LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OP I 
 
 CALIFORNIA J 
 
 *- ^s 
 

 
 <Ax6t<-<-e^7 
 
POEMS 
 
LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODK AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARB 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
 
POEMS 
 
 JEAN INGELOW 
 
 ffijprfr Swies 
 
 LONDON 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 1885 
 All rights reserved 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
A 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ROSAMUND 1 
 
 ECHO AND THE FERRY ........ 36 
 
 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING ...... 45 
 
 KISMET 69 
 
 DORA 74 
 
 SPERANZA .......... 77 
 
 THE BEGINNING 87 
 
 IN THE NURSERY 92 
 
 THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD . 95 
 
 LOSS AND WASTE . . 137 
 
 ON A PICTURE 138 
 
 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND 139 
 
 THE MAID-MARTYR ......... 179 
 
 A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST 201 
 
 LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE ....... 205 
 
 THE WHITE MOON WASTETH . 210 
 
 AN ARROW-SLIT . . . 212 
 
 WENDOVER .... ...... 214 
 
 THE LOVER PLEADS 216 
 
 SONG IN THREE PARTS ........ 218 
 
 1 IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM ' 224 
 
 NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE ....... 234 
 
 PERDITA 241 
 
 738 
 
ROSAMUND. 
 
 He blew with His winds, and they were scattered. 
 NE soweth and another reapeth. 7 
 
 Ay, 
 
 Too true, too true. One soweth unaware 
 Cometh a reaper stealthily while he dreams, 
 Bindeth the golden sheaf, and in his bosom 
 As 't were between the dewfall and the dawn 
 Bears it away. Who other was to blame ? 
 Is it I ? Is it I ? No verily, not I, 
 'T was a good action, and I smart therefore ; 
 Oblivion of a righteous enmity 
 Wrought me this wrong. I pay with my self-ruth 
 That I had ruth toward mine enemy ; 
 It needed not to slay mine enemy, 
 Only to let him lie and succourless 
 Drift to the foot o' the Everlasting Throne ; 
 Being mine enemy, he had not accused 
 One of my nation there of unkind deeds 
 Or ought the way of war forbids. 
 
 B 
 
ROSAMUND. 
 
 Let be ! 
 
 I will not think upon it. Yet she was 
 O, she was dear ; my dutiful, dear chil'd. 
 One soweth Nay, but I will tell this out, 
 The first fyte was the best, I call it such 
 For now as some old song men think on it 
 
 I dwell where England narrows running north ; 
 And while our hay was cut came rumours up 
 Humming and swarming round our heads like bees : 
 
 6 Drake from the bay of Cadiz hath come home, 
 And they are forth, the Spaniards with a force 
 Invincible.' 
 
 ' The Prince of Parma, couched 
 At Dunkirk, e'en by torchlight makes to toil 
 His shipwright thousands thousands in the ports 
 Of Flanders and Brabant. An hundred hendes 
 Transports to his great squadron adding, all 
 For our confusion.' 
 
 ' England's great ally 
 Henry of France, by insurrection fallen, 
 Of him the said Prince Parma mocking cries, 
 He shall not help the Queen of England now 
 Not even with his tears, more needing them 
 To weep his own misfortune.' 
 
 Was that all 
 The truth ? Not half, and yet it was enough 
 
ROSAMUND. 
 
 (Albeit not half that half was well believed), 
 For all the land stirred in the half belief 
 As dreamers stir about to wake ; and now 
 Comes the Queen's message, all her lieges bid 
 To rise, ' lieftenants, and the better sort 
 Of gentlemen ' whereby the Queen's grace meant, 
 As it may seem the sort that willed to rise 
 And arm, and come to aid her. 
 
 Distance wrought 
 
 Safety for us, my neighbours and near friends, 
 The peril lay along our channel coast 
 And marked the city, undefended fair 
 Rich London. O to think of Spanish mail 
 Ringing of riotous conquerors in her street, 
 Chasing and frighting (would there were no more 
 To think on) her fair wives and her fair maids. 
 But hope is fain to deem them forth of her. 
 
 Then Spain to the sacking ; then they tear away 
 Arras and carved work. O then they break 
 And toss, and mar her quaint orfeverie 
 Priceless then split the wine kegs, spill the mead, 
 Trail out the pride of ages in the dust ; 
 Turn over with pikes her silken merchandise, 
 Strip off the pictures of her kings, and spoil 
 Their palaces that nigh five hundred years 
 Have rued no alien footsteps on the floor, 
 
ROSAMUND. 
 
 And work for the days of miracle are gone 
 All unimaginable waste and woe. 
 
 Some cried, ' But England hath the better cause ; 
 We think not those good days indeed are done ; 
 We look to Heaven for aid on England's side. 3 
 Then other, ' Nay, the harvest is above, 
 God comforts there His own, and ill men leaves 
 To run long scores up in this present world, 
 And pay in another. 
 
 Look not here for aid. 
 Latimer, poor old saint, died in the street 
 With nigh, men say, three hundred of his kind, 
 All bid to look for worse death after death, 
 Succourless, comfortless, unfriended, curst. 
 Mary, and Gardiner, and the Pope's man Pole 
 Died upon down, lulled in a silken shade, 
 Soothed with assurance of a waiting heaven, 
 And Peter peering through the golden gate, 
 With his gold key in ? s hand to let them in.' 
 
 1 Nay, leave,' quoth I, f the martyrs to their heaven, 
 
 And all who live the better that they died. 
 
 But look you now, a nation hath no heaven, 
 
 A nation's life and work and wickedness 
 
 And punishment or otherwise, I say 
 
 A nation's life and goodness and reward 
 
 Are here. And in my nation's righteous cause 
 
ROSAMUND. 
 
 I look for aid, and cry, So HELP ME GOD 
 
 As I will help my righteous nation now 
 
 With all the best I have, and know, and am, 
 
 I trust Thou wilt not let her light be quenched ; 
 
 I go to aid, and if I fall I fall, 
 
 And, God of nations, leave my soul to Thee.' 
 
 Many did say like words, and all would give 
 Of gold, of weapons, and of horses that 
 They had to hand or on the spur o' the time 
 Could gather. My fair dame did sell her rings, 
 So others. And they sent us well equipped 
 Who minded to be in the coming fray 
 Whether by land or sea ; my hope the last, 
 For I of old therewith was conversant. 
 
 Then as we rode down southward all the land 
 Was at her harvesting. The oats were cut 
 Ere we were three days down, and then the wheat, 
 And the wide country spite of loathed threat 
 Was busy. There was news to hearten us : 
 The Hollanders were coming roundly in 
 With sixty ships of war, all fierce, and full 
 Of spleen, for not alone our sake but theirs 
 Willing to brave encounter where they might. 
 
 So after five days we did sight the Sound, 
 And look on Plymouth harbour from the hill. 
 
ROSAMUND. 
 
 Then I full glad drew bridle, lighted straight, 
 Ran down and mingled with a waiting crowd. 
 
 Many stood gazing on the level deep 
 
 That scarce did tremble ; 'twas in hue as sloes 
 
 That hang till winter on a leafless bough, 
 
 So black bulged down upon it a great cloud 
 
 And probed it through and through with forked stabs 
 
 Incessant, and rolled on it thunder bursts 
 
 Till the dark water lowered as one afraid. 
 
 That was afar. The land and nearer sea 
 
 Lay sweltering in hot sunshine. The brown beach 
 
 Scarce whispered, for a soft incoming tide 
 
 Was gentle with it. Green the water lapped 
 
 And sparkled at all edges. The night-heavens 
 
 Are not more thickly speckled o'er with stars 
 
 Than that fair harbour with its fishing craft. 
 
 And crowds of galleys shooting to and fro 
 
 Did feed the ships of war with their stout crews, 
 
 And bear aboard fresh water, furniture 
 
 Of war, much lesser victual, sallets, fruit, 
 
 All manner equipment for the squadron, sails, 
 
 Long spars. 
 
 Also was chaffering on the Hoe, 
 Buying and bargaining, taking of leave 
 With tears and kisses, while on all hands pushed 
 
ROSAMUND. 7 
 
 Tall lusty men with baskets on their heads 
 Piled of fresh bread, and biscuit newly drawn. 
 
 Then shouts, ' The captains ! ' 
 
 Raleigh, Hawkins, Drake, 
 Old Martin Frobisher, and many more ; 
 Howard, the Lord High Admiral, headed them 
 They coming leisurely from the bowling green, 
 Elbowed their way. For in their stoutness loth 
 To hurry when ill news first brake on them, 
 They playing a match ashore ill news I say, 
 
 * The Spaniards are toward ' while panic-struck 
 The people ran about them, Drake cries out, 
 Knowing their fear should make the danger worse, 
 
 * Spaniards, my masters ! Let the Spaniards wait. 
 Fall not a-shouting for the boats ; is time 
 
 To play the match out, ay to win, and then 
 To beat the Spaniards.' 
 
 So the rest gave way 
 At his insistance, playing that afternoon 
 The bravest match (one saith) was ever scored. 
 
 'T was no time lost ; nay, not a moment lost ; 
 For look you, when the winning cast was made, 
 The town was calm, the anchors were all up, 
 The boats were manned to row them each to his ship, 
 The lowering cloud in the offing had gone south 
 
i ROSAMUND. 
 
 Against the wind, and all was work, stir, heed, 
 Nothing forgot, nor grudged, nor slurred, and most 
 Men easy at heart as those brave sailors seemed. 
 
 And specially the women had put by 
 
 On a sudden their deep dread ; yon Cornish coast 
 
 Neared of his insolency by the foe, 
 
 With his high seacastles numerous, seaforts 
 
 Many, his galleys out of number, manned 
 
 Each by three hundred slaves chained to the oar ; 
 
 All his strong fleet of lesser ships, but great 
 
 As any of ours why that same Cornish coast 
 
 Might have lain farther than the far west land, 
 
 So had a few stout-hearted looks and words 
 
 Wasted the meaning, chilled the menace of 
 
 That frightful danger, imminent, hard at hand. 
 
 * The captains come, the captains ! ' and I turned 
 As they drew on. I marked the urgency 
 Flashing in each man's eye : fain to be forth 
 But willing to be held at leisure. Then 
 Cried a fair woman of the better sort 
 To Howard, passing by her pannier'd ass, 
 1 Apples, Lord Admiral, good captains all, 
 Look you, red apples sharp and sweet are these.' 
 
 Quoth he a little chafed, ' Let be, let be, 
 No time is this for bargaining, good dame. 
 
ROSAMUND. 9 
 
 Let be ; ' and pushing past, ' Beshrew thy heart 
 (And mine that I should say it), bargain ! nay. 
 I meant not bargaining/ she falters ; crying, 
 ' I brought them my poor gift. Pray you now take, 
 Pray you.' 
 
 He stops, and with a childlike smile 
 That makes the dame amend, stoops down to choose, 
 While I step up that love not many words, 
 'What should he do,' quoth I, ' to help this need 
 That hath a bag of money, and good will ? ' 
 ' Charter a ship,' he saith, nor e'er looks up, 
 1 And put aboard her victual, tackle, shot, 
 Ought he can lay his hand on look he give 
 Wide sea room to the Spanish hounds, make sail 
 For ships of ours, to ease of wounded men, 
 And succour with that freight he brings withal.' 
 
 His foot, yet speaking, was aboard his boat, 
 
 His comrades, each red apples in the hand, 
 
 Come after, and with blessings manifold 
 
 Cheering, and cries, ' Good luck, good luck ! ' they speed. 
 
 T was three years three months past. 
 
 O yet methinks 
 
 I hear that thunder crash i' the offing \ hear 
 Their words who when the crowd melted away 
 Gathered together. Comrades we of old, 
 About to adventure us at Howard's hest 
 
JO ROSAMUND. 
 
 On the unsafe sea. For he, a Catholic, 
 
 As is my wife, and therefore my one child, 
 
 Detested and defied th' most Catholic King 
 
 Philip. He, trusted of her grace and cause 
 
 She had, the nation following suit he deemed, 
 
 'T was whisper'd, ay and Raleigh, and Francis Drake 
 
 No less, the event of battle doubtfuller 
 
 Than English tongue might own ; the peril dread* 
 
 As ought in this world ever can be deemed 
 
 That is not yet past praying for. 
 
 So far 
 
 So good. As birds awaked do stretch their wings 
 The ships did stretch forth sail, full clad they towered 
 And right into the sunset went, hull down 
 E'en with the sun. 
 
 To us in twilight left, 
 
 Glory being over, came despondent thought 
 That mocked men's eager act. From many a hill, 
 As if the land complained to Heaven, they sent 
 A towering shaft of murky incense high, 
 Livid with black despair in lieu of praise. 
 The green wood hissed at every beacon's edge 
 That widen'd fear. The smell of pitchpots fled 
 Far over the field, and tongues of fire leaped up, 
 Ay, till all England woke, and knew, and wailed. 
 
 But we i' the night through that detested reek 
 Rode eastward. Every mariner's voice was given 
 
ROSAMUND i 1 
 
 'Gainst any fear for the western shires. The cry 
 Was all, < They sail for Calais roads, and thence, 
 The goal is London.' 
 
 Nought slept, man nor beast. 
 Ravens and rooks flew forth, and with black wings, 
 Affrighted, swept our eyes. Pale eddying moths 
 Came by in crowds and whirled them on the flames. 
 
 We rode till pierced those beacon fires the shafts 
 O' the sun, and their red smouldering ashes dulled. 
 Beside them, scorched, smoke-blackened, weary, leaned 
 Men that had fed them, dropped their tired arms 
 And dozed. 
 
 And also through that day we rode, 
 Till reapers at their nooning sat awhile 
 On the shady side of corn-shocks : all the talk 
 Of high, of low, or them that went or stayed 
 Determined but unhopeful ; desperate 
 To strike a blow for England ere she fell. 
 
 And ever loomed the Spaniard to our thought, 
 
 Still waxed the fame of that great Armament 
 
 New horsemen joining, swelled it more and more 
 
 Their bulky ships, galleons having five decks, 
 
 Zabraes, pataches, galleys of Portugal, 
 
 Caravels rowed with oars, their galliasses 
 
 Vast, and complete with chapels, chambers, towers. 
 
12 ROSAMUND. 
 
 And in the said ships of free mariners 
 Eight thousand, and of slaves two thousand more, 
 An army twenty thousand strong. O then 
 Of culverin, of double culverin, 
 Ordnance and arms, all furniture of war, 
 Victual, and last their fierceness and great spleen, 
 Willing to founder, burn, split, wreck themselves, 
 But they would land, fight, overcome, and reign. 
 
 Then would we count up England. Set by theirs, 
 
 Her fleet as walnut shells. And a few pikes 
 
 Stored in the belfries, and a few brave men 
 
 For wielding them. But as the morning wore, 
 
 And we went ever eastward, ever on, 
 
 Poured forth, poured down, a marching multitude 
 
 With stir about the towns ; and waggons rolled 
 
 With offerings for the army and the fleet. 
 
 Then to our hearts valour crept home again, 
 
 The loathed name of Alva fanning it ; 
 
 Alva who did convert from our old faith 
 
 With many a black deed done for a white cause 
 
 (So spake they erewhile to it dedicate) 
 
 Them whom not death could change, nor fire, nor 
 
 sword, 
 To thirst for his undoing. 
 
 Ay, as I am a Christian man, our thirst 
 Was comparable with Queen Mary's. All 
 
ROSAMUND. 13 
 
 The talk was of confounding heretics, 
 
 The heretics the Spaniards. Yet methought, 
 
 1 O their great multitude ! Not harbour room 
 
 On our long coast for that great multitude. 
 
 They land for who can let them ? give us battle, 
 
 And after give us burial. Who but they, 
 
 For he that liveth shall be flying north 
 
 To bear off wife and child. Our very graves 
 
 Shall Spaniards dig, and in the daisied grass 
 
 Trample them down.' 
 
 Ay, whoso will be brave, 
 Let him be brave beforehand. After th' event 
 If by good pleasure of God it go as then 
 He shall be brave an' liketh him. I say 
 Was no man but that deadly peril feared. 
 
 Nights riding two. Scant rest. Days riding three, 
 Then Foulkstone. Need is none to tell all forth 
 The gathering stores and men, the charter'd ship 
 That I, with two, my friends, got ready for sea. 
 Ready she was, so many another, small 
 But nimble ; and we sailing hugged the shore, 
 Scarce venturing out, so Drake had willed, a league, 
 And running westward aye as best we might, 
 When suddenly behold them ! 
 
 On they rocked, 
 Majestical, slow, sailing with the wind. 
 
14 ROSAMUND. 
 
 O such a sight ! O such a sight, mine eyes, 
 Never shall you see more ! 
 
 In crescent form, 
 
 A vasty crescent nigh two leagues across 
 From horn to horn, the lesser ships within, 
 The great without, they did bestride as 't were 
 And make a township on the narrow seas. 
 
 It was about the point of dawn : and light. 
 All grey the sea, and ghostly grey the ships ; 
 And after in the offing rocked our fleet, 
 Having lain quiet in the summer dark. 
 
 O then methought, ' Flash, blessed gold of dawn, 
 And touch the topsails of our Admiral, 
 That he may after guide an emulous flock, 
 Old England's innocent white bleating lambs. 
 Let Spain within a pike's length hear them bleat, 
 Delivering of their pretty talk in a tongue 
 Whose meaning cries not for interpreter/ 
 
 And while I spoke, their topsails, friend and foe, 
 Glittered and there was noise of guns ; pale smoke 
 Lagged after, curdling on the sun-fleck'd main. 
 And after that ? What after that, my soul ? 
 Who ever saw weakling white butterflies 
 Chasing of gallant swans, and charging them, 
 And spitting at them long red streaks of flame ? 
 
ROSAMUND. 15 
 
 We saw the ships of England even so 
 As in my vaunting wish that mocked itself 
 With 'Fool, O fool, to brag at the edge of loss.' 
 We saw the ships of England even so 
 Run at the Spaniards on a wind, lay to, 
 Bespatter them with hail of battle, then 
 Take their prerogative of nimble steerage, 
 Fly off, and ere the enemy, heavy in hand, 
 Delivered his reply to the wasteful wave 
 That made its grave of foam, race out of range, 
 Then tack and crowd all sail, and after them 
 Again. 
 
 So harass'd they that mighty foe, 
 Moving in all its bravery to the east. 
 And some were fine with pictures of the saints, 
 Angels with flying hair and peaked wings, 
 And high red crosses wrought upon their sails ; 
 From every mast brave flag or ensign flew, 
 And their long silken pennons serpented 
 Loose to the morning. And the galley slaves, 
 Albeit their chains did clink, sang at the oar. 
 
 The sea was striped e'en like a tiger skin 
 With wide ship wakes. 
 
 And many cried, amazed, 
 ' What means their patience?' 
 
 <Lo you,' others said, 
 * They pay with fear for their great costliness. 
 
If. ROSAMUND. 
 
 Some of their costliest needs must other guard ; 
 Once guarded and in port look to yourselves, 
 They count one hundred and fifty. It behoves 
 Better they suffer this long running fight 
 Better for them than that they give us battle, 
 And so delay the shelter of their roads. 
 
 ' Two of their caravels we sank, and one 
 
 (Fouled with her consort in the rigging) took 
 
 Ere she could catch the wind when she rode free. 
 
 And we have riddled many a sail, and split 
 
 Of spars a score or two. What then ? To-morrow 
 
 They look to straddle across the strait, and hold 
 
 Having aye Calais for a shelter hold 
 
 Our ships in fight. To-morrow shall give account 
 
 For our to-day. They will not we pass north 
 
 To meddle with Parma's flotilla ; their hope 
 
 Being Parma, and a convoy they would be 
 
 For his flat boats that bode invasion to us ; 
 
 And if he reach to London ruin, defeat.' 
 
 Three fleets the sun went down on, theirs of fame 
 Th' Armada. After space old England's few ; 
 And after that our dancing cockle-shells, 
 The volunteers. They took some pride in us, 
 For we were nimble, and we brought them powder, 
 Shot, weapons. They were short of these. Ill found, 
 111 found. The bitter fruit of evil thrift. 
 
ROSAMUND. 
 
 But while obsequious, darting here and there, 
 We took their messages from ship to ship, 
 From ship to shore, the moving majesties 
 Made Calais Roads, cast anchor, all their less 
 In the middle ward ; their greater ships outside 
 Impregnable castles fearing not assault. 
 
 So did we read their thought, and read it wrong, 
 While after the running fight we rode at ease, 
 For many (as is the way of Englishmen) 
 Having made light of our stout deeds, and light 
 O' the effects proceeding, saw these spread 
 To view. The Spanish Admiral's mighty host v 
 Albeit not broken, harass'd. 
 
 Some did tow 
 
 Others that we had plagued r disabled* rent ; 
 Many full heavily damaged made their berths. 
 
 Then did the English anchor out of range. 
 
 To close was not their wisdom with such foe, 
 
 Rather to chase him, following in the rear. 
 
 Ay, truly they were giants in our eyes 
 
 And in our own. They took scant heed of us, 
 
 And we looked on, and knew not what to think, 
 
 Only that we were lost men, a lost Islej 
 
 In every Spaniard's mind, both great and small. 
 
 But no such thought had place in Howard's soul, 
 And when 't was dark, and all thejr sails were furled,, 
 
 c 
 
18 ROSAMUND. 
 
 When the wind veered a few points to the west, 
 And the tide turned ruffling along the roads, 
 He sent eight fireships forging down to them. 
 
 Terrible ! Terrible ! 
 
 Blood-red pillars of reek 
 They looked on that vast host and troubled it, 
 As on th' Egyptian host One looked of old. 
 
