelled at, 
 " Be plain with me. I know not what to think. 
 Unless you arc his wife. Are you his wife ? 
 Be plain with me." And all too quietly. 
 With running down of tears, the answer came, 
 " Ay, madam, ay ! the worse for him and me." 
 Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear,
 
 62 LA URANCE. 
 
 And cried upon liim with a bitter cry, 
 
 Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, 
 
 With such affright, and violent anger stirred 
 
 He bi'oke from out the thicket to her side. 
 
 Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, 
 
 She sat ; and, stepping close, that woman came 
 
 And faced him. Then said Mux'iel, " O my heart, 
 
 Herbert ! " — and he was dumb, and ground his teeth, 
 
 And lifted up his hand and looked at it, 
 
 And at the woman ; but a man was there 
 
 Who whirled her froia her place, and thrust himself 
 
 Between them ; he was strong, — a stalwart man : 
 
 And Herbert thinking on it, knew his name. 
 
 " What good," quoth he, " though you and I should strive 
 
 And wrestle all this April day ? A word. 
 
 And not a blow, is what these women want : 
 
 Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak 
 
 With passion and great anguish, flung himself 
 
 Upon the seat and cried, " O lost, my love ! 
 
 O Muriel, Muriel ! " And the woman spoke, 
 
 " Sii', 't was an evil day you wed with me ; 
 
 And you were young ; I know it, sir, right well. 
 
 Sir, I have worked ; I have not troubled you, 
 
 Not for myself, nor for your child. I know 
 
 We are not equal." " Hold ! " he cried ; " have done ; 
 
 Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. 
 
 Get from me ! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed ! 
 
 All 's done. You hear it, Muriel ; if you can, 
 
 O sweet, forgive me."
 
 LAURANCE. 6^, 
 
 Then the woman moved 
 Slowly away : her little singing child 
 Went in her wake : and Muriel dropped her hands, 
 And sat before these two that loved her so, 
 Mute and unheeding. There were angry words, 
 She knew, but yet she could not hear the words ; 
 And afterwards the man she loved stooped down 
 And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew 
 To look at her, and with a gesture pray 
 Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed, 
 And presently, and soon, 0, — he was gone. 
 
 She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone, 
 Remained beside her ; and she put her hand 
 Before her face again, and afterward 
 She heard a voice, as if a long way oflf. 
 Some one entreated, but she could not heed. 
 Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised 
 Her passive from her seat. So then she knew 
 That he would have her go with him, go home, — 
 It was not far to go, — a dreary home. 
 A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high, 
 Had in her youth, and for a place and home, 
 Married the stern old rector ; and the girl 
 Dwelt with them : she was orphaned, — had no kin 
 Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in, 
 And spared to her the telling of this woe. 
 He sought her kindred where they sat apart, 
 And laid before them all the cruel thing,
 
 1^ 
 
 64 LA URANCE. 
 
 As he had seen it. After, he retired : 
 
 And restless, and not master of himself, 
 
 lie day and night haunted the rectory lanes ; 
 
 And all things, even to the spreading out 
 
 Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground, 
 
 Or sailing of the slow, wliite cloud, or peace 
 
 And glory and great light on mountain heads, — 
 
 All things were leagued against him, — ministered 
 
 By likeness or by contrast to his love. 
 
 But what was that to Muriel, though her peace 
 He would have purchased for her with all prayers. 
 And costly, passionate, despairing tears ? 
 O what to her that he should find it worse 
 To bear her life's undoing than his own ? 
 
 D 
 
 She let him see her, and she made no moan, 
 
 But talked full calmly of indifferent things, 
 
 "Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes 
 
 And lovely wasted cheek, he started up 
 
 With " This I cannot bear ! " and shamed to feel 
 
 His manhood giving way, and utterly 
 
 Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain. 
 
 Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, 
 
 Battling and chiding with himself, the maze. 
 
 She suffered, and he could not make her well 
 For all his loving ; — he was naught to her. 
 And now his passionate nature, set astir,
 
 LA URANCE. 65 
 
 Fought with the pain that could not be endured ; 
 And hke a wild thing suddenly aware 
 That it is caged, which flings and bruises all 
 Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged 
 Against the misery : then he made all worse 
 "With tears. But when he came to her again, 
 Willing to talk as they had talked before. 
 She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, 
 " I know you have been crying " : and she bent 
 Her own fair head and wept. 
 
 She felt the cold — 
 The freezing cold that deadened all her life — 
 Give way a little ; for this passionate 
 Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart, 
 And brought some natural warmth, some natural tears. 
 
 III. 
 
 And after that, though oft he sought her door, 
 
 He might not see her. First they said to him, 
 
 " She is not well " ; and afterwards, " Her wish 
 
 Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste 
 
 They took her from the place, because so fast 
 
 She faded. As for him, though youth and strength 
 
 Can bear the weight as of a world, at last 
 
 The burden of it tells, — he heard it said. 
 
 When autumn came, " The poor sweet thing Avill die : 
 
 That shock was mortal." And he cared no more 
 
 To hide, if yet he could have hidden, the blight 
 
 E
 
 66 LA URANCE. 
 
 That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south 
 To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, 
 Good, kindly women ; and he wrote to them, 
 Praying that he might see her ere she died. 
 
 So in her patience she permitted him 
 
 To be about her, for it eased his heart ; 
 
 And as for her that was to die so soon, 
 
 What did it signify ? She let him weep 
 
 Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke 
 
 Pitying words, and then they made him go, 
 
 It was enough they said, her time was short, 
 
 And he had seen her. He had seen, and felt 
 
 The bitterness of death ; but he went home, 
 
 Being satisfied in that great longing now, 
 
 And able to endure what might befall. 
 
 And Muriel lay, and faded with the year ; 
 She lay at the door of death, that opened not 
 To take her in ; for when the days once more 
 Began a little to increase, she felt, — 
 And it was sweet to her, she was so young, — 
 She felt a longing for the time of flowers, 
 And dreamed that she was walking in that wood 
 With her two feet among the primroses. 
 
 Then when the violet opened, she rose up 
 And walked : the tender leaf and tender light 
 Did solace her ; but she was white and wan,
 
 LAURANCE. 6/ 
 
 The shadow of that Muriel, in the wood 
 Who listened to those deadly words. 
 
 And now 
 Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, 
 Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder rose 
 In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, 
 Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay, 
 And drifted not at all. The lilac spread 
 Odorous essence round her ; and full oft, 
 When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer, 
 She, faded, sat among the Maytide bloom, 
 And with a reverent quiet in her soul. 
 Took back — it was His will — her time, and sat 
 Learning again to live. 
 
 Thus as she sat 
 Upon a day, she was aware of one 
 Who at a distance marked her. This again 
 Another day, and she was vexed, for yet 
 She longed for quiet ; but she heard a foot 
 Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. 
 " Laurence ! " And all impatient of unrest 
 And strife, ay, even of the sight of them, 
 When he drew near, with tired, tired lips, 
 As if her soul upbraided him, she said, 
 " Why have you done this thing ? " He answered her, 
 " I am not always master in the fight : 
 I could not help it." 
 
 " What ! " she sighed, " not yet ! 
 O, I am sorry " ; and she talked to him
 
 eS LA URANCE. 
 
 As one wlio looked to live, imploring him, — 
 " Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell 
 Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long ; 
 It wearies me to think of this your love. 
 Forget me ! " 
 
 He made answer, " I will try : 
 The task will take me all my life to learn, 
 Or were it learned, I know not how to live ; 
 This pain is jDart of life and being now, — 
 It is myself; but yet — but I will try." 
 Then she spoke friendly to him, — of his home, 
 His father, and the old, brave, loving folk ; 
 She bade him think of them. And not her words, 
 But having seen her, satisfied his heart. 
 He left her, and went home to live his life, 
 And all the summer heard it said of her, 
 " Yet, she grows stronger " ; but when autumn came 
 Again she drooped. 
 
 A bitter thing it is 
 To lose at once the lover and the love ; 
 For who receiveth not may yet keep life 
 In the spirit with bestowal. But for her, 
 This Muriel, all was gone. The man she loved, 
 Not only from her present had withdrawn. 
 But from her past, and there was no such man, 
 There never had been. 
 
 He was not as one 
 Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holds 
 The winged fluttering stranger to his breast,
 
 LA URANCE. 6g 
 
 Till, after transient stay, all unaware 
 
 It leaves him : it has flown. No ; this may live 
 
 In memory, — loved till death. He was not vile; 
 
 For who by choice would part with that pure bird, 
 
 And lose the exaltation of its song ? 
 
 He had not strength of will to keep it fast. 
 
 Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life 
 
 Of thought to make the echo sound for him 
 
 After the song was done. Pity that man : 
 
 His music is all flown, and he forgets 
 
 The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks 
 
 'T was no great matter. But he was not vile, 
 
 Only a thing to pity most in man, 
 
 "Weak, — only poor, and, if he knew it, undone. 
 
 But Herbert ! When she mused on it, her soul 
 
 Would fain have hidden him forevermore. 
 
 Even from herself: so pure of speech, so frank, 
 
 So full of household kindness. Ah, so good 
 
 And true ! A little, she had sometimes thought, 
 
 Despondent for himself, but strong of faith 
 
 In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed. 
 
 Ay, he was gone ! and she whom he had wed, 
 As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. 
 And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send, 
 From her small store, money to help her need, 
 With, " Pray you keep it secret." Then the whole 
 Of the cruel tale was told. 
 
 What more ? She died.
 
 70 
 
 LA URANCE. 
 
 Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly, 
 "Wrote of the end. " Our sister fain had seen 
 Her husband ; prayed him sore to come. But no. 
 And then she prayed him that he would forgive. 
 Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. 
 Dear madam, he was angry, yet we think 
 He might have let her see, before she died, 
 The words she wanted, but he did not write 
 Till she was gone — ' I neither can forgive, 
 Nor would I if I could.'" 
 
 " Patience, my heart ! 
 And this, then, is the man I loved ! " 
 
 But yet 
 He sought a lower level, for he wrote 
 Telling the story with a different hue. 
 Telling of freedom. He desired to come, 
 " For now," said he, " O love, may all be well." 
 And she rose up against it in her soul. 
 For she despised him. And with passionate tears 
 Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these words, — 
 " Herbert, I will not see you." 
 
 Then she drooped 
 Again ; it is so bitter to despise ; 
 
 And all her strength, when autumn leaves down dropped. 
 Fell from her. " Ah ! " she thought, " I rose n^ once, 
 I cannot rise up now ; here is the end." 
 And all her kinsfolk thought, " It is the end." 
 
 But when that other heard, " It is the end,"
 
 LAURANCE. 7 1 
 
 His heart was sick, and he, as by a power 
 Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. 
 Reason rebelled against it, but his will 
 Required it of him with a craving strong 
 As life, and passionate though hopeless pain. 
 
 She, when she saw his face, considered him 
 
 Full quietly, let all excuses pass 
 
 Not answered, and considered yet again. 
 
 " He had heard that she was sick ; what could he do 
 But come, and ask her pardon that he came ? " 
 "What could he do, indeed ? — a weak white girl 
 Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand ; 
 His youth, and power, and majesty were hers, 
 And not his own. 
 
 She looked, and pitied him. 
 Then spoke : " He loves me with a love that lasts. 
 Ah, me ! that I might get away from it, 
 Or, better, hear it said that love is not. 
 And then I could have rest. My time is short, 
 I think, so short." And roused against himself 
 In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom 
 Her to disquiet whom he loved ; ay, her 
 For whom he would have given all his rest, 
 If there were any left t.o give ; he took 
 Her words up bravely, promising once more 
 Absence, and praying pai'don ; but some tears 
 Dropped quietly upon her cheek.
 
 72 
 
 LA URANCE. 
 
 " Remain," 
 She said, " for there is something to be told, 
 Some words that you must hear. 
 
 " And first hear this ; 
 God has been good to me ; you must not think 
 That I despair. There is a quiet time 
 Like evening in my soul. I have no heart, 
 For cruel Herbert killed it long ago, 
 And death strides on. Sit, then, and give your mind 
 To listen, and your eyes to look at me. 
 Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is ; 
 Look at my hand, — my beauty is all gone." 
 And Laurance lifted up his eyes ; he looked. 
 But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, 
 Far otherwise than she had willed, — they said, 
 " Lovelier than ever." 
 
 Yet her words went on, 
 Cold and so quiet, " I have suffered much. 
 And I would fain that none who care for me 
 Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. 
 Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, 
 "I have brought my mind of late to think of this : 
 Tbat since your hfe is spoilt (not willingly, 
 My God, not willingly by me), 't were well 
 To give you choice of griefs. 
 
 ■" "Were it not best 
 To weep for a dead love, and afterwards 
 Be comforted the sooner, that she died 
 Bemote, and left not in your house and life
 
 LA URANCE. 73 
 
 Aught to remind you ? That indeed were best. 
 But were it best to weep for a dead wife, 
 And let the sorrow spend and satisfy 
 Itself with all expression, and so end ? 
 I think not so ; but if for you 't is best. 
 Then, — do not answer with too sudden words: 
 It matters much to you ; not much, not much 
 To me, — then truly I will die your wife ; 
 I will marry you." 
 
 What was he like to say, 
 But, overcome with love and tears, to choose 
 The keener sorrow, — take it to his heart. 
 Cherish it, make it part of him, and watch 
 Those eyes that were his light till they shoukl close? 
 
 He answered her with eager, faltering words, 
 
 "I choose, — my heart is yours, — die in ray arnas." 
 
 But was it well ? Truly, at first, for him 
 
 It was not well : he saw her fade, and cried, 
 
 " When may this be ? " She answered, " When you will," 
 
 And cared not much, for very faint she grew, 
 
 Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thou^-ht, 
 
 " If I could slip away before the ring 
 
 Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot 
 
 For both, — a blessed thing for him, and me." 
 
 But it was not so ; for the day had come, — 
 Was over : days and montbs had come, and Death, — 
 4
 
 74 
 
 LA URANCE. 
 
 Within whose shadow she had lain, which made 
 
 Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness. 
 
 Indifferent, — Death withdrew himself, and life 
 
 "Woke up, and found that it was folded fast. 
 
 Drawn to another life forevermore. 
 
 O, what a waking ! After it there came 
 
 Great silence. She got up once more, in spring, 
 
 And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. 
 
 She thought within herself, " What have I done ? 
 
 How shall I do the rest ? " And he, who felt 
 
 Her inmost thought, was silent even as she. 
 
 "What have we done?" she thought. But as for him, 
 
 When she began to look him in the face, 
 
 Considering, " Thus and thus his features are," 
 
 For she had never thought on them before, 
 
 She read their grave repose aright. She knew 
 
 That in the stronghold of his heart, held back, 
 
 Hidden reserves of measureless content 
 
 Kept house with happy thought, for her sake mute. 
 
 Most patient Muriel ! when he brought her home. 
 She took the place they gave her, — strove to please 
 His kin, and did not fail ; but yet thought on, 
 " What have I done ? how shall I do the rest ? 
 Ah ! so contented, Laurance, with this wife 
 That loves you not, for all the stateliness 
 And grandeur of your manhood, and the deeps 
 In your blue eyes." And after that awhile 
 She rested from such thinking, put it by
 
 LAURANCE. 75 
 
 And waited. She had thought on death before : 
 But no, this Muriel was not yet to die ; 
 And when she saw her little tender babe, 
 She felt how much the happy days of life 
 Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny thing, 
 "Whom when it slept the lovely mother nursed 
 With reverent love, whom when it woke she fed 
 And wondered at, and lost herself in long 
 Rapture of watching, and contentment deep. 
 
 Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee, 
 Her husband and his father standing nigh. 
 About to ride, the grandmother, all pride 
 And consequence, so deep in learned talk 
 Of infants, and their little ways and wiles, 
 Broke off" to say, " I never saw a babe 
 So like its father." And the thought was new 
 To Muriel ; she looked up, and when she looked, 
 Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom 
 Flushing her face, would fain he had not known. 
 Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know ; 
 Yet there was pleasure in his smile, and love 
 Tender and strong. He kissed her, kissed his babe. 
 With " Goody, you are left in charge, take care " — 
 "As if I needed telling," quoth the dame ; 
 And they were gone. 
 
 Then Muriel, lost in thought, 
 Gazed ; and the grandmother, with open pride. 
 Tended the lovely pair ; till Muriel said,
 
 76 LAURANCE. 
 
 "Is slie so like ? Dear granny, get me now 
 The picture that his father has " ; and soon 
 The old woman put it in her hand. 
 
 The wife, 
 Considering it with deep and strange delight, 
 Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned. 
 
 A mouth for mastery and manful work, 
 A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, 
 A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair 
 Saxon of hue. She conned ; then blushed again, 
 Remembering now, when she had looked on him, 
 The sudden radiance of her husband's smile. 
 
 But Muriel did not send the picture back ; 
 She kept it ; while her beauty and her babe 
 Flourished together, and in health and peace 
 She lived. 
 
 Her husband never said to her, 
 "Love, are you happy?" never said to her, 
 "Sweet, do you love me?" and at first, whene'er 
 They rode together in the lanes, and paused. 
 Stopping their horses, when the day was hot, 
 In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds, 
 Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks 
 That topped the mountains, — when she sat by him, 
 Withdrawn at even while the summer stars 
 Came starting out of nothing, as new made. 
 She felt a little trouble, and a wish
 
 LA URANCE. jy 
 
 That he would yet keep silence, and he did. 
 That one reserve he would not touch, but still 
 Respected. 
 
 Muriel grew more brave in time, 
 And talked at ease, and felt disquietude 
 Fade. And another child was given to her. 
 
 "Now we shall do," the old great-grandsire cried, 
 "For this is the right sort, a boy." " Fie, fie," 
 Quoth the good dame ; but never heed you, love, 
 He thinks them both as right as right can be." 
 
 But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy 
 Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go, 
 But yet he said, " I must " : and she was left 
 Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care 
 "Was like a mother's ; and the two could talk 
 Sweetly, for all the difference in their years. 
 
 But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish 
 
 That she had known why Laurance left her thus. 
 
 "Ay, love," the dame made answer; "for he said, 
 
 * Goody,' before he left, ' if Muriel ask 
 
 No question, tell her naught ; but if she let 
 
 Any disquietude appear to you, 
 
 Say what you know.' " " What ? " Muriel said, and 
 
 laughed, 
 "I ask, then." 
 
 " Child, it is that your old love,
 
 7^ 
 
 LA URANCE. 
 
 Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start : 
 He 's gone. He came, our Laurance met him near ; 
 Pie said that he was going over seas, 
 'And might I see your wife this only once, 
 And get her pardon ? ' " 
 
 " Mercy ! " Muriel cried, 
 "But Laui-ance doas not wish it?" 
 
 " Nay, now, nay," 
 Quoth the good dame. 
 
 " I cannot," Muriel cried ; 
 "He does not, surely, think I should." 
 
 " Not he," 
 The kind old woman said, right soothingly. 
 " Does not he ever know, love, ever do 
 What you like best ? " 
 
 And Muriel, trembling yet. 
 Agreed. " I heard him say," the dame went on, 
 "For I was with him when they met that day, 
 'It would not be agreeable to my wife.'" 
 
 Then Muriel, pondering, — " And he said no more ? 
 You think he did not add, 'nor to myself?'" 
 And with her soft, calm, inward voice, the dame 
 Unruffled answered, " No, sweet heart, not he : 
 What need he care ? " " And why not ? " Muriel cried. 
 Longing to hear the answer. " O, he knows. 
 He knows, love, very well " : with that she smiled. 
 "Bless your fair face, you have not really thought 
 He did not know you loved him ? "
 
 LAURANCE. 
 
 79 
 
 Muriel said, 
 "He never toU me, goody, that he knew." 
 " Well," quoth the dame, " but it may chance, my dear, 
 That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep : 
 "Wliy need to rouse them ? You are happy, sure ? 
 But if one asks, ' Art happy ? ' why, it sets 
 The thoughts a-working. No, say I, let love, 
 Let peace and happj' folk alone. 
 
 " He said, 
 'It would not be agreeable to my wife.' 
 And he went on to add, in course of time 
 That he would ask you, when it suited you, 
 To write a few kind words." 
 
 " Yes," Muriel said, 
 "I can do that." 
 
 " So Laurance went, you see," 
 The soft voice added, " to take down that child. 
 Laurance had written oft about the child. 
 And now, at last, the father made it known 
 He could not take him. He has lost, they say. 
 His money, with much gambling ; now he wants 
 To lead a good, true, working life. He wrote. 
 And let this so be seen, that Laurance went 
 And took the child, and took the money down 
 To pay." 
 
 And Muriel found her talking sweet. 
 And asked once more, the rather that she lon<xed 
 To speak again of Laurance, " And you think 
 He knows I love him ? "
 
 8o LAURANCE. 
 
 " Ay, good sootli, he knows 
 No fear ; but he is like his father, love. 
 His father never asked my pretty child 
 One prying question ; took her as she was ; 
 Trusted her ; she has told me so : he knew 
 A woman's nature. Laurance is the same. 
 He knows you love him ; but he will not speak ; 
 No, never. Some men are such gentlemen ! "
 
 SONGS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE NIGHT WATCHES
 
 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES, 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OF EVENING, AND A 
 CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY DAY. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 (^Old English Man7ier.) 
 
 APPRENTICED. 
 
 ■ OME out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet 
 hoot, the owlet hoot ; 
 Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim 
 behind the tree, O ! 
 The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest 
 lass, and sweetest lass ; 
 Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft 
 with me, ! " 
 
 " My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, 
 and drops her reel ; 
 My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can 
 be, O!
 
 84 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 
 
 But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere 
 light wax dim ; 
 How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with 
 thee, 0?" 
 
 " And must ye bide, yet waiting 's long, and love is strong, 
 and love is strong ; 
 And ! had I but served the time, that takes so long 
 to flee, ! 
 And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, 
 wast aU in white. 
 And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and 
 thee, 0." 
 
 THE FIRST WATCH. 
 TIRED. 
 
 O, I WOULD tell you more, but I am tired ; 
 
 For I have longed, and I have had my will ; 
 I pleaded in my spirit, I desired : 
 
 " Ah ! let me only see him, and be still 
 All my days after." 
 
 Eock, and rock, and rock, 
 Over the falling, rising watery world, 
 
 Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main ;
 
 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 8$ 
 
 The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock 
 
 To light on a warmer plain. 
 White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled, 
 
 Fall over in harmless play, 
 
 As these do far away ; 
 Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea, 
 All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 I am so tired, 
 If I would comfort me, I know not how, 
 
 For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired, 
 And I have nothing left to long for now. 
 
 Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee. 
 
 Often and often, while the light grew dim. 
 And through the lilac branches I could see, 
 Under a safl^ron sky, the purple rim 
 O' the heaving moorland ? Ay. And then would float 
 Up from behind as it were a golden boat, 
 Freisfhted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life, 
 
 Love — such a slender moon, going up and up, 
 Waxing so fast from night to night, 
 And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright. 
 
 Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, 
 And hold to my two lips life's best of wine. 
 Most beautiful crescent moon. 
 Ship of the sky I
 
 86 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 
 
 Across the unfurrowed reaches sailing high. 
 
 Methought that it would come my way full soon, 
 Laden with blessings that were all, all mine, — 
 A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife, 
 That ere its day was done should hear thee call me wife. 
 
 in. 
 
 All over ! ilie celestial sign hath failed ; 
 
 The orange flower-bud shuts ; the ship hath sailed, 
 
 And sunk behind tlie long low-lying hills. 
 The love that fed on daily kisses dieth ; 
 The love kept warm by nearness, lieth 
 
 Wounded and wan ; 
 The love hope nourished bitter tears distils, 
 
 And faints with naught to feed upon. 
 Only there stirreth very deep below 
 The hidden beating slow, 
 
 And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath 
 Of the love that conquers death. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear. 
 
 My ever, my only dear ? 
 
 Yes ; and I saw thee start upon thy way, 
 So sure that we should meet 
 Upon our trysting-da}'. 
 And even absence then to me was sweet,
 
 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 8/ 
 
 Because it brought me time to brood 
 Upon thy clearness in the solitude. 
 But ah ! to stay, and stay, 
 And let that moon of April wane itself away, 
 
 And let the lovely May 
 Make ready all her buds for June ; 
 And let the glossy finch forego her tune 
 That she brought with her in the spring, 
 And never more, I think, to me can sing ; 
 And then to lead thee home another bride. 
 
 In the sultry summertide, 
 And all forget me save for shame full sore. 
 That made thee pray me, absent, " See my face no more." 
 
 O hard, most hard ! But while my fretted heart 
 Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, 
 Sobbed to itself apart, 
 Ached to itself in vain. 
 One came who loveth me 
 
 As I love thee 
 
 And let my God remember him for this, 
 As I do hope He will forget thy kiss. 
 Nor visit on thy stately head 
 Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyes have 
 
 said 
 
 He came, and it was dark. He came, and sighed 
 Because he knew the sorrow, — whispering low.
 
 88 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 
 
 And fast, and thick, as one that speaks by rote : 
 " The vessel lieth in the river reach, 
 
 A mile above the beach. 
 And she will sail at the turning o' the tide." 
 
 He said, " I have a boat, 
 
 And were it good to go, 
 And unbeholden in the vessel's wake 
 Look on the man thou lovedst, and forgive. 
 As he embarks, a shamefaced fugitive. 
 Come, then, with me." 
 
 VI. 
 
 0, how he sighed ! The little stars did wink. 
 And it was very dark. I gave my hand, — 
 He led me out across the pasture land, 
 And through the narrow croft, 
 Down to the river's brink. 
 When thou wast full in spring, thou little sleepy thing. 
 The yellow flags that broidered thee would stand 
 Up to their chins in water, and full oft 
 We pulled them and the other shining flowers, 
 
 That all are gone to-day : 
 We two, that had so many things to say, 
 So many hopes to render clear : 
 And they are all gone after thee, my dear, — 
 Gone after those sweet hours. 
 That tender light, that balmy rain ; 
 Gone " as a wind that passeth away, 
 And Cometh not again."
 
 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 89 
 VII. 
 
 I only saw the stars, — I could not see 
 The river, — and they seemed to lie 
 As far below as the other stars were hic;h. 
 
 I trembled like a thing about to die : 
 It was so awful 'neath the majesty 
 Of that great crystal height, that overhung 
 The blackness at our feet, 
 Unseen to fleet and fleet 
 The flocking stars among, 
 And only hear the dipping of the oar. 
 And the small wave's caressing of the darksome shore. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Less real it was than any dream. 
 Ah me ! to hear the bending willows shiver, 
 As we shot quickly from the silent river, 
 
 And felt the swaying and the flow 
 That bore us down the deeper, wider stream, 
 
 Whereto its nameless waters iro : 
 O ! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes, 
 
 See that weird sight again ; 
 The lights from anchored vessels hung ; 
 The phantom moon, that sprung 
 Suddenly up in dim and angry wise, 
 
 From the rim o' the moaning main, 
 
 And touched with elfin light
 
 90 
 
 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 
 
 The two long oars whereby we made our flight, 
 
 Along the reaches of the night ; 
 Then furrowed up a lowering cloud, 
 Went in, and left us darker than before, 
 To feel our way as the midnight watches wore, 
 And lie in her lee, with mournful faces bowed, 
 That should receive and bear with her away 
 The brightest portion of my sunniest day, — 
 The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the shore. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And I beheld thee : saw the lantern flash 
 
 Down on thy face, when thou didst climb the side. 
 
 And thou wert pale, pale as the patient bride 
 
 That followed ; both a little sad, 
 Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad, 
 
 That once did bear thee on. 
 That brow of thine had lost ; the fervor rash 
 Of unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone. 
 O, what a little moment, what a crumb 
 Of comfort for a heart to feed upon ! 
 
 And that was all its sum ; 
 
 A glimpse, and not a meeting, — 
 
 A drawing near by night. 
 To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting, 
 And all between the flashing of a light 
 
 And its retreating.
 
 SONGS OF TEE NIGHT WATCHES. 
 
 Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings, 
 The ship, — and weighed her anchor to depart, 
 "We stole from her dark lee, like guilty things ; 
 
 And there was silence in my heart. 
 And silence in the upper and the nether deep. 
 
 O sleep ! sleep ! 
 Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep. 
 Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand 
 Over the lids that crave thy visits bland. 
 Thou kind, thou comforting one : 
 For I have seen his face, as I desired, 
 And all my story is done. 
 O, I am tired ! 
 
 91 
 
 THE MIDDLE WATCH. 
 
 I. 
 
 I WOKE in the night, and the darkness was heavy and 
 deep : 
 I had known it was dark in my sleep. 
 And I rose and looked out, 
 And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick 
 
 round about 
 With the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too far
 
 92 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 
 
 For man's heart, like a voyaging frigate, to sail, where 
 remote 
 In the sheen of their glory they float, 
 Or man's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams to 
 partake. 
 And dazed in their wake, 
 Drink day that is born of a star. 
 I murmured, " Remoteness and greatness, how deep you 
 are set. 
 How afar in the rim of the whole ; 
 You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, 0, nor 
 yet 
 Of our light-bearer, — drawing the marvellous moons 
 as they roll. 
 Of our regent, the sun. 
 I look on you tx'embling, and think, in the dark with my 
 
 soul, 
 " How small is our place 'mid the kingdoms and nations 
 of God: 
 These are greater than we, every one." 
 And there falls a great fear, and a dread cometh over, 
 that cries, 
 " my hope ! Is there any mistake ? 
 Did He speak ? Did I hear ? Did I listen aright, if He 
 
 spake ? 
 Did I answer Him duly ? For surely I now am awake, 
 
 If never I woke until now." 
 And a light, baffling wind, that leads no whither, plaj's on 
 my brow.
 
 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 93 
 
 As a sleep, I mast think on ray day, of my path as un- 
 
 trod. 
 Or trodden in dreams, in a dreamland whose coasts are a 
 
 doubt ; 
 "Whose countries recede from my thoughts, as they grope 
 round about. 
 And vanish, and tell me not how. 
 Be kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, dwelling in light, 
 
 And feeding the lamps of the sky ; 
 Look down upon this one, and let it be sweet in Thy 
 sight, 
 I pray Tliee, to-night. 
 O watch whom Thou madest to dwell on its soil, Tiiou 
 
 Most High ! 
 For this is a world full of sorrow (tliere may be but 
 
 one) ; 
 Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye are 
 undone. 
 For this is a world where we die. 
 
 II. 
 