 Then all the heavens were rent with a great cry, 
 
 The red avengers went right on, right on, 
 
 For none could let them ; then was ruin, reek, flame ; 
 
 Against th' unwieldy huge leviathans 
 
 They drave, they fell upon them as wild beasts, 
 
 And all together they did plunge and grind, 
 
 Their reefed sails set a-blazing, these flew loose 
 
 And forth like banners of destruction sped. 
 
 It was to look on as the body of hell 
 
 Seething ; and some, their cables cut, ran foul 
 
 Of one the other, while the ruddy fire 
 
 Sped on aloft. One ship was stranded. One 
 
 Foundered, and went down burning ; all the sea % 
 
 Red as an angry sunset was made fell 
 
 With smoke and blazing spars that rode upright, 
 
 For as the fireships burst they scattered forth 
 
 Full dangerous wreckage. All the sky they scored 
 
 With flying sails and rocking masts, and yards 
 
 Licked of long flames. And flitting tinder sank 
 
ROSAMUND. 19 
 
 In eddies on the plagued mixed mob of ships 
 That cared no more for harbour, and were fain 
 At any hazard to be forth, and leave 
 Their berths in the blood-red haze. 
 
 It was at twelve 
 
 O' the clock when this fell out, for as the eight 
 Were towed, and left upon the friendly tide 
 To stalk like evil angels over the deep 
 And stare upon the Spaniards, we did hear 
 Their midnight bells. It was at morning dawn 
 After our mariners thus had harried them 
 I looked my last upon their fleet, and all, 
 That night had cut their cables, put to sea, 
 And scattering wide towards the Flemish coast 
 Did seem to make for Greveline. 
 
 As for us, 
 
 The captains told us off to wait on them, 
 Bearers of wounded enemies and friends, 
 Bearers of messages, bearers of store. 
 
 We saw not ought, but heard enough : we heard 
 (And God be thanked) of that long scattering chase 
 And driving of Sidonia from his hope, 
 Parma, who could not ought without his ships 
 And looked for them to break the Dutch blockade, 
 He meanwhile chafing lion-like in his lair. 
 We heard and he for all one summer day, 
 Penning and Drake and Raynor, Fenton, Cross, 
 
20 ROSAMUND. 
 
 And more, by Greveline, where they once again 
 
 Did get the wind o' the Spaniards, noise of guns. 
 
 For coming with the wind, wielding themselves 
 
 Which way they listed (while in close array 
 
 The Spaniards stood but on defence), our own 
 
 Went at them, charged them high and charged them sore, 
 
 And gave them broadside after broadside. Ay, 
 
 Till all the shot was spent both great and small. 
 
 It failed ; and in regard of that same want 
 
 They thought it not convenient to pursue 
 
 Their vessels farther. 
 
 They were huge withal, 
 And might not be encounter'd one to one, 
 But close conjoined they fought, and poured great store 
 Of ordnance at our. ships, though many of theirs, 
 Shot thorow and thorow, scarce might keep afloat. 
 
 Many were captured righting, many sank. 
 
 This news they brought returned perforce, and left 
 
 The Spaniards forging north. Themselves did watch 
 
 The river mouth, till Howard, his new store 
 
 Gathered, encounter coveting, once more 
 
 Made after them with Drake. 
 
 And lo ! the wind 
 
 Got up to help us. He yet flying north 
 (Their doughty Admiral) made all his wake 
 To smoke, and would not end to fight, but strewed 
 The ocean with his wreckage. And the wind 
 
ROSAMUND. 21 
 
 Drave him before it, and the storm was fell, 
 And he went up to th' uncouth northern sea. 
 
 There did our manners leave him. Then did joy 
 Run like a sunbeam over the land, and joy 
 Rule in the stout heart of a regnant Queen. 
 
 But now the counsel came, ' Every man home, 
 For after Scotland rounded, when he curves 
 Southward, and all the batter'd armament. 
 What hinders on our undefended coast 
 To land where'er he listeth ? Every man 
 Home/ 
 
 And we mounted and did open forth 
 Like a great fan, to east, to north, to west, 
 And rumour met us flying, filtering 
 Down through the border. News of wicked joy, 
 The wreckers rich in the Faroes, and the Isles 
 Orkney, and all the clansmen full of gear 
 Gathered from helpless mariners tempted in 
 To their undoing ; while a treacherous crew 
 Let the storm work upon their lives its will, 
 Spoiled them and gathered all their riches up. 
 Then did they meet like fate from Irish kernes, 
 Who dealt with them according to their wont. 
 
 In a great storm of wind that tore green leaves 
 And dashed them wet upon me, came I home. 
 
22 ROSAMUND. 
 
 Then greeted me my dame, and Rosamund, 
 Our one dear child, the heir of these my fields 
 That I should sigh to think it ! There, no more. 
 
 Being right weary I betook me straight 
 
 To longed-for sleep, and I did dream and dream 
 
 Through all that dolourous storm ; though noise of 
 
 guns 
 
 Daunted the country in the moonless night, 
 Yet sank I deep and deeper in the dream 
 And took my fill of rest. 
 
 A voice, a touch, 
 
 4 Wake.' Lo ! my wife beside me, her wet hair 
 She wrung with her wet hands, and cried, c A ship ! 
 I have been down the beach. O pitiful ! 
 A Spanish ship ashore between the rocks, 
 And none to guide our people. Wake.' 
 
 Then I 
 
 Raised on mine elbow looked ; it was high day ; 
 In the windy pother seas came in like smoke 
 That blew among the trees as fine small rain, 
 And then the broken water sun-besprent 
 Glitter'd, fell back and showed her high and fast 
 A caravel, a pinnace that methought 
 To some great ship had longed ; her hap alone 
 Of all that multitude it was to drive 
 Between this land of England her right foe, 
 And that most cruel, where (for all their faith 
 
ROSAMUND. 23 
 
 Was one) no drop of water mote they drink 
 For love of God nor love of gold. 
 
 I rose 
 
 And hasted ; I was soon among the folk, 
 But late for work. The crew, spent, faint, and bruised, 
 Saved for the most part of our men, lay prone 
 In grass, and women served them bread and mead, 
 Other the sea laid decently along 
 Ready for burial. And a litter stood 
 In shade. Upon it lying a goodly man, 
 The govourner or the captain as it seemed, 
 Dead in his stiff gold-broider'd bravery, 
 And epaulet and sword. They must have loved 
 That man, for many had died to bring him in, 
 Their boats stove in were stranded here and there. 
 In one but how I know not brought they him, 
 And he was laid upon a folded flag, 
 Many times doubled for his greater ease, 
 That was our thought and we made signs to them 
 He should have sepulture. But when they knew 
 They must needs leave him, for some marched them off 
 For more safe custody, they made great moan. 
 
 After, with two my neighbours drawing nigh, 
 One of them touched the Spaniard's hand and said, 
 'Dead is he but not cold ; ' the other then, 
 1 Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead.' 
 Again the first, ' An' if he breatheth yet 
 
4 ROSAMUND. 
 
 He lies at his last gasp.' And this went off, 
 And left us two, that by the litter stayed, 
 Looking on one another, and we looked 
 (For neither willed to speak), and yet looked on. 
 Then would he have me know the meet was fixed 
 For nine o' the clock, and to be brief with you 
 He left me. And I had the Spaniard home. 
 What other could be done ? I had him home. 
 Men on his litter bare him, set him down 
 In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall. 
 
 And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon. 
 Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now 
 Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds 
 Of that great ensign covered store of gold, 
 Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades 
 Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare, 
 And other gear. I locked it for my part 
 Into an armoury, and that fair flag 
 (While we did talk full low till he should end) 
 Spread over him. Methought, the man shall die 
 Under his country's colours ; he was brave, 
 His deadly wound to that doth testify. 
 
 And when 't was seemly order'd, Rosamund, 
 My daughter, who had looked not yet on death, 
 Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread 
 Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers, 
 
ROSAMUND. 25 
 
 White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast. 
 Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard, 
 But while with daunted heart she moved anigh, 
 His eyelids quiver'd, quiver'd then the lip ; 
 And he, reviving, with a sob looked up 
 And set on her the midnight of his eyes. 
 
 Then she, in act to place the burial gift 
 Bending above him, and her flaxen hair 
 FalPn to her hand, drew back and stood upright 
 Comely and tall, her innocent fair face 
 Cover'd with blushes more of joy than shame. 
 ' Father/ she cried, ' O father, I am glad. 
 Look you ! the enemy liveth.' ' 'Tis enough, 
 My maiden,' quoth her mother, ' thou may'st forth, 
 But say an Ave first for him with me.' 
 
 Then they with hands upright at foot o' his bed 
 Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them, 
 Till as I think for wonder at them, more 
 Than for his proper strength, he could not die. 
 
 So in obedient wise my daughter risen, 
 And going, let a smile of comforting cheer 
 Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her 
 For many a night and day that he beheld, 
 
 And then withal my dame, a leech of skill, 
 Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound, 
 
26 ROSAMUND. 
 
 Her women aiding at their best. And he 
 
 'Twixt life and death awaken'd in the night 
 
 Full oft in his own tongue would make his moan. 
 
 And when he whisper'd any word I knew, 
 
 If I was present, for to pleasure him, 
 
 Then made I repetition of the same. 
 
 1 Cordova,' quoth he faintly, c Cordova,' 
 
 'T was the first word he mutter'd. ' Ay, we know,' 
 
 Quoth I, c the stoutness of that fight ye made 
 
 Against the Moors and their Mahometry, 
 
 And dispossess'd the men of fame, the fierce 
 
 Khalifs of Cordova thy home belike, 
 
 Thy city. A fair city Cordova.' 
 
 Then after many days, while his wound healed, 
 He with abundant seemly sign set forth 
 His thanks, but as for language had we none, 
 And oft he strove and failed to let us know 
 Some wish he had, but could not, so a week, 
 Two weeks went by. Then Rosamund my girl, 
 Hearing her mother plain on this, she saith, 
 1 So please you, madam, show the enemy 
 A Psalter in our English tongue, and fetch 
 And give him that same book my father found 
 Wrapped in the ensign. Are they not the same 
 Those holy words ? The Spaniard being devout, 
 He needs must know them.' 
 
 * Peace, thou pretty fool ! 
 
ROSAMUND. 27 
 
 Is this a time to teach an alien tongue ? ' 
 
 Her mother made for answer. l He is sick, 
 
 The Spaniard.' ' Cry you mercy,' quoth my girl, 
 
 ' But I did think 't were easy to let show 
 
 How both the Psalters are of meaning like ; 
 
 If he know Latin, and 't is like he doth, 
 
 So might he choose a verse to tell his thought.' 
 
 Then said I (ay, I did !) 'The girl shall try,' 
 And straight I took her to the Spaniard's side, 
 And he, admiring at her, all his face 
 Changed to a joy that almost showed as fear, 
 So innocent holy she did look, so grave 
 Her pitiful eyes. 
 
 She sat beside his bed, 
 He covered with the ensign yet ; and took 
 And showed the Psalters both, and she did speak 
 Her English words, but gazing was enough 
 For him at her sweet dimple, her blue eyes 
 That shone, her English blushes. Rosamund, 
 My beautiful dear child. He did but gaze, 
 And not perceive her meaning till she touched 
 His hand, and in her Psalter showed the word. 
 
 Then was all light to him ; he laughed for joy, 
 And took the Latin Missal. O full soon, 
 Alas, how soon, one read the other's thought ! 
 Before she left him, she had learned his name 
 
28 ROSAMUND. 
 
 Alonzo, told him hers, and found the care 
 Made night and day uneasy Cordova, 
 There dwelt his father, there his kin, nor knew 
 Whether he lived or died, whether in thrall 
 To the Islanders for lack of ransom pined 
 Or rued the galling yoke of slavery. 
 
 So did he cast him on our kindness. I 
 And care not who may know it I was kind, 
 And for that our stout Queen did think foul scorn 
 To kill the Spanish prisoners, and to guard 
 So many could not, liefer being to rid 
 Our country of them than to spite their own, 
 I made him as I might that matter learn, 
 Eking scant Latin with my daughter's wit, 
 And told him men let forth and driven forth 
 Did crowd our harbours for the ports of Spain, 
 By one of whom, he, with good aid of mine, 
 Should let his tidings go, and I plucked forth 
 His ducats that a meet reward might be. 
 Then he, the water standing in his eyes, 
 Made old King David's words due thanks convey. 
 
 Then Rosamund, this all made plain, arose 
 And curtsey'd to the Spaniard. Ah, methinks 
 I yet behold her, gracious, innocent, 
 And flaxen-haired, and blushing maidenly, 
 When turning she retired, and his black eyes, 
 
ROSAMUND. 29 
 
 That hunger'd after her, did follow on ; 
 
 And I bethought me, Thou shalt see no more, 
 
 Thou goodly enemy, my one ewe lamb.' 
 
 O, I would make short work of this. The wound 
 Healed, and the Spaniard rose, then could he stand, 
 And then about his chamber walk at ease. 
 
 Now we had counsell'd how to have him home, 
 And that same trading vessel beating up 
 The Irish Channel at my will, that same 
 I charter'd for to serve me in the war, 
 Next was I minded should mine enemy 
 Deliver to his father, and his land. 
 Daily we looked for her, till in our cove, 
 Upon that morn when first the Spaniard walked, 
 Behold her rocking ; and I hasted down 
 And left him waiting in the house. 
 
 Woe 's me ! 
 
 All being ready speed I home, and lo 
 My Rosamund, that by the Spaniard sat 
 Upon a cushion'd settle, book in hand. 
 I needs must think how in the deep alcove 
 Thick chequer'd shadows of the window-glass 
 Did fall across her kirtle and her locks, 
 For I did see her thus no more. 
 
 She held 
 Her Psalter, and he his, and slowly read 
 
30 ROSAMUND. 
 
 Till he would stop her at the needed word. 
 
 1 well is thee,' she read, my Rosamund, 
 
 ' O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be, 
 
 Thy wife ' and there he stopped her, and he took 
 
 And kissed her hand, and show'd in 's own a ring, 
 
 Taking no heed of me, no heed at all. 
 
 Then I burst forth, the choler red i' my face 
 When I did see her blush, and put it on. 
 Give me,' quoth I, and Rosamund, afraid, 
 Gave me the ring. I set my heel on it, 
 Crushed it, and sent the rubies scattering forth, 
 And did in righteous anger storm at him. 
 ' What ! what ! ' quoth I, ' before her father's eyes, 
 Thou universal villain, thou ingrate, 
 Thou enemy whom I shelter'd, fed, restored, 
 Most basest of mankind ! ' And Rosamund, 
 Arisen, her forehead pressed against mine arm, 
 And * Father,' cries she, f father. 7 
 
 And I stormed 
 
 At him, while in his Spanish he replied 
 As one would speak me fair. ' Thou Spanish hound ! ' 
 1 Father,' she pleaded. ' Alien vile,' quoth I, 
 1 Plucked from the death, wilt thou repay me thus ? 
 It is but three times thou hast set thine eyes 
 On this my daughter.' ' Father,' moans my girl ; 
 And I, not willing to be so withstood, 
 Spoke roughly to her. Then the Spaniard's eyes 
 Blazed -then he stormed at me in his own tongue, 
 
ROSAMUND. 31 
 
 And all his Spanish arrogance and pride 
 Broke witless on my wrathful English. Then 
 He let me know, for I perceived it well, 
 He reckon'd him mine equal, thought foul scorn 
 Of my displeasure, and was wroth with me 
 As I with him. ' Father,' sighed Rosamund. 
 1 Go, get thee to thy mother, girl/ quoth I. 
 And slowly, slowly, she betook herself 
 Down the long hall ; in lowly wise she went 
 And made her moan. 
 
 But when my girl was gone 
 I stood at fault, th' occasion master'd me ; 
 Belike it master'd him, for both fell mute. 
 I calmed me, and he calmed him as he might, 
 For I bethought me I was yet an host, 
 And he bethought him on the worthiness 
 Of my first deeds. 
 
 So made I sign to him 
 The tide was up, and soon I had him forth, 
 Delivered him his goods, commended him 
 To the captain o' the vessel, then plucked off 
 My hat, in seemly fashion taking leave, 
 And he was not outdone, but every way 
 Gave me respect, and on the deck we two 
 Parted, as I did hope, to meet no more. 
 
 Alas ! my Rosamund, my Rosamund ! 
 She did not weep, no. Plain upon me, no. 
 Her eyes mote well have lost the trick of tears : 
 
32 ROSAMUND. 
 
 As new-washed flowers shake off the down-dropt rain, 
 
 And make denial of it, yet more blue 
 
 And fair of favour afterward, so they. 
 
 The wild woodrose was not more fresh of blee 
 
 Than her soft dimpled cheek : but I beheld, 
 
 Come home, a token hung about her neck, 
 
 Sparkling upon her bosom for his sake 
 
 Her love, the Spaniard, she denied it not, 
 
 All unaware, good sooth, such love was bale. 
 
 And all that day went like another day, 
 Ay, all the next ; then was I glad at heart ; 
 Methought, ' I am glad thou wilt not waste thy youth 
 Upon an alien man, mine enemy, 
 Thy nation's enemy. In truth, in truth, 
 This likes me very well. My most dear child, 
 Forget yon grave dark mariner. The Lord 
 Everlasting/ I besought, 'bring it to pass.' 
 
 Stealeth a darker day within my hall, 
 A winter day of wind and driving foam. 
 They tell me that my girl is sick and yet 
 Not very sick. I may not hour by hour, 
 More than one watching of a moon that wanes, 
 Make chronicle of change. A parlous change 
 When he looks back to that same moon at full. 
 
 Ah ! ah ! methought, 't will pass. It did not pass, 
 Though never she made moan. I saw the rings 
 
ROSAMUND. 33 
 
 Drop from her small white wasted hand. And I, 
 
 Her father, tamed of grief, I would have given 
 
 My land, my name to have her as of old. 
 
 Ay, Rosamund I speak of with the small 
 
 White face. Ay, Rosamund. O near as white, 
 
 And mournfuller by much, her mother dear 
 
 Drooped by her couch : and while of hope and fear 
 
 Lifted or left, as by a changeful tide, 
 
 We thought ' The girl is better,' or we thought 
 
 ' The girl will die,' that jewel from her neck 
 
 She drew, and prayed me send it to her love ; 
 
 A token she was true e'en to the end. 
 
 What matter'd now ? But whom to send, and how 
 
 To reach the man ? I found an old poor priest, 
 
 Some peril 't was for him and me, she writ 
 
 My pretty Rosamund her heart's farewell, 
 
 She kissed the letter, and that old poor priest, 
 
 Who had eaten of my bread, and shelter'd him 
 
 Under my roof in troublous times, he took, 
 
 And to content her on this errand went, 
 
 While she as done with earth did wait the end. 
 
 Mankind bemoan them on the bitterness 
 
 Of death. Nay, rather let them chide the grief 
 
 Of living, chide the waste of mother-love 
 
 For babes that joy to get away to God ; 
 
 The waste of work and moil and thought and thrift 
 
 And father-love for sons that heed it not, 
 
 D 
 
34 ROSAMUND. 
 
 And daughters lost and gone. Ay, let them chide 
 These. Yet I chide not. That which I have done 
 Was rightly done ; and what thereon befell 
 Could make no right a wrong, e'en were 't to do 
 Again. 
 
 I will be brief. The days drag on, 
 My soul forebodes her death, my lonely age. 
 Once I despondent in the moaning wood 
 Look out, and lo a caravel at sea, 
 A man that climbs the rock, and presently 
 The Spaniard ! 
 
 I did greet him, proud no more. 
 He had braved durance, as I knew, ay death, 
 To land on th 7 Island soil. In broken words . 
 Of English he did ask me how she fared. 
 Quoth I, ' She is dying, Spaniard ; Rosamund 
 My girl will die ; ' but he is fain, saith he, 
 To talk with her, and all his mind to speak ; 
 I answer, * Ay, my whilome enemy, 
 But she is dying.' l Nay, now nay/ quoth he, 
 ' So be she liveth,' and he moved me yet 
 For answer ; then quoth I, c Come life, come death, 
 What thou wilt, say.' 
 
 Soon made we Rosamund 
 Aware, she lying on the settle, wan 
 As a lily in the shade, and while she not 
 Believed for marvelling, comes he roundly in, 
 The tall grave Spaniard, and with but one smile, 
 
ROSAMUND. 35 
 
 One look of ruth upon her small pale face, 
 All slowly as with unaccustom'd mouth, 
 Betakes him to that English he hath conned, 
 Setting the words out plain : 
 
 < Child ! Rosamund ! 
 
 Love ! An so please thee, I would be thy man. 
 By all the saints will I be good to thee. 
 Come.' 
 
 Come ! what think you, would she come? Ay, ay. 
 They love us, but our love is not their life. 
 For the dark mariner's love lived Rosamund. 
 Soon for his kiss she bloomed, smiled for his smile. 
 (The Spaniard reaped e'en as th' Evangel saith, 
 And bore in 's bosom forth my golden sheaf.) 
 She loved her father and her mother well, 
 But loved the Spaniard better. It was sad 
 To part, but she did part ; and it was far 
 To go,' but she did go. The priest was brought, 
 The ring was bless'd that bound my Rosamund, 
 She sailed, and I shall never see her more. 
 
 One soweth and another reapeth. Ay, 
 Too true ! too true ! 
 
 D 2 
 
36 
 
 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 
 
 ||Y, Oliver ! I was but seven, and he was 
 
 eleven ; 
 He looked at me pouting and rosy. I 
 
 blushed where I stood. 
 They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only 
 
 seven ! 
 A small guest at the farm) ; but he said. ' Oh, a girl was 
 
 no good ! ' 
 So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the 
 
 wood. 
 
 It was sad, it was sorrowful ! Only a girl only seven ! 
 At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it 
 
 out. 
 The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue birds 
 
 flash'd about, 
 
 And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven ? 
 I thought so. Yes, everyone else was eleven eleven ! 
 
 So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, 
 And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was 
 litter'd ; 
 
ECHO AND THE FERRY, 37 
 
 And under and over the branches those little birds 
 
 twitter'd, 
 While hanging head downwards they scolded because I 
 
 was seven. 
 
 A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven. 
 But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so 
 
 sweet, 
 And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and 
 
 old. 
 Then I knew ! for I peeped, and I felt it was right they 
 
 should scold ! 
 Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into 
 
 laughter ; 
 And then some one else oh, how softly ! came after, 
 
 came after 
 With laughter with laughter came after. 
 
 And no one was near us to utter that sweet mocking 
 
 call, 
 
 That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. 
 But this was the country perhaps it was close under 
 
 heaven ; 
 Oh, nothing so likely ; the voice might have come from 
 
 it even. 
 I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of 
 
 this 
 Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings not at 
 
 all 
 
38 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 
 
 Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy for- 
 
 giver : 
 She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile 
 
 small, 
 Then flashed down her hole like a dart like a dart from 
 
 the quiver. 
 And I waded atween the long grasses and felt it was 
 
 bliss. 
 
 So this was the country ; clear dazzle of azure and 
 
 shiver 
 
 And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall 
 White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to 
 
 the wall 
 A little low wall and looked over, and there was the 
 
 river, 
 The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet 
 
 river 
 Clear shining and slow, she had far far to go from her 
 
 snow ; 
 But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard 
 
 her long flow, 
 And she murmur'd, meth ought, with a speech very soft 
 
 very low. 
 ' The ways will be long, but the days will be long/ quoth 
 
 the river, 
 * To me a long liver, long, long ! ' quoth the river the 
 
 river. 
 
ECHO AND THE FERRY. 39 
 
 I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the 
 
 sky, 
 The voice that had mocked coming after and over and 
 
 under. 
 
 But at last in a day or two namely Eleven and I 
 Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. 
 He said that was Echo. ' Was Echo a wise kind of bee 
 That had learned how to laugh : could it laugh in one's 
 
 ear and then fly 
 And laugh again yonder ? ' ' No ; Echo ' he whispered 
 
 it low 
 " Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one 
 
 could see 
 And no one could find ; and he did not believe it, not 
 
 he, 
 But he could not get near for the river that held us 
 
 asunder. 
 
 Yet I that had money a shilling, a whole silver shilling 
 We might cross if I thought I would spend it.' ' Oh yes, 
 
 I was willing ' 
 And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the 
 
 ferry, 
 And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice 
 
 clear and merry 
 When they called for the ferry ; but oh ! she was very 
 
 was very 
 Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone \ and when Oliver 
 
 cried, 
 
40 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 
 
 c Hie over ! hie over ! you man of the ferry the ferry ! ' 
 By the still water's side she was heard far and wide she 
 
 replied 
 And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, ' You 
 
 man of the ferry, 
 You man of you man of the ferry ! ' 
 
 1 Hie over ! ' he shouted. The ferryman came at his 
 
 calling, 
 
 Across the clear reed-border'd river he ferried us fast ; 
 Such a chase ! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on ; 
 
 it surpass'd 
 All measure her doubling so close, then so far away 
 
 falling, 
 Then gone, and no more. Oh ! to see her but once 
 
 unaware, 
 And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet 
 
 sure she was there !), 
 Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical countenance 
 
 fair. 
 
 We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in 
 
 her stead ; 
 In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked 
 
 overhead ; 
 By the brook, and we found the reed- sparrow deep-nested, 
 
 in brown 
 Not Echo, fair Echo ! for Echo, sweet Echo ! was flown. 
 
ECHO AND THE FERRY. 41 
 
 So we came to the place where the dead people wait till 
 
 God call. 
 The church was among them, grey moss over roof, over 
 
 wall. 
 Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green grassy 
 
 mound 
 And looked in at a window, for Echo, perhaps, in her 
 
 round 
 Might have come in to hide there. But no ; every oak- 
 
 carven seat 
 Was empty. We saw the great Bible old, old, very 
 
 old, 
 And the parson's great Prayer-book beside it ; we heard 
 
 the slow beat 
 Of the pendulum swing in the tower ; we saw the clear 
 
 gold 
 Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle and then waver and 
 
 play 
 On the low chancel step and the railing, and Oliver 
 
 said, 
 
 * Look, Katie ! look, Katie ! when Lettice came here to 
 
 be wed 
 She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white 
 
 was her gown ; 
 And she stepped upon flowers they strew'd for her.' Then 
 
 quoth small Seven : 
 
 * Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon 
 
 ever ? ' 
 
42 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 
 
 All doubtful : ' It takes a long time to grow up,' quoth 
 
 Eleven ; 
 4 You 're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it 
 
 can never 
 Last on till you 're tall.' And in whispers because it 
 
 was old 
 And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, 
 
 but not told, 
 Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, 
 
 of old folk, 
 Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we 
 
 spoke. 
 Then we went from it softly and ran hand in hand to the 
 
 strand, 
 While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter 
 
 the land. 
 
 And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the ferry 
 < O Katie ! ' < O Katie ! ' < Come on, then ! ' < Come 
 
 on, then ! ' * For, see, 
 The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree ' ' by the 
 
 tree.' 
 ' By the tree.' Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice 
 
 sweet and merry : 
 * Hie over ! ' ' Hie over ! ' ' You man of the ferry 'f- 
 
 1 the ferry.' 
 
 1 You man of the ferry 
 
 You man of you man of the ferry.' 
 
ECHO AND THE FERRY. 43 
 
 Ay, here it was here that we woke her, the Echo of 
 
 old; 
 
 All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. 
 Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my 
 
 white 
 To that little low church ? and will Oliver meet me 
 
 anon ? 
 Will it all seem an echo from childhood pass'd over 
 
 pass'd on ? 
 Will the grave parson bless us ? Hark, hark ! in the dim 
 
 failing light 
 I hear her ! As then the child's voice clear and high, 
 
 sweet and merry 
 Now she mocks the man's tone with * Hie over ! Hie 
 
 over the ferry ! ' 
 
 ' And Katie.' ' And Katie.' ' Art out with the glow- 
 worms to-night, 
 My Katie ? ' ' My Katie ! ' For gladness I break into 
 
 laughter 
 And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away 
 
 years ; 
 Again, some one else oh, how softly ! with laughter 
 
 comes after, 
 
 Comes after with laughter comes after. 
 
PRELUDES 
 
 TO 
 
 A PENNY READING 
 
47 
 
 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 A Schoolroom. 
 SCHOOLMASTER (not certificated), VICAR, and CHILD. 
 
 CAR. Why did you send for me ? I hope 
 
 all 's right ? 
 Schoolmaster. Well, sir, we thought this end 
 
 o' the room was dark. 
 V. Indeed ! So 't is. There 's my new study lamp 
 S. 'T would stand, sir, well beside yon laurel wreath. 
 Shall I go fetch it ? 
 
 V. Do, we must not fail. 
 
 Bring candles also. 
 
 [Exit Schoolmaster. Vicar arranges chairs. 
 
 Now, small six years old, 
 And why may you be here ? 
 
 Child. I 'm helping father ; 
 
 But, father, why d' you take such pains ? 
 
 V. Sweet soul, 
 
 That 's what I 'm for ! 
 
 C. What, and for nothing else ? 
 
 V. Yes ! I 'm to bring thee up to be a man. 
 
48 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 C. And what am I for ? 
 
 V. There, I 'm busy now. 
 
 C. Am I to bring you up to be a child ? 
 
 V. Perhaps ! Indeed, I have heard it said thou art. 
 
 C. Then when may I begin ? 
 
 V. I 'm busy, I say. 
 
 Begin to-morrow an thou canst, my son, 
 And mind to do it well. \Exit Vicar and Child. 
 
 Enter a group of women, and some children. 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe. Fine lot o' lights ! 
 
 Mrs. Jillifer. Should be ! Would folk put on their 
 
 Sunday best 
 
 I' the week unless they looked to have it seen ? 
 What, you here, neighbour ! 
 
 Mrs. Smith. Ay, you may say that. 
 
 Old Madam called; said she, c My son would feel 
 So sorry if you did not come,' and slipped 
 The penny in my hand, she did ; said I, 
 Ma'am, that 's not it. In short, some say your last 
 Was worth the penny and more. I know a man, 
 A sober man, who said, and stuck to it, 
 Worth a good twopence. But I 'm strange, I 'm shy.' 
 4 We hope you'll come for once,' said she. In short, 
 I said I would to oblige ? em. 
 
 Mrs. Green. Ah, 't was well. 
 
 Mrs. S. But I feel strange, and music gets i' my 
 throat, 
 
PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING, 49 
 
 It always did. And singers be so smart, 
 
 Ladies and folk from other parishes, 
 
 Candles and cheering, greens and flowers and all, 
 
 I was not used to such in my young day ; 
 
 We kept ourselves at home. 
 
 Mrs. J. Never say 'used,' 
 
 The most of us have many a thing to do 
 We were not used to. If you come to that, 
 Why none of us are used to growing old, 
 It takes us by surprise, as one may say, 
 That work, when we begin 't, and yet 't is work 
 That all of us must do. 
 
 Mrs. G. Nay, nay, not all. 
 
 Mrs. J. I ask your pardon, neighbour ; you be right, 
 Not all. 
 
 Mrs. G. And my sweet maid scarce three months 
 dead. 
 
 Mrs. J. I ask your pardon truly. 
 
 Mrs. G. No, my dear, 
 
 Thou 'It never see old days. I cannot stint 
 To fret, the maiden was but twelve years old, 
 So toward, such a scholar. 
 
 Mrs. S. Ay, when God, 
 
 That knows, comes down to choose, He '11 take the best. 
 
 Mrs. T. But I 'm right glad you came, it pleases them 
 My son, that loves his book, ' Mother,' said he, 
 4 Go to the Reading when you have a chance, 
 For there you get a change, and you see life.' 
 
 E 
 
50 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 But Reading or no Reading, I am slow 
 
 To learn. When parson after comes his rounds, 
 
 * Did it, 7 to ask with a persuading smile, 
 
 * Open your mind ? ' the woman doth not live 
 Feels more a fool. 
 
 Mrs.J. I always tell him ' Yes/ 
 
 For he means well. Ay, and I like the songs. 
 Have you heard say what they shall read to-night ? 
 
 Mrs. S. Neighbour, I hear 't is something of the East. 
 But what, I ask you, is the East to us, 
 And where d' ye think it lies ? 
 
 Mrs. J. The children know, 
 
 At least they say they do ; there *s nothing deep 
 Nor nothing strange but they get hold on it. 
 
 Enter SCHOOLMASTER and a dozen children. 
 
 S. Now ladies, ladies, you must please to sit 
 More close ; the room fills fast, and all these lads 
 And maidens either have to sing before 
 The Reading, or else after. By your leave 
 I '11 have them in the front, I want them here. 
 
 \The women make room. 
 
 Enter ploughmen, villagers, servants, and children. 
 
 And mark me, boys, if I hear cracking o' nuts, 
 Or see you flicking acorns and what not 
 While folks from other parishes observe, 
 
PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 51 
 
 You '11 hear on it when you don 't look to. Tom 
 And Jemmy and Roger, sing as loud 's ye can, 
 Sing as the maidens do, are they afraid ? 
 .And now I 'm stationed handy facing you, 
 Friends all, I '11 drop a word by your good leave. 
 
 Young ploughman. Do, master, do, we like your words 
 
 a vast. 
 
 Though there be nought to back 'em up, ye see, 
 As when we were smaller. 
 
 S. Mark me, then, my lads. 
 
 When Lady Laura sang, ' I don't think much,' 
 Says her fine coachman, { of your manners here. 
 We drove eleven miles in the dark, it rained, 
 And ruts in your cross roads are deep. We 're here, 
 My lady sings, they sit all open-mouthed, 
 And when she's done they never give one cheer.' 
 
 Old man. Be folks to clap if they don't like the song? 
 
 S. Certain, for manners. 
 
 Enter VICAR, wife, various friends with violins and a 
 flute. They come to a piano, and one begins softly to 
 tune his violin, while the Vicar speaks. 
 
 V. Friends, since there is a place where you must hear 
 When I stand up to speak, I would not now 
 If there were any other found to bid 
 You welcome. Welcome, then ; these with me ask 
 No better than to please, and in good sooth 
 I ever find you willing to be pleased. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 When I demand not more, but when we fain 
 Would lead you to some knowledge fresh, and ask 
 Your careful heed, I hear that some of you 
 Have said, ' What good to know, what good to us ? 
 He puts us all to school, and our school days 
 Should be at end. Nay, if they needs must teach, 
 Then let them teach us what shall mend our lot ; 
 The laws are strict on us, the world is hard.' 
 You friends and neighbours, may I dare to speak ? 
 I know the laws are strict, and the world hard, 
 For ever will the world help that man up 
 That is already coming up, and still 
 And ever help him down that 's going down. 
 Yet say, ' I will take the words out of thy mouth, 
 O world, being yet more strict with mine own life. 
 Thou law, to gaze shall not be worth thy while 
 On whom beyond thy power doth rule himself.' 
 Yet seek to know, for whoso seek to know 
 They seek to rise, and best they mend their lot. 
 Methinks, if Adam and Eve in their garden days 
 Had scorned the serpent, and obediently 
 Continued God's good children, He Himself 
 Had led them to the Tree of Knowledge soon 
 And bid them eat the fruit thereof, and yet 
 Not find it apples of death. 
 
 Vicar's wife (aside). Now, dearest John, 
 
 We 're ready. Lucky too ! you always go 
 Above the people's heads. 
 
PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 53 
 
 young farmer stands forward, Vicar presenting him. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Sparkle of snow and of frost, 
 
 Blythe air and the joy of cold, 
 Their grace and good they have lost, 
 
 As print o j her foot by the fold. 
 Let me back to yon desert sand, 
 
 Rose-lipped love from the fold, 
 Flower- fair girl from the fold, 
 
 Let me back to the sultry land. 
 The world is empty of cheer, 
 
 Forlorn, forlorn, and forlorn, 
 As the night-owl's sbb of fear, 
 As Memnon moaning at morn. 
 For love of thee, my dear, 
 I have lived a better man, 
 O my Mary Anne, 
 My Mary Anne. 
 
 ii 
 
 Away, away, and away, 
 
 To an old palm-land of tombs, 
 Washed clear of our yesterday 
 
 And where never a snowdrop blooms, 
 
54 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 Nor wild becks talk as they go 
 Of tender hope we had known, 
 
 Nor mosses of memory grow 
 All over the wayside stone. 
 
 in 
 
 Farewell, farewell, and farewell, 
 
 As voice of a lover's sigh 
 In the wind let yon willow wave 
 
 * Farewell, farewell, and farewell.' 
 The sparkling frost-stars brave 
 On thy shrouded bosom lie ; 
 Thou art gone apart to dwell, 
 
 But I fain would have said good-bye. 
 For love of thee in thy grave 
 I have lived a better man, 
 Oh my Mary Anne, 
 My Mary Anne. 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe (aside). O hearts ! why, what a song ! 
 To think on it, and he a married man ! 
 
 Mrs. yillifer (aside). Bless you, that makes for nothing, 
 
 nothing at all, 
 
 They take no heed upon the words. His wife, 
 Look you, as pleased as may be, smiles on him. 
 
 Mrs. T. (aside). Neighbours, there 3 s one thing beats 
 
 me. We Ve enough 
 O' trouble in the world ; I Ve cried my fill 
 
PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 55 
 
 Many and many a time by my own fire : 
 Now why, I '11 ask you, should it comfort me 
 And ease my heart when, pitiful and sweet, 
 One sings of other souls and how they mourned ? 
 A body would have thought that did not know 
 Songs must be merry, full of feast and mirth, 
 Or else would all folk flee away from them. 
 
 Mrs. S. (aside). 'T is strange, and I too love the sad 
 ones best. 
 
 Mrs. T. (aside). Ay, how they clap him ! 'T is as who 
 
 should say, 
 
 Sing ! we were pleased ; sing us another song ; 
 As if they did not know he loves to sing. 
 Well may he, not an organ pipe they blow 
 On Sunday in the church is half so sweet \ 
 But he 's a hard man. 
 
 Mrs. J. (aside). Mark me, neighbours all, 
 Hard though he be ay, and the mistress hard 
 If he do sing 't will be a sorrowful 
 Sad tale of sweethearts, that shall make you wish 
 Your own time would come over again, although 
 Were partings in 't and tears. Hist ! now he sings. 
 
 Young farmer sings again. 
 
 4 Come hither, come hither.' The broom was in blossom 
 
 all over yon rise ; 
 
 There went a wide murmur of brown bees about it 
 with songs from the wood. 
 
56 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 ' We shall never be younger ! O love, let us forth, for 
 
 the world 'neath our eyes, 
 
 Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and right fair 
 is her youth and right good.' 
 
 Then there fell the great yearning upon me, that never 
 
 yet went into words ; 
 While lovesome and moansome thereon spake and 
 
 falter'd the dove to the dove. 
 And I came at her calling, ' Inherit, inherit, and sing 
 
 with the birds ; ' 
 
 I went up to the wood with the child of my heart and 
 the wife of my love. 
 
 O pure ! O pathetic ! Wild hyacinths drank it, the 
 
 dream light, apace 
 Not a leaf moved at all 'neath the blue, they hung 
 
 waiting for messages kind ; 
 Tall cherry-trees dropped their white blossom that drifted 
 
 no whit from its place, 
 
 For the south very far out to sea had the lulling low 
 voice of the wind. 
 
 And the child's dancing foot gave us part in the ravish- 
 ment almost a pain, 
 
 An infinite tremor of life, a fond murmur that cried 
 out on time, 
 
PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING, 57 
 
 Ah short ! must all end in the doing and spend itself 
 
 sweetly in vain, 
 
 And the promise be only fulfilment to lean from the 
 height of its prime ? 
 
 ' We shall never be younger ; ' nay, mock me not, fancy, 
 
 none call from yon tree ; 
 They have thrown me the world they went over, went 
 
 up, and, alas ! for my part 
 I am left to grow old, and to grieve, and to change ; but 
 
 they change not with me ; 
 
 They will never be older, the child of my love, and the 
 wife of my heart. 
 
 Mrs. J. I told you so ! 
 
 Mrs. T. (aside). That did you, neighbour. Ay, 
 Partings, said you, and tears : I liked the song. 
 
 Mrs. G. Who be these coming to the front to sing ? 
 Mrs. J. (aside). Why, neighbour, these be sweethearts, 
 
 so \ is said, 
 
 And there was much ado to make her sing ; 
 She would, and would not ; and he wanted her, 
 And, mayhap, wanted to be seen with her. 
 T is Tomlin's pretty maid, his only one. 
 
 Mrs. G. (aside). I did not know the maid, so fair she 
 
 looks. 
 
 Mrs. J. (aside). He 's a right proper man she has at 
 last; 
 
58 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 Walks over many a mile (and counts them nought) 
 
 To court her after work hours, that he doth, 
 
 Not like her other why, he 5 d let his work 
 
 Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love, 
 
 While he would sit and look, and look and sigh. 
 
 Her father sent him to the right-about. 
 
 4 If love,' said he, ' won't make a man of you, 
 
 Why, nothing will ! 'T is mainly that love 's for. 
 
 The right sort makes,' said he, * a lad a man ; 
 
 The wrong sort makes,' said he, ' a man a fool.' 
 
 Vicar presents a young man and a girl. 
 
 DUET. 
 
 She. While he dreams, mine old grand-sire, 
 
 And yon red logs glow, 
 Honey, whisper by the fire, 
 Whisper, honey, low. 
 
 He. Honey, high 's yon weary hill, 
 
 Stiff 's yon weary loam ; 
 Lacks the work o' my goodwill, 
 Fain I 'd take thee home. 
 
 O how much longer, and longer, and longer, 
 An' how much longer shall the waiting last ? 
 
 Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, 
 Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past. 
 
PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 59 
 
 She. Honey, bide, the time 's awry, 
 
 Bide awhile, let be. 
 He. Take my wage then, lay it by, 
 
 Till 't come back with thee. 
 
 The red money, the white money, 
 
 Both to thee I bring 
 She. Bring ye ought beside, honey ? 
 He. Honey, ay, the ring. 
 
 Duet. But how much longer, and longer, and longer, 
 
 O how much longer shall the waiting last ? 
 Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, 
 Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past. 
 
 [Applause. 
 
 Mrs. S. (aside). O she 's a pretty maid, and sings so 
 
 small 
 
 And high, 't is like a flute. And she must blush 
 Till all her face is roses newly blown. 
 How folks do clap ! She knows not where to look. 
 There now she 's off ; he standing like a man 
 To face them. 
 
 Mrs. G. (aside). Makes his bow, and after her ; 
 But what 's the good of clapping when they 're gone ? 
 
 Mrs. T. (aside}. Why 't is a London fashion as I 'm told, 
 And means they 'd have 'em back to sing again. 
 
 Mrs. J. (aside). Neighbours, look where her father, 
 red as fire, 
 
60 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 Sits pleased and 'shamed, smoothing his Sunday hat ; 
 
 And Parson bustles out Clap on, clap on. 
 
 Coming? Not she ! There comes her sweetheart though. 
 
 Vicar presents the young man again. 
 SONG. 
 