 With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and that 
 yearned, 
 (There fell a great calm while it spake,) 
 I had heard it erewhile, but the noises of life are so loud, 
 That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and tlie 
 
 crowd : 
 To the simple it cometh, — the child, or asleep, or awake.
 
 94 
 
 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 
 
 And they know not from whence ; of its nature the wise 
 
 never learned 
 By his wisdom ; its secret the worker ne'er earned 
 By his toil ; and the rich among men never bought with 
 his gold ; 
 Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled, 
 
 Nor the jester put down with his jeers 
 (For it moves where it will), nor its season the 
 aged discerned 
 By thought, in the ripeness of years. 
 
 elder than reason, and stronger than will ! 
 A voice, when the dark world is still : 
 Whence cometh it? Father Immortal, thou knowest! 
 
 and we, — 
 We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent us 
 
 of Thee ; 
 For it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty and 
 
 dread, 
 And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears that 
 
 we shed ; 
 It is more than all meanings, and over all strife ; 
 On its tongue are the laws of our life, 
 And it counts up the times of the dead. 
 
 in. 
 
 I will fear you, stars, never more. 
 I have felt it ! Go on, while the world is asleep,
 
 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 95 
 
 Golden islands, fast moored in God's infinite deep. 
 Hark, hark to tlie words of sweet fashion, the harpings of 
 
 yore ! 
 How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in tlie far away 
 lands : 
 " The heavens are the work of Thy hands ; 
 They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure ; 
 Yea, they all shall wax old, — 
 But Thy throne is established, O God, and Thy years arc 
 made sure ; 
 They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure, — 
 They shall pass like a tale that is told." 
 
 Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days ? 
 Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of 
 men? 
 (Hist ! hist ! while the heaven-hung multitudes shine in 
 
 His praise. 
 His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them first ; 
 it was then 
 They lifted their eyes to His throne ; 
 " They shall call on Me, ' Thou art our Father, our God, 
 
 Thou alone ! ' 
 For I made them, I led them in deserts and desolate 
 ways ; 
 I have found them a Ransom Divine ; 
 I have loved them with love everlasting, the children of 
 men ; 
 I swear by Myself, they are Mine."
 
 96 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 
 
 THE MORNING WATCH. 
 
 THE COMING IN OF THE "MERMAIDEN." 
 
 THE moon is bleached as white as wool, 
 And just dropping under; 
 Every star is gone but three, 
 
 And they hang far asundei', — 
 There 's a sea-ghost all in gray, 
 A tall shape of wonder ! 
 
 I am not satisfied with sleep, — 
 
 The night is not ended. 
 But look how the sea-ghost comes. 
 
 With wan skirts extended, 
 Stealing up in this weird hour, 
 
 When li2:ht and dark are blended. 
 
 A vessel ! To the old pier end 
 Her happy course she 's keeping ; 
 
 I heard them name her yesterday : 
 Some were pale with weeping ; 
 
 Some with their heart-hunger sighed. 
 She 's in, — and they are sleeping.
 
 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. gy 
 
 O ! now with fancied greetings blest, 
 
 They comfort their long aching : 
 The sea of sleep bath borne to them 
 
 "What would not come with wakin^^. 
 And the dreams shall most be true 
 
 In their blissful breakine;. 
 
 The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes, — 
 
 No blush of maid is sweeter ; 
 The red sun, half way out of bed, 
 
 Shall be the first to gi'eet her. 
 None tell the news, yet sleepers wake, 
 
 And rise, and run to meet her. 
 
 Their lost they have, they hold ; from pain 
 
 A keener bliss they borrow. 
 How natural is joy, my heart ! 
 
 How easy after sorrow ! 
 For once, the best is come that hope 
 
 Promised them " to-morrow."
 
 98 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 
 
 CONCLUDING SONG OF DAWN. 
 
 (Old English llanner.) 
 
 A MORN OF MAY. 
 
 ALL the clouds about the sun lay up in golden 
 creases, 
 (Merry rings the maiden's voice that sings at dawn of 
 
 day;) 
 Lambkins woke and skipped around to dry their dewy 
 
 fleeces, 
 So sweetly as she carolled, all on a morn of May. 
 
 Quoth the Sergeant, " Here I '11 halt ; here 's wine of joy 
 
 for drinking ; 
 To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings doth 
 
 play; 
 All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking, 
 And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of May." 
 
 Quoth the Sergeant, " Work is work, but any ye might 
 
 make me. 
 If I worked for you, dear lass, I 'd count my holiday. 
 I 'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but take 
 
 me, 
 So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May."
 
 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 99 
 
 " Medals count for worth," quoth she, " and scars are 
 
 worn for honor ; 
 But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way." 
 All the nodding daffodils w^oke up and laughed upon her. 
 ! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May. 
 
 Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast and 
 
 faster, 
 Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the dull 
 
 delay : 
 " Beauty ! when I said a slave, I think I meant a master ; 
 So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn of May. 
 
 " Lass, I love you ! Love is strong, and some men's 
 
 hearts are tender." 
 Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not aught 
 
 to say ; 
 Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any counsel 
 
 render. 
 Though sweetly she had carolled upon that morn of May. 
 
 Shy, she sought the wooer's face, and deemed the wooing 
 
 mended ; 
 Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have his 
 
 way: 
 So the lass was made a wife, and so the song was ended. 
 ! sweetly she did carol all on that morn of May.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM, 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 ILOIYA said to Noab, " What aileth thee, 
 My master, unto whom is my desire, 
 The father of my sons ? " He answei'ed her, 
 " Mother of many children, I have heard 
 The Voice again." " Ah, me ! " she saith, " ah, me ! 
 What spake it ? " Niloiya sighed. 
 
 This when the Master-builder heard, his heart 
 
 Was sad in him, the while he sat at home 
 
 And rested after toil. The steady rap 
 
 O' the shipwright's hammer sounding up the vale 
 
 Did seem to mock him ; but her distaff down 
 
 Niloiya laid, and to the doorplace went. 
 
 Parted the purple covering seemly hung 
 
 Ijefore it, and let in the crimson lisrht 
 
 Of the descending sun. Then looked he forth, — 
 
 Looked, and beheld the hollow where tlie ark 
 
 Was a-preparing ; where the dew distilled
 
 > 1 1 > 1 
 
 A STORY OF l)003l jqi 
 
 All night from leaves of old ligri aloe-'treesj 
 Upon the gliding river ; where tlie palm, 
 The almug, and the gophir shot their heads 
 Into the crimson brede that dyed the world : 
 And lo ! he marked — unwieldy, dark, and huge — 
 The ship, his glory and his grief, — too vast 
 For that still river's floating, — building far 
 From mightier streams, amid the pastox-al dells 
 Of shepherd kings. 
 
 Niloiya spake again : 
 " "What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man ? " 
 He, laboi'ing with his thought that troubled him, 
 Spoke on behalf of God : " Behold," said he, 
 " A little handful of unlovely dust 
 He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when 
 He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed warm, 
 And with His breath awoke a living soul. 
 
 •* > 
 
 J > 3 5 
 
 '» 
 
 " Shall not the Fashioner command His work? 
 And who am I, that, if He whisper, ' Rise, 
 Go forth upon Mine errand,' should reply, 
 ' Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons, — 
 I love not scorning : I beseech Thee, God, 
 Have me excused.' " 
 
 She answered him, " Tell on. 
 And he continuing, reasoned with his soul : 
 " "What though I, — like some goodly lama sunk 
 In meadow grass, eating her way at ease, 
 Unseen of them that pass, and asking not
 
 I02 '^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 ' A -rtiuei-'jirospeci than of yellow-flowers 
 That nod above her head, — should lay me down, 
 And willingly forget this high behest, 
 There should be yet no tarrying. Furthermore, 
 Though I went forth to cry against the doom. 
 Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down : 
 It hangeth balanced over us ; she crieth, 
 And it shall fall. O ! as for me, my life 
 Is bitter, looking onward, for I know 
 That in the fulness of the time shall dawn 
 That day : my preaching shall not bring forth fruit. 
 Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float 
 Upon the abhorred sea, that mankind hate, 
 With thee and thine." 
 
 She answered : " God forbid ! 
 For, sir, though men be evil, yet the deep 
 They dread, and at the last will surely turn 
 To Ilim, and He long-suffering will forgive. 
 And chide the waters back to their abyss, 
 To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed. 
 Sir, I am much afraid : I would not hear 
 Of riding on the waters : look you, sir, 
 Better it were to die with you by hand 
 Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me ! 
 Rolling among the furrows of the unquiet, 
 Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea." 
 
 He saith again : " I pray thee, woman, peace, 
 For thou wilt enter, when that day appears,
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 103 
 
 The fateful ship." 
 
 " My lord," quoth she, " I will. 
 But O, good sir, be sure of this, be sui'e 
 The Master calleth ; for the time is long 
 That thou hast warned the world : thou art but here 
 Three days ; the song of welcoming but now 
 Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad ; 
 And wilt thou go again ? Husband, I say, 
 Be sure who 't is that calleth ; O, be sure, 
 Be sure. My mother's ghost came up last night, 
 "Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands did kiss. 
 Leaning anear thee, wakeful through my love. 
 And watchful of thee till the moon went down. 
 
 " She never loved me since I went with thee 
 To sacrifice among the hills : she smelt 
 The holy smoke, and could no more divine 
 Till the new moon. I saw her ghost come up ; 
 It had a snake with a red comb of fire 
 Twisted about its waist, — the doggish head 
 Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me. 
 ' This woman might be wiser,' quoth the ghost ; 
 ' Shall there be husbands for her found below. 
 When she comes down to us ? O, fool ! O, fool ! 
 She must not let her man go forth, to leave 
 Her desolate, and reap the whole world's scorn, 
 A harvest for himself.' With that they passed." 
 
 He said, " My crystal drop of perfectness,
 
 104 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 I pity thee ; it was an evil gliost : 
 Thou wilt not heed the counsel ? " "I will not," 
 Quoth she ; " I am loyal to the Highest. Him 
 I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best. 
 Sir, am I fairer than when last we met ? " 
 
 " God add," said ho, " unto thy much yet more, 
 As I do think thou art." " And think you, sir," 
 Niloiya saith, " that I have reached the prime ? " 
 He answering, " Nay, not yet." " I would 't were so," 
 She plaineth, " for the daughters mock at me : 
 Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore 
 She pineth for the master. Look you, sir, 
 They reach but to the knee. But thou art come. 
 And all goes merrier. Eat, my lord, of all 
 My supper that I set, and afterwai'd 
 Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way ; 
 Else shall I be despised as Adam was, 
 "Who compassed not the learning of his sons, 
 But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head 
 And ponder, following of great Isha's feet, 
 When she would walk with her fair brow upraised, 
 Scornin"; the children that she bare to him." 
 
 D 
 
 " Ay," quoth the Master ; " but they did amiss 
 
 When they despised their father : knowest thou that ? " 
 
 " Sure he was foolisher," Niloiya saith, 
 
 " Than any that came after. Furthermore,
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 He had not heart nor courage for to rule : 
 He let the mastery fall from his slack hand. 
 Had not our glorious mother still borne up 
 His weakness, chid with him, and sat apart, 
 And listened, when the fit came over him 
 To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk 
 Into the slave of slaves." 
 
 " Nay, thou must think 
 How he had dwelt long, God's loved husbandman, 
 And looked in hope among the tribes for one 
 To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once 
 Waking, he found at his left side, and knew 
 The deep delight of speech." So Noah, and thus 
 Added, " And therefore was his loss the more ; 
 For though the creatures he had singled out 
 His favorites, dai'ed for him the fiery sword 
 And followed after him, - — shall bleat of lamb 
 Console one for the foregone talk of God ? 
 Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog, 
 Fawning upon him, make his heart forget 
 At such a time, and such a time, to have heard 
 What he shall hear no more ? 
 
 " O, as for him, 
 It was for this that he full oft would stop. 
 And, lost in thought, stand and revolve that deed, 
 Sad muttering, ' Woman ! we reproach thee not ; 
 Though thou didst eat mine immortality ; 
 Earth, be not sorry ; I was free to choose. 
 Wonder not, therefore, if he walked forlorn. 
 
 5* 
 
 105
 
 I06 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 "Was not the helpmeet given to raise him up 
 From his contentment with the lower things ? 
 Was she not somewhat that he could not rule 
 Beyond the action, that he could not have 
 By the mere holding, and that still aspired 
 And drew him after her ? So, when deceived 
 She fell by great desire to rise, he fell 
 By loss of upward drawing, when she took 
 An evil tongue to be her counsellor : 
 ' Death is not as the death of lower things. 
 Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven, 
 A change to being as gods,' — he from her hand, 
 Upon reflection, took of death that hour. 
 And ate it (not the death that she had dared) j 
 He ate it knowing. Then divisions came. 
 She, like a spirit strayed who lost the way, 
 Too venturesome, among the farther stars, 
 And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes 
 To find the path to heaven ; in bitter wise 
 Did bear to him degenerate seed, and he. 
 Once having felt her upward drawing, longed, 
 And yet aspired, and yearned to be restored, 
 Albeit she drew no more." 
 
 " Sir, ye speak well," 
 Niloiya saith, " but yet the mother sits 
 Higher than Adam. He did understand 
 Discourse of birds and all four-footed things, 
 But she had knowledge of the many tribes 
 Of angels and their tongues ; their playful ways
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 And greetings when they met. "Was she not wise ? 
 They say she knew much that she never told, 
 And had a voice that called to her as thou." 
 
 " Nay," quoth the Master-shipwright, " who am I 
 
 That I should answer ? As for me, poor man, 
 
 Here is my trouble : ' if there be a Voice,' 
 
 At first I cried, ' let me behold the mouth 
 
 That uttereth it.' Thereon it held its peace. 
 
 But afterward, I, journeying up the hills. 
 
 Did hear it hollower than an echo fallen 
 
 Across some clear abyss ; and I did stop. 
 
 And ask of all my company, ' What cheer ? 
 
 If there be spirits abroad that call to us. 
 
 Sirs, hold your peace and hear.' So they gave heed. 
 
 And one man said, ' It is the small ground-doves 
 
 That peck upon the stony hillocks ' : one, 
 
 ' It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp 
 
 That chevveth in his dream ' : and one, ' My lord. 
 
 It is the ghost of him that yesternight 
 
 "We slew, because Iffi grudged to yield his wife 
 
 To thy great father, when he peaceably 
 
 Did send to take her.' Then I answered, ' Pass,' 
 
 And they went on ; and I did lay mine ear 
 
 Close to the earth ; but there came up therefrom 
 
 No sound, nor any speech ; I waited long, 
 
 And in the saying, ' I will mount my beast 
 
 And on,' I was as one that in a trance 
 
 Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw 
 
 107
 
 I08 ^ STORY OF BOOM. 
 
 Great waters and a ship ; and somewhat spake, 
 ' Lo, this shall be ; let him that heareth it, 
 And seeth it, go forth to warn his kind, 
 For I will drown the world.' " 
 
 Niloiya saith, 
 '' Sir, was that all that ye went forth upon ? " 
 Tlie master, he replieth, " Ay, at first, 
 That same was all ; but many days went by, 
 "Wliile I did reason with my heart and hope 
 For more, and struggle to remain, and think, 
 ' Let me be certain ' ; and so think again, 
 ' The counsel is but dark ; would I had more ! 
 When I have more to guide me, I will go.' 
 And afterward, when reasoned on too much, 
 It seemed remoter, then I only said, 
 ' O, would I had the same again ' ; and still 
 I had it not. 
 
 " Then at the last I cried, 
 * If the unseen be silent, I will speak 
 And certify my meaning to myself. 
 Say that He spoke, then He will make that good 
 Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best 
 To go, and do His bidding. All the earth 
 Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry 
 "When the doom falls, " Thou God art hard on us ; 
 We knew not Thou wert angry. ! we are lost. 
 Only for lack of being warned." 
 
 " ' But say 
 That He spoke not, and merely it befell
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 109 
 
 That I being weary had a dream. Why, so 
 
 He could not suffer damage ; when the time 
 
 "Was past, and that I threatened had not come, 
 
 Men would cry out on me, haply me kill. 
 
 For troubling their content. They would not swear, 
 
 " God, that did send this man, is proved untrue," 
 
 But rather, " Let him die ; he lied to us ; 
 
 God never sent him." Only Thou, great King, 
 
 Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I leave 
 
 The matter here. If Thou wilt speak again, 
 
 I go in gladness ; if Thou wilt not speak. 
 
 Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the less 
 
 Shall go, because I have believed, what time 
 
 I seemed to hear Thee, and the going stands 
 
 With memory of believing.' Then I washed, 
 
 And did array me in the sacred gown, 
 
 And take a lamb." 
 
 " Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed, 
 " I following, and I knew not anything 
 Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two arms, 
 We, moving up among the silent hills. 
 Paused in a grove to rest ; and many slaves 
 Came near to make obeisance, and to bring 
 Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and fire. 
 Then in their hearing thou didst say to me, 
 ' Behold, I know thy good fidelity. 
 And theirs that are about us ; they would guard 
 The mountain passes, if it were my will 
 Awhile to leave thee ' ; and the pygmies laughed
 
 no A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things ; 
 
 And put their heads down, as their manner is. 
 
 To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore I wept ; 
 
 Sir, I could weep now ; ye did ill to go 
 
 If that was all your bidding ; I had thought 
 
 God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go." 
 
 Then said the son of Lamech, " Afterward, 
 When I had left thee, He whom I had served 
 Met with me in the visions of the night, 
 To comfort me for that I had withdrawn 
 From thy dear company. He sware to me 
 That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch 
 The bordering of mine outmost field. I say, 
 When I obeyed. He made His matters plain. 
 With whom could I have left thee, but with them, 
 Born in thy mother's house, and bound thy slaves ? " 
 
 She said, " I love not pygmies ; they are naught." 
 
 And he, " Who made them pygmies ? " Then she pushed 
 
 Her veiling hair back from her round, soft eyes, 
 
 And answered, wondering, " Sir, my mothers did. 
 
 Ye know it." And he drew her near to sit 
 
 Beside him on the settle, answering, " Ay." 
 
 And they went on to talk as writ below, 
 
 If any one shall read : 
 
 " Thy mother did. 
 And they that went before her. Thiukest thou 
 That they did well ? "
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. m 
 
 " They had been overcome ; 
 And when the angered conquerors drave them out, 
 Behoved them find some other way to rule, — 
 They did but use their wits. Hath not man aye 
 Been cunninsr in dominion, amono; beasts 
 To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake 
 Of the white wool he loveth, at his choice ? 
 What harm if coveting a race of men 
 That could but serve, they sought among their thralls, 
 Such as were low of stature, men and maids ; 
 Ay, and of feeble will and quiet mind ? 
 Did they not spend much gear to gather out 
 Such as I tell of, and for matching them 
 One with another for a thousand years ? 
 What harm, then, if there came of it a race, 
 Inferior in their wits, and in their size. 
 And well content to serve ? " 
 
 " ' What harm ? ' thou sayest. 
 My wife doth ask, ' What harm ? ' " 
 
 " Your pardon, sir. 
 I do remember that there came one day, 
 Two of the grave old angels that God made. 
 When first He invented life (right old they were. 
 And plain, and venerable) ; and they said. 
 Rebuking of my mother as with hers 
 She sat, ' Ye do not well, you wives of men, 
 To match your wit against the Maker's will. 
 And for your benefit to lower the stamp 
 Of His fair image, which He set at first
 
 IJ2 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Upon man's goodly frame ; ye do not well 
 To treat his likeness even as ye treat 
 The bird and beast that perish.' " 
 
 " Said they aught 
 To appease the ancients, or to speak them fair ? " 
 
 " How know I ? 'T was a slave that told it me. 
 My mother was full old when I was born, 
 And that was in her youth. What think you, sir ? 
 Did not the giants likewise ill ? " 
 
 " To that 
 I have no answer ready. If a man, 
 When each one is against his fellow, rule, 
 Or unmolested dwell, or unreproved, 
 Because, for size and strength, he standeth first, 
 He will thereof be glad ; and if he say, 
 ' I will to wife choose me a stately maid. 
 And leave a goodly offspring ' ; 'sooth, I think. 
 He sinneth not ; for good to him and his 
 He would be strong and great. Thy people's fault 
 Was, that for ill to others, they did plot 
 To make them weak and small." 
 
 " But yet they steal 
 Or take in war the strongest maids, and such 
 As are of highest stature ; ay, and oft 
 They fight among themselves for that same cause. 
 And they are proud against the King of heaven : 
 They hope in course of ages they shall come 
 To be as strong as He."
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 113 
 
 The Master said, 
 " I will not hear thee talk thereof ; my heart 
 Is sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife, 
 I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee, 
 And bid that they prepare the sleeping place. 
 O would that I might rest ! I fain would rest, 
 And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world 
 My never-heeded tale ! " 
 
 "With that she called. 
 The moon was up, and some few stars were out, 
 While heavy at the heart he walked abroad 
 To meditate before his sleep. And yet 
 Niloiya pondered, " Shall my master go ? 
 And will my master go ? What 'vaileth it. 
 That he doth spend himself, over the waste 
 A wandering, till he reach outlandish folk, 
 That mock his warning ? 0, what 'vaileth it, 
 That he doth lavish wealth to build yon ark. 
 Whereat the daughters, when they eat with me, 
 Laugh ? O my heart ! I would the Voice were stilled. 
 Is not he happy ? Who, of all the earth. 
 Obeyed like to me ? Have not I learned 
 From his dear mouth to utter seemly words. 
 And lay the powers my mother gave me by ? 
 Have I made oflTerings to the dragon ? Nay, 
 And I am faithful, when he leaveth me 
 Lonely betwixt the peaked mountain tops 
 In this long valley, where no stranger foot 
 Can come without my will. He shall not go. 
 
 H
 
 114 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Not yet, not yet ! But three days — only three — 
 
 Beside me, and a muttering on the third, 
 
 ' I have heard the Voice again.' Be dull, O dull, 
 
 Mind and remembrance ! Mother, ye did ill ; 
 
 'T is hard unlawful knowledge not to use. 
 
 Why, O dark mother ! opened ye the way ? " 
 
 Yet when he entered, and did lay aside 
 
 His costly robe of sacrifice, the robe 
 
 Wherein he had been offering, ere the sun 
 
 Went down ; forgetful of her mother's craft, 
 
 She lovely and submiss did mourn to him : 
 
 " Thou wilt not go, — I pray thee, do not go, 
 
 Till thou hast seen thy children." And he said, 
 
 " I will not. I have cried, and have prevailed : 
 
 To-morrow it is given me by the Voice 
 
 Upon a four days' journey to proceed, 
 
 And follow down the river, till its waves 
 
 Are swallowed in the sand, where no flesh dwells. 
 
 " ' There,' quoth the Unrevealed, ' we shall meet, 
 
 And I will counsel thee ; and thou shalt turn 
 
 And rest thee with the mother, and with them 
 
 She bare.' Now, therefore, when the morn appears, 
 
 Thou fairest among women, call thy slaves. 
 
 And bid them yoke the steers, and spread thy car 
 
 With robes, the choicest work of cunning hands ; 
 
 Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck 
 
 Thy locks with gold ; and while the hollow vale 
 
 I thread beside yon river, go thou forth
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 115 
 
 Atween the mountains to my father's house, 
 
 And let thy slaves make all obeisance due, 
 
 And take and lay an oifering at his feet. 
 
 Then light, and cry to him, ' Great king, the son 
 
 Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent 
 
 To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.' " 
 
 " Sir," quoth the woman, " I will do this thing, 
 So thou keep faith with me, and yet return. 
 But will the Voice, think you, forbear to chide, 
 Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet thee, 
 And drive thee on ? " 
 
 He saith, " It will keep faith. 
 Fear not. I have prevailed, for I besought, 
 And lovingly it answered. I shall rest, 
 And dwell with thee till after my three sons 
 Come from the chase." She said, " I let them forth 
 In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few. 
 The giant elephants be cunning folk ; 
 They lie in ambush, and will draw men on 
 To follow, — then will turn and tread them down." 
 " Thy father's house unwisely planned," said he, 
 " To drive them down upon the growing corn 
 Of them that were their foes ; for now, behold, 
 They suffer while the unwieldy beasts delay 
 Eetirement to their lands, and, meanwhile, pound 
 The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy mash ; 
 Or wallowing in the waters foul them ; nay. 
 Tread down the banks, and let them forth to flood
 
 Il6 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Their cities ; or, assailed and falling, shake 
 The walls, and taint the wind, ere thirty men, 
 Over the hairy terror piling stones 
 Or earth, prevail to cover it." 
 
 She said, 
 " Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft 
 I would my sons were home ; but now so well 
 Methinks it is with me, that I am fain 
 To wish they might delay, for thou wilt dwell 
 With me till after they return, and thou 
 Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then, — ah, me ! 
 I must sit joyless in my place ; bereft. 
 As trees that suddenly have dropped their leaves, 
 And dark as nights that have no moon." 
 
 She spake ; 
 The hope o' the world did hearken, but reply 
 Made none. He left his hand on her fair locks 
 As she lay sobbing ; and the quietness 
 Of night began to comfort her, the fall 
 Of far-off waters, and the winged wind 
 That went among the trees. The patient band. 
 Moreover, that was steady, wrought with her, 
 Until she said, " "What wilt thou ? Nay, I know. 
 I therefore answer what thou utterest not. 
 Thou lovest me well, and not for thine oion will 
 Consentest to depart. What more ? Ay, this : 
 I do avow that He which calleth thee, 
 Hath right to call ; and I do swear, the Voice 
 Shall have no let of me, to do Its zvill."
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 117 
 
 BOOK n. 
 
 NOW ere the sunrise, while the morning star 
 Hung yet behind the pine bough, woke and prayed 
 The world's great shipwright, and his soul was glad 
 Because the Voice was favorable. Now 
 Began the tap o' the hammer, now ran forth 
 The slaves preparing food. They therefore ate 
 In peace together ; then Niloiya forth 
 Behind the milk-white steers went on her way ; 
 And the great Master-builder, down the course 
 Of the long river, on his errand sped. 
 And as he went, he thought : 
 
 [They do not well 
 "Who, walking up a trodden path, all smooth 
 With footsteps of their fellows, and made straight 
 From town to town, will scorn at them that wonn 
 Under the covert of God's eldest trees 
 (Such as He planted with His hand, and fed 
 With dew before rain fell, till they stood close 
 And awful ; drank the light up as it dropt. 
 And kept the dusk of ages at their roots) ; 
 They do not well who mock at such, and cry, 
 " We peaceably, without or fault or fear, 
 Proceed, and miss not of our end ; but these 
 Are slow and fearful : with uncertain pace, 
 And ever reasoning of the way, they oft,
 
 Il8 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 After all reasoning, choose the worser course, 
 
 And plunged in swamp, or in the matted growth 
 
 Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach a goal 
 
 Not worth their pains." Nor do they well whose work 
 
 Is still to feed and shelter them and theirs, 
 
 Get gain, and gathered store it, to think scorn 
 
 Of those who work for a world (no wages paid 
 
 By a Master hid in light), and sent alone 
 
 To face a laughing multitude, whose eyes 
 
 Are full of damaging pity, that forbears 
 
 To tell the harmless laborer, " Thou art mad."] 
 
 And as he went, he thought : " They counsel me, 
 
 Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk, 
 
 * Consider ; call thy soberer thought to aid ; 
 
 Why to but one man should a message come ? 
 
 And why, if but to one, to thee ? Art thou 
 
 Above us, greater, wiser ? Had He sent. 
 
 He had willed that we should heed. Then since He 
 
 knoweth 
 That such as thou, a wise man cannot heed. 
 He did not send.' My answer, ' Great and wise, 
 If He had sent with thunder, and a voice 
 Leaping from heaven, ye must have heard ; but so 
 Ye had been robbed of choice, and, like the beasts. 
 Yoked to obedience. God makes no men slaves.' '' 
 They tell me, ' God is great above thy thought : 
 He meddles not : and this small world is ours, 
 These many hundred years we govern it ;
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. ng 
 
 Old Aclani, after Etlen, saw Him not.' 
 
 Then I, * It may be He is gone to knead 
 
 More clay. But look, my masters ; one of you 
 
 Going to warfare, layeth up his gown, 
 
 His sickle, or his gold, and thinks no more 
 
 Upon it, till young trees have waxen great ; 
 
 At last, when he returneth, he will seek 
 
 His own. And God, shall He not do the like ? 
 
 And having set new worlds a-rolling, come 
 
 And say, " I will betake Me to the earth 
 
 That I did make": and having found it vile. 
 
 Be sorry. Why should man be free, you wise, 
 
 And not the Master ? ' Then they answer, ' Fool ! 
 
 A man shall cast a stone into the air 
 
 For pastime, or for lack of heed, — but He ! 
 
 "Will He come fingering of His ended work, 
 
 Fright it with His approaching face, or snatch 
 
 One day the rolling wonder from its ring, 
 
 And hold it quivering, as a wanton child 
 
 Might take a nestling from its downy bed, 
 
 And having satisfied a careless wish, 
 
 Go thrust it back into its place again ? ' 
 
 To such I answer, and, that doubt once mine, 
 
 I am assured that I do speak aright : 
 
 ' Sirs, the significance of this your doubt 
 
 Lies in the reason of it ; ye do grudge 
 
 That these your lands should have another Lord ; 
 
 Ye are not loyal, therefore ye would fain 
 
 Your King would bide afar. But if ye looked
 
 120 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 For countenance and favor when He came, 
 Knowing yourselves right worthy, would ye care, 
 With cautious reasoning, deep and hard, to prove 
 That He would never come, and would your wrath 
 Be hot against a prophet ? Nay, I wot 
 That as a flatterer you would look on him, — 
 " Full of sweet words thy mouth is : if He come, — 
 "We think not that He will, — but if He come, 
 Would it might be to-morrow, or to-night. 
 Because we look for praise." ' " 
 
 Now, as he went, 
 The noontide heats came on, and he grew faint ; 
 But while he sat below an almug-tree, 
 A slave approached with greeting. " Master, hail ! " 
 He answered, " Hail ! what wilt thou ? " Then she said, 
 " The palace of thy fathers standeth nigh." 
 " I know it," quoth he ; and she said again, 
 " The Elder, learning thou wouldst pass, hath sent 
 To fetch thee " ; then he rose and followed her. 
 So first they walked beneath a lofty roof 
 Of living bough and tendril, woven on high 
 To let no drop of sunshine through, and hung 
 With gold and purple fruitage, and the white 
 Thick cups of scented blossom. Underneath, 
 Soft grew the sward and delicate, and flocks 
 Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood up, 
 Fanning their wings, to agitate and cool 
 The noonday air, as men with heed and pains 
 Had taught them, marshalling and taming them 
 To bear the wind in, on their moving wings.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 12 1 
 
 So long time as a nimble slave would spend 
 In milking of her cow, they walked at ease ; 
 Then reached the palace, all of forest trunks, 
 Brought whole, and set together, made. Therein 
 Had dwelt old Adam, when his miglity sons 
 Had finished it, and up to Eden gate 
 Had journeyed for to fetch him. " Here," they said, 
 " Mother and father, ye may dwell, and here 
 Forget the garden wholly." 
 
 So he came 
 Under the doorplace, and the women sat, 
 Each with her finger on her lips ; but he. 
 Having been called, went on, until he reached 
 The jewelled settle, wrought with cunning work 
 Of gold and ivory, whereon they wont 
 To set the Elder. All with sleekest skins. 
 That striped and spotted creatures of the wood 
 Had worn, the seat was covered, but thereon 
 The Elder was not ; by the steps thereof, 
 Upon the floor, whereto his silver beard 
 Did reach, he sat, and he was in his trance. 
 Upon the settle many doves were perched. 
 That set the air a going with their wings : 
 These opposite, the world's great shipwright stood 
 To wait the burden ; and the Elder spake : 
 " Will He forget me ? Would He might forget ! 
 Old, old ! The hope of old Methuselah 
 Is all in His forgetfulness." With that, 
 A slave-girl took a cup of wine, and crept 
 6
 
 122 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Anear him, saying, " Taste " ; and when his lips 
 Had touched it, lo, he trembled, and he cried, 
 " Behold, I prophesy." 
 
 Then straight they fled 
 That were about him, and did stand apart 
 And stop their ear^;. For he, from time to time, 
 Was plagued with that same fate to prophesy, 
 And spake against himself, against his day 
 And time, in words that all men did abhor. 
 Therefore, he warning them what time the fit 
 Came on him, saved them, that they heard it not. 
 So while they fled, he cried : " I saw the God 
 Reach out of heaven His wonderful right hand. 
 Lo, lo ! He dipped it in the unquiet sea, 
 And in its curved palm behold the ark, 
 As in a vast calm lake, came floating on. 
 Ay, then. His other hand — the cursing hand — 
 He took and spread between us and the sun. 
 And all was black ; the day was blotted out, 
 And horrible staijgering took the friorhted earth. 
 I heard the water hiss, and then methinks 
 The crack as of her splitting. Did she take 
 Their palaces that are my brothers dear. 
 And huddle them with all their ancientry 
 Under into her breast ? If it was black. 
 How could this old man see ? There was a noise 
 I' the dark, and He drew back His hand again. 
 I looked, — It was a dream, — let no man say 
 It was aught eLe. There, so — the fit goes by.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM, 123 
 
 Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide ? — 
 
 Sooner than that, saith old Methuselah, 
 
 Let the vulture lay his beak to my green limbs. 
 
 What ! art Thou envious ? — are the sons of men 
 
 Too wise to please Thee, and to do Thy will ? 
 
 Methuselah, he sitteth on the ground, 
 
 Clad in his gown of age, the pale white gown. 
 
 And goeth not forth to war ; his wrinkled hands 
 
 He claspeth round his knees : old, very old. 
 
 Would he could steal from Thee one secret more — 
 
 The secret of Thy youth ! O, envious God ! 
 
 We die. The Avords of old Methuselah 
 
 And his prophecy are ended." 
 
 Then the wives, 
 Beholding how he trembled, and the maids 
 And children, came anear, saying, " Who art thou 
 That standest gazing on the Elder ? Lo, 
 Thou dost not well : withdraw ; for it was thou 
 Whose stranger presence troubled him, and brought 
 The fit of prophecy." And he did turn 
 To look upon them, and their majesty 
 And glorious beauty took away his words ; 
 And being pure among the vile, he cast 
 In his thought a veil of snow-white purity 
 Over the beauteous throng. " Tliou dost not well," 
 They said. He answered : " Blossoms o' the world. 
 Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade. 
 Where in the youngest grass blue cups push forth, 
 And the white lily reareth up her head,
 
 124 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 And purples cluster, and the saffron flower 
 Clear as a flame of sacrifice breaks out, 
 And every cedar bough, made delicate 
 With climbing roses, drops in white and red, — 
 So I (good angels keep you in their care) 
 So beautiful a crowd." 
 
 "With that, they stamped. 
 Gnashed their white teeth, and turning, fled and spat 
 Upon the floor. The Elder spake to him, 
 Yet shaking with the burden, " "Who art thou ? " 
 He answered, " I, the man whom thou didst send 
 To fetch through this thy Avoodland, do forbear 
 To tell my name ; thou lovest it not, great sire, — 
 No, nor mine errand. To thy house I spake, 
 Touching their beauty." " "Wherefore didst thou spite," 
 Quoth he, " the daughters ? " and it seemed he lost 
 Count of that prophecy, for very age. 
 And from his thin lips dropt a trembling laugh. 
 " "Wicked old man," quoth he, " this wise old man 
 I see as 't were not I. Thou bad old man. 
 What shall be done to thee ? for thou didst burn 
 Their babes, and strew the ashes all about, 
 To rid the world of His white soldiers. Ay, 
 Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled. 
 Cowards ! I heard them winnow their great wings : 
 They went to tell Him ; but they came no more. 
 The women hate to hear of them, so sore 
 They grudged their little ones ; and yet no way 
 There was but that. I took it ; I did well."
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 125 
 
 "With that he fell to weeping. " Son," said he, 
 
 " Long have I hid mine eyes from stalwart men, 
 
 For it is hard to lose the majesty 
 
 And pride and power of manhood : but to-day. 
 
 Stand forth into the light, that I may look 
 
 Upon thy strength, and think. Even thus did I, 
 
 In the gloky of my youth, more like to God 
 
 Than like His soldiers, face the vassal world. 
 
 Then Noah stood forward in his majesty, 
 
 Shouldering the golden billhook, wherewithal 
 
 He wont to cut his way, when tangled in 
 
 The matted hayes. And down the opened roof 
 
 Fell slanting beams upon his stately head, 
 
 And streamed along his gown, and made to shine 
 
 The jewelled sandals on his feet. 
 
 And, lo. 
 The Elder cried aloud : " I prophesy. 
 Behold, my son is as a fruitful field 
 "When all the lands are waste. The archers drew, — 
 They drew the bow against him ; they were fain 
 To slay : but he shall live, — my son shall live, 
 And I shall live by him in the other days. 
 Behold the prophet of the Most High God : 
 Hear him. Behold the hope o' the world, what time 
 She lieth under. Hear him ; he shall save 
 A seed alive, and sow the earth with man. 
 0, earth ! earth ! earth ! a floating shell of wood 
 Shall hold the remnant of thy mighty lords.
 
 126 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Will this old man be in it ? Sir, and you 
 
 My daughters, hear him ! Lo, this white old man 
 
 He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let be : 
 
 Why dost Thou trouble us to make our tongue 
 
 Ring with abhorred words ?) The prophecy 
 
 Of the Elder, and the vision that he saw, 
 
 They both are ended." 
 
 Then said Noah : " The life 
 Of this my lord is low for very age : 
 Why then, with bitter words upon thy tongue, 
 Father of Lamech, dost thou anger Him ? 
 Thou canst not strive against Him now." He said : 
 " Thy feet are toward the valley, where lie bones 
 Bleaching upon the desert. Did I love 
 The lithe strong lizards that I yoked and set 
 To draw my car ? and were they not possessed ? 
 Yea, all of them were liars. I loved them well. 
 What did the Enemy, but on a day 
 When I behind my talking team went forth, 
 They sweetly lying, so that all men praised 
 Their flattering tongues and mild pei'suasive eyes, — 
 Wliat did the Enemy but send His slaves. 
 Angels, to cast down stones upon their heads 
 And break them ? Nay, I could not stir abroad 
 But havoc came ; they never crept or flew 
 Beyond the shelter that I builded here. 
 But straight the crowns I had set upon their heads 
 Were marks for myrmidons that in the clouds 
 Kept watch to crush them. Can a man forgive
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 That hath been warred on thus ? I will not. Nay, 
 
 I swear it, — I, the man Methuselah." 
 
 The Master-shipwright, he replied, " 'T is true, 
 
 Gi'eat loss was that ; but they that stood thy friends, 
 
 The wicked spirits, spoke upon their tongues. 
 
 And cursed the God of heaven. What marvel, sir, 
 
 If He was angered ? " But the Elder cried, 
 
 " The}' all are dead, — the toward beasts I loved ; 
 
 My goodly team, my joy, they all are dead ; 
 
 Their bones lie bleaching in the wilderness : 
 
 And I will keep my wrath for evermore 
 
 Against the Enemy that slew them. Go, 
 
 Thou coward servant of a tyrant King, 
 
 Go down the desert of the bones, and ask, 
 
 ' My King, what bones are these ? Methuselah, 
 
 The white old man that sitteth on the ground, 
 
 Sendeth a message, " Bid them that they live, 
 
 And let my lizards run up every path 
 
 They wont to take when out of silver pipes, 
 
 The pipes that Tubal wrought into my roof, 
 
 I blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's throat 
 
 Hath ever formed ; and while they laid their heads 
 
 Submiss upon my threshold, poured away 
 
 Music that welled by heartsful out, and made 
 
 The throats of men that heard to swell, their breasts 
 
 To heave with the joy of grief; yea, caused the lips 
 
 To laugh of men asleep. 
 
 Return to me 
 The great wise lizards ; ay, and them that flew 
 
 127
 
 128 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 My pursuivants before me. Let me yoke 
 
 Again that multitude ; and here I swear 
 
 That they shall draw my car and me thereon 
 
 Straight to the ship of doom. So men shall know 
 
 My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou 
 
 Shalt yet have honor, mine Enemy, 
 
 By me. The speech of old Methuselah." ' " 
 
 Then Noah made answer, " By the living God, 
 
 That is no enemy to men, great sire, 
 
 I will not take thy message ; hear thou Him. 
 
 ' Behold (He saith that suffereth thee), behold, 
 
 The earth that I made green cries out to Me, 
 
 Red with the costly blood of beauteous man. 
 
 I am robbed, I am robbed (He saith) ; they sacrifice 
 
 To evil demons of My blameless flocks, 
 
 That I did fashion with My hand. Behold, 
 
 How goodly was the world ! I gave it thee 
 
 Fresh from its finishing. What hast thou done ? 
 
 I will cry out to the waters. Cover it, 
 
 And hide it from its Father. Lo, Mine eyes 
 
 Turn from it shamedJ " 
 
 "With that the old man laughed 
 Full softly. " Ay," quoth he, " a goodly world, 
 And we have done with it as we did list. 
 Why did He give it us ? Nay, look you, son : 
 Five score they were that died in yonder waste ; 
 And if He crieth, ' Repent, be reconciled,' 
 I answer, ' Nay, my lizards'; and again, 
 If He will trouble me in this mine age,
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 129 
 
 ' Why hast Thou slain ray lizards ? ' Now my speech 
 
 Is cut away from all my other words, 
 
 Standing alone. The Elder sweareth it, 
 
 The man of many days, Methuselah." 
 
 Then answered Noah, " My Master, hear it not ; 
 
 But yet have patience " ; and he turned himself, 
 
 And down betwixt the ordered trees went forth, 
 
 And in the light of evening made his way 
 
 Into the waste to meet the Voice of God. 
 
 6*
 
 I^O A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 ABOVE the head of great Methusehih 
 There lay two demons in the opened roof 
 Invisible, and gathered up his words ; 
 For when the Elder prophesied, it came 
 About, that hidden things were shown to them. 
 And burdens that he spake against his time. 
 
 (But never heard them, such as dwelt with him ; 
 Their ears they stopped, and willed to live at ease 
 In all delight ; and perfect in their youth. 
 And strong, disport them in the perfect world.) 
 
 Now these were fettered that they could not fly, 
 
 For a certain disobedience they had wrought 
 
 Against the ruler of their host ; but not 
 
 The less they loved their cause ; and when the feet 
 
 O' the Master-builder were no longer heard. 
 
 They, slipping to the sward, right painfully 
 
 Did follow, for the one to the other said, 
 
 " Behoves our master know of this ; and us, 
 
 Should he be favorable, he may loose 
 
 From these our bonds." 
 
 And thus it came to pass, 
 That while at dead of night the old dragon lay 
 Coiled in the cavern where he dwelt, the watch
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 131 
 
 Pacing before it saw in middle air 
 A boat, that gleamed like fire, and on it came, 
 And rocked as it drew near, and then it burst 
 And went to pieces, and there fell therefrom, 
 Close at the cavern's mouth, two glowing balls. 
 
 Now there was drawn a curtain nigh the mouth 
 Of that deep cave, to testify of wrath. 
 The dragon had been wroth with some that served, 
 And chased them from hira ; and his oracles, 
 That wont to drop from him, were stopped, and men 
 Might only pray to him througli that fell web 
 That hung before hira. Then did whisper low 
 Some of the little spirits that bat-like clung 
 And clustered round the opening. " Lo," they said, 
 While gazed the watch upon those glowing balls, 
 " These are like moons eclipsed ; but let them lie 
 Red on the moss, and sear its dewy spires. 
 Until our lord give leave to draw the web, 
 And quicken reverence by his presence dread, 
 For he will know and call to them by name, 
 And they will change. At present he is sick, 
 And wills that none disturb him." So they lay. 
 And there was silence, for the forest tribes 
 Came never near that cave. Wiser than men, 
 They fled the serpent hiss that oft by night 
 Came forth of it, and feared the wan dusk forms 
 That stalked among the trees, and in the dark 
 Those whiffs of flame that wandered up the sky
 
 132 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 And made the moonlight sickly. 
 
 Now, the cave 
 Was marvellous for beauty, wrought with tools 
 Into the living rock, for there had worked 
 All cunning men, to cut on it with signs 
 And shows, yea, all the manner of mankind. 
 The fateful apple-tree was there, a bough 
 Bent with the weight of him that us beguiled ; 
 And lilies of the field did seem to blow 
 And bud in the storied stone. There Tubal sat, 
 Who from his harp delivered music, sweet 
 As any in the spheres. Yea, more ; 
 Earth's latest wonder, on the walls appeared, 
 Unfinished, workmen clustering on its ribs ; 
 And farther back, within the rock hewn out, 
 Angelic figures stood, that impious hands 
 Had fashioned ; many golden lamps they held 
 By golden chains depending, and their eyes 
 All tended in a reverend quietude 
 Toward the couch whereon the dragon lay. 
 The floor was beaten gold ; the curly lengths 
 Of his last coils lay on it, hid from sight 
 With a coverlet made stiff with crusting gems. 
 Fire opals shooting, rubies, fierce bright eyes 
 Of diamonds, or the pale green emerald, 
 That changed their lustre when he breathed. 
 
 His head 
 Feathered with crimson combs, and all his neck. 
 And half-shut fans of his admired wings,
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 13- 
 
 That in their scaly splendor put to shame 
 Or gold or stone, lay on his ivory couch 
 And shivered ; for the dragon suffered pain : 
 He suffered and he feared. It was his doom, 
 The tempter, that he never should depart 
 From the bright creature that in Paradise 
 He for his evil purpose erst possessed, 
 Until it died. Thus only, spirit of might 
 And chiefest spirit of ill, could he be free. 
 
 But with its nature wed, as souls of men 
 Are wedded to their clay, he took the dread 
 Of death and dying, and the coward heart 
 Of the beast, and craven terrors of the end 
 Sank him that habited within it to dread 
 Disunion. He, a dark dominion erst 
 Rebellious, lay and trembled, for the flesh 
 Daunted his immaterial. He was sick 
 And sorry. Great ones of the earth had sent 
 Their chief musicians for to comfort him, 
 Chanting his praise, the friend of man, the god 
 That gave them knowledge, at so great a price 
 And costly. Yea, the riches of the mine, 
 And glorious broidered work, and woven gold, 
 And all things wisely made, they at his feet 
 Laid daily ; for they said, " This mighty one. 
 All the world wonders after him. He lieth 
 Sick in his dwelling ; he hath long foregone 
 (To do us good) dominion, and a throne,
 
 134 ^4 STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 And his brave warfare witli the Enemy, 
 
 So much he pitieth us that were denied 
 
 The gain and gladness of this knowledge. Now 
 
 Shall he be certified of gratitude, 
 
 And smell the sacrifice that most he loves." 
 
 The night was dark, but every lamp gave forth 
 A tender, lustrous beam. His beauteous wings 
 The dragon fluttered, cursed awhile, then turned 
 And moaned with lamentable voice, " I thirst, 
 Give me to drink." Thereon stepped out in haste, 
 From inner chambers, lovely miuistrants, 
 Young boys, with radiant locks and peaceful eyes, 
 And poured out liquor from their cups, to cool 
 His parched tongue, and kneeling held it nigh 
 In jewelled basins sparkling ; and he lapped, 
 And was appeased, and said, " I will not hide 
 Longer, my much desired face from men. 
 Draw back the web of separation." Then 
 With cries of gratulation ran they forth. 
 And flung it wide, and all the watch fell low, 
 Each on his face, as drunk with sudden joy. 
 Thus marked he, glowing on the branched moss. 
 Those red rare moons, and let his serpent eyes 
 Consider them full subtly, " "What be these ? " 
 Enquiring : and the little spirits said, 
 " As we for thy protection (having heard 
 That wrathful sons of darkness walk to-night. 
 Such as do oft ill use us), clustered here,
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 We marked a boat a-fire that sailed the skies, 
 And furrowed up like spray a billowy cloud, 
 And, lo, it went to pieces, scattering down 
 A rain of sparks and these two angry moons," 
 Then said the dragon, *' Let my guard, and you. 
 Attendant hosts, recede " ; and they went back, 
 And formed about the cave a wideninsr rin":. 
 Then halting, stood afar ; and from the cave 
 The snaky wonder spoke, with hissing tongue, 
 " If ye were Tartis and Deleisonon, 
 Be Tartis and Deleisonon once more." 
 
 Then egg-Hke cracked the glowing balls, and forth 
 Started black angels, trampling hard to free 
 Their fettered feet from out the smokin"; shell. 
 
 And he said, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 
 
 Your lord I am : draw nigh." " Thou art our lord," 
 
 They answered, and with fettered limbs full low 
 
 They bent, and made obeisance. Furthermore, 
 
 " jSery flying serpent, after whom 
 
 The nations go, let thy dominion last," 
 
 They said, " forever." And the serpent said, 
 
 " It shall : unfold your errand." They replied, 
 
 One speaking for a space, and afterward 
 
 His fellow taking up the word with fear 
 
 And panting, " We were set to watch the mouth 
 
 Of great Methuselah. There came to him 
 
 The son of Lamech two days since. My lord, 
 
 135
 
 136 
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 They prophesied, the Elder prophesied, 
 
 Unwitting, of the flood of waters, — ay, 
 
 A vision was before him, and the lands 
 
 Lay under water .drowned : he saw the ark, — 
 
 It floated in the Enemy's right hand." 
 
 Lord of the lost, the son of Lamech fled 
 
 Into the wilderness to meet His voice 
 
 That reigneth ; and we, diligent to hear 
 
 Aught that might serve thee, followed, but, forbid 
 
 To enter, lay upon its boundary cliff. 
 
 And wished for morning. 
 
 " When the dawn was red, 
 "We sought the man, we marked him ; and Ife prayed, — 
 Kneeling, he prayed in the valley, and he said — " 
 " Nay," quoth the serpent, " spare me, what devout 
 He fawning grovelled to the All-powerful ; 
 But if of what shall hap he aught let fall. 
 Speak that." They answered, " He did pray as one 
 That looketh to outlive mankind, — and more, 
 "We are certified by all his scattered words. 
 That He will take from men their length of days. 
 And cut them off" like grass in its first flower : 
 From henceforth this shall be." 
 
 That when he heard, 
 The dragon made to the night his moan. 
 
 " And more," 
 They said, " that He above would have men know 
 That He doth love them, whoso will repent. 
 To that man he is favorable, yea,
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 ^37 
 
 Will be his loving Lord." 
 
 The dragon cried, 
 " The last is worse than all. 0, man, thy heart 
 Is stout against His wrath. But will lie love ? 
 I heard it rumored in the heavens of old, 
 (And doth He love ?) Thou wilt not, canst not, stand 
 Against the love of God. Dominion fails ; 
 I see it float from me, that long have worn 
 Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of God ! 
 I cry against thee ; thou art worse than all." 
 They answered, " Be not moved, admired chief 
 And trusted of mankind " ; and they went on, 
 And fed him with the prophecies that fell 
 From the Master-shipwright in his prayer. 
 
 But prone 
 He lay, for he was sick : at every word 
 Prophetic cowering. As a bruising blow, 
 It fell uj)on his head and daunted him. 
 Until they ended, saying, " Prince, behold. 
 Thy servants have revealed the whole." 
 
 Thereon 
 He out of snaky lips did hiss forth thanks. 
 Then said he, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 
 Receive your wages." So their fetters fell ; 
 And they retiring, landed him, and cried, 
 " King, reign forever." Then he mourned, "Amen." 
 
 And he, — being left alone, — he said : " A light ! 
 I see a light, — a star among the trees, —
 
 138 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 An angel." And it drew toward the cave, 
 
 But with its sacred feet touched not the grass, 
 
 Nor lifted up the lids of its pure eyes. 
 
 But hung a span's length from that ground pollute, 
 
 At the opening of the cave. 
 
 And when he looked, 
 The dragon cried, " Thou newly-fashioned thing. 
 Of name unknown, thy scorn becomes thee not. 
 Doth not thy Master suffer what thine eyes 
 Thou countest all too clean to open on ? " 
 But still it hovered, and the quietness 
 Of holy heaven was on the drooping lids ; 
 And not as one that answereth, it let fall 
 The music from its mouth, but like to one 
 That doth not hear, or, hearing, doth not heed. 
 
 " A message : ' I have heard thee, while remote 
 I went My rounds among the unfinished stars.' 
 A message : ' I have left thee to thy ways. 
 And mastered all thy vileness, for thy hate 
 I have made to serve the ends of My great love. 
 Hereafter will I chain thee down. To-day 
 One thing thou art forbidden ; now thou knowest 
 The name thereof: I told it thee in heaven, 
 "When thou wert sitting at My feet. Forbear 
 To let that hidden thing be whispered forth : 
 For man, ungrateful (and thy hope it was. 
 That so ungrateful he might prove), would scorn. 
 And not believe it, adding so fresh weight
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Of condemnation to the doomed world. 
 Concerning that, thou art forbid to speak ; 
 Know thou didst count it, falling from My tongue, 
 A lovely song, whose meaning was unknown, 
 Unknowable, unbearable to thought, 
 But sweeter in the hearing than all harps 
 Toned in My holy hollow. Now thine ears 
 Are opened, know it, and discern and fear, 
 Forbearing speech of it for evermore.'" 
 
 So said, it turned, and with a cry of joy, 
 As one released, went up : and it was dawn. 
 And all boughs dropped with dew, and out of mist 
 Came the red sun and looked into the cave. 
 
 But the dragon, left a-tremble, called to him, 
 
 From the nether kingdom, certain of his friends, — 
 
 Three whom he trusted, councillors accursed. 
 
 A thunder-cloud stooped low and swathed the place 
 
 In its black swirls, and out of it they rushed, 
 
 And hid them in recesses of the cave, 
 
 Because they could not look upon the sun, 
 
 Sith light is pure. And Satan called to them, — 
 
 All in the dark, in his great rage he spake : 
 
 " Up," quoth the dragon ; " it is time to work, 
 
 Or we are all undone." And he did hiss. 
 
 And there came shudderings over land and trees, 
 
 A dimness after dawn. The earth threw out 
 
 A blinding fog, that crept toward the cave, 
 
 139
 
 140 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 And rolled up blauk before it like a veil, — 
 A curtain to conceal its habiters. 
 Then did those spirits move upon the floor, 
 Like pillars of darkness, and with eyes aglow. 
 One had a helm for covering of the scars 
 That seamed what rested of a goodly face ; 
 He wore his vizor up, and all his words 
 "Were hoUower than an echo from the hills : 
 He was hight Make. And, lo, his fellow-fiend 
 Came after, holding down his dastard head. 
 Like one ashamed : now this for craft was great ; 
 The dragon honored him. A third sat down 
 Among them, covering with his wasted hand 
 Somewhat that pained his breast. 
 
 And when the fit 
 Of thunder, and the sobbings of the wind. 
 Were lulled, the dragon spoke with wrath and rage, 
 And told them of his matters : " Look to this, 
 If ye be loyal " ; adding, " Give your thoughts, 
 And let me have your counsel in this need." 
 
 One spirit rose and spake, and all the cave 
 
 Was full of sighs, " The words of Make the Prince, 
 
 Of him once delegate in Betelgeux : 
 
 Whereas of late the manner is to change, 
 
 We know not where 't will end ; and now my words 
 
 Go thus : give way, be peaceable, lie still 
 
 And strive not, else the world that we have won 
 
 He may, to drive us out, reduce to nought.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 " For while I stood in mine obedience yet, 
 Steering of Betelgeux my sun, behold, 
 A moon, that evil ones did fill, rolled up 
 Astray, and suddenly the Master came, 
 And while, a million strong, like rooks they rose, 
 He took and broke it, flung it here and there. 
 And called a blast to drive the powder forth ; 
 And it was fine as dust, and blurred the skies 
 Farther than 't is from hence to this young sun. 
 Spirits that passed upon their work that day, 
 Cried out, ' How dusty 't is.' Behoves u?, then, 
 That we depart, as leaving unto Him 
 This goodly world and goodly race of man. 
 Not all are doomed ; hereafter it may be 
 That we find place on it again. But if. 
 Too zealous to preserve it, and the men 
 Our servants, we oppose Him, He may come 
 And choosing rather to undo His work 
 Than strive with it for aye, make so an end." 
 
 He sighing paused. Lo, then the serpent hissed 
 
 In impotent rage, " Depart ! and how depart ! 
 
 Can flesh be carried down where spirits wonn ? 
 
 Or I, most miserable, hold my life 
 
 Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and bide 
 
 The bufFetings of yonder shoreless sea ? 
 
 O death, thou terrible doom : death, thou dread 
 
 Of all that breathe." 
 
 A spirit rose and spake ; 
 
 141
 
 142 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 " Whereas in Heaven is power, is much to fear; 
 For this admired country we have marred. 
 Whereas in Heaven is love (and there are days 
 When yet I can recall what love was like), 
 Is naught to fear. A threatening makes the whole, 
 And clogged with strong conditions : ' 0, repent, 
 Man, and I turn,' He, therefore, powerful now, 
 And more so, master, that ye hide in clay, 
 Threateneth that He may save. They shall not die." 
 
 The dragon said, " I tremble, I am sick." 
 
 He said with pain of heart, " How am I fallen ! 
 
 For I keep silence ; yea, I have withdrawn 
 
 From haunting of His gates, and shouting up 
 
 Defiance. Wherefore doth He hunt me out 
 
 From this small world, this little one, that I 
 
 Have been content to take unto myself, 
 
 I here being loved and worshipped ? He knoweth 
 
 How much I have foregone ; and must He stoop 
 
 To whelm the world, and heave the floors o' the deep, 
 
 Of purpose to pursue me from my place ? 
 
 And since I gave men knowledge, must He take 
 
 Their length of days whereby they perfect it ? 
 
 So shall He scatter all that I have stored, 
 
 And get them by degrading them. I know 
 
 That in the end it is appointed me 
 
 To fade. I will not fade before the time." 
 
 A spirit rose, the third, a spirit ashamed
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 143 
 
 And subtle, and his foce he turned aside : 
 
 " Whereas," said he, " we strive against both power 
 
 And love, behoves us that we strive aright. 
 
 Now some of old my comrades, yesterday 
 
 I met, as they did journey to appear 
 
 In the Presence ; and I said, ' My master lieth 
 
 Sick yonder, otherwise (for no decree 
 
 There stands against it) he would also come 
 
 And make obeisance with the sons of God.' 
 
 They answered, naught denying. Therefore, lord, 
 
 'T is certain that ye have admittance yet ; 
 
 And what doth hinder ? Notliing but this breath. 
 
 Were it not well to make an end, and die. 
 
 And gain admittance to the King of kings ? 
 
 What if tliy slaves by thy consent shoukl take 
 
 And bear thee on their wings above the earth. 
 
 And suddenly let fall, — how soon 't were o'er ! 
 
 We should have fear and sinking at the heart ; 
 
 But in a little moment we should see, 
 
 Rising majestic from a ruined heap. 
 
 The stately spirit that we served of yore." 
 
 The serpent turned his subtle deadly eyes 
 
 Upon the spirit, and hissed ; and sick with shame. 
 
 It bowed itself together, and went back 
 
 With hidden face. " This counsel is not good," 
 
 The other twain made answer ; " look, my lord, 
 
 Whereas 't is evil in thine eyes, in ours 
 
 'T is evil also ; speak, for we perceive
 
 144 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 That on thy tongue the words of counsel sit, 
 
 Ready to fly to our right greedy ears, 
 
 That long for them." And Satan, flattered thus 
 
 (Forever may the serpent kind be charmed. 
 
 With soft sweet words, and music deftly played), 
 
 Replied, " Whereas I surely rule the world, 
 
 Behoves that ye prepare for me a path, 
 
 And that I, putting of my pains aside. 
 
 Go stir rebellion in the mighty hearts 
 
 O' the giants ; for He loveth them, and looks 
 
 Full oft complacent on their glorious strength. 
 
 He willeth that they yield, that He may spare; 
 
 But, by the blackness of my loathed den, 
 
 I say they shall not, no, they shall not yield ; 
 
 Go, therefore, take to you some harmless guise, 
 
 And spread a rumor that I come. I, sick, 
 
 Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have heard 
 
 Whispers that out of heaven dropped unaware. 
 
 I caught them up, and sith they bode men harm, 
 
 I am ready for to comfort them ; yea, more. 
 
 To counsel, and I will that they drive forth 
 
 The women, the abhorred of my soul ; 
 
 Let not a woman breathe where I shall pass, 
 
 Lest the curse falleth, and she bruise my head. 
 