 Rain clouds flew beyond the fell, 
 
 No more did thunders lower, 
 Patter, patter, on the beck 
 Dropt a clearing shower. 
 Eddying floats of creamy foam 
 
 Flecked the waters brown, 
 As we rode up to cross the ford, 
 Rode up from yonder town. 
 Waiting on the weather, 
 She and I together, 
 Waiting on the weather, 
 Till the flood went down. 
 
 ii 
 
 The sun came out, the wet leaf shone, 
 Dripped the wildwood vine. 
 
 Betide me well, betide me woe, 
 That hour 's for ever mine. 
 
 With thee Mary, with thee Mary, 
 Full oft I pace again, 
 
PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 61 
 
 Asleep, awake, up yonder glen, 
 And hold thy bridle rein. 
 Waiting on the weather, 
 Thou and I together, 
 Waiting on the weather, 
 Till the flood shall wane. 
 
 in 
 
 And who, though hope did come to nought, 
 
 Would memory give away ? 
 I lighted down, she leaned full low, 
 
 Nor chid that hour's delay. 
 With thee Mary, with thee Mary, 
 
 Methought my life to crown, 
 But we ride up, but we ride up, 
 No more from yonder town. 
 Waiting on the weather, 
 Thou and I together, 
 Waiting on the weather, 
 Till the flood go down. 
 
 Mrs. J. (aside). Well, very well ; but what of fiddler 
 
 Sam? 
 
 I ask you, neighbours, if 't be not his turn. 
 An honest man, and ever pays his score ; 
 Born in the parish, old, blind as a bat, 
 And strangers sing before him j 't is a shame ! 
 
 Mrs. S. (aside). Ay, but his daughter 
 
62 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 Mrs. J. (aside). Why, the maid 's a maid 
 
 One would not set to guide the chant in church, 
 But when she sings to earn her father's bread, 
 The mildest mother's son may cry f Amen.' 
 
 Mrs. S. (aside). They say he plays not always true. 
 
 Mrs. J. (aside). What then ? 
 
 Mrs. T. (aside). Here comes my lady. She 's too fat 
 
 by half 
 
 For love songs. O ! the lace upon her gown, 
 I wish I had the getting of it up, 
 'T would be a pretty penny in my pouch. 
 
 Mrs. J. (aside). Be quiet now for manners. 
 
 Vicar presents a lady, who sings. 
 
 Dark flocks of wildfowl riding out the storm 
 
 Upon a pitching sea, 
 
 Beyond grey rollers vex'd that rear and form, 
 When piping winds urge on their destiny, 
 To fall back ruined in white continually. 
 And I at our trysting stone, 
 Whereto I came down alone, 
 Was fain o' the wind's wild moan. 
 O, welcome were wrack and were rain 
 And beat of the battling main, 
 For the sake of love's sweet pain, 
 
PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 63 
 
 For the smile in two brown eyes, 
 
 For the love in any wise, 
 
 To bide though the last day dies ; 
 
 For a hand on my wet hair, 
 
 For a kiss e'en yet I wear, 
 
 For bonny Jock was there. 
 
 Pale precipices while the sun lay low 
 
 Tinct faintly of the rose, 
 And mountain islands mirror'd in a flow, 
 Forgotten of all winds (their manifold 
 Peaks reared into the glory and the glow), 
 Floated in purple and gold. 
 And I, o'er the rocks alone, 
 Of a shore all silent grown, 
 Came down to our trysting stone. 
 And sighed when the solemn ray 
 Paled in the wake o' the day. 
 'Wellaway, wellaway 
 Comfort is not by the shore, 
 Going the gold that it wore, 
 Purple and rose are no more, 
 World and waters are wan, 
 And night will be here anon, 
 And bonny Jock's gone/ 
 \Moderate applause, and calls for fiddler Sam. 
 
64 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 Mrs. Jillifer (aside). Now, neighbours, call again and 
 
 be not shamed ; 
 
 Stand by the parish, and the parish folk, 
 Them that are poor. I told you ! here he comes, 
 Parson looks glum, but brings him and his girl. 
 
 The fiddler Sam plays ', and his daughter sings. 
 
 Touch the sweet string. Fly forth, my heart, 
 
 Upon the music like a bird ; 
 The silvery notes shall add their part, 
 
 And haply yet thou shalt be heard. 
 Touch the sweet string. 
 
 The youngest wren of nine 
 
 Dimpled, dark, and merry, 
 Brown her locks, and her two eyne 
 
 Browner than a berry. 
 
 When I was not in love 
 
 Maidens met I many ; 
 Under sun now walks but one, 
 
 Nor others mark I any. 
 
 Twin lambs, a mild-eyed ewe, 
 That would her follow bleating, 
 
 A heifer white as snow 
 
 1 11 give to my sweet sweeting. 
 
PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 65 
 
 Touch the sweet string! If yet too young, 
 
 O love of loves, for this my song, 
 I '11 pray thee count it all unsung, 
 And wait thy leisure, wait it long. 
 Touch the sweet string. 
 
 [Much applause. 
 
 Vicar. You hear them, Sam. You needs must play 
 
 again, 
 Your neighbours ask it. 
 
 Fiddler. Thank ye, neighbours all, 
 I have my feelings though I be but poor ; 
 I Ve tanged the fiddle here this forty year, 
 And I should know the trick on 't. 
 
 The fiddler plays , and his daughter sings. 
 
 For Exmoor 
 
 For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart doth 
 
 cry. 
 
 She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall hie. 
 Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow sky. 
 (Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters, 
 
 buy.) 
 
 For Exmoor 
 
 O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh, 
 * Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and yearling 
 shy, 
 
 F 
 
 
66 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 Mid the shrouding vapours walk now like ghosts on high.' 
 (Buy my cherries ', llackheart cherries, lads and lasses, buy.} 
 
 For Exmoor 
 
 Dear my dear, why did ye so ? Evil days have I, 
 Mark no more the antler' d stag, hear the curlew cry. 
 Milking at my father's gate while he leans anigh. 
 (Buy my cherries, whiteheart, blackheart, golden girls, O 
 buy.} 
 
 Mrs. T. (aside). I Ve known him play that Exmoor 
 
 song afore. 
 
 Ah me ! and I 'm from Exmoor. I could wish 
 To hear 't no more. 
 
 Mrs. S. (aside). Neighbours, 't is mighty hot. 
 Ay, now they throw the window up, that 's well, 
 A body could not breathe. 
 
 \Thefiddler and his daughter go away. 
 Mrs. Jillifer (aside). .They '11 hear no parson's preach- 
 ing, no not they ! 
 But innocenter songs, I do allow, 
 They could not well have sung than these to-night. 
 That man knows just so well as if he saw 
 They were not welcome. 
 
 The Vicar stands up, on the point of beginning to read, when 
 the tuning and twang of the fiddle is heard close out- 
 side the open window, and the daughter sings in a clear 
 
PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 67 
 
 cheerful voice. A little tittering is heard in the room, 
 and the Vicar pauses discomfited. 
 
 i 
 
 O my heart ! what a coil is here ! 
 Laurie, why will ye count me dear ! 
 Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail, 
 With a wiser lass ye '11 sure prevail, 
 For ye sing like a woodland nightingale. 
 And there 's no sense in it under the sun ; 
 For of three that woo I can take but one, 
 So what 's to be done what 's to be done ? 
 
 And 
 There 's no sense in it under the sun. 
 
 ii 
 
 Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign parts 
 Come home you '11 choose among kinder hearts. 
 Forget, forget, you 're too good to hold 
 A fancy 't were best should faint, grow cold, 
 And fade like an August marigold ; 
 For of three that woo I can take but one, 
 And what 's to be done what 's to be done ? 
 There 's no sense in it under the sun. 
 
 And 
 Of three that woo I can take but one. 
 
 in 
 
 Geordie, Geordie, I count you true, 
 Though language sweet I have none for you. 
 
68 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
 
 Nay, but take me home to the churning mill 
 
 When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill 
 
 Hang over the tufts o' the daffodil. 
 
 For what 's to be done -what 's to be done ? 
 
 Of three that woo I must e'en take one, 
 
 Or there 7 s no sense in it under the sun, 
 
 And 
 What 's to be done what 's to be done ? 
 
 V. (aside). What 's to be done, indeed ! 
 
 Wife (aside). Done ! nothing, love. 
 
 Either the thing has done itself, or they 
 Must undo. Did they call for fiddler Sam ? 
 Well, now they have him. [ More tuning heard outside. 
 
 Mrs. J. (aside). Live and let live 's my motto. 
 
 Mrs. T. So 't is mine. 
 
 Who 's Sam, that he must fly in Parson's face ? 
 He 's had his turn. He never gave these lights, 
 Cut his best flowers 
 
 Mrs. S. (aside). He takes no pride in us. 
 
 Speak up, good neighbour, get the window shut. 
 
 Mrs. J. (rising). I ask your pardon truly, that I do 
 La ! but the window there 's a parlous draught ; 
 The window punishes rheumatic folk 
 We 'd have it shut, sir. 
 
 Others. Truly, that we would. 
 
 V. Certainly, certainly, my friends, you shall. 
 
 [ The window is shut, and the Reading begins amid 
 marked attention* 
 
69 
 
 KISMET. 
 
 NTO the rock the road is cut full deep, 
 
 At its low ledges village children play, 
 From its high rifts fountains of leafage weep, 
 And silvery birches sway. 
 
 The boldest climbers have its face forsworn, 
 Sheer as a wall it doth all daring flout ; 
 
 But benchlike at its base, and weather-worn, 
 A narrow ledge leans out. 
 
 There do they set forth feasts in dishes rude 
 
 Wrought of the rush wild strawberries on the bed 
 
 Left into August, apples brown and crude, 
 Cress from the cold well-head. 
 
 Shy gamesome girls, small daring imps of boys, 
 But gentle, almost silent at their play 
 
 Their fledgling daws, for food, make far more noise 
 Ranged on the ledge than they. 
 
70 KISMET. 
 
 The children and the purple martins share 
 
 (Loveliest of birds) possession of the place ; 
 
 They veer and dart cream-breasted round the fair 
 Faces with wild sweet grace. 
 
 Fresh haply from Palmyra desolate, 
 
 Palmyra pale in light and storyless 
 From perching in old Tadmor mate by mate 
 
 In the waste wilderness. 
 
 These know the world ; what do the children know ? 
 
 They know the woods, their groaning noises weird, 
 They climb in trees that overhang the slow 
 
 Deep mill-stream, loved and feared. 
 
 Where shaken water-wheels go creak and clack, 
 
 List while a lorn thrush calls and almost speaks ; 
 
 See willow-wrens with elderberries black 
 Staining their slender beaks. 
 
 They know full well how squirrels spend the day ; 
 
 They peeped when field-mice stole and stored the 
 
 seeds, 
 And voles along their under- water way 
 
 Donned collars of bright beads. 
 
 Still from the deep-cut road they love to mark 
 Where set, as in a frame, the nearer shapes 
 
 Rise out of hill and wood ; then long downs dark 
 As purple bloom on grapes. 
 
KISMET. 71 
 
 But farms whereon the tall wheat musters gold, 
 High barley whitening, creases in bare hills, 
 
 Reed-feathered, castle-like brown churches old, 
 Nor churning water-mills, 
 
 Shall make ought seem so fair as that beyond 
 Beyond the down, which draws their fealty ; 
 
 Blow high, blow low, some hearts do aye respond, 
 The wind is from the sea. 
 
 Above the steep-cut steps as they did grow, 
 
 The children's cottage homes embowered are seen ; 
 
 Were this a world unfallen, they scarce could show 
 More beauteous red and green. 
 
 Milk-white and vestal-chaste the hollyhock 
 
 Grows tall, clove, sweetgale nightly shed forth spice, 
 
 Long woodbines leaning over scent the rock 
 With airs of Paradise. 
 
 Here comforted of pilot stars they lie 
 
 In charmed dreams, but not of wold nor lea. 
 
 Behold a ship ! her wide yards score the sky ; 
 She sails a steel-blue sea. 
 
 As turns the great amassment of the tide, 
 
 Drawn of the silver despot to her throne, 
 
 So turn the destined souls, so far and wide 
 The strong deep claims its own. 
 
72 KISMET. 
 
 Still the old tale, these dreaming islanders, 
 
 Each with hot Sunderbunds a somewhat owns 
 
 That calls, the grandsire's blood within them stirs 
 Dutch Java guards his bones. 
 
 And these were orphan'd when a leak was sprung 
 Far out from land when all the air was balm ; 
 
 The shipmen saw their faces as they hung, 
 And sank in the glassy calm. 
 
 These, in an orange-sloop their father plied, 
 
 Deck-laden deep she sailed from Cadiz town, 
 
 A black squall rose, she turned upon her side, 
 Drank water and went down. 
 
 They too shall sail. High names of alien lands 
 
 Are in the dream, great names their fathers knew ; 
 
 Madras, the white surf rearing on her sands, 
 E'en they shall breast it too. 
 
 See threads of scarlet down fell Roa creep, 
 
 When moaning winds rend back her vapourous veil ; 
 Wild Orinoco wedge-like split the deep, 
 
 Raging forth passion-pale ; 
 
 Or a blue berg at sunrise glittering, tall, 
 
 Great as a town adrift come shining on 
 
 With sharp spires, gemlike as the mystical 
 Clear city of Saint John. 
 
KISMET. 73 
 
 Still the old tale ; but they are children yet ; 
 
 O let their mothers have them while they may ! 
 Soon it shall work, the strange mysterious fret 
 
 That mars both toil and play. 
 
 The sea will claim its own ; and some shall mourn ; 
 
 They also, they, but yet will surely go ; 
 So surely as the planet to its bourne, 
 
 The chamois to his snow. 
 
 ' Father, dear father, bid us now God-speed ; 
 
 We cannot choose but sail, it thus befell/ 
 ' Mother, dear mother ' 
 
 1 Nay, 't is all decreed. 
 
 Dear hearts, farewell, farewell ! ' 
 
74 
 
 DORA. 
 
 WAXING moon that, crescent yet, 
 In all its silver beauty set, 
 And rose no more in the lonesome night 
 To shed full-orbed its longed-for light. 
 
 Then was it dark ; on wold and lea, 
 
 In home, in heart, the hours were drear. 
 
 Father and mother could no light see, 
 
 And the hearts trembled and there was fear. 
 
 So on the mount, Christ's chosen three, 
 
 Unware that glory it did shroud, 
 
 Feared when they entered into the cloud. 
 
 She was the best part of love's fair 
 Adornment, life's God-given care, 
 As if He bade them guard His own, 
 Who should be soon anear His throne. 
 
DORA. 75 
 
 Dutiful, happy, and who say 
 
 When childhood smiles itself way, 
 
 1 More fair than morn shall prove the day.' 
 
 Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest, 
 
 How shall be bettering of your best ! 
 
 That promise heaven alone shall view, 
 
 That hope can ne'er with us come true, 
 
 That prophecy life hath not skill, 
 
 No, nor time leave that it fulfil. 
 
 There is but heaven, for childhood never 
 
 Can yield the all it meant, for ever. 
 
 Or is there earth, must wane to less 
 
 What dawned so close by perfectness. 
 
 How guileless, sweet, by gift divine, 
 How beautiful, dear child, was thine 
 Spared all their grief of thee bereaven, 
 Winner, who had not greatly striven, 
 Hurts of sin shall not thee soil, 
 Carking care thy beauty spoil, 
 So early blest, so young forgiven. 
 
 Among the meadows fresh to view, 
 And in the woodland ways she grew, 
 On either side a hand to hold, 
 Nor the world's worst of evil knew, 
 Nor rued its miseries manifold, 
 Nor made discovery of its cold. 
 
76 DORA. 
 
 What more, like one with morn content, 
 Or of the morrow diffident, 
 Unconscious, beautiful she stood, 
 Calm, in young stainless maidenhood. 
 Then, with the last steps childhood trod, 
 Took up her fifteen years to God. 
 
 Farewell, sweet hope, not long to last, 
 All life is better for thy past. 
 Farewell till love with sorrow meet, 
 To learn that tears are obsolete. 
 
77 
 
 SPERANZA. 
 
 Her younger sister, that Speranza hight. 
 
 N GLAND puts on her purple, and pale, pale 
 With too much light, the primrose doth 
 
 but wait 
 
 To meet the hyacinth ; then bower and dale 
 Shall lose her and each fairy woodland mate. 
 April forgets them, for their utmost sum 
 Of gift was silent, and the birds are come. 
 
 The world is stirring, many voices blend, 
 The English are at work in field and way ; 
 
 All the good finches on their wives attend, 
 And emmets their new towns lay out in clay ; 
 
 Only the cuckoo-bird only doth say 
 
 Her beautiful name, and float at large all day. 
 
 Everywhere ring sweet clamours, chirruping, 
 Chirping, that comes before the grasshopper ; 
 
 The wide woods, flurried with the pulse of spring, 
 Shake out their wrinkled buds with tremor and stir ; 
 
 Small noises, little cries, the ear receives 
 
 Light as a rustling foot on last year's leaves. 
 
78 SPERANZA. 
 
 All in deep dew the satisfied deep grass 
 
 Looking straight upward stars itself with white, 
 
 Like ships in heaven full-sailed do long clouds pass 
 Slowly o'er this great peace, and wide sweet light, 
 
 While through moist meads draws down yon rushy mere 
 
 Influent waters, sobbing, shining, clear. 
 
 Almost is rapture poignant ; somewhat ails 
 
 The heart and mocks the morning ; somewhat sighs, 
 
 And those sweet foreigners, the nightingales, 
 
 Made restless with their love, pay down its price, 
 
 Even the pain ; then all the story unfold 
 
 Over and over again yet 't is not told. 
 
 The mystery of the world whose name is life 
 
 (One of the names of God) all-conquering wends 
 
 And works for aye with rest and cold at strife. 
 Its pedigree goes up to Him and ends. 
 
 For it the lucent heavens are clear overhead, 
 
 And all the meads are made its natal bed. 
 
 Dear is the light, and eye-sight ever sweet, 
 What see they all fair lower things that nurse, 
 
 No wonder, and no doubt ? Truly their meat, 
 
 Their kind, their field, their foes ; man's eyes are more ; 
 Sight is man's having of the universe, 
 
 His pass to the majestical far shore. 
 
SPERANZA. 79 
 
 But it is not enough, ah not enough 
 
 To look upon it and be held away, 
 And to be sure that, while we tread the rough, 
 
 Remote dull paths of this dull world, no ray 
 Shall pierce to us from the inner soul of things, 
 Nor voice thrill out from its deep master-strings. 
 
 1 To show the skies, and tether to the sod ! 
 
 A daunting gift ! ' we mourn in our long strife, 
 And God is more than all our thought of God 
 
 E'en life itself more than our thought of life, 
 And that is all we know and it is noon, 
 
 Our little day will soon be done how soon ! 
 
 O let us to ourselves be dutiful : 
 
 We are not satisfied, we have wanted all, 
 
 Not alone beauty, but that Beautiful ; 
 A lifted veil, an answering mystical. 
 
 Ever men plead, and plain, admire, implore, 
 
 4 Why gavest Thou so much and yet not more ? 
 
 We are but let to look, and Hope is weighed/ 
 Yet, say the Indian words of sweet renown, 
 
 ' The doomed tree withholdeth not her shade 
 From him that bears the axe to cut her down ; ' 
 
 Is hope cut down, dead, doomed, all is vain: 
 
 The third day dawns, she too has risen again 
 
80 SPERANZA, 
 
 (For Faith is ours by gift, but Hope by right), 
 And walks among us whispering as of yore : 
 
 6 Glory and grace are thrown thee with the light ; 
 Search, if not yet thou touch the mystic shore ; 
 
 Immanent beauty and good are nigh at hand, 
 
 For infants laugh and snowdrops bloom in the land. 
 
 Thou shalt have more anon/ What more? In sooth, 
 
 The mother of to-morrow is to-day, 
 And brings forth after her kind. There is no ruth 
 
 On the heart's sigh, that i more ' is hidden away, 
 And man's to-morrow yet shall pine and yearn ; 
 He shall surmise, and he shall not discern, 
 
 But list the lark, and want the rapturous cries 
 And passioning of morning stars that sing 
 
 Together, mark the meadow-orchis rise 
 And think it freckled after an angel's wing ; 
 
 Absent desire his land, and feel this, one 
 
 With the great drawing of the central sun. 
 
 But not to all such dower, for there be eyes 
 Are colour-blind, and souls are spirit-blind. 
 
 Those never saw the blush in sunset skies, 
 
 Nor the others caught a sense not made of words 
 As if were spirits about, that sailed the wind 
 
 And sank and settled on the boughs like birds. 
 
SPERANZA. 81 
 
 Yet such for aye divided from us are 
 
 As other galaxies that seem no more 
 Than a little golden millet-seed afar. 
 
 Divided; swarming down some flat lee shore, 
 Then risen, while all the air that takes no word 
 Tingles, and trembles as with cries not heard. 
 
 For they can come no nearer. There is found 
 
 No meeting point. We have pierced the lodging-place 
 
 Of stars that cluster'd with their peers lie bound, 
 Embedded thick, sunk in the seas of space, 
 
 Fortunate orbs that know not night, for all 
 
 Are suns; but we have never heard that call, 
 
 Nor learned it in our world, our citadel 
 With outworks of a Power about it traced; 
 
 Nor why we needs must sin who would do well, 
 Nor why the want of love, nor why its waste, 
 
 Nor how by dying of One should all be sped, 
 
 Nor where, O Lord, Thou hast laid up our dead. 
 
 But Hope is ours by right, and Faith by gift. 
 
 Though Time be as a moon upon the wane 
 Who walk with Faith far up the azure lift 
 
 Oft hear her talk of lights to wax again. 
 4 If man be lost,' she cries, ' in this vast sea 
 Of being, lost he would be lost with Thee 
 
82 SPERANZA. 
 
 Who for his sake once, as he hears, lost all. 
 