 Friends, if it be their mind to send for me 
 
 An army, and triumphant draw me on 
 
 In the golden car ye wot of, and with shouts, 
 
 I would not that ye hinder them. Ah, then 
 
 Will I make hard their hearts, and grieve Him sore,
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 145 
 
 That loves tliem, O, by much too well to wet 
 Their stately heads, and soil those locks of strength 
 Under the fateful brine. Then afterward, 
 'While lie doth x-eason vainly with them, I 
 Will offer Him a pact : ' Great King, a pact, 
 And men shall worship Thee, I say they shall, 
 For I will bid them do it, yea, and leave 
 To sacrifice their kind, so Thou my name 
 Wilt suffer to be worshipped after Thine.' " 
 
 " Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, " do this thing, 
 And let us hear thy words, for they are sweet." 
 
 Then he made answer, " By a messenger 
 
 liave I this day been warned. There is a deed 
 
 I may not tell of, lest the people add 
 
 Scorn to a Coming Greatness to their faults. 
 
 Why this ? Who careth when about to slay. 
 
 And slay indeed, how well they have deserved 
 
 Death, whom he slayeth ? Therefore yet is hid 
 
 A meaning of some mercy that will rob 
 
 The nether world. Now look to it, — 'T were vain 
 
 Albeit this deluge He would send indeed, 
 
 That we expect the harvest ; He would yet 
 
 Be the Master-reaper ; for I heard it said. 
 
 They that be young and know Him not, and they 
 
 That are bound and may not build, yea, more, their wives, 
 
 Whom, suffering not to hear the doom, they keep 
 
 Joyous behind the curtains, every one 
 
 7 J
 
 146 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 With maidens nourished in the house, and babes 
 
 And children at her knees, — (then what remain !) 
 
 He claimeth and will gather for His own. 
 
 Now, therefore, it were good by guile to work, 
 
 Princes, and suffer not the doom to fall. 
 
 There is no evil like to love. I heard 
 
 Him whisper it. Have I put on this flesh 
 
 To ruin his two children beautiful. 
 
 And shall my deed confound me in the end, 
 
 Through awful imitation ? Love of God, 
 
 I cry against thee ; thou art worst of all."
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. j^y 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 "N T OW while these evil ones took counsel strange, 
 
 6^^ 
 
 i. ^ The son of Lamech journeyed home ; and, lo ! 
 A company came down, and struck the track 
 As he did enter it. There rode in front 
 Two horsemen, young and noble, and behind 
 Were following slaves with tent gear ; others led 
 Strong horses, others bare the instruments 
 O' the chase, and in the rear dull camels lagged, 
 Sighing, for they were burdened, and they loved 
 The desert sands above that grassy vale. 
 
 And as they met, those horsemen drew the rein, 
 And fixed on him their grave untroubled eyes ; 
 He in his regal grandeur walked alone, 
 And had nor steed nor follower, and his mien 
 "Was grave and like to theirs. He said to them, 
 " Fah- sirs, whose are ye ? " They made answer cold, 
 " The beautiful woman, sir, our mother dear, 
 Niloiya, bear us to great Lamech's son." 
 And he, replying, « I am he." They said, 
 " We know it, sir. We have remembered you 
 Through many seasons. Pray you let us not ; 
 We fain would greet our mother." And they made 
 Obeisance and passed on ; then all their train. 
 Which while they spoke had halted, moved apace,
 
 148 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 And, while the silent father stood, went by, 
 lie gazing after, as a man that dreams ; 
 For he was sick with their cold, quiet scorn, 
 That seemed to say, " Father, we own you not, 
 We love you not, for you have left us long, — • 
 So long, we care not that you come again." 
 
 And while the sullen camels moved, he spake 
 
 To him that led the last, " There are but two 
 
 Of these my sons ; but where doth Japhet ride ? 
 
 For I would see him." And the leader said, 
 
 " Sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up 
 
 Along the track. Afore the noonday meal 
 
 The young men, even our masters, bathed ; (there grows 
 
 A clump of cedars by the bend of yon 
 
 Clear river) — there did Japhet, after meat, 
 
 Being right weary, lay him down and sleep. 
 
 There, with a company of slaves and some 
 
 Few camels, ye shall find him." 
 
 And the man 
 
 The father of these three, did let him pass. 
 
 And struggle and give battle to his heart. 
 
 Standing as motionless as pillar set 
 
 To guide a wanderer in a pathless waste ; 
 
 But all his strength went from him, and he strove 
 
 Vainly to trample out and trample down 
 
 The misery of his love unsatisfied, — 
 
 Unutterable love flung in his face.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Then he broke out in passionate words, that cried 
 Against his lot, " I have lost my own, and won 
 None other ; no, not one ! Alas, my sons ! 
 That I have looked to for my solacing, 
 In the bitterness to come. My children dear ! " 
 And when from his own lips he heard those words, 
 "With passionate stirring of the heart, he wept. 
 
 And none came near to comfort him. His face 
 
 Was on the ground ; but, having wept, he rose 
 
 Full hastily, and urged his way to find 
 
 The river ; and in hollow of his hand 
 
 Raised up the water to his brow : " This son, 
 
 This other son of mine," he said, " shall see 
 
 No tears upon my face." And he looked on, 
 
 Beheld the camels, and a group of slaves 
 
 Sitting apart from some one fast asleep, 
 
 Where they had spread out webs of broidery work 
 
 Under a cedar-tree ; and he came on. 
 
 And when they made obeisance he declared 
 
 His name, and said, " I will beside my son 
 
 Sit till he wakeneth." So Japhet lay 
 
 A-dreaming, and his father drew to him. 
 
 He said, " This cannot scorn me yet"; and paused, 
 
 Right angry with himself, because the youth, 
 
 Albeit of stately growth, so languidly 
 
 Lay with a listless smile upon his mouth. 
 
 That was full sweet and pure ; and as he looked, 
 
 He half forgot his trouble in his pride. 
 
 149
 
 ISO 
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 " And is this mine ? " said he, " my son ! mine own ! 
 
 (God, thou, art good !) O, if this turn away, 
 
 That pang shall be past bearing. I must think 
 
 That all the sweetness of his goodly face 
 
 Is copied from his soul. How beautiful 
 
 Are children to their fathers ! Son, my heart 
 
 Is greatly glad because of thee ; my life 
 
 Shall lack of no completeness in the days 
 
 To come. If I forget the joy of youth, 
 
 In thee shall I be comforted ; ay, see 
 
 My youth, a dearer than my own again." 
 
 And when he ceased, the youth, with sleep content, 
 Murmured a little, turned himself and woke. 
 
 He woke, and opened on his father's face 
 
 The darkness of his eyes ; but not a word 
 
 The Master-shipwright said, — his lips were sealed ; 
 
 He w-as not ready, for he feared to see 
 
 This mouth curl up with scorn. And Japhet spoke. 
 
 Full of the calm that cometh after sleep : 
 
 " Sir, I have dreamed of you. I pray you, sir, 
 
 What is your name ? " and even with his words 
 
 His countenance changed. The son of Lamech said, 
 
 " Why art thou sad ? What have I done to thee ? " 
 
 And Japhet answered, " O, methought I fled 
 
 In the wilderness before a maddened beast. 
 
 And you came up and slew it ; and I thought 
 
 You were my father ; but I fear me, sir.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 151 
 
 My thoughts were vain." With that his father said, 
 " Whate'er of blessing Thou reserv'st for me, 
 God ! if Thou wilt not give to both, give here : 
 Bless him with both Thy hands"; and laid his own 
 On Japhet's head. 
 
 Then Japhet looked on him, 
 Made quiet by content, and answered low, 
 With faltering laughter, glad and reverent : " Sir, 
 You are my father ? " " Ay," quoth he, " I am ! 
 Kiss me, my son ; and let me hear my name, 
 My much desired name, from your dear lips." 
 
 Then after, rested, they betook them home : 
 
 And Japhet, walking by the Master, thought, 
 
 " I did not will to love this sire of mine ; 
 
 But now I feel as if I had always known 
 
 And loved him well ; truly, I see not why, 
 
 But I would rather serve him than go free 
 
 With my two brethren." And he said to him, 
 
 " Father ! " — who answered, " I am here, my son." 
 
 And Japhet said, " I pray you, sir, attend 
 
 To this my answer : let me go with you, 
 
 For, now I think on it, I do not love 
 
 The chase, nor managing the steed, nor yet 
 
 The arrows and the bow ; but rather you. 
 
 For all you do and say, and you yourself, 
 
 Are goodly and delightsome in mine eyes. 
 
 I pray you, sir, when you go forth again, 
 
 That I may also go." And he replied,
 
 152 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 " I will tell thy speech unto the Highest ; He 
 Shall answer it. But I would siDcak to thee 
 Now of the days to come. Know thou, most dear 
 To this thy father, that the drenched world, 
 When risen clean washed from water, shall receive 
 From thee her lordliest governors, from thee 
 Daughters of noblest soul." 
 
 So Japhet said, 
 " Sir, I am young, but of my mother straight 
 I will go ask a wife, that this may be. 
 I pray you, therefore, as the manner is 
 Of fathers, give me land that I may reap 
 Corn for sustaining of my wife, and bruise 
 The fruit of the vine to cheer her." But he said, 
 " Dost thou forget ? or dost thou not believe, 
 My son ? " He answered, " I did ne'er believe, 
 My father, ere to-day ; but now, methinks, 
 Whatever thou believest I believe. 
 For thy beloved sake. If this then be 
 As thou (I hear) hast said, and earth doth bear 
 The last of her wheat harvests, and make ripe 
 The latest of her grapes ; yet hear me, sir, 
 None of the daughters shall be given to me 
 If I be landless." Then his father said, 
 " Lift up thine eyes toward the north, my son " 
 And so he did. " Behold thy heritage ! " 
 Quoth the world's prince and master, " far away 
 Upon the side o' the north, where green the field 
 Lies every season through, and where the dews
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Of heaven are wholesome, shall thy children reign ; 
 
 I part it to them, for the earth is mine ; 
 
 The Highest gave it me : I make it theirs. 
 
 Moreover, for thy marriage gift, behold 
 
 The cedars where thou sleepedst ! There are vines ; 
 
 And up the rise is growing wheat. I give 
 
 (For all, alas ! is mine), — I give thee both 
 
 For dowry, and my blessing." 
 
 And he said, 
 " Sir, you are good, and therefore the Most High 
 Shall bless me also. Sir, I love you well." 
 
 153 
 
 7*
 
 154 
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 AND when two days were over, Japhet said, 
 " Mother, so please you, get a wife for me." 
 The mother answered, " Dost thou mock me, son ? 
 'T is not the manner of our kin to wed 
 So young. Thou knowest it ; art thou not ashamed ? 
 Thou carest not for a wife." And the youth blushed. 
 And made for answer : " This, my father, saith 
 The doom is nigh ; now therefore find a maid. 
 Or else shall I be wifeless all my days. 
 And as for me, I care not ; but the lands 
 Are parted, and the goodliest share is mine. 
 And lo ! my brethren are betrothed ; their maids 
 Are with thee in the house. Then why not mine ? 
 Didst thou not diligently search for these 
 Among the noblest born of all the earth, 
 And bring them up ? My sisters, dwell they not 
 "With women that bespake them for their sons ? 
 Now, therefore, let a wife be found for me. 
 Fair as the day, and gentle to my will 
 As thou art to my father's." When she heard, 
 Niloiya sighed, and answered, " It is well." 
 And Japhet went out from her presence. 
 
 Then 
 Quoth the great Master : " "Wherefore sought ye not, 
 "Woman, these many days, nor tured at all.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 155 
 
 Till ye had found, a maiden for my son ? 
 
 In this ye have done ill." Niloiya said : 
 
 " Let not my lord be angry. All my soul 
 
 Is sad : my lord hath walked afar so long, 
 
 That some despise thee ; yea, our servants fail 
 
 Lately to bring their stint of corn and wood. 
 
 And, sir, thy household slaves do steal away 
 
 To thy great father, and our lands lie waste, — 
 
 None till them : therefore think the women scorn 
 
 To give me, — whatsoever gems I send, 
 
 And goodly raiment, — (yea, I seek afar. 
 
 And sue with all desire and humbleness 
 
 Through every master's house, but no one gives) — 
 
 A daughter for my son." With that she ceased. 
 
 Then said the Master : " Some thou hast with thee, 
 
 Brought up among thy children, dutiful 
 
 And fair ; thy father gave them for my slaves, — 
 
 Children of them whom, he brought captive forth 
 
 From their own heritage." And she replied. 
 
 Right scornfully : " Shall Japhet wed a slave ? " 
 
 Then said the Master : " He shall wed : look thou 
 
 To that. I say not he shall wed a slave ; 
 
 But by the might of One that made him mine, 
 
 I will not quit thee for my doomed way 
 
 Until thou wilt betroth him. Therefore, haste. 
 
 Beautiful woman, loved of me and mine, 
 
 To bring a maiden, and to say, ' Behold 
 
 A wife for Japhet.' " Then she answered, " Sir,
 
 156 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 It shall be done " 
 
 And forth Niloiya sped. 
 She gathered all her jewels, — all she held 
 Of costly or of rich, — and went and spake 
 With some few slaves that yet abode with her, 
 For daily they were fewer ; and went forth, 
 With fair and flattering words, among her feres. 
 And fain had wrought with them : and she had hope 
 That made her sick, it was so faint ; and then 
 She had fear, and after she had certainty, 
 For all did scorn her. " Nay," they cried, " O fool ! 
 If this be so, and on a watery world 
 Ye think to rock, what matters if a wife 
 Be free or bond ? There shall be none to rule, 
 If she have freedom : if she have it not. 
 None shall there be to serve." 
 
 And she alit. 
 The time being done, desponding at her door. 
 And went behind a screen, where should have wrought 
 The daughters of the captives ; but there wrought 
 One only, and this rose from off the floor, 
 Where she the river rush full deftly wove, 
 And made obeisance. Then Niloiya said, 
 " Where are thy fellows ? " And the maid replied, 
 " Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved. 
 Be angry ; they are fled since yesternight." 
 Then said Niloiya, " Amarant, my slave, 
 When have I called thee by thy name before ? " 
 She answered, " Lady, never " ; and she took
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 157 
 
 And spread her broidered robe before her face. 
 
 Niloiya spoke thus : " I am come to woe, 
 
 And thou to honor." Saying this, she wept 
 
 Passionate tears ; and all the damsel's soul 
 
 Was full of yearning wonder, and her robe 
 
 Slipped from her hand, and her right innocent face 
 
 "Was seen betwixt her locks of tawny hair 
 
 That dropped about her knees, and her two eyes, 
 
 Blue as the much-loved flower that rims the beck, 
 
 Looked sweetly on Niloiya ; but she knew 
 
 No meaning in her words ; and she drew nigh, 
 
 And kneeled and said, " Will this my lady speak ? 
 
 Her damsel is desirous of her words." 
 
 Then said Niloiya, " I, thy mistress, sought 
 
 A wife for Japhet, and no wife is found." 
 
 And yet again she wept with grief of heart, 
 
 Saying, " Ah me, miserable ! I must give 
 
 A wife : the Master willeth it : a wife, 
 
 Ah me ! unto the high-born. He will scorn 
 
 His mother and reproach me. I must give — 
 
 None else have I to give — a slave, — even thee." 
 
 This further spake Niloiya : " I was good, — 
 
 Had rue on thee, a tender sucking child, 
 
 When they did tear thee from thy mother's breast ; 
 
 I fed thee, gave thee shelter, and I taught 
 
 Thy hands all cunning arts that women prize. 
 
 But out on me ! my good is turned to ill. 
 
 O, Japhet, well-beloved ! " And she rose up, 
 
 And did restrain herself, saying, " Dost thou heed ?
 
 158 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Behold, this thing shall be." The damsel sighed, 
 " Ladj, I do." Then went Niloiya forth. 
 
 And Amarant murmured in her deep amaze, 
 " Shall Japhet's little children kiss my mouth ? 
 And will he sometimes take them from my arms. 
 And almost care for me for their sweet sake ? 
 I have not dared to think I loved him, — now 
 I know it well : but O, the bitterness 
 For him ! " And ending thus, the damsel rose, 
 For Japhet entered. And she bowed herself 
 Meekly and made obeisance, but her blood 
 Ran cold about her heart, for all his face 
 Was colored with his passion. 
 
 Japhet spoke : 
 He said, " My father's slave " ; and she replied. 
 Low drooping her fair head, " My master's son." 
 And after that a silence fell on them. 
 With trembling at her heart, and rage at his. 
 And Japhet, mastered of his passion, sat 
 And could not speak. O ! cruel seemed his fate, • 
 So cruel her that told it, so unkind. 
 His breast was full of wounded love and wrath 
 Wrestling together ; and his eyes flashed out 
 Indignant lights, as all amazed he took 
 The insult home that she had offered him. 
 Who should have held his honor dear. 
 
 And, lo, 
 The misery choked him and he cried in pain,
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 " Go, get thee forth " ; but she, all white and still, 
 Parted her lips to speak, and yet spake not, 
 Nor moved. And Japhet rose up passionate. 
 With Hfted arm as one about to strike ; 
 But she cried out and met him, and she held 
 With desperate might his hand, and prayed to him, 
 " Strike not, or else shall men from henceforth say, 
 ' Japhet is like to us.' " And he shook oiF 
 The damsel, and he said, " I thank thee, slave ; 
 For never have I stricken yet or child 
 Or woman. Not for thy sake am I glad. 
 Nay, but for mine. Get hence. Obey my words." 
 Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and wept. 
 
 And no more he restrained himself, but cried, 
 
 With heavings of the heart, " O hateful day ! 
 
 O day that shuts the door upon delight. 
 
 A slave ! to wed a slave ! loathed wife. 
 
 Hated of Japhet's soul." And after, long, 
 
 With face between his hands, he sat, his thoughts 
 
 Sullen and sore ; then scorned himself, and saying, 
 
 " I will not take her, I will die unwed, 
 
 It is but that " ; lift up his eyes and saw 
 
 The slave, and she was sitting at his feet ; 
 
 And he, so greatly wondering that she dared 
 
 The disobedience, looked her in the face 
 
 Less angry than afraid, for pale she was 
 
 As lily yet unsmiled on by the sun ; 
 
 And he, his passion being spent, sighed out, 
 
 159
 
 l6o ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 " Low am I fallen indeed. Hast thou no fear, 
 That thou dost flout me ? " but she gave to him 
 The sighing echo of his sigh, and mourned, 
 « No." 
 
 And he wondered, and he looked again, 
 For in her heart there was a new-born pang, 
 That cried ; but she, as mothers with their young. 
 Suffered, yet loved it ; and there shone a strange 
 Grave sweetness in her blue unsullied eyes. 
 And Japhet, leaning from the settle, thought, 
 " What is it ? I will call her by her name, 
 To comfort her, for also she is naught 
 To blame ; and since I will not her to wife. 
 She falls back from the freedom she had hoped." 
 Then he said " Amarant " ; and the damsel drew 
 Her eyes down slowly from the shaded sky 
 Of even, and she said, " My master's son, 
 Japhet" ; and Japhet said, " I am not wroth 
 With thee, but wretched for my mother's deed, 
 Because she shamed me." 
 
 And the maiden said, 
 " Doth not thy father love thee weU, sweet sir ? " 
 " Ay," quoth he, " well." She answered, " Let the heart 
 Of Japhet, then, be merry. Go to him 
 And say, ' The damsel whom my mother chose, 
 Sits by her in the house ; but as for me, 
 Sir, ere I take her, let me go with you 
 To that same outland country. Also, sir. 
 My damsel hath not worked as yet the robe
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. i6i 
 
 Of her betrothal ' ; now, then, sith he loves, 
 He will not say thee nay. Herein for awhile 
 Is respite, and thy mother far and near 
 Will seek again : it may be she will find 
 A fair, free maiden." 
 
 Japhet said, " maid, 
 Sweet are thy words ; but what if I return, 
 And all again be as it is to-day ? " 
 Then Amarant answered, " Some have died in youth ; 
 But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall die. 
 Though ye shall find it even as I had died, — 
 Silent, for any words I might have said ; 
 Empty, for any space I might have filled. 
 Sir, I will steal away, and hide afar ; 
 But if a wife be found, then will I bide 
 And serve." He answered, " O, thy speech is good ; 
 Now therefore (since my mother gave me thee), 
 I will reward it ; I will find for thee 
 A goodly husband, and will make him free 
 Thee also." 
 
 Then she started from his feet. 
 And, red with shame and anger, flashed on him 
 The passion of her eyes ; and put her hands 
 Witli catching of the breath to her fair throat, 
 And stood in her defiance lost to fear, 
 Like some fair hind in desperate danger turned" 
 And brought to bay, and wild in her despair. 
 But shortly, " I remember," quoth slie, low, 
 With raining down of tears and broken sighs.
 
 1 62 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 " That I am Japliet's slave ; beseech you, sir, 
 
 As ye were ever gentle, ay, and sweet 
 
 Of language to me, be not harder now. 
 
 Sir, I was yours to take ; I knew not, sir, 
 
 That also ye might give me. Pray you, sir, 
 
 Be pitiful, — be merciful to me, 
 
 A slave." He said, " I thought to do thee good. 
 
 For good hath been thy counsel " ; but she cried, 
 
 " Good master, be you therefore pitiful 
 
 To me, a slave." And Japhet wondered much 
 
 At her, and at her beauty, for he thought, 
 
 " None of the daughters are so fair as this. 
 
 Nor stand with such a grace majestical ; 
 
 She in her locks is like the travelling sun. 
 
 Setting, all clad in coiiing clouds of gold. 
 
 And would she die unmatched ? " He said to her, 
 
 " What ! wilt thou sail alone in yonder ship. 
 
 And dwell alone hereafter ? " " Ay," she said, 
 
 " And serve my mistress." 
 
 " It is well," quoth he. 
 And held his hand to her, as is the way 
 Of masters. Then she kissed it, and she said, 
 " Thanks for benevolence," and turned herself, 
 Adding, " I rest, sir, on your gracious words " ; 
 Then stepped into the twilight and was gone. 
 
 And Japhet, having found his father, said, 
 
 " Sir, let me also journey when ye go." 
 
 Who answered, " Hath thy mother done her part ? "
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 163 
 
 He said, " Yea, truly, and my damsel sits 
 
 Before her in the house ; and also, sir, 
 
 She said to me, ' I have not worked, as jet, 
 
 The garment of betrothal.' " And he said, 
 
 " 'T is not the manner of our kin to speak 
 
 Concerning matters that a woman rules ; 
 
 But hath thy mother brought a damsel home. 
 
 And let her see thy face, then all is one 
 
 As ye were wed." He answered, " Even so, 
 
 It matters nothing ; therefore hear me, sir : 
 
 The damsel being mine, I am content 
 
 To let her do according to her will ; 
 
 And when we shall return, so surely, sir, 
 
 As I shall find her by my mother's side, 
 
 Then will I take her " ; and he left to speak ; 
 
 His father answering, " Son, thy words are good."
 
 l64 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 BOOK VL 
 
 NIGHT. Now a tent was pitched, and Japhet sat 
 In the door and watched, for on a Htter lay 
 The father of his love. And he was sick 
 To death ; but daily he would rouse him up, 
 And stare upon the light, and ever say, 
 " On, let us journey " ; but it came to pass 
 That night, across their path a river ran, 
 And they who served the father and the son 
 Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made 
 A fire, to scare away the savagery 
 That roamed in that great forest, for their way 
 Had led among the trees of God. 
 
 The moon 
 Shone on the river, like a silver road 
 To lead them over ; but when Japhet looked. 
 He said, " We shall not cross it. I shall lay 
 This well-beloved head low in the leaves, — 
 Not on the farther side." From time to time, 
 The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow 
 With curling undulations, and would lay 
 Their heads along the bank, and, subtle-eyed, 
 Consider those long spirting flames, that danced, 
 "When some red log would break and crumble down. 
 And show his dark despondent eyes, that watched, 
 Wearily, even Japhet's. But he cared
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 165 
 
 Little ; and in the dark, that was not dark, 
 
 But dimness of confused incertitude, 
 
 "Woukl move a-near all silently, and gaze 
 
 And breathe, and shape itself, a maned thing 
 
 With eyes ; and still he cared not, and the form 
 
 Would falter, then recede, and melt again 
 
 Into the farther shade. And Japhet said : 
 
 " How long ? The moon hath grown again in heaven, 
 
 After her caving twice, since we did leave 
 
 The threshold of our home ; and now what 'vails 
 
 That far on tumbled mountain snow we toiled, 
 
 Hungry, and weary, all the day ; by night 
 
 Waked with a dreadful trembling underneath, 
 
 To look, while every cone smoked, and there ran 
 
 Red brooks adown, that licked the forest up, 
 
 While in the pale white ashes wading on 
 
 We saw no stars ? — what 'vails if afterward, 
 
 Astonished with great silence, we did move 
 
 Over the measureless, unknown desert mead ; 
 
 While all the day, in rents and crevices, 
 
 Would lie the lizard and the serpent kind, 
 
 Drowsy ; and in the night take fearsome shapes, 
 
 And oft-times woman-faced and woman-haired 
 
 Would trail their snaky length, and curse and moui'n ; 
 
 Or there would wander up, when we were tired, 
 
 Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose, 
 
 Withstanding us, and staring ; — ! what 'vails 
 
 That in the dread deep forest we have fought 
 
 With following packs of wolves ? These men of might.
 
 l66 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Even the giants, shall not hear the doom 
 My father came to tell them of. Ah, me ! 
 If God indeed had sent him, would he lie 
 (For he is stricken with a sore disease) 
 Helpless outside their city ? " 
 
 Then he rose, 
 And put aside the curtains of the tent. 
 To look upon his father's face ; and lo ! 
 The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat 
 Beside the litter ; and he set his eyes 
 To see it, and saw not ; but only marked 
 Where, fallen away from manhood and from power, 
 His father lay. Then he came forth again. 
 Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire, 
 And murmured, " Now it is the second time : 
 An old man, as I think (but scarcely saw), 
 Dreadful of might. Its hair was white as wool : 
 I dared not look ; perhaps I saw not aught, 
 But only knew that it was there : the same 
 Which walked beside us once when he did pray." 
 And Japhet hid his face between his hands 
 For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness 
 Of watching ; and he slumbered not, but mourned 
 To himself, a little moment, as it seemed, 
 For sake of his loved father : then he lift 
 His eyes, and day had dawned. Right suddenly 
 The moon withheld her silver, and she hung 
 Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame that played, 
 By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the flood.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Crept red araongst the logs, and all the world 
 And all the water blushed and bloomed. The stars 
 Were gone, and golden shafts came up, and touched 
 The feathered heads of palms, and green was born 
 Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew 
 Like veils across the mountains ; and he saw. 
 Winding athwart them, bathed in blissful peace, 
 And the sacredness of morn, the battlements 
 And out-posts of the giants ; and there ran 
 On the other side the river, as it were, 
 White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair, 
 And towers below a line of inland cliff: 
 These were their fastnesses, and here their homes. 
 
 In valleys and the forest, all that night, 
 
 There had been woe ; in every hollow place. 
 
 And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow. 
 
 Women lay mourning ; for the serpent lodged 
 
 That night within the gates, and had decreed, 
 
 " I will (or ever I come) that ye drive out 
 
 The women, the abhorred of my soul." 
 
 Therefore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom, 
 
 Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs, 
 
 Or flights of azure doves that lit to drink 
 
 The water of the river ; or, new born. 
 
 The quivering butterflies in companies, 
 
 That slowly crept adown the sandy marge. 
 
 Like living crocus beds, and also drank, ' 
 
 And rose an orange cloud ; their hollowed hands 
 
 167
 
 l68 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 They dipped between the lilies, or with robes 
 Full of ripe fruitage, sat and peeled and ate, 
 Weeping ; or comforting their little ones, 
 And lulling them with sorrowful long hymns 
 Among the palms. 
 
 So went the earlier morn. 
 Then came a messenger, while Japhet sat 
 Mournfully, and he said, ' The men of might 
 Are willing ; let thy master, youth, appear." 
 And Japhet said, *■' So be it " ;. and he thought, 
 " Now will I trust in God " ; and he went in 
 And stood before his father, and he said, 
 " My ftither " ; but the Master answered not, 
 But gazed upon the curtains of his tent. 
 Nor knew that one had called him. He was clad 
 As ready for the journey, and his feet 
 Were sandalled, and his staff was at his side ; 
 And Japhet took the gown of sacrifice 
 And spread it on him, and he laid his crown 
 Upon his knees, and he went forth, and lift 
 His hand to heaven, and cried, " My father's God ! " 
 But neither whisper came nor echo fell 
 When he did listen. Therefore he went on : 
 " Behold, I have a thing to say to thee. 
 My father charged thy servant, ' Let not ruth 
 Prevail with thee, to turn and bear me hence, 
 For God appointed me my task, to preach 
 Before the mighty.' I must do my part 
 (0 ! let it not displease thee), for he said
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 169 
 
 But yesterniglit, ' When they shall send for me, 
 Take me before them.' And I sware to him. 
 I pray thee, therefore, count his life and mine 
 Precious ; for I that sware, I will perform." 
 
 Then cried he to his people, " Let us hence : 
 Take up the litter." And they set their feet 
 Toward the raft whereby men crossed that flood. 
 
 And while they journeyed, lo, the giants sat 
 
 "Within the fairest hall where all were fair. 
 
 Each on his carven throne, o'er-canopied 
 
 With work of women. And the dragon lay 
 
 In a place of honor ; and with subtlety 
 
 He counselled them, for they did speak by turns ; 
 
 And they being proud, might nothing master them, 
 
 But guile alone : and he did fawn on them ; 
 
 And when the youuger taunted him, submiss 
 
 He testified great humbleness, and cried, 
 
 " A cruel God, forsooth ! but nay, O nay, 
 
 I will not think it of Him, that He meant 
 
 To threaten these. 0, when I look on them. 
 
 How doth my soul admire." 
 
 And one stood forth. 
 The youngest ; of his brethren, named " the Rock." 
 " Speak out," quoth he, " thou toothless slavering thing, 
 What is it ? thinkest thou that such as we 
 Should be afraid ? What is this goodly doom ? " 
 And Satan laughed upon him. " Lo," said he, 
 8
 
 I/O 
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 " Thou art not fully grown, and every one 
 
 I look on, standeth higher by the bead, 
 
 Yea, and the shoulders, than do other men ; 
 
 Forsooth, thy servant thought not thou wouldst fear, 
 
 Thou and thy fellows." Then with one accord, 
 
 " Speak," cried they ; and with mild persuasive eyes, 
 
 And flattering tongue, be spoke. 
 
 " Ye mighty ones, 
 It hath been known to you tbese many days 
 How that for piety I am mucb famed. 
 I am exceeding pious : if I lie, 
 As bath been whispered, it is but for sake 
 Of God, and that ye should not think Him hard, 
 For I am all for God. Now some have thought 
 That He hath also (and it may be so 
 Or yet may not be so) on me been hard ; 
 Be not ye therefore wa-oth, for my poor sake ; 
 I am contented to have earned your weal, 
 Though I must therefore suffer. 
 
 " Now to-day 
 One Cometh, yea, an harmless man, a fool. 
 Who boasts be batb a message from our God, 
 And lest that you, for bravery of heart 
 And stoutness, being angered with his prate. 
 Should lift a hand, and kill him, I am here." 
 
 Then spoke the Leader, " How now, snake ? Thy words 
 Ring false. "Why ever best thou, snake, to us ? 
 Thou coward ! none of us wUl see thee harmed.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. lyi 
 
 I say thou liest. The land is strewed with slain ; 
 Myself have hewn down companies, and blood 
 Makes fertile all the field. Thou knowest it well ; 
 And hast thou, driveller, panting sore for age. 
 Come with a force to bid us spare one fool ? " 
 
 And Satan answered, " Nay you ! be not wroth ; 
 
 Yet true it is, and yet not all the truth. 
 
 Your servant would have told the rest, if now 
 
 (For fulness of your life being fretted sore 
 
 At mine infirmities, which God in vain 
 
 I supplicate to heal) ye had not caused 
 
 My speech to stop." And he they called " the Oak " 
 
 Made answer, " 'T is a good snake ; let him be. 
 
 Why would ye fright the poor old craven beast ? 
 
 Look how his lolling tongue doth foam for fear. 
 
 Ye should have mercy, brethren, on the weak. 
 
 Speak, dragon, thou hast leave ; make stout thy heart. 
 
 What ! hast thou lied to this great company ? 
 
 It was, we know it was, for humbleness ; 
 
 Thou wert not wilUng to offend with truth." 
 
 " Yea, majesties," quoth Satan, " thus it was," 
 
 And lifted up appealing eyes, and groaned ; 
 
 " O, can it be, compassionate as brave. 
 
 And housed in cunning works themselves have reared, 
 
 And served in gold, and warmed with minivere, 
 
 And ruling nobly, — that He, not content 
 
 Unless alone He reigneth, looks to bend
 
 1/2 
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Or break tbem in, like slaves to cry to HiQi, 
 ' What is Thy will with us, Master dear ? ' 
 Or else to eat of death ? 
 
 " For my part, lords, 
 I cannot think it : for my piety 
 And reason, which I also share with you, 
 Are my best lights, and ever counsel me, 
 ' Believe not aught against thy God ; believe, 
 Since thou canst never reach to do Him wrong, 
 That He will never stoop to do thee wrong. 
 Is He not just and equal, yea, and kind ? ' 
 Therefore, O majesties, it is my mind 
 Concerning him ye wot of, thus to tliink 
 The message is not like what I have learned 
 By reason and experience, of the God. 
 Therefore no message 't is. The man is mad." 
 Thereat the great Leader laughed for scorn. "Hold, 
 
 snake ; 
 If God be just, there shall be reckoning days. 
 We rather would He were a pai'tial God, 
 And being strong. He sided with the strong. 
 Turn now thy reason to the other side, 
 And speak for that ; for as to justice, snake, 
 We would have none of it." 
 
 And Satan fawned : 
 " My lord is pleased to mock at my poor wit ; 
 Yet in ray it'ious fashion I must talk : 
 For say that God was wroth with man, and came 
 And slew him, that should make an empty world, 
 But not a better nation."
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 This replied, 
 " Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound to mean 
 A better nation ; may be. He designs, 
 If none will turn again, a punishment 
 Upon an evil one." 
 
 And Satan cried, 
 " Alas ! my heart being full of love for men, 
 I cannot choose but think of God as like 
 To me ; and yet my piety concludes. 
 Since He will have your fear, that love alone 
 Sufficeth not, and I admire, and say, 
 * Give me, friends, your love, and give to God 
 Your fear.' " But they cried out in wrath and rage, 
 " We are not strong that any we will fear, 
 Nor specially a foe that means us ill." 
 
 173
 
 174 
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 BOOK vn. 
 
 AND while he spoke there was a noise without ; 
 The curtains of the door were flung aside, 
 And some with heavy feet bare in, and set 
 A litter on the floor. 
 
 The Master lay 
 Upon it, but his eyes were dimmed and set ; 
 And Japhet, in" despairing weariness, 
 Leaned it beside. He marked the mighty ones, 
 Silent for pride of heart, and in his place 
 The jewelled dragon ; and the dragon laughed, 
 And subtly peered at him, till Japhet shook 
 "With rage and fear. The snaky wonder cried, 
 Hissing, " Thou brown-haired youth, come up to me ; 
 I fain would have thee for my shrine afar. 
 To serve among an host as beautiful 
 As thou : draw near." It hissed, and Japhet felt 
 Horrible drawings, and cried out in fear, 
 " Father ! O help, the serpent draweth me ! " 
 And struggled and grew faint, as in the toils 
 A netted bird. But still his father lay 
 "Unconscious, and the mighty did not speak, 
 But half in fear and half for wondei'ment 
 Beheld. And yet again the dragon laughed, 
 And leered at him and hissed ; and Japhet strove 
 Vainly to take away his spell-set eyes,
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 175 
 
 And moved to go to him, till piercingly- 
 Crying out, " God ! forbid it, God in heaven ! " 
 The dragon lowered his head, and shut his eyes 
 As feigning sleep ; and, suddenly released, 
 He fell back staggering ; and at noise of it, 
 And clash of Japhet's weapons on the floor, 
 And Japhet's voice crying out, " I loathe thee, snake ! 
 I hate thee ! O, I hate thee ! " came again. 
 The senses of the shipwright ; and he, moved, 
 And looking, as one 'mazed, distressfully 
 Upon the mighty, said, " One called on God : 
 Where is my God ? If God have need of me. 
 Let Him come down and touch my lips with strength, 
 Or dying I shall die." 
 
 It came to pass, 
 While he was speaking, that the curtains swayed ; 
 A rushing wind did move throughout the place. 
 And all the pillars shook, and on the head 
 Of Noah the hair was lifted, and there played 
 A somewhat, as it were a light, upon 
 His breast ; then fell a darkness, and men heard 
 A whisper as of one that spake. With that, 
 The daunted mighty ones kept silent watch 
 Until the wind had ceased and darkness fled. 
 When it grew light, there curled a cloud of smoke 
 From many censers where the dragon lay. 
 It hid him. He had called his ministrants, 
 And bid them veil him thus, that none might look ; 
 Also the folk who came with Noah had fled.
 
 i;6 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 But Noah was seen, for he stood up erect, 
 And leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, after pause, 
 The Leader said, " My brethren, it were well 
 (For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer speak." 
 And they did reach towai'd the man their staves, 
 And cry with loud accord, " Hail, sorcerer, hail ! " 
 
 And he made answer, " Hail ! I am a man 
 
 That is a shipwright. I was born afar 
 
 To Lamech, him that reigns a king, to wit, 
 
 Over the land of Jalal. Majesties, 
 
 I bring a message, — lay you it to heart ; 
 
 For there is wrath in heaven : my God is wroth. 
 
 ' Prepare your houses, or I come,' saith He, 
 
 ' A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in your hearts, 
 
 ' What have we done ? ' Your dogs may answer that, 
 
 To make whom fiercer for the chase, ye feed 
 
 With captives whom ye slew not in the war, 
 
 But saved alive, and living throw to them 
 
 Daily. Your wives may answer that, whose babes 
 
 Their firstborn ye do take and offer up 
 
 To this abhorred snake, while yet the milk 
 
 Is in their innocent mouths, — your maiden babes 
 
 Tender, Your slaves may answer that, — the gangs 
 
 Whose eyes ye did put out to make them work 
 
 By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes 
 
 They work upon the wheel in chains). Your friends 
 
 May answer that, — (their bleached bones cry out,) 
 
 For ye did, wickedly, to eat their lands,
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Turn on their valleys, in a time of peace, 
 The rivers, and they, choking in the night, 
 Died unavenged. But rather (for I leave 
 To tell of more, the time would be so long 
 To do it, and your time, mighty ones, 
 Is short), — but rather say, ' "We sinners know 
 Why the Judge standeth at the door,' and turn 
 While yet there may be respite, and repent. 
 
 *' ' Or else,' saith He that formed you, ' I swear. 
 
 By all the silence of the times to come. 
 
 By the solemnities of death, — yea, more, 
 
 By Mine own power and love which ye have scorned. 
 
 That I will come. I will command the clouds, 
 
 And raining they shall rain ; yea, I will stir 
 
 With all my storms the ocean for your sake. 
 
 And break for you the boundary of the deep. 
 
 " ' Then shall the mighty mourn. 
 
 Should I forbear. 
 That have been patient ? I will not forbear ! 
 For yet,' saith He, ' the weak cry out ; for yet 
 The little ones do languish ; and the slave 
 Lifts up to Me his chain. I therefore, I 
 Will hear them. I by death will scatter you ; 
 Yea, and by death will draw them to My breast, 
 And gather them to peace. 
 
 " ' But yet,' saith He, 
 ' Repent, and turn you. Wherefore will ye die ? ' 
 8* L 
 
 177
 
 178 
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 " Turn then, O turn, while yet the enemy- 
 Untamed of man fatefully moans afar ; 
 For if ye will not turn, the doom is near. 
 Then shall the crested wave make sport, and beat 
 You mighty at your doors. "Will ye be wroth ? 
 Will ye forbid it ? Monsters of the deep 
 Shall suckle in your palaces their young. 
 And swim atween your hangings, all of them 
 Costly with broidered work, and rare with gold 
 And white and scarlet (there did ye oppress, — 
 There did ye make you vile) ; but ye shall lie 
 Meekly, and storm and wind shall rage above, 
 And urge the weltering wave. 
 
 « ' Yet,' saith thy God, 
 ' Son,' ay, to each of you He saith, ' son, 
 Made in My image, beautiful and strong, 
 Why wilt thou die ? Thy Father loves thee well. 
 Repent and turn thee from thine evil ways, 
 O son ! and no more dare the wrath of love. 
 Live for thy Father's sake that formed thee. 
 Why wilt thou die ? ' Here will I make an end." 
 
 Now ever on his dais the dragon lay, 
 Feigning to sleep ; and all the mighty ones 
 Were wroth, and chided, some against the woe, 
 And some at whom the sorcerer they had named, — 
 Some at their fellows, for the younger sort, — 
 As men the less acquaint with deeds of blood, 
 And given to learning and the arts of peace
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 179 
 
 (Their fathers having crushed rebellion out 
 Before their time) — lent favorable ears. 
 They said, " A man, or false or fanatic, 
 May claim good audience if he fill our ears 
 With what is strange : and we would hear again." 
 
 The Leader said, " An audience hath been given. 
 The man hath spoken, and his words are naught ; 
 A feeble threatener, with a foolish threat, 
 And it is not our manner that we sit 
 Beyond the noonday " ; then they grandly rose, 
 A stalwart crowd, and with their Leader moved 
 To the tones of harping, and the beat of shawms, 
 And the noise of pipes, away. But some were left 
 About the Master ; and the feigning snake 
 Couched on his dais. 
 
 Then one to Japhet said, 
 One called " the Cedar-Tree," " Dost thou, too, think 
 To reign upon our lands when we lie drowned?" 
 And Japhet said, " I think not, nor desire, 
 Nor in my heart consent, but that ye swear 
 Allegiance to the God, and live." He cried. 
 To one surnamed " the Pine," — " Brother, behooves 
 That deep we cut our names in yonder crag. 
 Else when this youth returns, his sons may ask 
 Our names, and he may answer, ' Matters not. 
 For my part I forget them.' " 
 
 Japhet said, 
 " They might do worse than that, they might deny
 
 l8o A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 That sucli as you have ever been." With that 
 They answered, " No, thou dost not think it, no ! " 
 And Japhet, being chafed, replied in heat, 
 " And wherefore ? if ye say of what is sworn, 
 * He will not do it,' shall it be more hard 
 For future men, if any talk on it. 
 To say, ' He did not do it ' ? " They replied, 
 With laughter, " Lo you ! he is stout with us. 
 And yet he cowered before the poor old snake. 
 Sirrah, when you are saved, we pray you now 
 To bear our might in mind, — do, sirrah, do ; 
 And likewise tell your sons, ' " The Cedar Tree " 
 Was a good giant, for he struck me not. 
 Though he was young and full of sport, and though 
 I taunted him.' " 
 
 With that they also passed. 
 But there remained who with the shipwright spoke : 
 " How wilt thou certify to us thy truth ? ' 
 And he related to them all his ways 
 From the beginning : of the Voice that called ; 
 Moreover, how the ship of doom was built. 
 
 And one made answer, " Shall the mighty God 
 
 Talk with a man of wooden beams and bars ? 
 
 No, thou mad preacher, no. If He, Eterne, 
 
 Be ordering of His far infinitudes. 
 
 And darkness cloud a world, it is but chance, 
 
 As if the shadow of His hand had fallen 
 
 On one that He forgot, and troubled it."
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. i8l 
 
 Then said the Master, " Yet, — who told thee so ? " 
 
 And from his dais the feigning serpent hissed : 
 " Preacher, the light within, it was that shined, 
 And told him so. The pious will have dread 
 Him to declare such as ye rashly told. 
 The course of God is one. It likes not us 
 To think of Him as being acquaint with change : 
 It were beneath Him. Nay, the finished earth 
 Is left to her great masters. They must rule ; 
 They do ; and I have set myself between, — 
 A visible thing for worship, sith His face 
 (For He is hard) He showeth not to men. 
 Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and man, 
 To be interpreter, and teach mankind 
 A pious lesson by my piety, 
 He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires, — 
 It were beneath Him." 
 
 And the Master said, 
 " Thou liest. Thou wouldst lie away the world. 
 If He, whom thou hast dared speak against, 
 "Would suffer it." " I may not chide with thee," 
 It answered, " now ; but if there come such time 
 As thou hast prophesied, as I now reign 
 In all men's sight, shall ray dominion then 
 Reach to be mighty in their souls. Thou too 
 Shalt feel it, prophet." And he lowered his head. 
 
 Then quoth the Leader of the young men : " Sir,
 
 1 82 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 We scorn you not ; speak further ; yet our thought 
 . First answer. Not but by a miracle 
 Can this thing be. The fashion of the world 
 We heretofore have never known to change ; 
 And will God change it now ? " 
 
 He then replied: 
 " What is thy thought ? There is no miracle ? 
 There is a great one, which thou hast not read, 
 And never shalt escape. Thyself, man, 
 Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou sayest, 
 ' I am one, and fashioned like the gracious world, 
 Red clay is all my make, myself, my v,'hole, 
 And not my habitation,' then thy sleep 
 Shall give thee wings to play among the rays 
 O' the morning. If thy thought be, ' I am one, — 
 A spirit among spirits, — and the world 
 A dream my spirit dreameth of, my dream 
 Being all,' the dominating mountains strong 
 Shall not for that forbear to take thy breath, 
 And rage with all their winds, and beat thee back, 
 And beat thee down when thou wouldst set thy feet 
 Upon their awful crests. Ay, thou thyself, 
 Being in the world and of the world, thyself 
 Hast breathed in breath from Him that made the world. 
 Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son, 
 That which He is, and that which He hath made : 
 Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself, — 
 Thou art thy Father's miracle. 
 
 Behold 
 He buildeth up the stars in companies ;
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 183 
 
 He made for them a law. To man He said, 
 
 ' Freely I give thee freedom.' What remains ? 
 
 O, it remains, if thou, the image of God, 
 
 Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His ways ; 
 
 But first thou must be loyal, — love, O man. 
 
 Thy Father, — hearken when He pleads with thee. 
 
 For there is something left of Him e'en now, — 
 
 A witness for thy Father in thy soul. 
 
 Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone. 
 
 " Now, then, be still, and think not in thy soul, 
 
 ' The rivers in their course forever run, 
 
 And turn not from it. He is like to them 
 
 Who made them.' Think the rather, ' With my foot 
 
 I have turned the rivers from their ancient way, 
 
 To water grasses that were fading. What ! 
 
 Is God my Father as the river wave. 
 
 That yet descendeth, like the lesser thing 
 
 He made, and not like me, a living son, 
 
 That changed the watercourse to suit his will ? ' 
 
 " Man is the miracle in nature. God 
 
 Is tlie One Miracle to man. Behold, 
 
 ' There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou sayest well : 
 
 In that thou sayest all. To Be is more 
 
 Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought. 
 
 Or reigned, or rested. 
 
 Hold then there, content ; 
 Learn that to love is the one way to know,
 
 1 84 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Or God or man : it is not love received 
 That maketh man to know the inner life 
 Of them that love him ; his own love bestowed 
 Shall do it. Love thy Father, and no more 
 His doings shall be stran2;e. Thou shalt not fret 
 At any counsel, then, that He will send, — 
 No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee 
 Great reservations. Know, to Be is more 
 Than to have acted ; yea, or after rest 
 And patience, to have risen and been wroth, 
 Broken the sequence of an ordered earth, 
 And troubled nations." 
 
 Then the dragon sighed. 
 " Poor fanatic," quoth he, " thou speakest well. 
 Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong, 
 Albeit thy senses wander. Yea, good sooth, 
 My masters, let us not despise, but learn 
 Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul. 
 Let us go forth — (myself will also go 
 To head you) — and do sacrifice ; for that, 
 We know, is pleasing to the mighty God : 
 But as for building many arks of wood, 
 O majesties ! when He shall counsel you 
 Himself, then build. What say you, shall it be 
 An hundred oxen, — fat, well liking, white ? 
 An hundred ? why, a thousand were not much 
 To such as you." Then Noah lift up his arms 
 To heaven, and cried, " Thou aged shape of sin. 
 The Lord rebuke thee."
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 185 
 
 BOOK vm. 
 
 THEN one ran, crying, while Niloiya wrought, 
 " The Master cometh ! " and she went within 
 To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shem 
 Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field, 
 And said, " Is it well, my brother ? " He replied, 
 " Well ! and, I pray you, is it well at home ? " 
 
 But Shem made answer, " Can a house be well, 
 If he that should command it bides afar ? 
 Yet well is thee, because a fair free maid 
 Is found to wed thee ; and they bring her in 
 This day at sundown. Therefore is much haste 
 To cover thick with costly webs the floor, 
 And pluck and cover thick the same with leaves 
 Of all sweet herbs, — I warrant, ye shall hear 
 No footfall where she treadeth ; and the seats 
 Are ready, spread with robes ; the tables set 
 With golden baskets, red pomegranates shred 
 To fill them ; and the rubied censers smoke, 
 Heaped up with ambergris and cinnamon. 
 And frankincense and cedar." 
 
 Japhet said, 
 " I will betroth her to me straight " ; and went 
 (Yet labored he with sore disquietude) 
 To gather grapes, and reap and bind the sheaf
 
 1 86 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 For his betrothal. And his brother spake, 
 
 *' Where is our father ? doth he preach to-day ? " 
 
 And Japhet answered, " Yea. He said to me, 
 
 ' Go forward ; I will follow when the folk 
 
 By yonder mountain-hold I shall have warned.' " 
 
 And Shem replied, " How thinkest thou ? — thine ears 
 Have heard him oft." He answered, " I do think 
 These be the last days of this old fair Avorld." 
 
 Then he did tell him of the giant folk : 
 
 How they, than he, were taller by the head ; 
 
 How one must stride that will ascend the steps 
 
 That lead to their wide halls ; and how they drave, 
 
 With manful shouts, the mammoth to the north ; 
 
 And how the talking dragon lied and fawned, 
 
 They seated proudly on their ivory thrones, 
 
 And scorning him : and of their peakud hoods, 
 
 And garments wrought upon, each with the tale 
 
 Of him that wore it, — all his manful deeds 
 
 (Yea, and about their skirts were effigies 
 
 Of kings that they had slain ; and some, whose swords 
 
 Many had pierced, wore vestures all of red, 
 
 To signify much blood) : and of their pride 
 
 He told, but of the vision in the tent 
 
 He told him not. 
 
 And when they reached the house, 
 Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried, 
 " All hail, right fortunate ! Lo, I have found
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 187 
 
 A maid. And now tliou hast done well to reap 
 The late ripe corn." So he went in with her, 
 And she did talk with hira right motherly : 
 " It hath been fully told me how ye loathed 
 To wed thy father's slave ; yea, she herself, 
 Did she not all declare to me ? " 
 
 He said, 
 " Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of heart." 
 *' Yea," quoth his mother ; " she made clear to me 
 How ye did weep, my son, and ye did vow, 
 ' I will not take her ! ' Now it was not I 
 That wrought to have it so." And he replied, 
 " I know it." Quoth the mother, " It is well ; 
 For that same cause is laughter in my heart." 
 " But she is sweet of language," Japhet said. 
 " Ay," quoth Niloiya, " and thy wife no less 
 Whom thou shalt wed anon, — forsooth, anon, — 
 It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt ? " He said, 
 " I will." And Japhet laid the slender sheaf 
 From off his shoulder, and he said, " Behold, 
 My father ! " Then Niloiya turned herself, 
 And lo ! the shipwright stood. " All hail ! " quoth she. 
 And bowed herself, and kissed him on the mouth ; 
 But Avhile she spake with him, sorely he sighed ; 
 And she did hang about his neck the robe' 
 Of feasting, and she poured upon his hands 
 Clear water, and anointed him, and set 
 Before him bread. 
 
 And Japhet said to him,
 
 l88 A STORY OF BOOM. 
 
 " My father, my beloved, Avilt thou yet 
 
 Be sad because of scorning ? Eat this day ; 
 
 For as an angel in their eyes thou art 
 
 Who stand before thee." But he answered, " Peace ! 
 
 Thy words are wide." 
 
 And when Niloiya beard, 
 She said, " Is this a time for mirth of heart 
 And wine ? Behold, I thought to wed my son, 
 Even this Japhet ; but is this a time. 
 When sad is he to whom is my desire, 
 And lying under sorrow as from God ? " 
 
 He answered, " Yea, it is a time of times ; 
 Bring in the maid." Niloiya said, " The maid 
 That first I spoke on, shall not Japhet wed ; 
 It likes not her, nor yet it hkes not me. 
 But I have found another ; yea, good sooth, 
 The damsel will not tarry, she will come 
 With all her slaves by sundown." 
 
 And she said, 
 " Comfort thy heart, and eat : moreover, know 
 How that thy great work even to-day is done. 
 Sir, thy great ship is finished, and the folk 
 (For I, according to thy will, have paid 
 All that was left us to them for their wage,) 
 Have brought, as to a storehouse, flour of wheat, 
 Honey and oil, — much victual ; yea, and fruits. 
 Curtains and household gear. And, sir, they say 
 It is thy will to take it for thy hold
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 189 
 
 Our fastness and abode." He answered, " Yea, 
 Else Avlierefore was it built ? " She said, " Good sir, 
 I pray jou make us not the whole earth's scorn. 
 And now, to-morrow in thy father's house 
 Is a great feast, and weddings are toward ; 
 Let be the shij), till after, for thy words 
 Have ever been, ' If God shall send a flood, 
 There will I dwell ' ; I pray you therefore wait 
 At least till He doth send it." 
 
 And he turned, 
 And answered nothing;. Now the sun was low 
 "While yet she spake ; and Japhet came to them 
 In goodly z'aiment, and upon his arm 
 The garment of betrothal. And with that 
 A noise, and then brake in a woman slave 
 And Amarant. This, Avith folding of her hands. 
 Did say full meekly, " If I do offend. 
 Yet have not I been willing to offend ; 
 For now this woman will not be denied 
 Herself to tell her errand." 
 
 And they sat. 
 Then spoke the woman, " If I do offend, 
 Pray you forgive the bondslave, for her tongue 
 Is for her mistress. ' Lo ! ' my mistress saith, 
 ' Put off thy braver}', bridegroom ; fold away. 
 Mother, thy webs of pride, thy costly robes 
 "Woven of many colors. "We have heard 
 Thy master. Lo, to-day right evil things 
 He prophesied to us, that wei-e his friends ;
 
 190 
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Therefore, my answer : — God do so to me ; 
 Yea, God do so to me, more also, more 
 Than He did threaten, if my damsel's foot 
 Ever draw nigh thy door.' " 
 
 And when she heard, 
 Niloiya sat amazed, in grief of soul. 
 But Japhet came unto the slave, where low 
 She bowed herself for fear. He said, " Depart ; 
 Say to thy mistress, * It is well.' " With that 
 She turned herself, and she made haste to flee, 
 Lest any, for those evil words she brought, 
 "Would smite her. But the bondmaid of the house 
 Lift up her hand and said, " If I offend. 
 It was not of my heart : thy damsel knew 
 Naught of this matter." And he held to her 
 His hand and touched her, and said, " Amarant ! " 
 And when she looked upon him, she did take 
 And spread before her face her radiant locks. 
 Trembling. And Japhet said, " Lift up thy face, 
 
 fairest of the daughters, thy fair face ; 
 
 For, lo ! the bridegroom standeth with the robe 
 Of thy betrothal ! " — and he took her locks 
 In his two hands to part them from her brow. 
 And laid them on her shoulders ; and he said, 
 " Sweet are the blushes of thy face," and put 
 The robe upon her, having said, " Behold, 
 
 1 have repented me ; and oft by night, 
 
 In the waste wilderness, while all things slept, 
 I thought upon thy words, for they were sweet.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 " For this I make thee free. And now thyself 
 Art loveliest in mine eyes ; I look, and lo ! 
 Thou art of beauty more than any thought 
 I had concerning thee. Let, then, this robe, 
 Wrought on with imagery of fruitful bough, 
 And graceful leaf, and birds with tender eyes, 
 Cover the ripples of thy tawny hair." 
 So when she held her j)eace, he brought her nigh 
 To hear the speech of wedlock ; ay, he took 
 The golden cup of Avine to drink with her. 
 And laid the sheaf upon her arms. He said, 
 " Like as my fathers in the older days 
 Led home the daughters whom they chose, do I ; 
 Like as they said, ' Mine honor have I set 
 Upon thy head ! ' do I. Eat of my bread, 
 Rule in my house, be mistress of my slaves, 
 And mother of my children." 
 
 And he brought 
 The damsel to his father, saying, " Behold 
 My wife ! I have betrothed her to myself ; 
 I pray you, kiss her." And the Master did : 
 lie said, " Be mother of a multitude, 
 And let them to their father even so 
 Be found, as he is found to me." 
 
 With that 
 She answered, " Let this woman, sir, find grace 
 And favor in your sight." 
 
 And Japhet said, 
 " Sweet mother, I have wed the maid ye chose 
 
 I9r
 
 192 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 And brought me first. I leave her in thy hand ; 
 Have care on her, till I shall come again 
 And ask her of thee." So they went apart, 
 He and his father to the marriage feast.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 1^3 
 
 BOOK IX. 
 
 THE prayer of Noah. The man went forth by night 
 And listened ; and the earth was dark and still, 
 And he was driven of his great distress 
 Into the forest ; but the birds of night 
 Sang sweetly ; and he fell upon his face, 
 And cried, " God, God ! Thy billows and Thy waves 
 Have swallowed up my soul. 
 
 " "Where is my God ? 
 For I have somewhat yet to plead with Thee ; 
 For I have walked the strands of Thy great deep, 
 Heard the dull thunder of its rasje afar. 
 And its dread moaning. O, the field is sweet, — • 
 Spare it. The delicate woods make white their trees 
 With blossom, — ■ spare them. Life is sweet ; behold 
 There is much cattle, and the wild and tame, 
 Father, do feed in quiet, — spax-e them. 
 
 '< God ! 
 Where is my God ? The long wave doth not rear 
 Her ghostly crest to lick the forest up. 
 And like a chief in battle fall, — not yet. 
 The lightnings pour not down, from ragged holes 
 In heaven, the torment of their forked tongues. 
 And, like fell serpents, dart and sting, — not yet. 
 The winds awake not, with their awful win^^s 
 To winnow, even as chaff, from out their track, 
 
 9 M
 
 194 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 All that withstandeth, and bring down the pride 
 
 " ]S"ot yet. 
 
 Of all things strong and all things high — 
 
 O, let it not be yet, "Where is my God ? 
 
 How am I saved, if I and mine be saved 
 
 Alone ? I am not saved, for I have loved 
 
 My country and my kin. Must I, Thy thrall, 
 
 Over their lands be lord when they are gone ? 
 
 I would not : spare them, Mighty. Spare Thyself, 
 
 For Thou dost love them greatly, — and if not . « . 
 
 Another praying unremote, a Voice 
 Calm as the solitude between wide stars. 
 
 " Where is my God, who loveth this lost world, — 
 Lost from its place and name, but won for Thee ? 
 "Where is my multitude, my multitude. 
 That I shall gather? " And white smoke went up 
 From incense that was burning, but there gleamed 
 No light of fire, save dimly to reveal 
 The whiteness rising, as the prayer of him 
 That mourned. " My God, appear for me, appear 
 Give me my multitude, for it is mine. 
 The bitterness of death I have not feared, 
 To-morrow shall Thy courts, God, be full. 
 Then shall the captive from his bonds go free. 
 Then shall the thrall find rest, that knew not rest 
 From labor and from blows. The sorrowful — 
 That said of joy, ' "What is it ? ' and of songs.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 195 
 
 ' We have not heard them ' — shall be glad and sing ; 
 Then shall the little ones that knew not Thee, 
 And such as heard not of Thee, see Thy face, 
 
 And seeing, dwell content.'' 
 
 Tlie prayer of Noah. 
 He cried out in the darkness, " Hear, O God, 
 Hear Hur : hear this one ; through the gates of death. 
 If life be all past praying for, O give 
 To Thy great multitude a way to peace ; 
 Give them to Hui. 
 
 " But yet," said he, " yet. 
 If there be respite for the terrible, 
 The proud, yea, such as scorn Thee, — and if not .... 
 Let not mine eyes behold their fall." 
 
 He cried, 
 " Forgive. I have not done Thy work, Great Judge, 
 With a perfect heart ; I have but half believed. 
 While in accustomed language I have warned ; 
 And now there is no more to do, no place 
 For my repentance, yea, no hour remains 
 For doing of that work again. O, lost, 
 Lost world! " And while he prayed, the daylight dawned. 
 