 For Thou wilt find him at the end of the days : 
 Then shall the flocking souls that thicker fall 
 
 Than snowflakes on the everlasting ways 
 Be counted, gathered, claimed. Will it be long ? 
 Earth has begun already her swan-song. 
 
 Who, even that might, would dwell for ever pent 
 In this fair frame that doth the spirit inhearse, 
 
 Nor at the last grow weary and content, 
 Die, and break forth into the universe, 
 
 And yet man would not all things all were new. ' 
 
 Then saith the other, that one robed in blue : 
 
 What if with subtle change God touch their eyes 
 When He awakes them, not far off, but here 
 
 In a new earth, this : not in any wise 
 
 Strange, but more homely sweet, more heavenly dear, 
 
 Or if He roll away, as clouds disperse 
 
 Somewhat, and lo, that other universe. 
 
 O how 't were sweet new waked in some good hour, 
 Long time to sit on a hillside green and high, 
 
 There like a honeybee domed in a flower 
 To feed unneath the azure bell o 7 the sky, 
 
 Feed in the midmost home and fount of light 
 
 Sown thick with stars at noonday as by night, 
 
SPERANZA. 83 
 
 To watch the flying faultless ones wheel down, 
 Alight, and run along some ridged peak, 
 
 Their feet adust from orbs of old renown, 
 
 Procyon or Mazzaroth, haply ; when they speak 
 
 Other-world errands wondrous, all discern 
 
 That would be strange, there would be much to learn. 
 
 Ay, and it would be sweet to share unblamed 
 Love's shining truths that tell themselves in tears, 
 
 Or to confess and be no more ashamed 
 
 The wrongs that none can right through earthly years; 
 
 And seldom laugh, because the tenderness 
 
 Calm, perfect, would be more than joy would bless. 
 
 I tell you it were sweet to have enough, 
 And be enough. Among the souls forgiven 
 
 In presence of all worlds, without rebuff 
 To move, and feel the excellent safety leaven 
 
 With peace that awe must loss and the grave survive 
 
 But palpitating moons that are alive 
 
 Nor shining fogs swept up together afar, 
 
 Vast as a thought of God, in the firmament ; 
 
 No, and to dart as light from star to star 
 
 Would not long time man's yearning soul content : 
 
 Albeit were no more ships and no more sea, 
 
 He would desire his new earth presently. 
 
84 SPERANZA. 
 
 Leisure to learn it. Peoples would be here ; 
 
 They would come on in troops, and take at will 
 The forms, the faces they did use to wear 
 
 With life's first splendours raiment rich with skill 
 Of broidery, carved adornments, crowns of gold ; 
 Still would be sweet to them the life of old. 
 
 Then might be gatherings under golden shade, 
 Where dust of water drifts from some sheer fall, 
 
 Cooling day's ardour. There be utterance made 
 Of comforted love, dear freedom after thrall, 
 
 Large longings of the Seer, through earthly years 
 
 An everlasting burden, but no tears. 
 
 Egypt's adopted child might tell of lore 
 
 They taught him underground in shrines all dim, 
 
 And of the live tame reptile gods that wore 
 Gold anklets on their feet. And after him, 
 
 With fairest eyes e'er met of mortal ken, 
 
 Glorious, forgiven, might speak the mother of men, 
 
 Talk of her apples gather'd by the marge 
 
 Of lapsing Gihon. * Thus one spoke, I stood, 
 
 I ate.' Or next the mariner-saint enlarge 
 Right quaintly on his ark of gopher wood 
 
 To wandering men through high grass meads that ran 
 
 Or sailed the sea Mediterranean. 
 
SPERANZA. 85 
 
 It might be common earth afforested 
 Newly, to follow her great ones to the sun, 
 
 When from transcendent aisles of gloom they sped 
 Some work august (there would be work) now done. 
 
 And list, and their high matters strive to scan 
 
 The seekers after God, and lovers of man, 
 
 Sitting together in amity on a hill, 
 
 The Saint of Visions from Greek Patmos come 
 Aurelius, lordly, calm-eyed, as of will 
 
 Austere, yet having rue on lost, lost Rome, 
 And with them one who drank a fateful bowl, 
 And to the unknown God trusted his soul. 
 
 The mitred Cranmer pitied even there 
 
 (But could it be ?) for that false hand which signed 
 O, all pathetic no. But it might bear 
 , To soothe him marks of fire and gladsome kind 
 The man, as all of joy him well beseemed 
 Who ' lighted on a certain place and dreamed.' 
 
 And fair with the meaning of life their divine brows, 
 The daughters of well-doing famed in song ; 
 
 But what ! could old-world love for child, for spouse, 
 For land, content through lapsing eons long ? 
 
 Oh for a watchword strong to bridge the deep 
 
 And satisfy of fulness after sleep. 
 
86 SPERANZA. 
 
 What know we ? - Whispers fall, ' And the last first, 
 And the first last' The child before the king ? 
 
 The slave before that man a master erst ? 
 The woman before her lord ? Shall glory fling 
 
 The rolls aside time raze out triumphs past ? 
 
 They sigh, 'And the last first, and the first last? 
 
 Answers that other, ' Lady, sister, friend, 
 It is enough, for I have worshipped Life ; 
 
 With Him that is the Life man's life shall blend, 
 E'en now the sacred heavens do help his strife, 
 
 There do they knead his bread and mix his cup, 
 
 And all the stars have leave to bear him up. 
 
 Yet must he sink and fall away to a sleep, 
 As did his Lord, His Life his worshipped 
 
 Religion, Life. The silence may be deep, 
 Life listening, watching, waiting by His dead, 
 
 Till at the end of days they wake full fain 
 
 Because their King, the Life, doth love and reign. 
 
 I know the King shall come to that new earth, 
 And His feet stand again as once they stood, 
 
 In His Man's eyes will shine Time's end and worth 
 The chiefest beauty and the chiefest good, 
 
 And all shall have the all and in it bide, 
 
 And every soul of man be satisfied. 
 
87 
 
 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 HEY tell strange things of the primeval earth, 
 But things that be are never strange to those 
 Among them. And we know what it was like, 
 Many are sure they walked in it ; the proof 
 
 This, the all gracious, all admired gift 
 
 Called life, called world, called thought, was all as one, 
 
 Nor yet divided more than that old earth 
 
 Among the tribes. Self was not fully come 
 
 Self was asleep, embedded in the whole. 
 
 I too dwelt once in a primeval world, 
 Such as they tell of, all things wonderful ; 
 Voices, ay visions, people grand and tall 
 Thronged in it, but their talk was overhead 
 And bore scant meaning, that one wanted not 
 Whose thought was sight as yet unbound of words, 
 This kingdom of heaven having entered through 
 Being a little child. 
 
88 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 Such as can see. 
 
 Why should they doubt ? The childhood of a race, 
 The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt 
 Nor fear. Where all is super-natural 
 The guileless heart doth feed on it, no more 
 Afraid than angels are of heaven. 
 
 Who saith 
 
 Another life, the next one shall not have 
 Another childhood growing gently thus, 
 Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take 
 The rich long awful measure of its peace, 
 Endure the presences sublime ? 
 
 4 1 saw 
 
 Once in that earth primeval, once a face, 
 A little face that yet I dream upon.' 
 
 ' Of this world was it ? ' 
 
 ( Not of this world no, 
 In the beginning for methinks it was 
 In the beginning, but an if you ask 
 How long ago, time was not then, nor date 
 For marking. It was always long ago, 
 E'en from the first recalling of it, long 
 And long ago. 
 
 And I could walk, and went, 
 Led by the hand through a long mead at morn, 
 Bathed in a ravishing excess of light. 
 It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven, 
 
THE BEGINNING. 89 
 
 Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sun 
 Gave every blade a bright and a dark side, 
 Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slipped 
 To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay. 
 
 The wide oaks in their early green stood still 
 And took delight in it. Brown specks that made 
 Very sweet noises quivered in the blue ; 
 Then they came down and ran along the brink 
 Of a long pool, and they were birds. 
 
 The pool 
 
 Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint, 
 A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers 
 And flags blue-green was lying below. This all 
 Was sight, it condescended not to words 
 Till memory kissed the charmed dream. 
 
 The mead 
 
 Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair 
 With dropping roses fell away to it, 
 A strange sweet place ; upon its further side 
 Some people gently walking took their way 
 Up to a wood beyond ; and also bells 
 Sang, floated in the air, hummed what you will. 7 
 
 ' Then it was Sunday ? ' 
 
 ' Sunday was not yet ; 
 It was a holiday, for all the days 
 Were holy. It was not our day of rest 
 
90 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 (The earth for all her rolling asks not rest, 
 For she was never weary). 
 
 It was sweet, 
 
 Full of dear leisure and perennial peace, 
 As very old days when life went easily, 
 Before mankind had lost the wise, the good 
 Habit of being happy. 
 
 For the pool 
 
 A beauteous place it was as might be seen, 
 That led one down to other meads, and had 
 Clouds and another sky. I thought to go 
 Deep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope. 
 
 Then she who led me reached the brink, her foot 
 
 Staying to talk with one who met her there. 
 
 Here were fresh marvels, sailing things whose vans 
 
 Floated them on above the flowering flags. 
 
 We moved a little onward, paused again, 
 
 And here there was a break in these, and here 
 
 There came the vision ; for I stooped to gaze 
 
 So far as my small height would let me gaze 
 
 Into that pool to see the fishes dart, 
 
 And in a moment from her under hills 
 
 Came forth a little child who lived down there, 
 
 Looked up at me and smiled. We could not talk, 
 
 But looked and loved each other. I a hand 
 
 Held out to her, so she to me, but ah, 
 
 She would not come. Her home, her little bed, 
 
THE BEGINNING. 91 
 
 Was doubtless under that soft shining thing 
 The water, and she wanted not to run 
 Among red sorrel spires, and fill her hand 
 In the dry warmed grass with cowslip buds. 
 
 Awhile our feeding hearts all satisfied, 
 Took in the blue of one another's eyes, 
 Two dimpled creatures, rose-lipped innocent. 
 But when we fain had kissed O ! the end came, 
 For snatched aloft, held in the nurse's arms, 
 She parting with her lover I was borne 
 Far from that little child. 
 
 And no one knew 
 
 She lived down there, but only I ; and none 
 Sought for her, but I yearned for her and left 
 Part of myself behind, as the lambs leave 
 Their wool upon a thorn.' 
 
 1 And was she seen 
 Never again, nor known for what she was ? ' 
 
 ' Never again, for we did leave anon 
 The pasture and the pool. I know not where 
 They lie, and sleep a heaven on earth, but know 
 From thenceforth yearnings for a lost delight; 
 On certain days I dream about her still.' 
 
92 
 
 IN THE NURSERY. 
 
 jjHERE do you go, Bob, when you 're fast 
 
 asleep ? ' 
 
 ' Where ? O well, once I went into a deep 
 Mine, father told of, and a cross man said 
 He 'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread. 
 I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near. 
 She said, " You rude boy, Bob, how came you here ? " : 
 
 * Was it like mother's boudoir ? ' 
 
 Grander far, 
 Gold chairs and things all over diamonds Ah ! ' 
 
 ' You 're sure it was the Queen ? ' 
 
 ( Of course, a crown 
 Was on her, and a spangly purple gown.' 
 
 * I went to heaven last night. 1 
 
 4 O Lily, no, 
 How could you ? ' 
 
IN THE NURSERY. 93 
 
 * Yes I did, they told me so, 
 And my best doll, my favourite, with the blue 
 Frock, Jasmine, I took her to heaven too/ 
 
 ' What was it like ? ' 
 
 1 A kind of I can 't tell 
 A sort of orchard place in a long dell, 
 With trees all over flowers. And there were birds 
 Who could do talking, say soft pretty words ; 
 They let me stroke them, and I showed it all 
 To Jasmine. And I heard a blue dove call, 
 " Child, this is heaven." I was not frightened when 
 It spoke, I said " Where are the angels then? '" 
 
 ' Well.' 
 
 1 So it said, " Look up and you shall see." 
 There were two angels sitting in the tree, 
 As tall as mother ; they had long gold hair. 
 They let drop down the fruit they gathered there 
 And little angels came for it so sweet. 
 Here they were beggar children in the street, 
 And the dove said they had the prettiest things, 
 And wore their best frocks every day.' 
 
 * And wings, 
 Had they no wings ? ' 
 
 1 yes, and lined with white 
 Like swallow wings, so soft so very light 
 Fluttering about.' 
 
94 IN THE NURSERY. 
 
 'Well.' 
 
 ' Well, I did not stay, 
 So that was all.' 
 
 ' They made you go away ? ' 
 
 ' I did not go but I was gone.' 
 
 1 1 know/ 
 
 ' But it 's a pity, Bob, we never go 
 Together.' 
 
 1 Yes, and have no dreams to tell, 
 But the next day both know it all quite well.' 
 
 ' And, Bob, if I could dream you came with me 
 You would be there perhaps.' 
 
 1 Perhaps we'll see.' 
 
THE 
 
 AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD 
 
97 
 
 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 LL 
 
 Toll.' c The bell-bird sounding far 
 away, 
 
 Hid in a myall grove.' He raised his head, 
 The bush glowed scarlet in descending day, 
 
 A masterless wild country and he said, 
 My father (< Toll.') < Full oft by her to stray, 
 
 As if a spirit called, have I been led ; 
 Oft seems she as an echo in my soul 
 ('Toll.') from my native towers by Avon ('Toll'). 
 
 (* Toll.') Oft as in a dream I see full fain 
 The bell-tower beautiful that I love well, 
 
 A seemly cluster with her churches twain. 
 I hear adown the river faint and swell 
 
 And lift upon the air that sound again, 
 It is, it is how sweet no tongue can tell, 
 
 For all the world- wide breadth of shining foam, 
 
 The bells of Evesham chiming ''Home, sweet home.' ; 
 
98 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 The mind hath mastery thus it can defy 
 
 The sense, and make all one as it DID HEAR 
 
 Nay, I mean more ; the wraiths of sound gone by 
 Rise ; they are present 'neath this dome all clear. 
 
 ONE, sounds the bird a pause then doth supply 
 Some ghost of chimes the void expectant ear ; 
 
 Do they ring bells in heaven ? The learnedest soul 
 
 Shall not resolve me such a question. (' Toll.') 
 
 (' Toll.') Say I am a boy, and fishing stand 
 By Avon (' Toll.') on line and rod intent, 
 
 How glitters deep in dew the meadow land 
 What, dost thou flit, thy ministry all spent, 
 
 Not many days we hail such visits bland, 
 Why steal so soon the rare enravishment ? 
 
 Ay gone ! the soft deceptive echoes roll 
 
 Away, and faint into remoteness.' ('Toll.') 
 
 While thus he spoke the doom'd sun touched his bed 
 
 In scarlet, all the palpitating air 
 Still loyal waited on. He dipped his head, 
 
 Then all was over, and the dark was there ; 
 And northward, lo ! a star, one likewise red 
 
 But lurid, starts from out her day-long lair, 
 Her fellows trail behind ; she bears her part, 
 The balefullest star that shines, the Scorpion's heart. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 99 
 
 Or thus of old men feigned, and then did fear, 
 
 Then straight crowd forth the great ones of the sky 
 
 In flashing flame at strife to reach more near. 
 The little children of Infinity, 
 
 They next look down as to report them ' Here/' 
 From deeps all thoughts despair and heights past high 
 
 Speeding, not sped, no rest, no goal, no shore, 
 
 Still to rush on till time shall be no more. 
 
 ' Loved vale of Evesham, 't is a long farewell, 
 Not laden orchards nor their April snow 
 
 These eyes shall light upon again ; the swell 
 And whisper of thy storied river know, 
 
 Nor climb the hill where great old Montfort fell 
 In a good cause hundreds of years ago ; 
 
 So fall'n, elect to live till life's ally, 
 
 The river of recorded deeds, runs dry. 
 
 This land is very well, this air,' saith he, 
 ' Is very well, but we want echoes here. 
 
 Man's past to feed the air and move the sea ; 
 Ages of toil make English furrows dear, 
 
 Enriched by blood shed for his liberty, 
 
 Sacred by love's first sigh and life's last fear, 
 
 We come of a good nest, for it shall yearn 
 
 Poor birds of passage, but may not return, 
 
100 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 Spread younger wings, and beat the winds afar. 
 
 There sing more poets in that one small isle 
 Than all isles else can show of such you are ; 
 
 Remote things come to you unsought erewhile, 
 Near things a long way round as by a star. 
 
 Wild dreams ! ' He laughed, 4 A sage right infantile 
 With sacred fear behold life's waste deplored, 
 Undaunted by the leisure of the Lord. 
 
 Ay go, the island dream with eyes make good, 
 Where Freedom rose, a lodestar to your race ; 
 
 And Hope that leaning on her anchor stood 
 Did smile it to her feet : a right small place. 
 
 Call her a mother, high such motherhood, 
 Home in her name and duty in her face ; 
 
 Call her a ship, her wide arms rake the clouds, 
 
 And every wind of God pipes in her shrouds. 
 
 Ay, all the more go you. But some have cried 
 " The ship is breaking up ; " they watch amazed 
 
 While urged toward the rocks by some that guide 
 Bad steering, reckless steering, she all dazed 
 
 Tempteth her doom ; yet this have none denied 
 Ships men have wrecked and palaces have razed, 
 
 But never was it known beneath the sun, 
 
 They of such wreckage built a goodlier one. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 101 
 
 God help old England an't be thus, nor less 
 
 God help the world.' Therewith my mother spake, 
 
 * Perhaps He will ! By time, by faithlessness, 
 By the world's want long in the dark- awake, 
 
 I think He must be almost due : the stress 
 Of the great tide of life, sharp misery's ache, 
 
 In a recluseness of the soul we rue 
 
 Far off, but yet He must be almost due. 
 
 God manifest again, the coming King.' 
 Then said my father, * I beheld erewhile, 
 
 Sitting up dog-like to the sunrising, 
 The giant doll in ruins by the Nile, 
 
 With hints of red that yet to it doth cling, 
 
 Fell, battered, and bewigged its cheeks were vile, 
 
 A body of evil with its angel fled, 
 
 Whom and his fellow fiends men worshipped. 
 
 The gods die not, long shrouded on their biers, 
 Somewhere they live, and live in memory yet ; 
 
 Were not the Israelites for forty years 
 Hid from them in the desert to forget 
 
 Did they forget ? ' no more than their lost feres 
 Sons of to-day with faces southward set, 
 
 Who dig for buried lore long ages fled, 
 
 And sift for it the sand and search the dead. 
 
102 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 Brown Egypt gave not one great poet birth, 
 But man was better than his gods, with lays 
 
 He soothed them restless, and they zoned the earth, 
 And crossed the sea ; there drank immortal praise ; 
 
 Then from his own best self with glory and worth 
 And beauty dowered he them for dateless days. 
 
 Ever ' their sound goes forth ' from shore to shore, 
 
 When was there known an hour that they lived more ? 
 
 Because they are beloved and not believed, 
 Admired not feared, they draw men to their feet ; 
 
 All once, rejected, nothing now, received 
 
 Where once found wanting, now the most complete ; 
 
 Man knows to-day, though manhood stand achieved, 
 His cradle-rockers made a rustling sweet ; 
 
 That king reigns longest which did lose his crown, 
 
 Stars that by poets shine are stars gone down. 
 
 Still drawn obedient to an unseen hand, 
 
 From purer heights comes down the yearning west, 
 
 Like to that eagle in the morning land, 
 That swooping on her predatory quest, 
 
 Did from the altar steal a smouldering brand, 
 The which she bearing home it burned her nest, 
 
 And her wide pinions of their plumes bereaven, 
 
 Spoiled for glad spiring up the steeps of heaven. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 103 
 
 1 1 say the gods live, and that reign abhor, 
 
 And will the nations it should dawn ? Will they 
 
 Who ride upon the perilous edge of war ? 
 Will such as delve for gold in this our day ? 
 
 Neither the world will, nor the age will, nor 
 
 The soul and what, it cometh now ? Nay, nay, 
 
 The weighty sphere, unready for release, 
 
 Rolls far in front of that o'ermastering peace. 
 
 Wait and desire it ; life waits not, free there 
 To good, to evil, thy right perilous 
 
 All shall be fair, and yet it is not fair. 
 
 I thank my God He takes th' advantage thus ; 
 
 He doth not greatly hide, but still declare 
 
 Which side He is on and which He loves, to us, 
 
 While life impartial aid to both doth lend, 
 
 And heed not which the choice nor what the end. 
 
 Among the few upright, O to be found, 
 And ever search the nobler path, my son, 
 
 Nor say " 't is sweet to find me common ground 
 Too high, too good, shall leave the hours alone "- 
 
 Nay, though but one stood on the height renowned, 
 Deny not hope or will, to be that one. 
 
 Is it the many fall'n shall lift the land, 
 
 The race, the age ! Nay, 't is the few that stand.' 
 
104 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 While in the lamplight hearkening I sat mute, 
 
 Methought ' how soon this fire must needs burn out 
 
 Among the passion flowers and passion fruit 
 That from the wide verandah hung, misdoubt 
 
 Was mine. ' And wherefore made I thus long suit 
 To leave this old white head ? His words devout, 
 
 His blessing not to hear who loves me so 
 
 He that is old, right old I will not go. 7 
 
 But ere the dawn their counsels wrought with me, 
 And I went forth ; alas that I so went 
 
 Under the great gum-forest canopy, 
 The light on every silken filament 
 
 Of every flower, a quivering ecstasy 
 
 Of perfect paleness made it ; sunbeams sent 
 
 Up to the leaves with sword-like flash endued 
 
 Each turn of that grey drooping multitude. 
 