 And Noah went up into the ship, and sat 
 Before the Lord. And all w'as still ; and now 
 In that great quietness the sun came up, 
 And there were marks across it, as it were
 
 196 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 The shadow of a Hand upon the sun, — 
 Three fingers dark and dread, and afterward 
 There rose a white, tliick mist, that peacefully 
 Folded the fair earth in her funeral shroud, 
 The earth that gave no token, save that now 
 There fell a little trembling under foot. 
 
 And Noah went down, and took and hid his face 
 
 Behind his mantle, saying, " I have made 
 
 Great preparation, and it may be yet. 
 
 Beside my house, whom I did charge to come 
 
 This day to meet me, there may enter in 
 
 Many that yesternight thought scorn of all 
 
 My bidding." And because the fog was thick, 
 
 He said, " Forbid it, Heaven, if such there be, 
 
 That they should miss the way." And even then 
 
 There was a noise of weeping and lament ; 
 
 The words of them that were aifrighted, yea, 
 
 And cried for grief of heart. There came to him 
 
 The mother and her children, and they cried, 
 
 " Speak, father, what is this ? What hast thou done ? " 
 
 And when he lifted up his face, he saw 
 
 Japhet, his well-beloved, where he stood 
 
 Apart ; and Amarant leaned upon his breast, 
 
 And hid her face, for she was sore afraid ; 
 
 And lo ! the robes of her betrothal gleamed 
 
 White in the deadly gloom. 
 
 And at his feet 
 The wives of his two other sons did kneel, 
 And wrins: their hands.
 
 A STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 One cried, " 0, speak to us ; 
 We are afFriglitecl ; we have dreamed a dream, 
 Each to herself. For me, I saw in mine 
 The grave old augel^^, like to shepherds, walk, 
 Much cattle following them. Thy daughter looked, 
 And they did enter here." 
 
 The other lay 
 And moaned, " Alas ! father, for my dream 
 Was evil : lo, I heard when it was dark, 
 I heard two wicked ones contend for me. 
 One said, ' And wherefore should this woman live, 
 When only for her children, and for her. 
 Is woe and degradation ? ' Then he laughed, 
 The other crying, ' Let alone, prince ; 
 Hinder her not to live and bear much seed, 
 Because I hate her.' " 
 
 But he said, " Rise up, 
 Daughters of Noah, for I have learned no words 
 To comfort you." Then spake her lord to her, 
 " Peace ! or I swear that for thy dream, myself 
 Will hate thee also." 
 
 And Niloiya said, 
 " My sons, if one of you will hear my words, 
 Go now, look out, and tell me of the day, 
 How fares it ? " 
 
 And the fateful darkness grew. 
 But Shem went up to do his mother's will ; 
 And all was one as though the frighted earth 
 Quivered and fell a-trembling ; then they hid 
 
 197
 
 198 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 
 
 Their faces every one, till he returned, 
 
 And spake not. " Nay," they cried, " what hast thou 
 
 seen ? 
 O, is it come to this ? " He answered them, 
 " The door is shut."
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS.
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 SAILING BEYOND SEAS. 
 
 {Old Style.) 
 
 ETHOUGHT the stars were blinking bright. 
 And the old brig's sails unfurled ; 
 I said, " I will sail to my love this night 
 At the other side of the world." 
 I stepped aboard, — we sailed so fast, — 
 
 T?he sun shot up from the bourne ; 
 But a dove that perched upon the mast 
 Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 
 fair dove ! O fond dove ! 
 
 And dove with the white breast, 
 Let me alone, the dream is my own, 
 And my heart is full of rest. 
 
 My true love fares on this great hill, 
 Feeding his sheep for aye ; 
 
 I looked in his hut, but all was still, 
 My love was gone away. 
 
 9*
 
 202 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 I went to gaze in the forest creek, 
 
 And the dove mourned on apace ; 
 No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek 
 Rose up to show me his place. 
 last love ! O first love ! 
 
 My love with the true heart, 
 To think I have come to this your home, 
 And yet — we are apart I 
 
 My love ! He stood at my right hand, 
 
 His eyes Avere grave and sweet. 
 Methought he said, " In this far land, 
 
 O, is it thus we meet ! 
 Ah, maid most dear, I am not here j 
 
 I have no place, — no part, — 
 No dwelling more by sea or shore, 
 But only in thy heart." 
 
 fair dove ! fond dove ! , 
 
 Till night rose over the bourne, 
 The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast, 
 Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 203 
 
 REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 DAUGHTERS of Eve ! your mother did not weU : 
 She laid the apple in your father's hand, 
 And we have read, wonder ! what befell, — 
 
 The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand : 
 He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne, — 
 With her could die, but could not live alone. 
 
 Daugliters of Eve ! he did not fall so low, 
 Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell ; 
 
 For something better, than as gods to know, 
 That husband in that home left off to dwell : 
 
 For this, till love be reckoned less than lore. 
 
 Shall man be first and best for evermore. 
 
 Daughters of Eve ! it was for your dear sake 
 The world's first hero died an uncrowned king ; 
 
 But God's great pity touched the grand mistake, 
 And made his married love a sacred thing ; 
 
 For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true. 
 
 Find the lost Eden in their love to you. 
 
 o
 
 204 
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S 
 RESURRECTION. 
 
 {A Humhle Imitation.) 
 " And birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave." 
 
 I 
 
 T is the noon of night, 
 And the world's Great Light 
 Gone out, she widow-hke doth carry her : 
 The moon hath veiled her face. 
 Nor looks on that dread place 
 Whei'e He lieth dead in sealed sepulchre ; 
 And heaven and hades, emptied, lend 
 Their llockin"; multitudes to watch and wait the end. 
 
 -"a 
 
 Tier above tier they rise, 
 
 Their wings new line the skies. 
 And shed out comforting light among the stars ; 
 
 But they of the other place 
 
 The heavenly signs deface, 
 The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mars ; 
 
 Yet high they sit in throned state, — 
 It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate. 
 
 And first and highest set, 
 Where the black shades are met. 
 The lord of night and hades leans him down ;
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 205 
 
 His gleaming eyeballs show 
 More awful than the glow, 
 "Which hangeth by the points of his dread crown ; 
 And at his feet, where lightnings play, 
 The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their day. 
 
 Lo ! one, with eyes all wide. 
 
 As she w^ere sight denied, 
 Sits blindly feeling at her distaff old ; 
 
 One, as distraught with woe. 
 
 Letting the spindle go, 
 Her star y-sprinkled gown doth shivering fold ; 
 
 And one right mournful hangs her head. 
 Complaining, " Woe is me ! I may not cut the thread. 
 
 " All men of every birth, 
 
 Yea, great ones of the earth. 
 Kings and their councillors, have I drawn down ; 
 
 But I am held of Thee, — 
 
 Why dost Thou trouble me. 
 To bring me up, dead King, that keep'st Thy ci'own ? 
 
 Yet for all courtiers hast but ten 
 Lowly, unlettered, Galilean fishermen. 
 
 " Olympian heights are bare 
 Of whom men worshipped there. 
 Immortal feet their snows may print no more ; 
 Their stately powers below 
 Lie desolate, nor know
 
 2o6 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 This thirty years Thessalian grove or shore ; 
 But I am elder far than they ; — 
 Where is the sentence writ that I must pass away ? 
 
 " Art thou come up for this, 
 
 Dark regent, awful Dis ? 
 And hast thou moved the deep to mark our ending ? 
 
 And stirred the dens beneath, 
 
 To see us eat of death. 
 With all the scoffing heavens toward us bending ? 
 
 Help ! powers of ill, see not us die ! " 
 But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply. 
 
 Her sisters, fallen on sleep, 
 
 Fade in the upper deep. 
 And their grim lord sits on, in doleful trance ; 
 
 Till her black veil she rends. 
 
 And with her death-shriek bends 
 Downward the terrors of her countenance ; 
 
 Then, whelmed in night and no more seen. 
 They leave the world a doubt if ever such have been. 
 
 And the winged armies twain 
 Their awful watch maintain ; 
 They mark the earth at rest with her Great Dead. 
 ■ Behold, from Antres wide. 
 Green Atlas heave his side ; 
 His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed, 
 The swathing coif his front that cools. 
 And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged pools.
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 Then like a heap of snow, 
 
 Lying v/here gi'asses grow, 
 See glimmering, while the moony lustres creep, 
 
 Mild mannered Athens, dight 
 
 In dewy marbles white. 
 Among her goddesses and gods asleep ; 
 
 And swaying on a purple sea, 
 The many moored galleys clustering at her quay. 
 
 Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade. 
 
 Amid their camels laid. 
 The pastoral tribes with all their flocks at rest ; 
 
 Like to those old-world folk, 
 
 With whom two angels broke 
 The bread of men at Abram's courteous 'quest, 
 
 When, listening as they prophesied, 
 His desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied. 
 
 Or from the Morians' land 
 
 See worshipped Nil us bland. 
 Taking the silver road he gave the world. 
 
 To wet his ancient shrine 
 
 With waters held divine. 
 And touch his temple steps with wavelets curled. 
 
 And list, ere darkness change to gray, 
 Old minstrel-thi'oated Memnon chanting in the day. 
 
 Moreover, Indian glades, 
 
 Whefe kneel the sun-swart maids. 
 
 207
 
 2o8 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 On Gunga's flood their votive flowers to throw, 
 And launch i' the sultry night 
 Their burning cressets bright, 
 
 Most like a fleet of stars that southing go, 
 Till on her bosom prosperously 
 She floats them shining forth to sail the lulled sea. 
 
 Nor bend they not their eyn 
 
 Where the watch-fires shine, 
 By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem : 
 
 They mark, in goodly wise, 
 
 The city of David rise, 
 The gates and towei's of rare Jerusalem ; 
 
 And hear the 'scaped Kedron fret, 
 And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet. 
 
 But now the setting moon 
 
 To curtained lands must soon. 
 In her obedient fashion, minister ; 
 
 She first, as loath to go, 
 
 Lets her last silver flow 
 Upon her Master's sealed sepulchre ; 
 
 And trees that in the gardens spread, 
 She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head. 
 
 Then 'neath the rim goes down ; 
 And ni2;ht with darker frown 
 Sinks on the fateful garden watched long ; 
 "When some despairing eyes, *
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 209 
 
 Far in the murky skies, 
 The unwished waking by their gloom foretell ; 
 And blackness up the welkin swings, 
 And drinks the mild efFulgence from celestial wings. 
 
 Last, with amazed cry. 
 The hosts asunder fly, 
 Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue ; 
 Whence straightway shooteth down, 
 By the Great Father thrown, 
 A mighty angel, strong and dread to view ; 
 And at his fall the rocks are rent. 
 The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremblement ; 
 
 The regions far and near 
 
 Quail W'ith a pause of fear, 
 More terrible than aught since time began ; 
 
 The winds, that dare not fleet, 
 
 Drop at his awful feet. 
 And in its bed wads the wide ocedn ; 
 
 The flower of dawn forbears to blow, 
 And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow. 
 
 At stand, by that dread place, 
 
 He lifts his radiant face, 
 And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear ; 
 
 Then, while the welkin quakes, 
 
 The muttering thunder breaks. 
 And lightnings shoot and ominous meteors drear, 
 
 K
 
 210 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 And all the daunted earth doth moan, 
 He from the doors of death rolls back the sealed stone. — 
 
 — In regal quiet deep, 
 
 Lo, One new waked from sleep ! 
 Behold, He standeth in the rock-hewn door ! 
 
 Thy children shall not die, — 
 
 Peace, peace, thy Lord is by ! 
 He liveth ! — they shall live for evermore. 
 
 Peace ! lo, He lifts a priestly hand. 
 And blesseth all the sons of men in every land. 
 
 Then, with great dread and wail, 
 
 Fall down, like storms of hail. 
 The legions of the lost in fearful wise ; 
 
 And they whose blissful race 
 
 Peoples the better place, 
 Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes, 
 
 And through the waxing saffron brede, 
 Till they are lost in light, recede, and yet recede. 
 
 So while the fields are dim, 
 
 And the red sun his rim 
 First heaves, in token of his reign benign, 
 
 All stars the most admired, 
 
 Into their blue retired, 
 Lie bid, — the faded moon forgets to shine, — 
 
 And, hurrying down the sphery way, 
 Night flies, and sweeps her shadows from the paths of day.
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 211 
 
 But look ! the Saviour blest, 
 Calm after solemn rest, 
 Stands in the garden 'neath His olive boughs ; 
 The earliest smile of day 
 Doth on His vesture play, 
 And light the majesty of His still brows ; 
 
 While angels hang with wings outspread, 
 Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head. 
 
 SONG OF MARGARET. 
 
 Ay, I saw her, we have met, — 
 Married eyes how sweet they be, ■ 
 Are you happier, Margaret, 
 
 Than you might have been with me ? 
 Silence ! make no more ado ! 
 
 Did she think I should foriret ? 
 Matters nothing, though I knew, 
 Margaret, Margaret. 
 
 Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, 
 Told a certain thing to mine ; 
 
 "What they told me I put by, 
 O, so careless of the sign. 
 
 Such an easy thing to take. 
 And I did not want it then :
 
 212 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 Fool ! I wish my heart would break, 
 Scorn is hard on hearts of men. 
 
 Scorn of self is bitter work, — 
 
 Each of us has felt it now : 
 Bluest skies she counted mirk, 
 
 Self-betrayed of eyes and brow ; 
 As for me, I went my way, 
 
 And a better man drew nigh. 
 Fain to earn, with long essay. 
 
 What the winner's hand threw by. 
 
 Matters not in deserts old, 
 
 What was born, and waxed, and yearned, 
 Year to year its meaning told, 
 
 I am come, — its deeps are learned, — 
 Come, but there is naught to say, — 
 
 Married eyes with mine have met. 
 Silence ! 0, I had my day, 
 
 Margaret, Margaret. 
 
 SONG OF THE GOING AWAY. 
 
 O 
 
 « /^\ LD man, upon the green hillside, 
 
 With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er. 
 How long in silence wilt thou bide 
 At this low stone door ?
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 213 
 
 " I stoop : witliin 't is dark and still ; 
 
 But shadowy paths methinks there be, 
 And lead they far into the hill ? " 
 ," Traveller, come and see." 
 
 " T is dark, 't is cold, and hung with gloom ; 
 
 I care not now within to stay ; 
 For thee and me is scarcely room, 
 
 I will hence away." 
 
 " Not so, not so, thou youthful guest, 
 
 Thy foot shall issue forth no more : 
 Behold the chamber of thy rest. 
 
 And the closino; door ! " 
 
 o 
 
 " 0, have I 'scaped the whistling ball. 
 And striven on smoky fields of fight, 
 
 And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall 
 In the dangerous night ; 
 
 " And borne my life unharmed still 
 Through foaming gulfs of yeasty spray, 
 
 To yield it on a grassy hill 
 At the noon of day ? " 
 
 " Peace ! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep. 
 Till some time, One my seal shall break. 
 
 And deep shall answer unto deep. 
 When He crieth, ' Awake ! ' "
 
 214 
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 A LILY AND A LUTE. 
 {Song of the imcommunicated Ideal.) 
 
 OPENED the eyes of my soul. 
 
 And behold, 
 A white river-lily : a lily awake, and aware, — 
 For she set her face upward, — aware how in scarlet and 
 
 gold 
 A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering air, 
 Lay over with fold upon fold, 
 With fold upon fold. 
 
 And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her 
 
 also ashamed, 
 The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair ; 
 And over the far-away mountains that no man hath named, 
 
 And that no foot hath trod, 
 Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it were, 
 A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them 
 
 endure, 
 "Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep themselves 
 
 pure, 
 
 And look up to God.
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 215 
 
 Then I said, " In rosy air, 
 Cradled on thy reaches fair, 
 "While the blushing early ray 
 Whitens into perfect day, 
 River-lily, sweetest known, 
 Art thou set for me alone ? 
 Nay, but I will bear thee far, 
 Where yon clustering steeples are, 
 And the bells ring out o'erhead, 
 And the stated prayers are said ; 
 And the busy farmers pace. 
 Trading in the market-place ; 
 And the country lasses sit. 
 By their butter, praising it ; 
 And the latest news is told, 
 While the fruit and cream are sold ; . 
 And the friendly gossips greet. 
 Up and down the sunny street. 
 For," I said, " I have not met. 
 White one, any folk as yet 
 Who would send no blessing up, 
 Looking on a face like thine ; 
 For thou art as Joseph's cup. 
 And by thee might they divine. 
 
 " Nay ! but thou a spirit art ; 
 Men shall take thee in the mart 
 For the ghost of their best thought, 
 Raised at noon, and near them brought ;
 
 2l6 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 Or the prayer they made last night, 
 Set before them all ia white." 
 
 And I put out my rash hand, 
 For I thought to draw to land 
 The white lily. Was it fit 
 Such a blossom should expand, 
 Fair enough for a world's wonder. 
 And no mortal gather it ? 
 No. I strove, and it went under, 
 And I drew, but it went down ; 
 And the waterweeds' long tx-esses. 
 And the overlapping cresses, 
 Sullied its admired crown. 
 Then along the river strand, 
 Trailing, wrecked, it came to land. 
 Of its beauty half despoiled, 
 And its snowy pureness soiled : 
 O ! I took it in my hand, — 
 You will never see it now, 
 White and golden as it grew : 
 No, I cannot show it you, 
 Nor the cheerful town endow 
 With the freshness of its brow. 
 
 If a royal painter, great 
 With the colors dedicate 
 To a dove's neck, a sea-bight. 
 And the flickerings over white 
 
 o
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 217 
 
 Mountain summits far away, — 
 One content to give his mind 
 To the enrichment of mankind, 
 And the laying up of light 
 In men's houses, — on that day, 
 Could have passed in kingly mood. 
 Would he ever have endued 
 Canvas with the peerless thing, 
 In the grace that it did bring. 
 And the light that o'er it flowed, 
 With the pureness that it showed. 
 And the pureness that it meant ? 
 Could he skill to make it seen 
 As he saw ? For this, I ween. 
 He were likewise impotent. 
 
 II. 
 
 I opened the doors of my heart. 
 
 And behold. 
 There was music within and a song, 
 And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it long. 
 I opened the doors of my heart : and behold. 
 There was music that played itself out in ajoliau notes ; 
 Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals tolled, 
 
 That murmurs and floats, 
 And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold. 
 And comes in all passion again, and a tremblement soft. 
 
 That maketh the listener fidl oft 
 10
 
 2l8 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 To whisper, " Ah ! would I might hear it for ever and aye, 
 When I toil in the heat of the day, 
 When I walk in the cold." 
 
 I opened the door of my heart. And behold, 
 There was music within, and a song. 
 
 But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, thick 
 and strong, 
 
 Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting was 
 drowned, 
 I could hear it no more ; 
 
 For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred on 
 the shore. 
 And trees in the dark all around 
 
 Were shaken. It thundered. " Hark, hark ! there is 
 thunder to-night ! 
 
 The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes down 
 with a will ; 
 
 The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars are 
 all dead ; — 
 
 There is thunder ! it thunders ! and ladders of light 
 Run up. There is thunder ! " I said, 
 
 *' Loud thunder ! it thunders ! and up in the dark over- 
 head, 
 
 A down-pouring cloud, (there is thunder !) a down-pour- 
 ing cloud 
 
 Hails out her fierce message, and quivers the deep in 
 its bed. 
 
 And cowers the earth held at bay ; and they mutter aloud,
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 219 
 
 And pause witli an ominous tremble, till, great in their 
 
 rage, 
 
 The heavens and earth come together, and meet with a 
 
 crash ; 
 And the fiirht is so fell as if Time had come down wilh 
 the flash. 
 And the story of life was all read, 
 And the Giver had turned the last page. 
 
 " Now their bar the pent water-floods lash, 
 And the forest trees give out their language austere with 
 great age ; 
 And there flieth o'er moor and o'er hill, 
 And there heaveth at intervals wide, 
 The long sob of nature's great passion as loath to subside, 
 Until quiet drop down on the tide. 
 And mad Echo had moaned herself still." 
 
 Lo ! or ever I was 'ware. 
 
 In the silence of the air, 
 
 Through my heart's wide-open door, 
 
 Music floated forth once more. 
 
 Floated to the world's dark rim. 
 
 And looked over with a hymn ; 
 
 Then came home with flutings fine, 
 
 And discoursed in tones divine 
 
 Of a certain grief of mine ; 
 
 And went downward and went in,
 
 220 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 Glimpses of my soul to win, 
 And discovered sucli a deep 
 That I could not choose but weep, 
 For it lay, a land-locked sea, 
 Fathomless and dim to me. 
 
 O, the song ! it came and went, 
 Went and came. 
 
 I have not learned 
 Half the lore whereto it yearned, 
 Half the magic that it meant. 
 "Water booming in a cave ; 
 Or the swell of some long wave, 
 Setting in from unrevealed 
 Countries ; or a foreign tongue, 
 Sweetly talked and deftly sung, 
 While the meaning is half sealed ; 
 May be like it. You have heard 
 Also ; — can you find a word 
 For the naming of such song ? 
 No ; a name would do it wrong. 
 You have heard it in the night, 
 In the dropping rain's despite. 
 In the midnight darkness deep. 
 When the children were asleep. 
 And the wife, — no, let that be ; 
 She asleep ! She knows right well 
 What the song to you and me. 
 While we breathe, can never tell ;
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 221 
 
 She hatli heard its faultless flow. 
 
 '> 
 
 Where the roots of music grow. 
 
 While I listened, like young birds, 
 Hints were fluttering ; almost words, — 
 Leaned and leaned, and nearer came ; — 
 Everything had changed its name. 
 
 Sorrow was a ship, I found, 
 
 Wrecked with them that in her are, 
 
 On an island richer far 
 
 Than the port where they were bound. 
 
 Fear was but the awful boom 
 
 Of the old great bell of doom, 
 
 Tolling, far from earthly air. 
 
 For all worlds to go to prayer. 
 
 Pain, that to us mortal clings. 
 
 But the pushing of our wings. 
 
 That we have no use for yet. 
 
 And the uprooting of our feet 
 
 From the soil where they are set, 
 
 And the land we reckon sweet. 
 
 Love in growth, the grand deceit 
 
 Whereby men the perfect greet ; 
 
 Love in wane, the blessing sent 
 
 To be (howsoe'er it went) 
 
 Never more with earth content.
 
 222 
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 O, full sweet, and O, full high, 
 
 Ran that music up the sky ; 
 
 But I cannot sing it you. 
 
 More than I can make you view, 
 
 With ray paintings labial, 
 
 Sitting up in awful row, 
 
 "White old men majestical, 
 
 Mountains, in their gowns of snow. 
 
 Ghosts of kings ; as my two eyes, 
 
 Looking over speckled skies, 
 
 See them now. About their knees. 
 
 Half in haze, there stands at ease 
 
 A great army of green hills, 
 
 Some bareheaded; and, behold, 
 
 Small green mosses creep on some. 
 
 Those be mighty forests old ; 
 
 And white avalanches come 
 
 Through yon rents, where now distils 
 
 Sheeny silver, pouring down 
 
 To a tune of old renown, 
 
 Cutting narrow pathways through 
 
 Gentian belts of airy blue, 
 
 To a zone where starwort blows. 
 
 And Ion" reaches of the rose. 
 
 So, that haze all left behind, 
 Down the chestnut forests wind. 
 Past yon jagged spires, where yet
 
 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 Foot of man was never set ; 
 Pixst a castle yawning wide, 
 With a great breach in its side, 
 To a nest-like valley, where, 
 Like a sparrow's egg in hue. 
 Lie two lakes, and teach the true 
 Color of the sea-maid's hair. 
 
 "What beside ? The world beside ! 
 Drawing down and down, to greet 
 Cottage clusters at our feet, — 
 Every scent of summer tide, — 
 Flowery pastures all aglow 
 (Men and women mowing go 
 Up and down them) ; also soft 
 Floating of the film aloft. 
 Fluttering of the leaves alow. 
 Is this told ? It is not told. 
 Where 's the danger ? where 's the cold 
 Slippery danger up the steep ? 
 Where yon shadow fallen asleep ? 
 Chirping bird and tumbling spray. 
 Light, work, laughter, scent of hay, 
 Peace, and echo, where are they ? 
 
 Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold ; 
 Memory must their grace enfold 
 
 222
 
 224 CONTRASTED SONGS. 
 
 Silently ; and that Ligli song 
 Of the lieart, it doth belong 
 To the hearers. Not a whit, 
 Though a chief musician heard, 
 Could he make a tune for it. 
 
 Though a lute full deftly strung, 
 And the sweetest bird e'er sung, 
 Could have tried it, — O, the lute 
 For that wondrous song were mute, 
 And the bird would do her part, 
 Falter, fail, and break her heai-t, — 
 Break her heart, and furl her wings, 
 On the unespressive strin^ 
 
 igs.
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 ( On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament^ 
 
 AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBTFUL MORAL. 
 
 HAPPY Gladys ! I rejoice with her, 
 f>(i?P"^l For Gladys saw the island. 
 ^^m^ It wa 
 
 was thus 
 
 They gave a day for pleasure in the school 
 
 Where Gladys taught ; and all the other girls 
 
 Were taken out, to picnic in a wood. 
 
 But it was said, " We think it were not well 
 
 That little Gladys should acquire a taste 
 
 For pleasure, going about, and needless change. 
 
 It would not suit her station : discontent 
 
 Might come of it ; and all her duties now 
 
 She does so pleasantly, that we were best 
 
 To keep her humble." So they said to her, 
 
 " Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. 
 
 Look, you are free ; you need not sit at work : 
 
 No, you may take a long and pleasant walk 
 
 Over the sea-cliff, or upon the beach 
 
 Among the visitors." 
 
 Then Gladys blushed 
 10*
 
 226 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 For joy, and thanked them. What ! a hohday, 
 A whole one, for herself! How good, how kind 
 
 With that, the marshalled carriages drove off; 
 And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, 
 Stole out beyond the groups upon the beach • — 
 The children with their wooden spades, the band 
 That played for lovers, and the sunny stir 
 Of cheerful life and leisure — to the rocks. 
 For these she wanted most, and there was time 
 To mark them ; how like ruined organs prone 
 They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes. 
 And let the great white-crested reckless wave 
 Beat out their booming melody. 
 
 The sea 
 Was filled with light ; in clear blue caverns curled 
 The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, 
 As playing at some rough and dangerous game, 
 While all the nearer waves rushed in to help. 
 And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, 
 And tossed the fishing boats. Then Gladys laughed. 
 And said, " O, happy tide, to be so lost 
 In sunshine, that one dare not look at it ; 
 And lucky clifi's, to be so brown and warm ; 
 And yet how lucky are the shadows, too. 
 That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange. 
 That in remembrance though I lay them up. 
 They are forever, when I come to them. 
 Better than I had thought. O, something yet 
 I had forgotten. Oft I say, ' At least
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 227 
 
 This picture is imprinted; thus and thus, 
 The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, 
 Layer on layer.' And I loolv — up — up — 
 High, higher up again, till far aloft 
 They cut into their ether, — brown, and clear. 
 And perfect. And I, saying, ' Tiiis is mine, 
 To keep,' retire ; but shortly come again. 
 And they confound me Avith a glorious change. 
 The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them ; 
 They redden, and their edges drip with — what ? 
 I know not, but 't is i-ed. It leaves no stain, 
 For the next morning they stand up like ghosts 
 In a sea-shroud and fifty thousand mews 
 Sit there, in long white files, and chatter on, 
 Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood. 
 
 " There is the boulder where we always turn. 
 
 O ! I have longed to pa?s it ; now I will. 
 
 What would TiiEY say? for one must slip and spring ; 
 
 ' Young ladies ! Gladys ! I am shocked. My dears. 
 
 Decorum, if you please : turn back at once. 
 
 Gladys, we blame you most ; you should have looked 
 
 Before you.' Then they sigh, — how kind they are ! — 
 
 * What will become of you, if all your life 
 
 You look a long way off? — look anywhere, 
 
 And everywhere, instead of at your feet. 
 
 And where they carry you ! ' Ali, well, I know 
 
 It is a pity," Gkidys said ; " but then 
 
 We cannot all be wise : happy for me.
 
 228 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 That other people are. 
 
 "And yet I wish, — 
 For sometimes very right and serious thoughts 
 Come to me, — I do wish that they would come 
 When they are wanted ! — when I teach the sums 
 On rainy days, and when the practising 
 I count to, and the din goes on and on, 
 Still the same tune and still the same mistake, 
 Then I am wise enough : sometimes I feel 
 Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, 
 ' Now my reflections do me credit ! now 
 I am a woman ! ' and I wish they knew 
 How serious all my duties look to me. 
 And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies, 
 Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds. 
 Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. 
 But does it last ? Perhaps, that very day. 
 The front door opens : out we walk in pairs ; 
 And I am so delighted with this world. 
 That suddenly has grown, being new washed, 
 To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world. 
 And with a tender face shining through tears, 
 Looks up into the sometime lowering sky, 
 That has been angry, but is reconciled. 
 And just forgiving her, that I, — that I, — 
 O, I forget myself: what matters how ! 
 And then I hear (but always kindly said) 
 Some words that pain me so, — but just, but true: 
 ' For if your place in this establishment
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 229 
 
 Be but subordinate, and if your birth 
 Be lowly, it the more behooves, — well, well, 
 No more. "We see that you are sorry.' Yes ! 
 I am always sorry then ; but now, — 0, now, 
 Here is a bisht. more beautiful than all." 
 
 " And did they scold her, then, my pretty one ? 
 And did she want to be as wise as they. 
 To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind ? 
 Ay, you may crow ; she did ! but no, no, no. 
 The night-time will not let her, all the stars 
 Say nay to that, — the old sea laughs at her. 
 "Why, Gladys is a child ; she has not skill 
 To shut herself within her own small cell, 
 And build the door up, and to say, ' Poor me ! 
 I am a prisoner ' ; then to take hewn stones. 
 And, having built the windows up, to say, 
 ' 0, it is dark ! there is no sunshine here ; 
 There never has been.' " 
 
 Strange ! how very strange ! 
 A woman passing Gladys with a babe. 
 To whom she spoke these words, and only looked 
 Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls. 
 And never looked at Gladys, never once. 
 " A simple child," she added, and went by, 
 " To want to change her greater for their less ; 
 But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she ; 
 We love her — don't we ? — far too well for that."
 
 230 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 Then Gladys, flushed with sliame and keen surprise, 
 
 " How could she be so near, and I not know ? 
 
 And have I spoken out my thought aloud ? 
 
 I must have done, forgetting. It is well 
 
 She walks so fast, for I am hungry now. 
 
 And here is water cantering down the cliff. 
 
 And here a shell to catch it with, and here 
 
 The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. 
 
 Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare 
 
 To be alone ! " So Gladys sat her down, 
 
 Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank. 
 
 Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, 
 
 And thought the earth was happy, and she too 
 
 Was going round with it in happiness. 
 
 That holiday. " What w^as it that she said ? " 
 
 Quoth Gladys, cogitating ; " they were kind, 
 
 The words that woman spoke. She does not know ! 
 
 * Her greater for tlieir less,' — it makes me laugh, — 
 
 But yet," sighed Gladys, " though it must be good 
 
 To look and to admire, one should not wish 
 
 To steal their virtues, and to put them on, 
 
 Like feathers from another wing ; beside. 
 
 That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth. 
 
 When all is said, would little suit with me, 
 
 Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born. 
 
 Though they be good and humble, one should mind 
 
 How they are reared, or some will go astray 
 
 And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both 
 
 Were only once removed from innocence.
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 23 1 
 
 "Why tlid I envy them ? That was not good ; 
 Yet it began with my humility." 
 
 But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes, 
 
 And right before her, on the horizon's edge, 
 
 Behold, an island ! First, she looked away 
 
 Alonsr the solid rocks and steadfast shore. 
 
 For she was all amazed, believing not, 
 
 And then she looked aaain, and there again 
 
 Behold, an island ! And the tide had turned, 
 
 The milky sea had got a purple rim, 
 
 And from the rim that mountain island rose. 
 
 Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak 
 
 The higher, and with fell and precipice, 
 
 It ran down steeply to the water's brink ; 
 
 But all the southern line was long and soft, 
 
 Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought. 
 
 Covered with forest or with sward. But, look ! 
 
 The sun was on the island ; and he showed 
 
 On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. 
 
 Then Gladys held her breath ; she said, " Indeed, 
 
 Indeed it is an island : how is this, 
 
 I never saw it till this fortunate 
 
 Rare holiday ? " And while she strained her eyes. 
 
 She thought that it began to fade ; but not 
 
 To change as clouds do, only to withdraw 
 
 And melt into its azure ; and at last. 
 
 Little by little, from her hungry heart. 
 
 That longed to draw things marvellous to itself,
 
 232 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 And yearned towards the riches and the great 
 
 Abundance of the beauty God hath made, 
 
 It passed away. Tears started in her eyes, 
 
 And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone ; 
 
 The careless sea had quite forgotten it. 
 
 And all was even as it had been before. 
 
 And Gladys Avept, but there was luxury 
 
 In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, 
 
 " O, what a little while ! I am afraid 
 
 I shall forget that pu:"ple mountain isle, 
 
 The lovely hollows atwcen her snow-clad peaks, 
 
 The gi'ace of her upheaval where she lay 
 
 Well up against tlie open. O, my heart, 
 
 Now I remember how this holiday 
 
 "Will soon be done, and now my life goes on 
 
 Not fed ; and only in the noonday walk 
 
 Let to look silently at what it wants. 
 
 Without the power to wait or pause awhile, 
 
 And understand and draw within itself 
 
 The richness of the earth. A holiday ! 
 
 How few I have ! I spend the silent time 
 
 At work, while all their j^upils are gone home, 
 
 And feel myself remote. They shine apart ; 
 
 They are great planets, I a little orb ; 
 
 My little orbit far within their own 
 
 Turns, and approaches not. But yet, the more 
 
 I am alone when those I teach return ; 
 
 For they, as planets of some other sun.
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ring 
 
 Once in a cycle. O, how ^loor I am ! 
 
 I have not got hiid up in this blank lieart 
 
 Any indulgent kisses given me 
 
 Because I had been good, or, yet more sweet, 
 
 Because my childhood was itself a good 
 
 Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise. 
 
 And comforting. An orphan-school at best 
 
 Is a cold mother in the winter time 
 
 ('T was mostly winter when new orphans came), 
 
 An unregarded mother in the spring. 
 
 " Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went 
 To gather cowslips. IIow we thought on it 
 Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street, 
 To that one tree, the only one we saw 
 From April, — if the cowslips were in bloom 
 So early ; or if not, from opening May 
 Even to September. Then there came the feast 
 At Epping. If it rained that day, it rained 
 For a whole year to us ; we could not think 
 Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves 
 Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained. 
 
 " Ah, well, but I am here ; but I have seen 
 Tiie gay gorse bushes in their flowering time ; 
 I know the scent of bean-fields ; I have heard 
 The satisfying murmur of the main." 

 
 234 
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 The woman ! She came round the rock again 
 
 With her fair baby, and she sat her down 
 
 By Gladys, murmuring, " Who forbade the grass 
 
 To grow by visitations of the dew ? 
 
 Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, 
 
 * Thou shalt not wait for angel visitors 
 
 To trouble thy still water ? ' Must we bide 
 
 At home ? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us 
 
 On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe 
 
 Without ? O, we shall draw to us the air 
 
 That times and mystery feed on. This shall lay 
 
 Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world. 
 
 And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, 
 
 Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth. 
 
 Delivering of a tune to make her 3'outh 
 
 More beautiful than wheat when it is green. 
 
 " What else ? — (0, none shall envy her !) The rain 
 
 And the wild weather will be most her own. 
 
 And talk with her 0' nights ; and if the winds 
 
 Have seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her 
 
 In a mouthful of strange moans, — will bring from far, 
 
 Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad 
 
 Masterful tramping of the bison herds. 
 
 Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes, 
 
 In savage rifts of hair ; the crack and creak 
 
 Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry 
 
 Of the white bears, all in a dim blue world 
 
 Mumbling their meals by twilight ; or the rock
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAhW. 
 
 And majesty of motion, when their heads 
 Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm, 
 And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. 
 No holidays," quoth she ; " drop, drop, 0, drop, 
 Thou tired skylark, and go up no more ; 
 You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees, 
 Nor give out your good smell. She will not look ; 
 No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in. 
 For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought, 
 " A most strange woman, and she talks of me." 
 With that a girl ran up ; " Mother," she said, 
 " Come out of this brown bight, I pray you now, 
 It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon thought, 
 " The mother will not speak to me, perhaps 
 The daughter may," and asked her courteously, 
 " "What do the fairies smell of? " But the girl 
 "With peevish pout replied, " You know, you know.' 
 " Not I," said Gladys ; then she answered her, 
 " Something hke buttercups. But, mother, come. 
 And whisper up a porpoise from the foam, 
 Because I want to ride." 
 
 Full slowly, then, 
 The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes 
 Upon her little child. " You freakish maid," 
 Said she, " now mark me, if I call you one. 
 You shall not scold nor make him take you far." 
 
 *' I only want, — you know I only want," 
 The girl replied, " to go and play awhile 
 
 235
 
 236 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned 
 And muttered low, " Mother, is this the girl 
 Who saw the island ? " But the mother frowned. 
 " When may she go to it ? " the daughter asked. 
 And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind 
 To hear the answer. " When she wills to go ; 
 For yonder comes to shore the ferry boat." 
 Then Gladys turned to look, and even so 
 It was ; a ferry boat, and far away 
 Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks 
 Of her loved island. 
 
 Then she raised her arms, 
 And ran toward the boat, crying out, " rare, 
 The island ! fair befall the island ; let 
 Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, 
 And after her stepped in the freakish maid 
 And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child ; 
 And this one took the helm, and that let go 
 The sail, and off they flew, and furrowed up 
 A flaky hill before, and left behind 
 A sobbing snake-like tail of creamy foam ; 
 And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot 
 Toward the island ; then, when Gladj's looked. 
 Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid 
 Whistled a wind to come and rock the craft. 
 And would be leaning down her head to mew 
 At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap 
 And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, 
 She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 -J/ 
 
 Rebuked her in good English, after cried, 
 
 " LufF, luflP, we shall be swamped." " I will not luff," 
 
 Sobbed the fair mischief; "you are cross to me." 
 
 " For shame ! " the mother shrieked ; " luff, luff, my 
 
 dear ; 
 Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish 
 With the curly tail to ride on." So she did, 
 And presently a dolphin bouncing up, 
 She sprang upon his slippery back, — " Farewell," 
 She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm. 
 
 Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware 
 
 In the smooth weather that this woman talked 
 
 Like one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughts 
 
 Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. 
 
 She nodded, " Yes, the girl is going now 
 
 To her own island. Gladys poor ? Not she ! 
 
 Wlio thinks so ? Once I met a man in white, 
 
 Who said to me, ' The thing that might have been 
 
 Is called, and questioned why it hath not been ; 
 
 And can it give good reason, it is set 
 
 Beside the actual, and reckoned in 
 
 To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so 
 
 The possible stands by us ever fresh. 
 
 Fairer than aught which any life hath owned. 
 
 And makes divine amends. Now this was set 
 
 Apart from kin, and not ordained a home ; 
 
 An equal ; — and not suffered to fence in 
 
 A little plot of earthly good, and say,
 
 238 GLADYS AND IIER ISLAND. 
 
 'T is mine ' ; but in bereavement of the part, 
 O, yet to taste the whole, — to understand 
 The grandeur of the story, not to feel 
 Satiate with good possessed, but evei-morc 
 A healthful hunger for the gi-eat idea, 
 The beauty and the blessedness of life. 
 
 " Lo, now, the shadow ! " quoth she, breaking off, 
 " We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn. 
 And, 0, the mountain with the purple peaks 
 Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, 
 And they were in it : and &hc saw the snow. 
 And under that the rocks, and under that 
 The pines, and then the pasturage ; and saw 
 Numerous dips, and undulations rare, 
 Running down seaward, all astir with lithe 
 Long canes, and lofty feathers ; for the palms 
 And spice trees of the south, nay, every growth. 
 Meets in that island. 
 
 So that woman ran 
 The boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot 
 Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose ; 
 Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, 
 " It all belongs to Gladys " ; and she ran 
 And hid herself among the nearest trees 
 And panted, shedding tears. 
 
 So she looked round, 
 And saw that she was in a banyan grove, 
 Full of wild peacocks, — pecking on the grass.
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 239 
 
 A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, 
 
 Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high 
 
 They sat in rows along the boughs. No tree 
 
 Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, 
 
 But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured 
 
 From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped 
 
 Lower on azure stars. The air was still. 
 
 As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep. 
 
 And Gladys was the only thing that moved, 
 
 Excepting, — no, they were not birds, — what then ? 
 
 Glorified rainbows with a livins; soul ? 
 
 While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen, 
 
 Not otherwhere, but they were present yet 
 
 In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit 
 
 That lay about removing, — purple grapes. 
 
 That clustered in the path, clearing aside. 
 
 Through a small spot of light Avould pass and go, 
 
 The glorious happy mouth and two fair eyes 
 
 Of somewhat that made rustlings where it went ; 
 
 But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down. 
 
 Behold them ! they had wings, and they would pass 
 
 One after other with the sheeny fans. 
 
 Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen, 
 
 Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows. 
 
 Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashed 
 
 With purple glooms. And they had feet, but these 
 
 Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed 
 
 Not to disturb the waiting quietness ; 
 
 Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams ;
 
 240 
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 Nor tlie fair leopard, with lier sleek paws laid 
 
 Across her little drowsy cubs ; nor swans, 
 
 That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool ; 
 
 Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds, 
 
 With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know, 
 
 "Was Eden. She was passing through the trees 
 
 That made a ring about it, and she caught 
 
 A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen 
 
 Was nothing to them ; but words are not made 
 
 To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow, 
 
 And all the doves Avere bidden to hold their peace. 
 
 Why ? One was working in a valley near. 
 
 And none might look that way. It was understood 
 
 That He had nearly ended that His work ; 
 
 For two shapes met, and one to other spake, 
 
 Accosting him Avith, " Prince, what worketh He ? " 
 
 Who whispered, '• Lo ! He fashioneth red clay." 
 
 And all at once a little trembling stir 
 
 Was felt in the earth, and every creature woke, 
 
 And laid its head down, listening. It was known 
 
 Then that the work was done : the new-made kinsr 
 
 Had risen, and set his feet upon his realm, 
 
 And it acknowledged him. 
 
 But in her path 
 Came some one that withstood her, and he said, 
 " What doest thou here ? " Then she did turn and flee. 
 Among those colored sj^irits, through the grove, 
 Ti-embling for haste ; it was not well with her 
 Till she came forth of those thick banyan-trees,
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 And set her feet upon the common grass, 
 And felt the common wind. 
 
 Yet once beyond, 
 She could not choose but cast a backward glance. 
 The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, 
 And means of entering were not evident, — 
 The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy ; 
 She said, " Remoteness and a multitude 
 Of years are counted nothing liere. Behold, 
 To-day I have been in Eden. 0, it blooms 
 In my own island." 
 
 And she wandered on, 
 Thinking, until she reached a place of palms. 
 And all the earth was sandy where she walked, — 
 Sandy and dry, — strewed with papyrus leaves, 
 Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids 
 Of mummies (for perhaps is was the way 
 That leads to dead old Egypt), and withal 
 Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear 
 The hot prone pillars, and the carven plinths, — 
 Stone lotus cups, with petals dipped in sand. 
 And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, who sat 
 And smiled upon the ruin. O how still ! 
 Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear 
 Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leaves 
 Of jDalm-trees never rustled, and the soul 
 Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. 
 She was above her ankles in the sand. 
 When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo ! 
 
 11 p 
 
 241
 
 242 
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 It bare in it the I'uts of chariot wheels, 
 "Which erst had carried to their pagan prayers 
 The brown old Pharaohs ; for the ruts led on 
 To a great cliff, that either was a cliff 
 Or some dread shrine in ruins, — partly reared 
 In front of that same cliff, and partly hewn 
 Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps 
 Of sand and stones on either side there lay ; 
 And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each, 
 As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest. 
 Dog-headed, and behind them winged things 
 Like angels ; and this carven multitude 
 Hedged in, to right and left, the rocky road. 
 At last, the cliff, — and in the cliff a door 
 Yawning : and she looked in, as down the throat 
 Of some stupendous giant, and beheld 
 No floor, but wide, worn, flights of steps, that led 
 Into a dimness. When the eyes could bear 
 That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight. 
 Flight after flight, the worn long stair go down, 
 Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. 
 So she did enter ; also she went down 
 Till it was dark, and yet again went down. 
 Till, gazing upward at that yawning door. 
 It seemed no larger, in its height remote, 
 Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, 
 She doubted of the end, yet farther down 
 A slender ray of lamplight fell away 
 Along the stair, as from a door ajar :
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 243 
 
 To this again she felt her way, and stepped 
 Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light ; 
 But fear fell on her, fear ; and she forbore 
 Entrance, and listened. Ay ! 't was even so, — 
 A sigh ; the breathing as of one who slept 
 And was disturbed. So she drew back awhile, 
 And trembled ; then her doubting hand she laid 
 Against the door, and pushed it ; but the light 
 "Waned, faded, sank ; and as she came within — 
 Hark, hark ! A spirit was it, and asleep ? 
 A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung 
 A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared 
 A flickering speck of light, and disappeared ; 
 Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes, 
 That fell on some one resting, in the gloom, — 
 Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape 
 That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white, 
 Breathing and languid through prolonged repose. 
 
 Was it a heifer ? all the marble floor 
 Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled, 
 And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed. 
 
 But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out, — 
 The whiteness, — and asleep again ! but now 
 It was a woman, robed, and with a face 
 Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed 
 Murmured, " O terrible ! I am afraid 
 To breathe among these intermittent lives.
 
 244 
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 That fluctuate in mystic solitude, 
 
 And change and fade. Lo ! where the goddess sits 
 
 Dreaming on her dim tlirone ; a crescent moon 
 
 She wears ui^on Iier forehead. Ah ! her frown 
 
 Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. 
 
 What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast ? 
 
 A baby god with finger on his lips, 
 
 Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway ? 
 
 Thy son. Hush, hush ; he knoweth all the lore 
 
 And sorcery of old Egypt ; but his mouth 
 
 He shuts ; the secret shall be lost with him, 
 
 He will not tell." 
 
 The woman coming down ! 
 " Child, what art doing here ? " the woman said ; 
 " What wilt tliou of Dame Isis and her bairn ? " 
 (At/, ay, ive see thee hreathing in thy shroud, — 
 T}ty pretty shroud, all frilled and furheloioed.) 
 The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. 
 I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier 
 Of painted coffers fills it. What if we. 
 Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst, — 
 Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie, 
 Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings. 
 And all the gear they took to bed with them ! 
 Horrible ! Let us hence. 
 
 And Gladys said, 
 " 0, they are rough to mount, those stairs " ; but she 
 Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight 
 Shot like a meteor with her. " There," said she ;
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 245 
 
 " The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, 
 
 Down in unholy heathen gloom ; farewell." 
 
 She pointed to a gateway, strong and high, 
 
 Reared of hewn stones ; but, look ! in lieu of gate. 
 
 There was a glittering cobweb drawn across, 
 
 And on the lintel there were writ these words : 
 
 " Ho, every one that cometh, I divide 
 
 What hath been from what might be, an^ the line 
 
 Hangeth before thee as a spider's web ; 
 
 Yet, wouldst thou enter thou must break the line. 
 
 Or else forbear the hill." 
 
 The maiden said, 
 " So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed 
 Among some oak-trees on the farther side, 
 And waded through the bracken round their bolls. 
 Until she saw the open, and drew on 
 Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed 
 With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. 
 Here she put up a creature, that ran on 
 Before her, crying, " Tint, tint, tint," and turned, 
 Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes, 
 Jabbering of graraarye, one Michael Scott, 
 The wizard that wonned somewhere undersfround. 
 With other talk enough to make one fear 
 To walk in lonely places. After passed 
 A man-at-arms, William of Deloraiue ; 
 He shook his head, " An' if I list to tell," 
 Quoth he, " I know, but how it matters not " ; 
 Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap
 
 246 GLADYS AND HER ISLAI^D. 
 
 Of thunder, and a shape in Amice gray, 
 
 But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, " Tint, 
 
 Tint, tint." " There shall be wild work some day soon," 
 
 Quoth he, " thou limb of darkness : he will come. 
 
 Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp. 
 
 And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie." 
 
 Then Gladys w_^s so frightened, that she ran, 
 
 And got away, towards a grassy down. 
 
 Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy 
 
 To tend them. 'T was the boy who wears that herb 
 
 Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang 
 
 So sweetly to his flock, that she stole on 
 
 Nearer to listen. " O Content, Content, 
 
 Give me," sang he, " thy tender company. 
 
 I feed my flock among the myrtles ; all 
 
 My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down 
 
 Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, 
 
 From the other side the river, where their harps 
 
 Thou hast been helping them to tune. O come, 
 
 And pitch thy tent by mine ; let me behold 
 
 Thy mouth, — that even in slumber talks of peace, — 
 
 Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance." 
 
 And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, 
 Till she had rested ; then did ask the boy. 
 For it was afternoon, and she was fain 
 To reach the shore, " Which is the path, I pray, 
 That leads one to the water .'' " But he said,
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 247 
 
 " Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, 
 The path that leads one to the golden gate 
 Across the river." So she wandered on ; 
 And presently her feet grew cool, the grass 
 Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. 
 The air was full of voices, and the scent 
 Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts ; 
 For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount. 
 And reared in such a sort that it looked down 
 Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, 
 And richest plains 0' the island. It was set 
 Midway between the snows raajestical 
 And a wide level, such as men would choose 
 For growing wheat ; and some one said to her, 
 " It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked 
 Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear 
 The calling of an unseen multitude 
 To some upon the mountain, " Give us more " ; 
 And others said, " We are tired of this old world : 
 Make it look new again." Then there were some 
 "Who answered lovingly — (the dead yet speak 
 From that high mountain, as the living do) ; 
 But others sang desponding, " "We have kept 
 The vision for a chosen few : we love 
 Fit audience better than a rough huzza 
 From the unreasoning crowd." 
 
 Then words came up : 
 " There was a time, you poets, was a time 
 "When all the poetry was ours, and made
 
 248 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. 
 We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. 
 O, it grows obsolete ! Be you as they : 
 Our heroes die and drop away from us ; 
 Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, 
 Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. 
 Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, 
 That many of us think scorn of honest trade, 
 And take no pride in our own shops ; who care 
 Only to quit a calling, will not make 
 The calling what it might be ; who despise 
 Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work 
 Dull, and degrade them." 
 
 Then did Gladys smile : 
 " Heroes ! " quoth she ; " yet, now I think on it, 
 There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, 
 Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks 
 I see him burnishing of golden gear. 
 Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, 
 ' London is thirsty ' — (then he weighs a chain) : 
 ' 'T is an ill thing, my masters. I would give 
 The worth of this, and many such as this, 
 To bring it water.' 
 
 " Ay, and after him 
 There came up Guy of London, lettered son 
 O' the honest lighterman. I '11 think on him. 
 Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves, 
 After his shop was closed : a still, grave man, 
 With melancholy eyes. ' While these are hale,'
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd 
 
 Cheerily working ; where the river marge 
 
 Is blocked with ships and boats ; and all the wharves 
 
 Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise, — 
 
 ' While these are hale, 't is well, 't is very well. 
 
 But, good Lord,' saith he, ' when these are sick, — 
 
 I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship 
 
 Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. 
 
 Ay, ay, my hearties ! many a man of you, 
 
 Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away. 
 
 And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid, 
 
 Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' 
 
 Well, we have heard the rest. 
 
 " Ah, next I think 
 Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart 
 To dare and to endure. ' Robert,' saith he, 
 (The navigator Knox to his manful son,) 
 ' I sit a captive from the ship detained ; 
 This heathenry doth let thee visit her. 
 Remember, son, if thou, alas ! shouldst fail 
 To ransom thy poor father, they are free 
 As yet, the mariners ; have wives at home, 
 As I have ; ay, and liberty is sweet 
 To all men. For the ship, she is not ours. 
 Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on the mate 
 This my command, to leave me, and set sail. 
 As for thyself — ' ' Good father,' saith the son ; 
 * I will not, father, ask your blessing now, 
 Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate 
 11* 
 
 249
 
 250 
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 We two shall meet again.' And so they did. 
 
 The dusky men, peelmg off cinnamon, 
 
 And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree, 
 
 Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship sailed, — 
 
 The son returned to share his father's cell. 
 
 " 0, there are many such. "Would I had wit 
 
 Their worth to sing ! " With that, she turned her feci:. 
 
 " I am tired now," said Gladys, " of their talk 
 
 Around this hill Parnassus." And, behold, 
 
 A piteous sight — an old, blind, graybeard king 
 
 Led by a fool with bells. Now this was loved 
 
 Of the crowd below the hill ; and when he called 
 
 For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age. 
 
 And plained on his unkind daughters, they were known 
 
 To say, that if the best of gold and gear 
 
 Could have bought him back his kingdom, and made 
 
 kind 
 The hard hearts which had broken his erewhile, 
 They would have gladly paid it from their store 
 Many times over. What is done is done, 
 No help. The ruined majesty passed on. 
 And look you ! one who met her as she walked 
 Showed her a mountain nymph lovely as light. 
 Her name Q^none ; and she mourned and mourned, 
 " O Mother Ida," and she could not cease, 
 No, nor be comforted. 
 
 And after this, 
 Soon there came by, arrayed in Norman cap
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 25 
 
 And kiille, an Arcadian villager, 
 "Who said, " I pray you, have you chanced to meet 
 One Gabriel ? " and she sighed ; but Gladys took 
 And kissed her hand : she could not answer her, 
 Because she guessed the end. 
 
 With that it drew 
 To evening ; and as Gladys wanderedon 
 In the calm weather, she beheld the wave, 
 And she ran down to set her feet asrain 
 On the sea margin, which was covered thick 
 With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red 
 As wine. The water played among bare ribs 
 Of many wrecks, that lay half buried there 
 In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto 
 To ask her way, and one so innocent 
 Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute, 
 She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes, 
 For in them beamed the untaught ecstasy 
 Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, 
 And love just born. 
 
 She could not choose but name her shipwrecked prince. 
 
 All blushing. She told Gladys many things 
 
 That are not in the story, — things, in sooth, 
 
 That Prospero her father knew. But now 
 
 'T was evening, and the sun drooped ; purple stripes 
 
 In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay 
 
 Out in the west. And lo ! the boat, and more. 
 
 The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home
 
 252 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm : 
 
 Peace, peace ! " she said ; " be good : you shall not steer, 
 
 For I am your liege lady." Then she sang 
 
 The sweetest songs she knew all the way home. 
 
 So Gladys set her feet upon the sand ; 
 While in the sunset glory died away 
 The peaks of that blest island. 
 
 " Fare you well. 
 My country, my own kingdom," then she said, 
 " Till I go visit you again, farewell." 
 
 She looked toward their house with whom she dwelt, — 
 
 The carriages were coming. Hastening up, 
 
 She was in time to meet them at the door, 
 
 And lead the sleepy little ones within ; 
 
 And some were cross and shivered, and her dames 
 
 "Were weary and right hard to please ; but she 
 
 Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed 
 
 "With a warm cloak to 'fend her from the cold. 
 
 " For, come what will," she said, " I had to-day. 
 
 There is an island." 
 
 The IforaL 
 
 "What is the moral? Let us think awhile. 
 Taking the editorial We to help. 
 It sounds respectable. 
 
 The moral ; yes.
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 253 
 
 We always road, wlien any fable ends, 
 " Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. 
 What do you think of this ? " Hence we may learn 
 That dolphins swim about the coast of Wales, 
 And Admiralty maps should now be drawn 
 By teacher-girls, because their sight is keen. 
 And they can spy out islands." Will that do ? 
 No, that is far too plain, — too evident. 
 
 Perhaps a general moralizing vein — 
 (We know we have a happy knack that way. 
 We have observed, moreover, that young men 
 Are fond of good advice, and so are girls ; 
 Especially of that meandering kind, 
 Which winding on so sweetly, treats of all 
 They ought to be and do and think and wear, 
 As one may say, from creeds to comforters. 
 Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, 
 So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein ; 
 That is the thing ; but how to manage it ? 
 " Hence we may learn" if we be so inclined, 
 That life goes best with those who take it best ; 
 That wit can spin from work a golden robe 
 To queen it in ; that who can paint at will 
 A private picture gallery, should not cry 
 For shillings that will let him in to look 
 At some by others painted. Furthermore, 
 Hence we may learn, you poets, — {and we count 
 For -poets all who ever felt that such
 
 !54 
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 Thei) were, and all who secretly have hnown 
 That such they could be ; ay, moreover, all 
 Who wind the roles of ideality 
 About the bareness of their lives, and hang 
 Comforting curtains, hiii of fancy's yarn. 
 Nightly betwixt them and the frosty world), — 
 Hence we may learn, you j^oets, that of all 
 We should be most content. The earth is given 
 To us : we reign by virtue of a sense 
 "Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, 
 The ring of that old tune "whereto she spins. 
 Humanity is given to us : we reign 
 By virtue of a sense, which lets us in 
 To know its troubles ere they have been told, 
 And take them home and lull them into rest 
 With mournfullest music. Time is given to us, — 
 Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, beside 
 Have seen it well, have walked this empty world 
 When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills 
 Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns ? 
 
 Have we not seen the tabernacle pitched. 
 And peered between the linen curtains, blue. 
 Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there. 
 And, frighted, have not dared to look again? 
 But, quaint antiquity ! beheld, we thought, 
 A chest that might have held the manna pot 
 And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned 
 Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet
 
 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 
 
 Of Ccesar loomed and neared ; then, afterwards, 
 We saw fair Venice looking at herself 
 In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth 
 In all his bravery to the wedding. 
 
 This, 
 However, counts for nothing to the grace 
 We wot of in time future : — therefore add, 
 And afterwards have done : " Hence we may learn' 
 That though it be a grand and comely thing 
 To be unhappy, — (and we think it is, 
 Because so many grand and clever folk 
 Have found out reasons for unhappiness, 
 And talked about uncomfortable things, — 
 Low motives, bores, and shams, and hoUowness, 
 The hollowness o' the world, till we at last 
 Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear, 
 Being so hollow, it should break some day. 
 And let us in), — yet, since we are not grand, 
 O, not at all, and as for cleverness. 
 That may be or may not be, — it is well 
 For us to be as happy as we can ! 
 
 Agreed ; and with a woi'd to the nobler sex. 
 As thus ; we pray you carry not your guns 
 On the half-cock ; we pray you set your pride 
 In its proper place, and never be ashamed 
 Of any honest calling, — let us add. 
 And end ; for all the rest, hold up your heads 
 And mind your English. 
 
 255
 
 SONGS WITH PRELUDES.

 
 SONGS WITH PRELUDES 
 
 WEDLOCK. 
 
 ^HE sun was streaming in : I woke, and said, 
 " Where is my wife, — that has been made my 
 wife 
 
 Only this year ? " The casement stood ajar : 
 I did but Hft my head : The pear-tree di'opped. 
 The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves 
 And blossom, under heavens of happy blue. 
 
 My wife had wakened first, and had gone down 
 
 Into the orchard. All the air was calm ; 
 
 Audible humming filled it. At the roots 
 
 Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps, 
 
 Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills 
 
 Were tossing down their silver messengers, 
 
 And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds, 
 
 Gave them good answer ; all things else were mute ; 
 
 An idle world lay listening to their talk, 
 
 They had it to themselves.
 
 26o SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 
 
 "What ails my wife ? 
 I know not if aught ails her ; though her step 
 Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. 
 She moves atween the almond boughs, and bends 
 One thick with bloom to look on it. " love ! 
 A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself, 
 At unaware to think thy thoughts alone : 
 How sweet, and yet pathetic to my heart 
 The reason. Ah ! thou art no more thine own. 
 Mine, mine, O love ! Tears gather 'neath my lids, — 
 Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty. 
 Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty, 
 That yet, O love, thou wouldst not have again. 
 No ; all is right. But who can give, or bless, 
 Or take a blessing, but there comes withal 
 Some pain ? " 
 
 She walks beside the lily bed, 
 And holds apart her gown ; she would not hurt 
 The leaf-enfolded buds, that have not looked 
 Yet on the daylight. 0, thy locks are brown, — 
 Fairest of colors ! — and a darker brown 
 The beautiful, dear, veiled, modest eyes. 
 A bloom as of blush roses covers her 
 Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes with 
 
 her, 
 And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul ! 
 To think that thou art mine ! 
 
 My wife came in. 
 And moved into the chamber. As for me,
 
 SONGS WITH Pn ELUDES. 26 1 
 
 I heard, but lay as one that nothing hears, 
 And feigned to be asleep. 
 