 I sought to look as in the light of one 
 
 Returned. ' Will this be strange to me that day ? 
 Flocks of green parrots clamorous in the sun 
 
 Tearing out milky maize stiff cacti grey 
 As old men's beards here stony ranges lone, 
 
 There dust of mighty flocks upon their way 
 To water, cloudlike on the bush afar, 
 Like smoke that hangs where old-world cities are. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 105 
 
 Is it not made man's last endowment here 
 
 To find a beauty in the wilderness ; 
 Feel the lorn moor above his pastures dear, 
 
 Mountains that may not house and will not bless 
 To draw him even to death ? He must insphere 
 
 His spirit in the open, so doth less 
 Desire his feres, and more that unvex'd wold 
 And fine afforested hills, his dower of old. 
 
 But shall we lose again that new-found sense 
 Which sees the earth less for our tillage fair ? 
 
 Oh, let her speak with her best eloquence 
 To me, but not her first and her right rare 
 
 Can equal what I may not take from hence. 
 The gems are left : it is not otherwhere 
 
 The wild Nepean cleaves her matchless way, 
 
 Nor Sydney harbour shall outdo the day. 
 
 Adding to day this that she lighteth it.' 
 But I beheld again, and as must be 
 
 With a world-record by a spirit writ, 
 It was more beautiful than memory, 
 
 Than hope was more complete. 
 
 Tall brigs did sit 
 Each in her berth the pure flood placidly, 
 
 Their topsails drooping 'neath the vast blue dome 
 
 Listless, as waiting to be sheeted home. 
 
106 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 And the great ships with pulse-like throbbing clear, 
 Majestical of mien did take their way 
 
 Like living creatures from some grander sphere, 
 That having boarded ours thought good to stay, 
 
 Albeit enslaved. They most divided here 
 
 From God's great art and all his works in clay, 
 
 In that their beauty lacks, though fair it shows 
 
 That divine waste of beauty only He bestows. 
 
 The day was young, scarce out the harbour lights 
 
 That morn I sailed : low sun-rays tremulous 
 On golden loops sped outward. Yachts in flights 
 
 Flutter' d the water air-like clear, while thus 
 It crept for shade among brown rocky bights 
 
 With cassia crowned and palms diaphanous, 
 And boughs ripe fruitage dropping fitfully, 
 
 That on the shining ebb went out to sea. 
 
 4 Home,' saith the man self-banished, l my son 
 Shall now go home.' Therewith he sendeth him 
 
 Abroad, and knows it not, but thence is won, 
 
 Rescued, the son's true home. His mind doth limn 
 
 Beautiful pictures of it, there is none 
 
 So dear, a new thought shines erewhile but dim, 
 
 4 That was my home, a land past all compare, 
 
 Life, and the poetry of life, are there.' 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 107 
 
 But no such thought drew near to me that day ; 
 
 All the new worlds flock forth to greet the old, 
 All the young souls bow down to own its sway, 
 
 Enamoured of strange richness manifold ; 
 Not to be stored, albeit they seek for aye, 
 
 Besieging it for its own life to hold, 
 E'en as Al Mamoun fain for treasures hid, 
 
 Stormed with an host th' inviolate pyramid, 
 
 And went back foiled but wise to walled Bagdad. 
 
 So I, so all. The treasure sought not found, 
 But some divine tears found to superadd 
 
 Themselves to a long story. The great round 
 Of yesterdays, their pathos sweet as sad, 
 
 Found to be only as to-day, close bound 
 With us, we hope some good thing yet to know, 
 But God is not in haste, while the lambs grow 
 
 The Shepherd leadeth softly. It is great 
 
 The journey, and the flock forgets at last 
 (Earth ever working to obliterate 
 
 The landmarks) when it halted, where it passed ; 
 And words confuse, and time doth ruinate, 
 
 And memory fail to hold a theme so vast ; 
 There is request for light, but the flock feeds, 
 
 And slowly ever on the Shepherd leads. 
 
108 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 1 Home/ quoth my father, and a glassy sea 
 Made for the stars a mirror of its breast, 
 
 While southing, pennon-like, in bravery 
 
 Of long-drawn gold they trembled to their rest. 
 
 Strange the first night and morn, when Destiny 
 Spread out to float on, all the mind oppressed ; 
 
 Strange on their outer roof to speed forth thus, 
 
 And know th' uncouth sea-beasts stared up at us. 
 
 But yet more strange the nights of falling rain, 
 That splashed without a sea-coal fire within ; 
 
 Life's old things gone astern, the mind's disdain, 
 For murmurous London makes soft rhythmic din. 
 
 All courtier thoughts that wait on words would fain 
 Express that sound. The words are not to win 
 
 Till poet made, but mighty, yet so mild 
 
 Shall be as cooing of a cradle-child. 
 
 Sensation like a piercing arrow flies, 
 
 Daily out-going thought. This Adamhood, 
 
 This weltering river of mankind that hies 
 Adown the street ; it cannot be withstood. 
 
 The richest mundane miles not otherwise 
 Than by a symbol keep possession good, 
 
 Mere symbol of division, and they hold 
 
 The clear pane sacred, the unminted gold 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 109 
 
 And wild outpouring of all wealth not less. 
 
 Why this ? A million strong the multitude, 
 And safe, far safer than our wilderness 
 
 The walls ; for them it daunts with right at feud, 
 Itself declares for law ; yet sore the stress 
 
 On steeps of life : what power to ban and bless ; 
 Saintly denial, waste inglorious, 
 Desperate want, and riches fabulous. 
 
 Of souls what beautiful embodiment 
 
 For some ; for some what homely housing writ 
 What keen-eyed men who beggared of content 
 
 Eat bread well earned as they had stolen it ; 
 What flutterers after joy that forward went, 
 
 And left them in the rear unqueened, unfit 
 For joy, with light that faints in strugglings drear 
 Of all things good the most awanting here. 
 
 Some in the welter of this surging tide 
 
 Move like the mystic lamps, the Spirits Seven, 
 Their burning love runs kindling far and wide, 
 
 That fire they needed not to steal from heaven, 
 'T was a free gift flung down with them to bide, 
 
 And be a comfort for the hearts bereaven, 
 A warmth, a glow, to make the failing store 
 
 And parsimony of emotion more. 
 
110 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 What glorious dreams in that find harbourage, 
 
 The phantom of a crime stalks this beside, 
 And those might well have writ on some past page, 
 
 In such an hour, of such a year, we died, 
 Put out our souls, took the mean way, false wage, 
 
 Course cowardly ; and if we be denied 
 The life once loved, we cannot alway rue 
 
 The loss : let be : what vails so sore ado ? 
 
 And faces pass of such as give consent 
 
 To live because 't is not worth while to die ; 
 
 This never knew the awful tremblement 
 
 When some great fear sprang forward suddenly, 
 
 Its other name being hope and there forthwent 
 As both confronted him a rueful cry 
 
 From the heart's core, one urging him to dare, 
 
 1 Now ! now ! Leap now.' The other, 'Stand, forbear.' 
 
 A nation reared in brick, how shall this be ? 
 
 Nor by excess of life death overtake. 
 To die in brick of brick her destiny, 
 
 And as the hamadryad eats the snake 
 His wife, and then the snake his son, so she. 
 
 Air not enough, " though everyone doth take 
 A little," water scant, a plague of gold, 
 Light out of date a multitude born old. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. Ill 
 
 And then a three-day siege might be the end ; 
 
 E'en now the rays get muddied struggling down 
 Through heaven's vasty lofts, and still extend 
 
 The miles of brick and none forbid, and none 
 Forbode ; a great world- wonder that doth send 
 
 High fame abroad, and fear no setting sun, 
 But helpless she through wealth that flouts the day 
 And through her little children, even as they. 
 
 But forth of London, and all visions dear 
 To eastern poets of a watered land 
 
 Are made the commonplace of nature here, 
 Sweet rivers always full, and always bland. 
 
 Beautiful, beautiful ! What runlets clear 
 Twinkle among the grass. On every hand 
 
 Fall in the common talk from lips around 
 
 The old names of old towns and famous ground. 
 
 It is not likeness only charms !he sense, 
 Not difference only sets the mind aglow, 
 
 It is the likeness in the difference, 
 
 Familiar language spoken on the snow, 
 
 To have the Perfect in the Present tense, 
 
 To hear the ploughboy whistling, and to know, 
 
 It smacks of the wild bush, that tune 'T is ours, 
 
 And look ! the bank is pale with primrose flowers, 
 
1 1 2 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 What veils of tender mist make soft the lea, 
 What bloom of air the height ; no veils confer 
 
 On warring thought or softness or degree 
 
 Or rest. Still falling, conquering, strife and stir. 
 
 For this religion pays indemnity. 
 
 She pays her enemies for conquering her, 
 
 And then her friends ; while ever, and in vain 
 
 Lots for a seamless coat are cast again 
 
 Whose it shall be ; unless it shall endow 
 Thousands of thousands it can fall to none, 
 
 But faith and hope are not so simple now, 
 As in the year of our redemption One. 
 
 The pencil of pure light must disallow 
 
 Its name and scattering, many hues put on, 
 
 And faith and hope low in the valley fell, 
 
 There it is well with them, 't is very well. 
 
 The land is full of vision, voices call. 
 
 Can spirits cast a shadow ? Ay, I trow 
 Past is not done, and over is not all, 
 
 Opinion dies to live and wanes to grow, 
 The gossamer of thought doth filmlike fall, 
 
 On fallows after dawn make shimmering show, 
 And with old arrow-heads, her earliest prize, 
 Mix learning's latest guess and last surmise. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 113 
 
 There heard I pipes of fame, saw wrens ' about 
 That time when kings go forth to battle ' dart, 
 
 Full valorous atoms pierced with song, and stout 
 To dare, and down yclad ; I shared the smart 
 
 Of grieved cushats, bloom of love, devout 
 
 Beyond man's thought of it. Old song my heart 
 
 Rejoiced, but O mine own forelders' ways 
 
 To look on, and their fashions of past days. 
 
 The ponderous craft of arms I craved to see, 
 
 Knights, burghers, filtering through those gates ajar, 
 Their age of serfdom with my spirit free ; 
 
 We cannot all have wisdom ; some there are 
 Believe a star doth rule their destiny, 
 
 And yet they think to overreach the star, 
 For thought can weld together things apart, 
 
 And contraries find meeting in the heart. 
 
 In the deep dust at Suez without sound 
 I saw the Arab children walk at eve, 
 
 Their dark untroubled eyes upon the ground, 
 A part of Time's grave quiet. I receive 
 
 Since then a sense, as nature might have found 
 Love kin to man's that with the past doth grieve ; 
 
 And lets on waste and dust of ages fall 
 
 Her tender silences that mean it all. 
 
114 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 We have it of her, with her ; it were ill 
 
 For men, if thought were widowed of the world, 
 
 Or the world beggared of her sons, for still 
 A crowned sphere with many gems impearled 
 
 She rolls because of them. We lend her will 
 
 And she yields love. The past shall not be hurled 
 
 In the abhorred limbo while the twain, 
 
 Mother and son, hold partnership and reign. 
 
 She hangs out omens, and doth burdens dree. 
 
 Is she in league with heaven? That knows but One. 
 For man is not, and yet his work we see 
 
 Full of unconscious omen darkly done. 
 I saw the ring-stone wrought at Avebury 
 
 To frame the face of the midwinter sun, 
 Good luck that hour they thought from him forth smiled 3 
 At midwinter the Sun did rise the Child. 
 
 Still would the world divine though man forbore, 
 And what is beauty but an omen ? what 
 
 But life's deep divination cast before, 
 
 Omen of coming love ? Hard were man's lot, 
 
 With love and toil together at his door, 
 But all-convincing eyes hath beauty got ; 
 
 His love is beautiful, and he shall sue. 
 
 Toil for her sake is sweet, the omen true, 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 115 
 
 Love, love, and come it must, then life is found 
 Beforehand that was whole and fronting care, 
 
 A torn and broken half in durance bound 
 
 That mourns and makes request for its right fair 
 
 Remainder, with forlorn eyes cast around 
 To search for what is lost, that unaware 
 
 With not an hour's forebodement makes the day 
 
 From henceforth less or more for ever and aye. 
 
 Her name my love's I knew it not ; who says 
 Of vagrant doubt for such a cause that stirs 
 
 His fancy shall not pay arrearages 
 
 To all sweet names that might perhaps be hers ? 
 
 The doubts of love are powers. His heart obeys, 
 The world is in them, still to love defers, 
 
 Will play with him for love, but when 't begins 
 
 The play is high, and the world always wins. 
 
 For 't is the maiden's world, and his no more. 
 
 Now thus it was : with new found kin flew by 
 The temperate summer ; every wheatfield wore 
 
 Its gold, from house to house in ardency 
 Of heart for what they showed I westward bore 
 
 My mother's land, her native hills drew nigh ; 
 I was how green, how good old earth can be 
 Beholden to that land for teaching me. 
 
116 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 And parted from my fellows, and went on 
 To feel the spiritual sadness spread 
 
 Adown long pastoral hollows. And anon 
 Did words recur in far remoteness said : 
 
 ' See the deep vale ere dews are dried and gone, 
 Where my so happy life in peace I led, 
 
 And the great shadow of the Beacon lies 
 
 See little Ledbury trending up the rise, 
 
 With peaked houses and high market hall 
 An oak each pillar reared in the old days.' 
 
 And here was little Ledbury, quaint withal ; 
 The forest felled, her lair and sheltering place 
 
 She long time left in age pathetical. 
 
 ' Great oaks ' methought, as I drew near to gaze, 
 
 ' Were but of small account when these came down, 
 
 Drawn rough-hewn in to serve the tree-girt town. 
 
 And thus and thus of it will question be 
 The other side the world.' I paused awhile 
 
 To mark. The old hall standeth utterly 
 Without or floor or side, a comely pile, 
 
 A house on pillars, and by destiny 
 
 Drawn under its deep roof I saw a file 
 
 Of children slowly through their way make good, 
 
 And lifted up mine eyes and there SHE STOOD. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 117 
 
 She was so stately that her youthful grace 
 Drew out, it seemed, my soul unto the air, 
 
 Astonished out of breathing by her face 
 So fain to nest itself in nut-brown hair 
 
 Lying loose about her throat. But that old place 
 Proved sacred, she just fully grown too fair 
 
 For such a thought. The dimples that she had ! 
 
 She was so truly sweet that it was sad. 
 
 I was all hers. That moment gave her power 
 And whom, nay what she was, I scarce might know, 
 
 But felt I had been born for that good hour. 
 The perfect creature did not move, but so 
 
 As if ordained to claim all grace for dower, 
 She leaned against the pillar, and below 
 
 Three almost babes, her care, she watched the while 
 
 With downcast lashes and a musing smile. 
 
 I had been 'ware without a rustic treat, 
 Waggons bedecked with greenery stood anigh, 
 
 A swarm of children in the cheerful street 
 With girls to marshal them ; but all went by 
 
 And none I noted save this only sweet : 
 
 Too young her charge more venturous sport to try, 
 
 With whirling baubles still they played content, 
 
 And softly rose their lisping babblement. 
 
118 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 ' O what a pause ! to be so near, to mark 
 The locket rise and sink upon her breast ; 
 
 The shadow of the lashes lieth dark 
 
 Upon her cheek. O fleeting time, O rest ! 
 
 A slant ray finds the gold, and with a spark 
 And flash it answers, now shall be the best. 
 
 Her eyes she raises, sets their light on mine, 
 
 They do not flash nor sparkle no but shine.' 
 
 As I for very hopelessness made bold 
 
 Did off my hat ere time there was for thought, 
 
 She with a gracious sweetness, calm, not cold, 
 
 Acknowledged me, but brought my chance to nought. 
 
 4 This vale of imperfection doth not hold 
 A lovelier bud among its loveliest wrought ! 
 
 She turns,' methought i O do not quite forget 
 
 To me remains for ever that we met.' 
 
 And straightway I went forth, I could no less, 
 Another light unwot of falPn on me, 
 
 And rare elation and high happiness, 
 
 Some mighty power set hands of mastery 
 
 Among my heartstrings, and they did confess 
 With wild throbs inly sweet, that minstrelsy 
 
 A nightingale might dream so rich a strain, 
 
 And pine to change her song for sleep again. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 119 
 
 The harp thrilled ever : O with what a round 
 And series of rich pangs fled forth each note 
 
 Oracular, that I had found, had found 
 (Head waters of old Nile held less remote) 
 
 Golden Dorado, dearest, most renowned ; 
 But when as 't were a sigh did overfloat, 
 
 Shaping ' how long, not long shall this endure, 
 
 Au jour le jour ^ methought, ' Aujour lejour? 
 
 The minutes of that hour my heart knew well 
 Were like the fabled pint of golden grain, 
 
 Each to be counted, paid for, till one fell, 
 Grew, shot up to another world amain, 
 
 And he who dropped might climb it, there to dwell. 
 I too, I clomb another world full fain, 
 
 But was she there ? O what would be the end, 
 
 Might she nor there appear, nor I descend? 
 
 All graceful as a palm the maiden stood ; 
 
 Men say the palm of palms in tropic Isles 
 Doth languish in her deep primeval wood, 
 
 And want the voice of man, his home, his smiles, 
 Nor flourish but in his dear neighbourhood ; 
 
 She too shall want a voice that reconciles, 
 A smile that charms how sweet, would heaven so please- 
 To plant her at my door over far seas. 
 
120 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 I paced without, nor ever liege in truth 
 
 His sovran lady watched with more grave eyes 
 
 Of reverence, and she nothing ware forsooth, 
 Did standing charm the soul with new surprise, 
 
 Moving flow on a dimpled dream of youth. 
 Look ! look ! a sunbeam on her. Ay, but lies 
 
 The shade more sweetly now she passeth through 
 
 To join her fellow maids returned anew. 
 
 I saw (myself to bide unmarked intent) 
 Their youthful ease and pretty airs sedate, 
 
 They are so good, they are so innocent, 
 
 Those Islanders, they learn their part so late, 
 
 Of life's demand right careless, dwell content 
 Till the first love's first kiss shall consecrate 
 
 Their future to a world that can but be 
 
 By their sweet martyrdom and ministry. 
 
 Most happy of God's creatures. Afterward 
 More than all women married thou wilt be, 
 
 E'en to the soul. One glance desired afford, 
 
 More than knight's service might'st thou ask of me. 
 
 Not any chance is mine, not the best word, 
 No, nor the salt of life withouten thee. 
 
 Must this all end, is my day so soon o'er ? 
 
 Untroubled violet eyes, look once, once more. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 121 
 
 No, not a glance : the low sun lay and burned, 
 Now din of drum and cry of fife withal, 
 
 Blithe teachers mustering frolic swarms returned, 
 And new-world ways in that old market hall, 
 
 Sweet girls, fair women, how my whole heart yearned 
 Her to draw near who made my festival. 
 
 With others closing round, time speeding on, 
 
 How soon she would be gone, she would be gone ! 
 
 Ay, but I thought to track the rustic wains, 
 Their goal desired to note, but not anigh, 
 
 They creaking down long hop ycrested lanes 
 'Neath the abiding flush of that north sky. 
 
 I ran, my horse I fetched, but fate ordains 
 
 Love shall breed laughter when th' unloving spy. 
 
 As I drew rein to watch the gathered crowd, 
 
 With sudden mirth an old wife laughed aloud. 
 
 Her cheeks like winter apples red of hue, 
 
 Her glance aside. To whom her speech to me ? 
 
 1 1 know the thing you go about to do 
 The lady' < What ! the lady 7 ' Sir,' saith she, 
 
 (' I thank you kindly, sir), I tell you true 
 
 She's gone,' and ' here's a coil ' methought { will be.' 
 
 * Gone where ? ' ' 'T is past my wit forsooth to say 
 
 If they went Malvern way or Hereford way. 
 
122 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 A carriage took her up where three roads meet 
 They needs must pass; you may o'ertake it yet.' 
 
 And ' Oyez, Oyez ' peals adown the street, 
 * Lost, lost, a golden heart with pearls beset.' 
 
 1 1 know her, sir ? not I. To help this treat, 
 Many strange ladies from the country met.' 
 
 O heart beset with pearls ! my hope was crost. 
 
 ' Farewell, good dame. Lost ! oh my lady lost.' 
 
 And ' Oyez, Oyez ' following after me 
 
 On my great errand to the sundown went. 
 
 Lost, lost, and lost, whenas the cross road flee 
 Up tumbled hills, on each for eyes attent 
 
 A carriage creepeth. 
 
 1 Though in neither she, 
 I ne'er shall know life's worst impoverishment 
 
 An empty heart. No time, I stake my all, 
 
 To right ! and chase the rose-red evenfall. 
 
 Fly up, good steed, fly on. Take the sharp rise 
 As 't were a plain. A lady sits ; but one. 
 
 So fast the pace she turns in startled wise, 
 She sets her gaze on mine and all is done. 
 
 " Persian Roxana " might have raised such eyes 
 When Alexander sought her. Now the sun 
 
 Dips, and my day is over ; turn and fleet 
 
 The world fast flies, again do three roads meet.' 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 123 
 
 I took the left, and for some cause unknown 
 Full fraught of hope and joy the way pursued, 
 
 Yet chose strong reasons speeding up alone 
 To fortify me 'gainst a shock more rude. 
 
 E'en so the diver carrieth down a stone 
 In hand, lest he float up before he would, 
 
 And end his walk upon the rich sea-floor, 
 
 Those pearls he failed to grasp never to look on more. 
 
 Then as the low moon heaveth waxen white, 
 The carriage, and it turns into a gate. 
 