 The racing river leaped, and sang 
 Full blithely in the perfect weather, 
 
 All round the mountain echoes rang, 
 For blue and green were glad together. 
 
 II. 
 
 This rained out light from every part. 
 
 And that with songs of joy was thrilling; 
 
 But, in the hollow of my heart. 
 
 There ached a place that wanted filling. 
 
 III. 
 
 Before the road and river meet. 
 
 And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, 
 
 I heard a sound of laughter sweet. 
 And paused to like it, and to listen. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I heard the chanting waters flow. 
 
 The cushat's note, the bee's low humming, — 
 Then turned the hedge, and did not know, — 
 
 How could I ? — that my time was coming.
 
 262 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 
 
 V. 
 
 A girl upon the nighest stone, 
 
 Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, 
 So far the shallow flood had flown 
 
 Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. 
 
 VI. 
 
 She knew not any need of me, 
 Yet me she waited all unweeting ; 
 
 We thought not I had crossed the sea. 
 And half the sphere to give her meeting. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I waded out, her eyes I met, 
 
 I wished the moment had been hours ; 
 I took her in my arms, and set 
 
 Her dainty feet among the flowers. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Her fellow maids in copse and lane, 
 
 Ah ! still, methinks, I hear them calling ; 
 
 Tlie wind's soft whisper in the plain, 
 The cushat's coo, the water's falling.
 
 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 263 
 
 IX. 
 
 But now it is a year ago, 
 
 But now possession crowns endeavor ; 
 I took her in my heart, to grow 
 
 And fill the hollow place forever. 
 
 REGRET. 
 
 OTHAT word Regret ! 
 There have been nights and morns when we have 
 sighed, 
 " Let us alone, Regret ! TVe are content 
 To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep 
 For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes ; 
 It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep, 
 But plaineth on the bed that it is hard. 
 
 We did amiss when we did wish it gone 
 And over : sorrows humanize our race ; 
 Tears are the showers that fertilize this world ; 
 And memory of things precious keepeth warm 
 The heart that once did hold them. 
 
 They are poor 
 That have lost nothing ; they are poorer far 
 Who, losing, have forgotten ; they most poor 
 Of all, who lose and wish they might forget.
 
 264 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 
 
 For life is one, and in its warp and woof 
 There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair, 
 And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet 
 "Where there are sombre colors. It is true 
 Tliat we have wept. But ! this thread of gold, 
 "We would not have it tarnish ; let us turn 
 Oft and look back upon the wondrous web, 
 And when it shineth sometimes we shall know 
 That memory is possession. 
 
 When I remember something which I had, 
 But which is gone, and I must do without, 
 
 I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, 
 Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout ; 
 
 It makes me sigh to think on it, — but yet 
 
 My days will not be better days, should I forget. 
 
 II. 
 
 When I remember something promised me, 
 But which I never had, nor can have now, 
 
 Because the promiser we no more see 
 
 In countries that accord with mortal vow ; 
 
 When I remember this, I mourn, — but yet 
 
 My happier days are not the days when I forget.
 
 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 
 
 265 
 
 LAMENTATION. 
 
 I READ upon that book, 
 Which down the golden gulf doth let us look 
 On the sweet days of pastoral majesty ; 
 I read upon that book 
 How, when the Shepherd Prince did flee 
 (Red Esau's twin), he desolate took 
 The stone for a pillow : then he fell on sleep. 
 And lo ! there was a ladder. Lo ! there hunsc 
 A ladder from the star-place, and it clung 
 To the earth : it tied her so to heaven ; and ! 
 
 There fluttered wings ; 
 Then were ascending and descending things 
 That stepped to him where he lay low ; 
 Then up the ladder would a-drifting go 
 (This feathered brood of heaven), and show 
 Small as white flakes in winter that are blown 
 Together, underneath the great white throne. 
 
 When I had shut the book, I said, 
 " Now, as for me, my dreams upon ray bed 
 
 Are not like Jacob's dream ; 
 Yet I have got it in my life ; yes, I, 
 And many more : it doth not us beseem. 
 
 Therefore, to sigh. 
 Is there not hung a ladder in our sky ? 
 12
 
 266 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 
 
 Yea ; and, moreover, all the way up on liigli 
 Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men. 
 
 "We have no dream ! What then ? 
 Like winged wayfarers the height they scale 
 (By Him that offers them they shall prevail), — 
 The prayers of men. 
 But where is found a prayer for me ; 
 
 How should I pray ? 
 My heart is sick, and full of strife. 
 I heard one whisper with departing breath, 
 ' Suffer us not, for any pains of death, 
 
 To fall from Thee.' 
 But O, the pains of life ! the pains of life ! 
 
 There is no comfort now, and naught to win, 
 But yet, — I will begin." 
 
 " Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say, 
 For that is wasted away ; 
 
 And much of it was cankered ere it went. 
 
 " Preserve to me my health," I cannot say, 
 For that, upon a day. 
 
 Went after other delights to banishment. 
 
 II. 
 
 What can I pray ? " Give me forgetfulness " ? 
 No, I would still possess
 
 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 267 
 
 Past away smiles, though present fronts be stern. 
 " Give me again my kindred ? " Nay ; not so, 
 
 Not idle prayers. We know 
 They that have crossed the river cannot return. 
 
 III. 
 
 I do not pray, " Comfort me ! comfort me ! " 
 
 For how should comfort be ? 
 O, — that cooing mouth, — that little white head ! 
 No ; but I pray, " If it be not too late, 
 
 Open to me the gate, 
 That I may find my babe when I am dead. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Show me the path. I had forgotten Thee 
 
 When I was happy and free. 
 Walking down here in the gladsome light o' the sun ; 
 But now I come and mourn ; O set my feet 
 
 In the road to Thy blest seat, 
 And for the rest, God, Thy will be done."
 
 268 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 
 
 DOMNION. 
 
 'HEN found the rose delight in her fair hue ? 
 Color is nothing to this world ; 't is I 
 That see it. Farther, I discover soul, 
 That trees are nothing to their fellow trees ; 
 It is but I that love their stateUness, 
 And I that, comforting my heart, do sit 
 At noon beneath their shadow. I will step 
 On the ledges of this world, for it is mine ; 
 But the other world ye wot of, shall go too ; 
 I will carry it in my bosom. O my world, 
 That was not built with clay ! 
 
 Consider it 
 (This outer world we tread on) as a harp, — 
 A gracious instrument on whose fair strings 
 We learn those airs we shall be set to play 
 When mortal hours are ended. Let the wings, 
 Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind. 
 And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet 
 Lie grovelling ? More is won than e'er was lost : 
 Inherit. Let thy day be to thy night 
 A teller of good tidings. Let thy praise 
 Go up as birds go up that, when they wake, 
 Shake off the dew and soar. 
 
 So take Joy home, 
 And make a place in thy great heart for her,
 
 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 269 
 
 And give her time to grow, and cherish her ; 
 Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, 
 When thou art working in the furrows ; ay, 
 Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. 
 It is a comely fasliion to be glad, — 
 Joy is the grace we say to God. 
 
 Art tired ? 
 Thei*e is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned? 
 There is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head, 
 The lovely world, and the over-world alike. 
 Ring with a song eterne, a happy rede, 
 " Thy Father loves thee." 
 
 Yon moored mackerel fleet 
 
 Hangs thick as a swarm of bees, 
 
 Or a clustering village street 
 Foundationless built on the seas. 
 
 II. 
 
 The mariners ply their craft, 
 Each set in his castle frail ; 
 
 His care is all for the draught. 
 And he dries the rain-beaten sail. 
 
 III. 
 
 For rain came down in the night. 
 And thunder muttered full oft.
 
 2/0 
 
 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 
 
 But now the azure is bright, 
 And hawks are wheeliBg aloft. 
 
 rv. 
 
 I take the land to my breast, 
 In her coat with daisies fine ; 
 
 For me are the hills in their best, 
 And all that 's made is mine. 
 
 V. 
 
 Sing high ! " Though the red sun dip. 
 There yet is a day for me ; 
 
 Nor youth I count for a ship 
 That long ago foundered at sea. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Did the lost love die and depart ? 
 
 Many times since we have met ; 
 For I hold the years in my heart, 
 
 And all that was — is yet. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " I grant to the king his reign ; 
 
 Let us yield him homage due ; 
 But over the lands there are twain, 
 
 king, I must rule as you.
 
 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 27 1 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " I grant to the wise his meed, 
 
 But his yoke I will not brook, 
 For God taught me to read, — 
 
 He lent rae the world for a book." 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 ON A SUN-PORTKAIT OF UER UUSBAND, SEXT BY HIS 
 WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL eyes, — and shall I see no more 
 The living thought when it would leap from them, 
 And play in all its sweetness 'ueath their lids ? 
 
 Here was a man familiar with fair heights 
 
 That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears 
 
 And troubles of our race deep inroads made, 
 
 Yet life was sweet to him ; he kept his heart 
 
 At home. Who saw his wife might well have thought, — 
 
 " God loves this man. He chose a wife for him, -~ 
 
 The true one ! " O sweet eyes, that seem to live, 
 
 I know so much of you, tell me the rest ! 
 
 Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care 
 
 For small, young children. Is a message here 
 
 That you would fain have sent, but had not time ?
 
 2/2 
 
 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 
 
 If such there be, I promise, by long love 
 And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes 
 Of understanding, that I will not fail, 
 No, nor delay to find it. 
 
 O, my heart 
 Will often pain me as for some strange fault, — 
 Some grave defect in nature, — when I think 
 How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees, 
 Moved to the music of the tideless main, 
 While, with sore weeping, in an island home 
 They laid that mucL^oved head beneath the sod, 
 And I did not know. 
 
 I. 
 
 I stand on the bridge where last we stood 
 When delicate leaves w^ere young ; 
 
 The children called us fi'om yonder wood, 
 While a mated blackbird sung. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah, yet you call, — in your gladness call, ■ 
 And I hear your pattering feet ; 
 
 It does not matter, matter at all, 
 You fatherless children sweet, — 
 
 III. 
 
 It does not matter at all to you, 
 Young hearts that pleasure besets ;
 
 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 273 
 
 The father sleeps, but the world is new, 
 The child of his love forgets. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I too, it may be, before they drop, 
 
 The leaves that flicker to-day. 
 Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop. 
 
 Shall pass from my place away : 
 
 V. 
 
 Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, 
 
 Or snow lies soft on the wold. 
 Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light, 
 
 And leave the story untold. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Shall I tell it there ? Ah, let that be, 
 For the warm pulse beats so high ; 
 
 To love to-day, and to breathe and see, — 
 To-morrow perhaps to die, — 
 
 VII. 
 
 Leave it with God. But this I have known. 
 
 That sorrow is over soon ; 
 Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone. 
 
 Forget by full of the moon. 
 
 12* R
 
 274 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But if all loved, as the few can love, 
 This world would seldom be well ; 
 
 And who need wish, if he dwells above, 
 For a deep, a long death knell. 
 
 IX. 
 
 There are four or five, who, passing this place, 
 "While they live will name me yet ; 
 
 And when I am gone will think on my face, 
 And feel a kind of regret.
 
 WINSTANLEY. 
 
 THE APOLOGY. 
 
 TJOTH the cedar to the reeds and rushes, 
 " Water-grass, you hnow not what I do ; 
 
 Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes, 
 And — I know not you" 
 
 Quoth the reeds and rushes, " Wind ! ivahen ! 
 
 Breathe, wind, and set our ansxoer free, 
 For we have no voice, of you forsaken, 
 For the cedar-tree" 
 
 Quoth the earth at midnight to the ocean, 
 
 " Wilderness of water, lost to view. 
 Naught you are to me but sounds of motion ; 
 lam naught to you." 
 
 Quoth the ocean, " Dawn ! fairest, clearest. 
 
 Touch me with thy golden fingers hland ; 
 For I have no smile till thou appearest 
 For the lovely land."
 
 2;6 WINSTANLEY. 
 
 Quoth the hero dying, whelmed in glory, 
 
 '■'^ Many llame me, few have understood; 
 Ah, my folk, to you Heave a story, — 
 Make its meaning goodP 
 
 Quoth the foil', " Sing, poet ! teach us, prove us 
 
 Surely ive shall learn the meaning then ; 
 Wound us with a pain divine, move us, 
 For this man of men." 
 
 WINSTANLEY'S deed, you kindly folk, 
 With it I fill my lay. 
 And a nobler man ne'er walked the world. 
 Let his name be what it may. 
 
 The good ship " Snowdrop " tarried long, 
 
 Up at the vane looked he ; 
 " Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, 
 
 " She lieth becalmed at sea." 
 
 The lovely ladies flocked within. 
 
 And still would each one say, 
 " Good mercer, be the ships come up ? " 
 
 But still he answered " Nay." 
 
 Then stepped two mariners down the street, 
 
 With looks of grief and fear : 
 " Now, if Winstanley be your name. 
 
 We bring you evil cheer !
 
 WINSTANLEY. 
 
 27; 
 
 "For the good ship ' Snowdrop ' struck, — she struck 
 
 On the rock, — the Eddjstone, 
 And down she went with threescore men, 
 
 "We two beinjT left alone. 
 
 o 
 
 " Down in the deep, with freight and crew. 
 
 Past any help she lies. 
 And never a bale has come to shore 
 
 Of all thy merchandise." 
 
 " For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," 
 
 Winstanley said, and sighed, 
 " For velvet coif, or costly coat. 
 
 They fathoms deep may bide. 
 
 " thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, 
 
 mariners, bold and ti"ue. 
 Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, 
 
 A-thinking of yours and you. 
 
 " Many long days Winstanley's breast 
 
 Shall feel a weight within, 
 For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared 
 
 And trading count but sin. 
 
 " To him no more it shall be joy 
 
 To pace the cheerful town. 
 And see the lovely ladies gay 
 
 Step on in velvet gown." 
 13
 
 278 WINSTANLEY. 
 
 The " Snowdrop " sank at Lammas tide, 
 
 All under the yeasty spray ; 
 On Christmas Eve the brig " Content " 
 
 Was also cast away. 
 
 He little thought o' New Year's night, 
 
 So jolly as he sat then, 
 "While drank the toast and praised the roast 
 
 The round-faced Aldermen, — 
 
 While serving lads ran to and fro, 
 
 Pouring the ruby wine, 
 And jellies trembled on the board, 
 
 And towering pasties fine, — 
 
 While loud huzzas ran up the roof 
 Till the lamps did rock o'erhead, 
 
 And holly-boughs from rafters hung 
 Dropped down their berries red, — 
 
 He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, 
 
 With every rising tide. 
 How the wave washed in his sailorjads, 
 
 And laid them side by side. 
 
 There stepped a stranger to the board : 
 " Now, stranger, who be ye ? " 
 
 He looked to right, he looked to left. 
 And " Rest you merry," quoth he ;
 
 WI y STANLEY. 
 
 " For you did not see tlie brig go down, 
 
 Or ever a storm had blown ; 
 For you did not see the white wave rear 
 
 At the rock, — the Eddystone. 
 
 " She drave at the rock with sternsails set ; 
 
 Crash went the masts in twain ; 
 She staggered back with her mortal blow, 
 
 Then leaped at it again. 
 
 " There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, 
 
 The misty moon looked out ! 
 And the water swarmed with seamen's heads, 
 
 And the wreck was strewed about. 
 
 " I saw her mainsail lash the sea 
 
 As I clung to the rock alone ; 
 Then she heeled over, and down she went, 
 
 And sank like any stone. 
 
 " She was a fair ship, but all 's one ! 
 
 For naught could bide the shock." 
 " I will take horse," Winstanley said, 
 
 " And see this deadly rock." 
 
 " For never again shall bark o' mine 
 
 Sail over the windy sea, 
 Unless, by the blessing of God, for this 
 
 Be found a remedy." 
 
 279
 
 28o WINSTANLEY. 
 
 Winstanley rode to Pljmoutli town 
 
 All in the sleet and the snow, 
 And lie looked around on shore and sound 
 
 As he stood on Plymouth Hoe. 
 
 Till a pillar of spray rose far away, 
 
 And shot up its stately head, 
 Reared and fell over, and reared a^ain : 
 
 " 'T is the rock ! the rock ! " he said. 
 
 Straight to the Mayor he took his way, 
 " Good Master Mayor," quoth he, 
 
 " I am a mercer of London town, 
 And owner of vessels three, — 
 
 " But for your rock of dark renown, 
 
 I had five to track the main." 
 " You are one of many," the old Mayor said, 
 
 " That on the rock complain. 
 
 " An ill rock, mercer ! your words ring right. 
 Well with my thoughts they chime. 
 
 For my two sons to the world to come 
 It sent before their time." 
 
 " Lend me a lighter, good I\Lister Mayor, 
 And a score of shipwrights free. 
 
 For I think to raise a lantern tower 
 On this rock o' destiny."
 
 WINSTANLEY. 28 1 
 
 The old Mayor laughed, but sighed also ; 
 
 " Ah, youth," quoth he, " is rasli ; 
 Sooner, young man, thou 'It root it out 
 
 From the sea that doth it lash. 
 
 " "Who sails too near its jagged teeth, 
 
 He shall have evil lot ; 
 For the calmest seas that tumble there 
 
 Fi'oth like a boiling pot. 
 
 And the heavier seas few look on nigh, 
 But straight they lay him dead ; 
 A seventy-gun-ship, sir ! — they '11 shoot 
 Higher than her mast-head. 
 
 *o' 
 
 " 0, beacons sighted in the dark. 
 They are right welcome things, 
 
 And pitchpots flaming on the shore 
 Show fair as angel wings. 
 
 " Hast gold in hand ? then light the land. 
 
 It 'longs to thee and me ; 
 But let alone the deadly rock 
 
 In God Almighty's sea." 
 
 Yet said he, " Nay, — I must away. 
 
 On the rock to set my feet ; 
 My debts are paid, my will I made, 
 
 Or ever I did thee greet.
 
 282 WINSTANLEY. 
 
 " If I must die, then let me die 
 By the rock and not elsewhere ; 
 
 If I may live, O let me live 
 To mount my lighthouse stair." 
 
 The old Mayor looked him in the face, 
 And answered, " Have thy way ; 
 
 Thy heart is stout, as if round about 
 It was braced with an iron stay : 
 
 " Have thy will, mercer ! choose thy men, 
 Put off from the storm-rid shore ; 
 
 God with thee be, or I shall see 
 Thy face and theirs no more." 
 
 Heavily plunged the breaking wave, 
 
 And foam flew up the lea, 
 Morning and even the drifted snow 
 
 Fell into the dark gray sea. 
 
 Winstanley chose him men and gear ; 
 
 He said, " My time I waste," 
 For the seas ran seething up the shore, 
 
 And the wrack drave on in haste. 
 
 But twenty days he waited and more, 
 
 Pacing the strand alone, 
 Or ever he sat his manly foot 
 
 On the rock, — the Eddystone.
 
 WmSTANLEY. 283 
 
 Then he and the sea began their strife, 
 
 And worked with power and miglit : 
 Whatever the man reared up by day 
 
 The sea broke down by night. 
 
 He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, 
 
 He sailed to shore at flow ; 
 And at his side, by that same tide, 
 
 Came bar and beam also. 
 
 " Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, 
 
 " Or thou wilt rue the day." 
 " Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, 
 
 " But the rock will have its way. 
 
 " For all his looks that are so stout. 
 
 And his speeches brave and fair, 
 He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, 
 
 But he '11 build no lighthouse thex'e." 
 
 o 
 
 In fine weather and foul weather 
 
 The rock his arts did flout. 
 Through the long days and the short days. 
 
 Till all that year ran out. 
 
 "With fine weather and foul weather 
 
 Another year came in ; 
 " To take his wage," the workmen said, 
 
 " We almost count a sin."
 
 284 WINSTANLEY. 
 
 Now March was gone, came April in, 
 
 And a sea-fog settled down, 
 And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, 
 
 He sailed from Plymouth town. 
 
 With men and stores he put to sea, 
 
 As he was wont to do ; 
 They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint, — 
 
 A ghostly craft and crew. 
 
 And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway, 
 For a long eight days and more ; 
 
 " God help our men," quoth the women then ; 
 " For they bide long from shore." 
 
 They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread : 
 " Where may our mariners be ? " 
 
 But the brooding fog lay soft as down 
 Over the quiet sea. 
 
 A Scottish schooner made the port, 
 
 The thirteenth day at e'en ; 
 " As I am a man," the captain cried, 
 
 " A strange sight I have seen : 
 
 " And a strange sound heard, my masters all, 
 At sea, in the fog and the rain, 
 
 Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low. 
 Then loud, then low again.
 
 WINSTANLEY. 28 = 
 
 " And a stately house one instant showed, 
 
 Through a rift, on the vessel's lee ; 
 What manner of creatures may be those 
 
 That build ujion the sea ? " 
 
 Then sighed the folk, " The Lord be praised ! " 
 And they flocked to the shore amain ; 
 
 All over the Hoe that livelong night, 
 Many stood out in the rain. 
 
 It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, 
 
 And the rollino; fo^; did flee ; 
 And, lo ! in the offing faint and far 
 
 Winstanley's house at sea ! 
 
 In fair weather with mirth and cheer 
 
 The stately tower uprose ; 
 In foul weather, with hunger and cold. 
 
 They were content to close ; 
 
 Till up the stair Winstanley went, 
 
 To fire the wick afar ; 
 And Plymouth in the silent night 
 
 Looked out, and saw her star. 
 
 Winstanley set his foot ashore ; 
 
 Said he, " My work is done ; 
 I hold it strong to last as long 
 
 As aught beneath the sun.
 
 286 WINSTAiYLEY. 
 
 " But if it fail, as fail it may, 
 
 Borne down with ruin and rout, 
 Another than I shall rear it high, 
 
 And brace the girders stout. 
 
 " A better than I shall rear it high, 
 
 For now the way is plain, 
 And tho' I were dead," Winstanley said, 
 
 " The light would shine again. 
 
 " Yet, were I fain still to remain, 
 
 Watch in my tower to keep. 
 And tend my light in the stormiest night 
 
 That ever did move the deep ; 
 
 " And if it stood, why then 't were good, 
 
 Amid their tremulous stirs. 
 To count each stroke when the mad waves broke, 
 
 For cheers of mariners. 
 
 " But if it fell, then this were well, 
 
 That I should with it fall ; 
 Since, for my part, I have built my heart 
 
 In the courses of its wall. 
 
 " Ay ! I were fain, long to remain, 
 
 "Watch in my tower to keep, 
 And tend my light in the stormiest night 
 
 That ever did move the deep."
 
 WINSTANLEY. 
 
 With tliat Winstanley went his way, 
 
 And left the rock renowned, 
 And summer and winter his pilot star 
 
 Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. 
 
 But it fell out, fell out at last, 
 
 That he would put to sea, 
 To scan once more his lighthouse tower 
 
 On the rock o' destiny. 
 
 And the winds broke, and the storm broke, 
 And wrecks came plunging in ; 
 
 None in the town that night lay down 
 Or sleep or rest to win. 
 
 The great mad waves were rolling graves, 
 
 And each flung up its dead ; 
 The seething flow was white below, 
 
 And black the sky o'erhead. 
 
 And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn, — 
 
 Broke on the trembling town, 
 And men looked south to the harbor mouth, 
 
 The lighthouse tower was down. 
 
 287 
 
 o 
 
 Down in the deep where he doth sleep, 
 
 "Who made it shine afar, 
 And then in the night that drowned its light, 
 
 Set, Avith his pilot star.
 
 288 WINSTANLEY, 
 
 Many fair tombs in the r/hrious glooms 
 
 At Westminster they show ; 
 Tlie brave and the great lie there in state : 
 
 Winstanley lieth loio.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 1. 
 
 This story I first wrote in prose, and it was published some 3'ears 
 ago. 
 
 Page 100. 
 
 The name of the patriarch's wife is intended to be pronounced 
 Nigh-loi-ya. 
 
 Of the three sons of Noah, — Shem, Ham, and Japhet, — I have called 
 Japhet the youngest (because he is always named last), and have sup- 
 posed that, in the genealogies where he is called "Japhet the elder," 
 he may have received the epithet because by that time there were 
 younger Japhets. 
 
 Page 167. 
 
 The quivering butterflies in companies, 
 That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, 
 Like living crocus beds. 
 
 This beautiful comparison is taken from "The Naturalist on the 
 River Amazons." "Vast numbers of orange-colored butterflies con- 
 gregated on the moist sands. They assembled in densely-packed 
 masses, sometimes two or three yards in circumference, their wings 
 all held in an upright position, so that the sands looked as though 
 variegated with beds of crocuses.'''' 
 
 14 S
 
 290 NOTES. 
 
 "Gladys and Her Island." 
 
 The -woman is Imaginatiou ; she is brooding over what slie brought 
 forth. 
 
 The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of His- 
 tory. 
 
 The girl is Fancy. 
 
 " WlNSTANLET." 
 
 This ballad was intended to be one of a set, and was read to the 
 children in the National Schools at Sherborne, Dorsetshire, in order to 
 discover whether, if the actions of a hero were simply and plainly 
 narrated, English children would like to learn the verses recording 
 them, by heart, as theur forefathers did. 
 
 Cambridge : Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers'' Publications. 
 
 MEMOIRS ATTD CORRESPONDElSrCE OP 
 
 MADAME RECAMIER. Translated iuid Edited by 
 
 Miss Luyster. Uuc Volume, 12mo, with a tiuely engraved 
 
 Porti-ait. Price, $ 2.00. 
 
 " The diversified contents of this volume can hardly fail to gain for it a wide 
 
 perusal. It has the interest, in a greater or less degree, of history and romance ; 
 
 of truth stranger than fiction ; of personal sketches ; of the curious phases of an 
 
 exceptional social life ; of singular admi.xtures of piety and folly, of greatness and 
 
 profligacy, fidelity and intrigue, all mingling or revealed in connection with the 
 
 prolonged career of one who was, in certain respects, the most remarkable woman 
 
 of her time." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 A PAINTER'S CAMP. Book I. : In England. Book 11. : 
 
 In Scotland. Book 111. : In France. By Philip Gil]!eut 
 
 Hamektox. In one volume. IGmo. Pictorial title. Price, 
 
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 experiences with a gayety and unction in perfect keeping with the subject. His 
 
 account of the practical melliods by which he conquered the difficulties of the 
 
 position is instructive in the extreme, while the anecdotes and adventures which 
 
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 the season." — New York Tribune. 
 
 CURIOUS MYTHS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. 
 
 By S. Baking-Gould, lu one volume, 16mo. With Illus- 
 trations. Price, $ 1..50. 
 " A singular book, and a very Interesting one to those who are fond of explor- 
 ing the dark corners of literature and life, is ' Curious Myths of The Middle Ages,' 
 by S. Baring-Gould, M. A. It treats of The Wandering Jew ; i'rester John ; The 
 Divining Rod ; The Seven Sleepers of Epliesus ; William Tell ; The Dog Gellert ; 
 Tailed Men ; Antichrist and Pope Joan ; The Man in the Moon ; Tlie Mountain 
 of Venus ; Fatality of Numbers ; The Terrestrial Paradise ; bringing together 
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 and suggesting topics for thought and investigation as to various psychological 
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 SUNSHINE AND SHOWERS : Their Influences 
 throughout Creation. A Compendium of Popular Meteorology. 
 By Andrew Steinmitz, Esq. The English Edition. One 
 volume, post 8vo. With Illustrations. Price, $ 3.00. 
 " We have received from Roberts Brothers a delightful volume, publislied by 
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 arrangement of the atmosphere, the moisture in the air, the characteristics and 
 meteorology of the seasons, the method of interpreting the barometer and the 
 thermometer, the prediction of the weather and the explanation of popular weather 
 prognostics, the curiosities of lightning, artificial rain, &c. , and it answers the 
 questions, ' What Becomes of the Sunshine ? ' and ' What Becomes of the 
 Showers ? ' The science relating to all topics connected with the weather seems 
 to have been mastered by the writer, and his volume is therefore full of surprising 
 facts and ingenious theories." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 ^W Mailedy post-paid, to any address, on receipt of the price, by the 
 Publishers.
 
 Messi's. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI'S POEMS. With Four De- 
 signs by D. G. RossETTi. One elegant 16mo volume. Price, 
 $1.75. 
 
 "Two of the best of the younger poets of this generation are women — Jean 
 
 Ingelow and Christina Rossetti The woman who could write the ' Songs of 
 
 Seven,' and 'The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire,' need not look to fu- 
 ture successes for applause ; and there are many poems in this beautiful volume 
 by Jliss Rossetti which entitle her to a high place among the poets of the day." — 
 John G. Saxe. 
 
 THE BOOK OP THE SONNET. By Leigh Hunt 
 
 and S. Adams Lee. A Posthumous Work by Hunt, now first 
 
 published from ike original MSS. In two beautiful post 8vo 
 
 volumes. Price, $ 5.00. 
 
 "The genuine aroma of literature abounds in every page of Leigh Hunt's de- 
 licious Essay on the Sonnet. His mind shows itself Imbued with a rich knowl- 
 edge of his subject, and this, illumined by the evidence of a thorough and unaf- 
 fected liking fur it, makes him irresistible." — London Saturday Review. 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN'S POEMS. In one volume. 
 16mo. Cloth, gilt top. Price, $ 1.75. 
 
 "The volume is the work of a born poet. Let any one read the first and last 
 poems in the collection, and he \n\l nqt fail to read every line which intervenes 
 between them. ' Langley Lane ' is one of the tenderest, sweetest, most musical, 
 and most original love-poems in the language." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. A Memoir. By Barry Cornwall. 
 One volume, 16mo, with Profile Portrait of Lamb. Price, 
 
 $1.75. 
 
 " We advise all young readers to approach Elia and Lamb's Life and Letters 
 
 through this soft and exquisite prelude of Barry Cornwall's Closing the 
 
 book, and remembering that its writer is seventy-seven years old, and the sole 
 survivor of those evenings which are as familiar to the lovers of Elia as it they 
 had been themselves present, it lingers in the memory like a strain of the sad- 
 dest and sweetest music." — Harper^s Monthly. 
 
 THE GENIUS OF SOLITUDE. By Ret. Wm. R. 
 
 Alger, Author of " The Doctrine of a Future Life." One 
 
 volume, 12mo. Price, $ 2.00. 
 
 "Mr. Alger's Genius of Solitude is the work of a scholar, of a man who has 
 written critically and comprehensively on Oriental poetry, and on a branch of 
 speculative psychology. It is, moreover, a book intended to have a practical 
 effect — to teach men to dislike what is bad, and to admire and love what is 
 good." — London Chronicle. 
 
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