 Within sit three in pale pathetic light. 
 O surely one of these my love, my fate. 
 
 But ere I pass they wind away from sight. 
 Then cottage casements glimmer. All elate 
 
 I cross a green, there yawns with opened latch 
 
 A village hostel capped in comely thatch. 
 
 1 The same world made for all is made for each. 
 
 To match a heart's magnificence of hope, 
 How shall good reason best high action teach 
 
 To win of custom, and with home to cope ? 
 How warrantably may he hope to win 
 
 A star, that wants it ? Shall he lie and grope ? 
 No, truly. I will see her ; tell my tale, 
 See her this once, and if I fail I fail.' 
 
124 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 Thus with myself I spoke. A rough brick floor 
 Made the place homely ; I would rest me there. 
 
 But how to sleep ? Forth of the unlocked door 
 I passed at midnight, lustreless white air 
 
 Made strange the hour, that ecstasy not o'er 
 I moved among the shadows, all my care 
 
 Counted a shadow her drawn near to bless, 
 
 Impassioned out of fear, rapt, motionless. 
 
 Now a long pool and water-hens at rest 
 (As doughty seafolk dusk, at Malabar), 
 
 A few pale stars lie trembling on its breast. 
 Hath the Most High of all His host afar 
 
 One most supremely beautiful, one best, 
 Dearest of all the flock, one favourite star ? 
 
 His Image given, in part the children know 
 
 They love one first and best. It may be so. 
 
 Now a long hedge ; here dream the woolly folk 
 
 A majesty of silence is about. 
 Transparent mist rolls off the pool like smoke, 
 
 And Time is in his trance and night devout. 
 Now the still house. O an I knew she woke 
 
 I could not look, the sacred moon sheds out 
 So many blessings on her rooftree low, 
 Each more pathetic that she nought doth know. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 125 
 
 I would not love a little, nor my start 
 
 Make with the multitude that love and cease. 
 
 He gives too much that giveth half a heart, 
 Too much for liberty, too much for peace. 
 
 Let me the first and best and highest impart, 
 The whole of it, and heaven the whole increase ! 
 
 For that were not too much. 
 
 (In the moon's wake 
 
 How the grass glitters, for her sweetest sake.) 
 
 I would toward her walk the silver floors. 
 
 Love loathes an average all extreme things deal 
 To love sea-deep and dazzling height for stores. 
 
 There are on Fortune's errant foot can steal, 
 Can guide her blindfold in at their own doors, 
 
 Or dance elate upon her slippery wheel. 
 Courage ! there are 'gainst hope can still advance, 
 Dowered with a sane, a wise extravagance. 
 
 A song 
 
 To one a dreaming : when the dew 
 Falls, 't is a time for rest ; and when the bird 
 Calls, 't is a time to wake, to wake for you. 
 A long- waking, aye, waking till a word 
 
 Come from her coral mouth to be the true 
 Sum of all good heart wanted, ear hath heard. 
 
 Yet if, alas ! might love thy dolour be, 
 Dream, dear heart dear, and do not dream of me. 
 
126 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 I sing 
 
 To one awakened, when the heart 
 
 Cries 't is a day for thought, and when the soul 
 Sighs choose thy part, O choose thy part, thy part. 
 
 I bring to one beloved, bring my whole 
 Store, make in loving, make O make mine art 
 
 More. Yet I ask no, ask no wished goal 
 
 But this if loving might thy dolour be, 
 Wake, O my lady loved, and love not me. 
 
 1 That which the many win, love's niggard sum, 
 I will not, if love's all be left behind. 
 
 That which I am I cannot unbecome, 
 My past not unpossess, nor future blind. 
 
 Let me all risk, and leave the deep heart dumb 
 For ever, if that maiden sits enshrined 
 
 The saint of one more happy. She is she. 
 
 There is none other. Give her then to me. 
 
 Or else to be the better for her face 
 
 Beholding it no more. 7 Then all night through 
 The shadow moves with infinite dark grace. 
 
 The light is on her windows, and the dew 
 Comforts the world and me, till in my place 
 
 At moonsetting, when stars flash out to view, 
 Comes 'neath the cedar boughs a great repose, 
 The peace of one renouncing, and then a doze. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 127 
 
 There was no dream, yet waxed a sense in me 
 Asleep, that patience was the better way, 
 
 Appeasement for a want that needs must be, 
 Grew as the dominant mind forbore its sway 
 
 Till whistling sweet stirred in the cedar tree 
 I started woke it was the dawn of day. 
 
 That was the end. * Slow solemn growth of light, 
 
 Come what come will, remains to me this night.' 
 
 It was the end, with dew ordained to melt, 
 How easily was learned, how all too soon 
 
 Not there, not thereabout such maiden dwelt. 
 What was it promised me so fair a boon ? 
 
 Heart-hope is not less vain because heart-felt, 
 Gone forth once more in search of her at noon 
 
 Through the sweet country side on hill, on plain, 
 
 I sought and sought many long days in vain. 
 
 To Malvern next, with feathery woodland hung, 
 Whereto old Piers the Plowman came to teach, 
 
 On her green vasty hills the lay was sung, 
 He too, it may be, lisping in his speech, 
 
 1 To make the English sweet upon his tongue.' 
 How many maidens beautiful, and each 
 
 Might him delight, that loved no other fair ; 
 
 But Malvern blessed not me, she was not there. 
 
128 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 Then to that town, but still my fate the same, 
 
 Crowned with old works that her right well beseem, 
 
 To gaze upon her field of ancient fame 
 
 And muse on the sad thrall's most piteous dream, 
 
 By whom a c shadow like an angel came,' 
 Crying out on Clarence, its wild eyes agleam, 
 
 Accusing echoes here still falter and flee, 
 
 4 That stabbed me on the field by Tewkesbury.' 
 
 It nothing 'vailed that yet I sought and sought, 
 
 Part of my very self was left behind, 
 Till risen in wrath against th' o'ermastering thought, 
 
 1 Let me be thankful,' quoth the better mind, 
 Thankful for her, though utterly to nought 
 
 She brings my heart's cry, and I live to find 
 A new self of the old self exigent 
 In the light of my divining discontent. 
 
 The picture of a maiden bidding ' Arise, 
 I am the Art of God. He shows by me 
 
 His great idea, so well as sin-stained eyes- 
 Love aidant can behold it.' 
 
 Is this she ? 
 
 Or is it mine own love for her supplies 
 
 The meaning and the power ? Howe'er this be, 
 
 She is the interpreter by whom most near 
 
 Man's soul is drawn to beauty and pureness here. 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 129 
 
 The sweet idea, invisible hitherto, 
 
 Is in her face, unconscious delegate ; 
 That thing she wots not of ordained to do : 
 
 But also it shall be her votary's fate, 
 Through her his early days of ease to eschew, 
 
 Struggle with life and prove its weary weight. 
 All the great storms that rising rend the soul, 
 Are life in little, imaging the whole. 
 
 Ay, so as life is, love is, in their ken 
 
 Stars, infant yet, both thought to grasp, to keep, 
 Then came the morn of passionate splendour, when 
 
 So sweet the light, none but for bliss could weep, 
 And then the strife, the toil ; but we are men, 
 
 Strong, brave to battle with the stormy deep ; 
 Then fear and then renunciation then 
 Appeak unto the Infinite Pity and sleep. 
 
 But after life the sleep is long. Not so 
 
 With love. Love buried lieth not straight, not still, 
 Love starts, and after lull awakes to know 
 
 All the deep things again. And next his will, 
 That dearest pang is, never to forego. 
 
 He would all service, hardship, fret fulfil. 
 Unhappy love ! and I of that great host 
 Unhappy love who cry, unhappy most. 
 
130 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 Because renunciation was so short, 
 
 The starved heart so easily awaked ; 
 A dream could do it, a bud, a bird, a thought, 
 
 But I betook me with that want which ached 
 To neighbour lands where strangeness with me wrought. 
 
 The old work was so hale, its fitness slaked 
 Soul- thirst for truth. ' I knew not doubt nor fear,' 
 Its language, ' war or worship, sure sincere.' 
 
 Then where by Art the high did best translate 
 Life's infinite pathos to the soul, set down 
 
 Beauty and mystery, that imperious hate 
 
 On its best braveness doth and sainthood frown, 
 
 Nay more the MASTER'S manifest pity ' wait, 
 Behold the palmgrove and the promised crown. 
 
 He suffers with thee, for thee. Lo the Child ! 
 
 Comfort thy heart ; He certainly so smiled.' 
 
 Thus love and I wore through the winter time. 
 
 Then saw her demon blush Vesuvius try, 
 Then evil ghosts white from the awful prime, 
 
 Thrust up sharp peaks to tear the tender sky. 
 4 No more to do but hear that English chime,' 
 
 I to a kinsman wrote. He made reply, 
 * As home I bring my girl and boy full soon, 
 I pass through Evesham, meet me there at noon. 
 
THE BELL- BIRD. 131 
 
 4 The bells your father loved you needs must hear, 
 Seek Oxford next with me,' and told the day. 
 
 1 Upon the bridge I '11 meet you. What ! how dear 
 Soever was a dream, shall it bear sway 
 
 To mar the waking ? 7 
 
 I set forth, drew near, 
 Beheld a goodly tower, twin churches grey, 
 
 Evesham. The bridge, and noon. I nothing knew 
 
 What to my heart that fateful chime would do. 
 
 For suddenly the sweet bells overcame 
 
 A world unsouled ; did all with man endow ; 
 
 His yearning almost tell that passeth name 
 
 And said they were full old, and they were now 
 
 And should be ; and their sighing upon the same 
 For our poor sake that pass they did avow, 
 
 While on clear Avon flowed like man's short day 
 
 The shining river of life lapsing away. 
 
 The stroke of noon. The bell-bird ! yes and no. 
 
 Winds of remembrance swept as over the foam 
 Of anti-natal shores. At home is it so, 
 
 My country folk ? Ay, 'neath this pale blue dome, 
 Many of you in the moss lie low lie low. 
 
 Ah ! since I have not HER, give me too, home. 
 A footstep near ! I turned ; past likelihood, 
 
 Past hope, before me on the bridge SHE STOOD. 
 
132 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 t 
 
 A rosy urchin had her hand ; this cried, 
 
 6 We think you are our cousin yes, you are ; 
 
 I said so to Estelle.' The violet-eyed, 
 
 f If this be Geoffrey ? ' asked ; and as from far 
 
 A doubt came floating up ; but she denied 
 
 Her thought, yet blushed. O beautiful ! my Star ! 
 
 Then, with the lifting of my hat, each wore 
 
 That look which owned to each, ' We have met before.' 
 
 Then was the strangest bliss in life made mine ; 
 
 I saw the almost worshipped all remote ; 
 The Star so high above that used to shine, 
 
 Translated from the void where it did float, 
 And brought into relation with the fine 
 
 Charities earth hath grown. A great joy smote 
 Me silent, and the child atween us tway, 
 
 We watched the lucent river stealing away. 
 
 While her deep eyes down on the ripple fell, 
 Quoth the small imp, ' How fast you go and go, 
 
 You Avon. Does it wish to stop, Estelle, 
 And hear the clock, and see the orchards blow ? 
 
 // does not care ! Not when the old big bell 
 
 Makes a great buzzing noise ? Who told you so ? ' 
 
 And then to me, I like to hear it hum. 
 
 Why do you think that father could not come ? 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 133 
 
 Estelle forgot her violin. And he, 
 
 O then he said : " How careless, child, of you ; 
 I must send on for it. T would pity be 
 
 If that were lost." 
 
 I want to learn it too ; 
 And when I 'm nine I shall.' 
 
 Then turning, she 
 
 Let her sweet eyes unveil them to my view ; 
 Her stately grace outmatched my dream of old, 
 But ah ! the smile dull memory had not told. 
 
 My kinsman next, with care-worn kindly brow. 
 
 4 Well, father,' quoth the imp, < we've done our part. 
 We found him.' 
 
 And she, wholly girlish now, 
 
 Laid her young hand on his with lovely art 
 And sweet excuses. O ! I made my vow 
 
 I would all dare, such life did warm my heart ; 
 We journeyed, all the air with scents of price 
 Was laden, and the goal was Paradise. 
 
134 THE BELL-BIRD. 
 
 When that the Moors betook them to their sand, 
 Their domination over in fair Spain, 
 
 Each locked, men say, his door in that loved land, 
 And took the key in hope to come again. 
 
 On Moorish walls yet hung, long dust each hand, 
 The keys, but not the might to use, remain ; 
 
 Is there such house in some blest land for me ? 
 
 I can, I will, I do reach down the key. 
 
 A country conquered oft, and long before, 
 Of generations aye ordained to win ; 
 
 If mine the power, I will unlock the door. 
 Enter, O light, I bear a sunbeam in. 
 
 What, did the crescent wane ! Yet man is more, 
 And love achieves because to heaven akin. 
 
 O life ! to hear again that wandering bell, 
 
 And hear it at thy feet, Estelle, Estelle. 
 
 Full oft I want the sacred throated bird, 
 
 Over our limitless waste of light which spoke 
 
 The spirit of the call my fathers heard, 
 
 Saying ' Let us pray,' and old world echoes woke 
 
 Ethereal minster bells that still averr'd, 
 
 And with their phantom notes th' all silence broke. 
 
 1 The fanes are far, but whom they shrined is near. 
 
 Thy God, the Island God, is here, is here.' 
 
THE BELL-BIRD. 135 
 
 To serve ; to serve a thought, and serve apart 
 To meet ; a few short days, a maiden won. 
 
 1 Ah, sweet, sweet home, I must divide my heart, 
 Betaking me to countries of the sun.' 
 
 ' What straight-hung leaves, what rays that twinkle and 
 
 dart, 
 Make me to like them.' 
 
 * Love, it shall be done.' 
 
 c What weird dawn-fire across the wide hill flies.' 
 * It is the flame-tree's challenge to yon scarlet skies.' 
 
 ' Hark, hark, O hark ! the spirit of a bell ! 
 
 What would it? (' Toll.') An air-hung sacred call, 
 Athwart the forest shade it strangely fell ' 
 
 < Toll'* Toll.' 
 
 The longed-for voice, but ah, withal 
 I felt, I knew, it was my father's knell 
 
 That touched and could the over-sense enthral. 
 Perfect his peace, a whispering pure and deep 
 As theirs who 'neath his native towers by Avon sleep. 
 
136 THE BELL- BIRD. 
 
 If love and death are ever reconciled, 
 
 T is when the old lie down for the great rest. 
 
 We rode across the bush, a sylvan wild 
 
 That was an almost world, whose calm oppressed 
 
 With audible silence ; and great hills inisled 
 Rose out as from a sea. Consoling, blest 
 
 And blessing spoke she, and the reedflower spread, 
 
 And tall rock lilies towered above her head. 
 
 Sweet is the light aneath our matchless blue, 
 The shade below yon passion plant that lies, 
 
 And very sweet is love, and sweet are you, 
 My little children dear, with violet eyes, 
 
 And sweet about the dawn to hear anew 
 The sacred monotone of peace arise. 
 
 Love, ; t is thy welcome from the air-hung bell, 
 
 Congratulant and clear, Estelle, Estelle. 
 
137 
 
 LOSS AND WASTE. 
 
 P to far Osteroe and Suderoe 
 
 The deep sea-floor lies strewn with Spanish 
 
 wrecks, 
 
 O'er minted gold the fair-haired fishers go, 
 O'er sunken bravery of high carved decks. 
 
 In earlier days great Carthage suffered bale 
 
 (All her waste works choke under sandy shoals) ; 
 
 And reckless hands tore down the temple veil ; 
 And Omar burned the Alexandrian rolls. 
 
 The Old World arts men suffered not to last, 
 
 Flung down they trampled lie and sunk from view, 
 
 He lets wild forest for these ages past 
 Grow over the lost cities of the New. 
 
 O for a life that shall not be refused 
 
 To see the lost things found, and waste things used. 
 
138 
 
 ON A PICTURE. 
 
 S a forlorn soul waiting by the Styx 
 
 Dimly expectant of lands yet more dim, 
 Might peer afraid where shadows change and 
 
 mix 
 Till the dark ferryman shall come for him ; 
 
 And past all hope a long ray in his sight, 
 
 Fall'n trickling down the steep crag Hades-black 
 
 Reveals an upward path to life and light, 
 Nor any let but he should mount that track : 
 
 As with the sudden shock of joy amazed, 
 He might a motionless sweet moment stand, 
 
 So doth that mortal lover, silent, dazed, 
 
 For hope had died and loss was near at hand. 
 
 ' Wilt thou ? ' his quest. Unready but for * Nay,' 
 He stands at fault for joy, she whispering ' Ay. 7 
 
THE 
 
 SLEEP OF SIGISMUND 
 
141 
 
 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 boom'fc king pacing all nigf)f f!)rougl) 
 (f)C nrinbs fatten). 
 
 ' Let me alone, mine enemy, let me alone,' 
 Never a Christian bell that dire thick gloom 
 
 to hallow, 
 Or guide him, shelterless, succourless, thrust from his own. 
 
 Foul spirits riding the wind do flout at him friendless, 
 The rain and the storm on his head beat ever at will ; 
 His weird is on him to grope in the dark with endless 
 Weariful feet for a goal that shifteth still. 
 
 A sleuth-hound baying ! The sleuth-hound bayeth be- 
 hind him, 
 
 His head he flying and stumbling turns back to the sound, 
 
 Whom doth the sleuth-hound follow ? What if it find 
 him ; 
 
 Up ! for the scent lieth thick, up from the level ground. 
 
142 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 Up, on, he must on, to follow his weird essaying, 
 Lo you, a flood from the crag cometh raging past, 
 He falls, he fights in the water, no stop, no staying, 
 Soon the king's head goes under, the weird is dreed at 
 last. 
 
 1 Wake, O king, the best star worn 
 In the crown of night, forlorn 
 Blinks a fine white point 'tis morn.' 
 Soft ! The queen's voice, fair is she, 
 * Wake ! ' He waketh, living, free, 
 In the chamber of arras lieth he. 
 Delicate dim shadows yield 
 Silken curtains over head 
 All abloom with work of neeld, 
 Martagon and milleflower spread. 
 On the wall his golden shield, 
 Dinted deep in battle field, 
 When the host o' the Khalif fled. 
 Gold to gold ! Long sunbeams flit 
 Upward, tremble and break on it. 
 1 Ay, 't is over, all things writ 
 Of my sleep shall end awake, 
 Now is joy, and all its bane 
 The dark shadow of after pain.' 
 Then the queen saith, * Nay, but break 
 Unto me for dear love's sake 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 143 
 
 This thy matter. Thou hast been 
 In great bitterness I ween 
 All the night-time.' But ' My queen, 
 Life, love, lady, rest content, 
 111 dreams fly, the night is spent, 
 Good day draweth on. Lament 
 'Vaileth not, yea peace,' quoth he ; 
 * Sith this thing no better may be, 
 Best were held 'twixt thee and me.' 
 Then the fair queen, ' Even so 
 As thou wilt, O king, but know 
 Mickle nights have wrought thee woe, 
 Yet the last was troubled sore 
 Above all that went before.' 
 Quoth the king, ' No more, no more.' 
 Then he riseth, pale of blee, 
 As one spent, and utterly 
 Master'd of dark destiny. 
 
 Comes a day for glory famed 
 Tidings brought, the enemy shamed, 
 Fallen ; now is peace proclaimed. 
 And a swarm of bells on high 
 Make their sweet din scale the sky, 
 ' Hail ! hail ! hail ! ' the people cry 
 
144 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 To the king his queen beside, 
 And the knights in armour ride 
 After until eventide. 
 
 in 
 
 All things great may life afford, 
 
 Praise, power, love, high pomp, fair gaud, 
 
 Till the banquet be toward 
 
 Hath this king. Then day takes flight, 
 
 Sinketh sun and fadeth light, 
 
 Late he coucheth Night ; ; t is night. 
 
 proub king ^cabing tfye f)osf on i$ reb-rocw 
 charger. 
 
 Dust. On a thicket of spears glares the Syrian sun, 
 The Saracens swarm to the onset, larger aye larger 
 Loom their fierce cohorts, they shout as the day were 
 won. 
 
 Brown faces fronting the steel-bright armour, and ever 
 The crash o' the combat runs on with a mighty cry, 
 
 Fell tumult ; trampling and carnage then fails endeavour, 
 O shame upon shame the Christians falter and fly. 
 
 The foe upon them, the foe afore and behind them, 
 
 The king borne back in the melee ; all, all is vain ; 
 They fly with death at their heels, fierce sun-rays blind 
 
 them, 
 
 Riderless steeds affrighted, tread down their ranks 
 amain. 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 145 
 
 Disgrace, dishonour, no rally, ah no retrieving, 
 
 The scorn of scorns shall his name and his nation 
 
 brand, 
 T is a sword that smites from the rear, his helmet 
 
 cleaving, 
 
 That hurls him to earth, to his death on the desert 
 sand. 
 
 Ever they fly, the cravens, and ever reviling 
 
 Flies after. Athirst, ashamed, he yieldeth his breath, 
 
 While one looks down from his charger ; a calm slow 
 
 smiling 
 Curleth his lip. 'T is the Khalif. And this is death. 
 
 IV 
 
 ' Wake, yon purple peaks arise, 
 Jagged, bare, through saffron skies ; 
 Now is heard a twittering sweet, 
 For the mother-martins meet, 
 Where wet ivies, dew-besprent, 
 Glisten on the battlement. 
 Now the lark at heaven's gold gate 
 Aiming, sweetly chides on fate 
 That his brown wings wearied were 
 When he, sure, was almost there. 
 Now the valley mist doth break, 
 Shifting sparkles edge the lake, 
 Love, Lord, Master,, wake, O wake ! ' 
 
146 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 Ay, he wakes, and dull of cheer^ 
 Though this queen be very dear, 
 Though a respite come with day 
 From th' abhorred flight and fray, 
 E'en though life be not the cost, 
 Nay, nor crown nor honour lost ; 
 For in his soul abideth fear 
 Worse than of the Khalif s spear, 
 Smiting when perforce in flight 
 He was borne, for that was night, 
 That his weird. But now 't is day, 
 ' And good sooth I know not nay, 
 Know not how this thing could be. 
 Never, more it seemeth me 
 Than when left the weird to dree, 
 I am I. And it was I 
 Felt or ever they turned to fly, 
 How, like wind, a tremor ran, 
 The right hand of every man 
 Shaking. Ay, all banners shook, 
 And the red all cheeks forsook, 
 Mine as theirs. Since this was I, 
 Who my soul shall certify 
 When again I face the foe 
 Manful courage shall not go ? 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. U7 
 
 Ay, it is not thrust o' a spear, 
 Scorn of infidel eyes austere, 
 But mine own fear is to fear.' 
 
 VI 
 
 After sleep thus sore bested, 
 Beaten about and buffeted, 
 Featly fares the morning spent 
 In high sport and tournament. 
 
 VII 
 
 Served within his sumptuous tent, 
 Looks the king in quiet wise, 
 Till this fair queen yield the prize 
 To the bravest ; but when day 
 Falleth to the west away, 
 Unto her i' the silent hour, 
 While she sits in her rose-bower 
 Come, ' O love, full oft,' quoth she, 
 * I at dawn have prayed thee 
 Thou would'st tell o' the weird to me, 
 Sith I might some counsel find 
 Of my wit or in my mind 
 Thee to better.' * Ay, e'en so, 
 But the telling shall let thee know,' 
 Quoth the king, ' is neither scope 
 For sweet counsel nor fair hope, 
 
143 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 Nor is found for respite room, 
 Till the uttermost crack of doom.' 
 
 VIII 
 
 Then the queen saith, ' Woman's wit 
 No man asketh aid of it, 
 Not wild hyssop on a wall 
 Is of less account ; or small 
 Glossy gnats that flit i' the sun 
 Less worth weighing light so light ! 
 Yet when all 's said ay, all done, 
 Love, I love thee ! By love's might 
 I will counsel thee aright, 
 Or would share the weird to-night/ 
 Then he answer'd, ' Have thy way. 
 Know 't is two years gone and a day 
 Since I, walking lone and late, 
 Pondered sore mine ill estate ; 
 Open murmurers, foes concealed, 
 Famines dire i' the marches round, 
 Neighbour kings unfriendly found, 
 Ay, and treacherous plots revealed 
 Where I trusted. I bid stay 
 All my knights at the high crossway, 
 And did down the forest fare 
 To bethink me, and despair. 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 149 
 
 ' Ah ! thou gilded toy a throne, 
 If one mounts to thee alone, 
 Quoth I, mourning while I went, 
 Haply he may drop content 
 As a lark wing- weary down 
 To the level, and his crown 
 Leave for another man to don ; 
 Throne, thy gold steps raised upon. 
 But for me O as for me 
 What is named I would not dree, 
 Earn, or conquer, or forego 
 For the barring of overthrow. 
 
 IX 
 
 ' Aloud I spake, but verily 
 Never an answer looked should be. 
 But it came to pass from shade 
 Pacing to an open glade, 
 Which the oaks a mighty wall 
 Fence about, methought a call 
 Sounded, then a pale thin mist 
 Rose, a pillar, and fronted me, 
 Rose and took a form I wist, 
 And it wore a hood on 'ts head, 
 And a long white garment spread, 
 And I saw the eyes thereof. 
 
150 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 ' Then my plumed cap I doff, 
 
 Stooping. *T is the white-witch. " Hail/ ; 
 
 Quoth the witch, " thou shalt prevail 
 
 An thou wilt ; I swear to thee 
 
 All thy days shall glorious shine, 
 
 Great and rich, ay, fair and fine, 
 
 So what followeth rest my fee, 
 
 So thou 'It give thy sleep to me." 
 
 XI 
 
 ' While she spake my heart did leap. 
 Waking is man's life, and sleep 
 What is sleep ? a little death 
 Coming after, and methought 
 Life is mine and death is nought 
 Till it come, so day is mine 
 I will risk the sleep to shine 
 In the waking. 
 
 And she saith, 
 
 In a soft voice clear and low, 
 u Give thy plumed cap also 
 For a token/ 7 ' 
 
 ' Didst thou give ? ' 
 Quoth the queen ; and ' As I live,' 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 151 
 
 He makes answer, ' none can tell. 
 
 I did will my sleep to sell, 
 
 And in token held to her 
 
 That she asked. And it fell 
 
 To the grass. I saw no stir 
 
 In her hand or in her face, 
 
 And no going ; but the place 
 
 Only for an evening mist 
 
 Was made empty. There it lay 
 
 That same plumed cap, alway 
 
 On the grasses but I wist 
 
 Well, it must be let to lie, 
 
 And I left it. Now the tale 
 
 Ends, th' events do testify 
 
 Of her truth. The days go by 
 
 Better and better ; nought doth ail 
 
 In the land, right happy and hale 
 
 Dwell the seely folk ; but sleep 
 
 Brings a reckoning ; then forth creep 
 
 Dreaded creatures, worms of might 
 
 Crested with my plumed cap 
 
 Loll about my neck all night, 
 
 Bite me in the side, and lap 
 
 My heart's blood. Then oft the weird 
 
 Drives me, where amazed, afeard, 
 
 I do safe on a river strand 
 
 Mark one sinking hard at hand 
 
 While fierce sleuth-hounds that me track 
 
152 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 Fly upon me, bear me back, 
 Fling me away, and he for lack 
 Of man's aid in piteous wise 
 Goeth under, drowns and dies. 
 
 XII 
 
 ' O sweet wife, I suffer sore 
 
 methinks aye more and more 
 Dull my day, my courage numb, 
 Shadows from the night to come. 
 But no counsel, hope, nor aid 
 
 Is to give ; a crown being made 
 Power and rule, yea all good things 
 Yet to hang on this same weird 
 
 1 must dree it, ever that brings 
 Chastening from the white-witch feared. 
 O that dreams mote me forsake, 
 Would that man could alway wake. 7 
 
 XIII 
 
 Now good sooth doth counsel fail, 
 
 Ah this queen is pale, so pale. 
 
 ' Love,' she sigheth, t thou didst not well 
 
 Listening to the white-witch fell, 
 
 Leaving her doth thee advance 
 
 Thy plumed cap of maintenance.' 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 153 
 
 XIV 
 
 ' She is white, as white snow flake/ 
 Quoth the king ; ' a man shall make 
 Bargains with her and not sin.' 
 ' Ay/ she saith, ' but an he win, 
 Let him look the right be done 
 Else the rue shall be his own. 7 
 
 xv 
 
 No more words. The stars are bright, 
 For the feast high halls be dight, 
 Late he coucheth. Night 't is night. 
 
 beab king Irnng in sfafe in tfye Cluster 
 
 Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his feet, 
 A crown and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly, 
 And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold palms 
 meet. 
 
 Two days dead. Is he dead? Nay, nay but is he 
 
 living ? 
 
 The weary monks have ended their chantings manifold, 
 The great door swings behind them, night winds entrance 
 
 giving, 
 The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he so cold. 
 
154 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 Neither to move nor to moan, though sunk and though 
 
 swallow'd 
 In earth he shall soon be trodden hard and no more 
 
 seen. 
 
 Soft you the door again ! Was it a footstep followed, 
 Falter'd, and yet drew near him ? Malva, Malva the 
 queen ! 
 
 One hand o' the dead king liveth (e'en so him seemeth) 
 On the purple robe, on the ermine that folds his breast 
 
 Cold, very cold. Yet e'en at that pass esteemeth 
 
 The king, it were sweet if she kissed the place of its rest. 
 
 Laid her warm face on his bosom, a fair wife grieved 
 For the lord and love of her youth, and bewailed him 
 sore ; 
 
 Laid her warm face on the bosom of her bereaved 
 Soon to go under, never to look on her more. 
 
 His candles guide her with pomp funereal flaring, 
 Out of the gulfy dark to the bier whereon he lies. 
 
 Cometh this queen i' the night for grief or for daring, 
 Out o' the dark to the light with large affrighted eyes ? 
 
 The pale queen speaks in the Presence with fear upon 
 
 her, 
 4 Where is the ring I gave to thee, where is my ring ? 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 155 
 
 I vowed 't was an evil vow by love, and by honour, 
 . Come life or come death to be thine, thou poor dead 
 king.' 
 
 The pale queen's honour ! A low laugh scathing and 
 
 sereing 
 
 A mumbling as made by the dead in the tombs ye wot. 
 Braveth the dead this queen ? ' Hear it, whoso hath 
 
 hearing, 
 I vowed by my love, cold king, but I loved thee not.' 
 
 Honour ! An echo in aisles and the solemn portals, 
 Low sinketh this queen by the bier with its freight for- 
 lorn; 
 
 Yet kneeling, 'Hear me ! ' shecrieth, 'you just immortals, 
 You saints bear witness I vowed and am not forsworn. 
 
 I vowed in my youth, fool-king, when the golden fetter 
 Thy love that bound me and bann'd me full weary I 
 wore, 
 
 But all poor men of thy menai I held them better, 
 All stalwart knights of thy train unto me were more. 
 
 Twenty years I have lived on earth and two beside thee, 
 Thirty years thou didst live on earth, and two on the 
 
 throne : 
 
 Let it suffice there be none of thy rights denied thee, 
 Though I dare thy presence I come for my ring 
 alone.' 
 
156 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 She risen shuddereth, peering, afraid to linger. 
 
 Behold her ring, it shineth ! * Now yield to me, thou 
 
 dead, 
 
 For this do I dare the touch of thy stark stiff finger.' 
 The queen hath drawn her ring from his hand, the 
 queen hath fled. 
 
 4 O woman fearing sore, to whom my man's heart cleaved, 
 The faith enwrought with love and life hath mocks for 
 
 its meed ' 
 The dead king lying in state, of his past bereaved, 
 
 Twice dead. Ay, this is death. Now dieth the king 
 indeed. 
 
 XVI 
 
 1 Wake, the seely gnomes do fly, 
 Drenched across yon rainy sky, 
 With the vex'd moon-mother'd elves, 
 And the clouds do weep themselves 
 Into morning. 
 
 All night long 
 
 Hath thy weird thee sore opprest ; 
 Wake, I have found within my breast 
 Counsel.' Ah, the weird was strong, 
 But the time is told. Release 
 Openeth on him when his eyes 
 Lift them in dull desolate wise, 
 And behold he is at peace. 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 157 
 
 Ay, but silent. Of all done 
 And all suffer' d in the night, 
 Of all ills that do him spite 
 She shall never know that one. 
 Then he heareth accents bland, 
 Seeth the queen's ring on his hand, 
 And he riseth calmed withal. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Rain and wind on the palace wall 
 Beat and bluster, sob and moan, 
 When at noon he musing lone, 
 Comes the queen anigh his seat, 
 And she kneeleth at his feet 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Quoth the queen, ' My love, my lord, 
 Take thy wife and take thy sword, 
 We must forth in the stormy weather, 
 Thou and I to the witch together. 
 Thus I rede thee counsel deep, 
 Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep, 
 Turning so man's wholesome life 
 From its meaning. Thine intent 
 None shall hold for innocent. 
 
158 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 Thou dost take thy good things first, 
 Then thou art cast into the worst ; 
 First the glory, then the strife. 
 Nay, but first thy trouble dree, 
 So thy peace shall sweeter be. 
 First to work and then to rest, 
 Is the way for our humanity, 
 Ay, she sayeth that loves thee best, 
 We must forth and from this strife 
 Buy the best part of man's life ; 
 Best and worst thou holdest still 
 Subject to a witch's will. 
 Thus I rede thee counsel deep, 
 Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep ; 
 Take the crown from off thy head, 
 Give it the white-witch instead, 
 If in that she say thee nay, 
 Get the night, and give the day.' 
 
 XIX 
 
 Then the king (amazed, mild, 
 
 As one reasoning with a child 
 
 All his speech) : ' My wife ! my fair ! ' 
 
 And his hand on her brown hair 
 
 Trembles \ l Lady, dost indeed 
 
 Weigh the meaning of thy rede ? 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 159 
 
 Would'st thou dare the dropping away 
 Of allegiance, should our sway 
 And sweet splendour and renown 
 All be risked ? (methinks a crown 
 Doth become thee marvellous well). 
 We ourself are, truth to tell, 
 Kingly both of wont and kind, 
 Suits not such the craven mind.' 
 ' Yet this weird thou can'st not dree.' 
 Quoth the queen, ' And live ; ; then he, 
 ' I must die and leave the fair 
 Unborn, long-desired heir 
 To his rightful heritage.' 
 
 xx 
 
 But this queen arisen doth high 
 Her two hands uplifting, sigh 
 ' God forbid.' And he to assuage 
 Her keen sorrow, for his part 
 Searcheth, nor can find in his heart 
 Words. And weeping she will rest 
 Her sweet cheek upon his breast, 
 Whispering, * Dost thou verily 
 Know thou art to blame ? Ah me, 
 Come,' and yet beseecheth she, 
 ' Ah me, come.' 
 
160 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 For good for ill, 
 
 Whom man loveth hath her will. 
 Court and castle left behind, 
 Stolen forth in the rain and wind, 
 Soon they are deep in the forest, fain 
 The white-witch to raise again ; 
 Down and deep where flat o'erhead 
 Layer on layer do cedars spread, 
 Down where lordly maples strain, 
 Wrestling with the storm amain. 
 
 XXI 
 
 Wide-wing'd eagles struck on high 
 Headlong falPn break through, and lie 
 With their prey in piteous wise, 
 And no film on their dead eyes. 
 Matted branches grind and crash, 
 Into darkness dives the flash, 
 Stabs, a dread gold dirk of fire, 
 Loads the lift with splinters dire. 
 Then a pause i' the deadly feud 
 And a sick cowed quietude. 
 
 XXII 
 
 Soh ! A pillar misty and grey, 
 'T is the white-witch in the way. 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. I6i 
 
 Shall man deal with her and gain ? 
 I trow not. Albeit the twain 
 Costly gear and gems and gold 
 Freely offer, she will hold 
 Sleep and token for the pay 
 She did get for greatening day. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 1 Or the night shall rest my fee 
 Or the day shall nought of me,' 
 Quoth the witch. * An 't thee beseem, 
 Sell thy kingdom for a dream.' 
 
 XXIV 
 
 1 Now what will be let it be ! ' 
 
 Quoth the queen ; c but choose the right.' 
 
 And the white-witch scorns at her, 
 
 Stately standing in their sight. 
 
 Then without or sound or stir 
 
 She is not. For offering meet 
 
 Liet the token at their feet, 
 
 Which they, weary and sore bestead 
 
 In the storm, lift up, full fain 
 
 Ere the waning light hath fled 
 
 Those high towers they left to gain. 
 
 M 
 
162 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 XXV 
 
 Deep among tree roots astray 
 Here a torrent tears its way, 
 There a cedar split aloft 
 Lies head downward. Now the oft 
 Muttering thunder, now the wind 
 Wakens. How the path to find ? 
 How the turning ? Deep ay deep, 
 Far ay far. She needs must weep, 
 This fair woman, lost, astray 
 In the forest ; nought to say. 
 Yet the sick thoughts come and go, 
 4 1, 't was I would have it so.' 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Shelter at the last, a roof 
 
 Wrought of ling (in their behoof, 
 
 Foresters, that drive the deer). 
 
 What, and must they couch them here ? 
 
 Ay, and ere the twilight fall 
 
 Gather forest berries small 
 
 And nuts down beaten for a meal. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 Now the shy wood-wonners steal 
 Nearer, bright-eyed furry things, 
 Winking owls on silent wings 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 163 
 
 Glance, and float away. The light 
 In the wake o' the storm takes flight, 
 Day departeth : night 't is night. 
 
 crcmw'b king musing at morn bg a clear 
 sn>eef riser. 
 
 Palms on the slope o' the valley, and no winds blow ; 
 Birds blameless, dove-eyed, mystical talk deliver, 
 Oracles haply. The language he doth not know. 
 
 Bare, blue, are yon peaked hills for a rampart lying, 
 As dusty gold is the light in the palms o'erhead, 
 
 ' What is the name o' the land? and this calm sweet sighing, 
 If it be echo, where first was it caught and spread ? 
 
 I might I might be at rest in some field Elysian, 
 If this be asphodel set in the herbage fair, 
 
 I know not how I should wonder, so sweet the vision, 
 So clear and silent the water, the field, the air. 
 
 Love, are you by me ! Malva, what think you this 
 meaneth ? 
 
 Love, do you see the fine folk as they move over there ? 
 Are they immortals ? Look you a winged one leaneth 
 
 Down from yon pine to the river of us unaware. 
 
 All unaware ; and the country is full of voices, 
 
 Mild strangers passing : they reck not of me nor of thee. 
 
 M 2 
 
164 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 List ! about and around us wondrous sweet noises, 
 Laughter of little children and maids that dreaming be. 
 
 Love, I can see their dreams.' A dim smile flitteth 
 Over her lips, and they move as in peace supreme, 
 
 And a small thing, silky haired, beside her sitteth, 
 ' O this is thy dream atween us this is thy dream.' 
 
 Was it then truly his dream with her dream that blended? 
 ' Speak, dear child dear,' quoth the queen, ' and mine 
 
 own little son.' 
 
 ' Father, the small thing murmurs ; then all is ended, 
 He starts from that passion of peace ay, the dream is 
 done. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 1 1 have been in a good land,' 
 Quoth the king : ' O sweet sleep bland, 
 Blessed ! I am grown to more, 
 Now the doing of right hath moved 
 Me to love of right, and proved 
 If one doth it, he shall be 
 Twice the man he was before. 
 Verily and verily, 
 Thou fair woman, thou didst well ; 
 I look back and scarce may tell 
 Those false days of tinsel sheen, 
 Flattery, feasting, that have been. 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 165 
 
 Shows of life that were but shows, 
 How they held me ; being I ween 
 Like sand-pictures thin, that rose 
 Quivering, when our thirsty bands 
 Marched i ; the hot Egyptian lands ; 
 Shade of palms on a thick green plot, 
 Pools of water that was not, 
 Mocking us and melting away. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 I have been a witch's prey, 
 
 Art mine enemy now by day, 
 
 Thou fell Fear ? There comes an end 
 
 To the day ; thou canst not wend 
 
 After me where I shall fare, 
 
 My foredoomed peace to share. 
 
 And awake with a better heart, 
 
 I shall meet thee and take my part 
 
 O' the dull world's dull spite ; with thine 
 
 Hard will I strive for me and mine/ 
 
 XXX 
 
 A page and a palfrey pacing nigh, 
 Malva the queen awakes. A sigh- 
 One amazed moment 'Ay, 
 We remember yesterday, 
 
166 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 Let us to the palace straight : 
 What ! do all my ladies wait 
 Is no zeal to find me ? What ! 
 No knights forth to meet the king ; 
 Due observance, is it forgot ? ' 
 
 XXXI 
 
 t Lady,' quoth the page, ' I bring 
 Evil news, Sir king, I say, 
 My good lord of yesterday, 
 Evil news.' This king saith low, 
 ' Yesterday, and yesterday, 
 The queen's yesterday we know, 
 Tell us thine.' ' Sir king,' saith he, 
 * Hear. Thy castle in the night 
 Was surprised, and men thy flight 
 Learned but then ; thine enemy 
 Of old days, our new king, reigns ; 
 And sith thou wert not at pains 
 To forbid it, hear also, 
 Marvelling whereto this should grow 
 How thy knights at break of morn 
 Have a new allegiance sworn, 
 And the men-at-arms rejoice, 
 And the people give their voice 
 For the conqueror. I, sir king, 
 Rest thine only friend. I bring 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. H,7 
 
 Means of flight ; now therefore fly, 
 A great price is on thy head. 
 Cast her jewel'd mantle by, 
 Mount thy queen i' the selle and hie 
 (Sith disguise ye need, and bread) 
 Down yon pleached track, down, down, 
 Till a tower shall on thee frown ; 
 Him that holds it show this ring : 
 So farewell, my lord the king.' 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Had one marked that palfrey led 
 To the tower, he sooth had said, 
 These are royal folk and rare 
 Jewels in her plaited hair 
 Shine not clearer than her eyes, 
 And her lord in goodly wise 
 With his plumed cap in 's hand 
 Moves in the measure of command. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Had one marked where stole forth two 
 From the friendly tower anew, 
 1 Common folk,' he sooth had said, 
 Making for the mountain track. 
 Common, common, man and maid. 
 
168 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 Clad in russet, and of kind 
 Meet for russet. On his back 
 A wallet bears the stalwart hind ; 
 She, all shy, in rustic grace 
 Steps beside her man apace, 
 And wild roses match her face. 
 
 xxxiv 
 
 Whither speed they ? Where are toss'd 
 Like sea foam the dwarfed pines 
 At the jagged sharp inclines ; 
 To the country of the frost 
 Up the mountains to be lost, 
 Lost. No better now may be, 
 Lost where mighty hollows thrust 
 'Twixt the fierce teeth of the world, 
 Fill themselves with crimson dust 
 When the tumbling sun down hurl'd 
 Stares among them drearily, 
 As a ? wondering at the lone 
 Gulfs that weird gaunt company 
 Fenceth in. Lost there unknown, 
 Lineage, nation, name, and throne. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Lo, in a crevice choked with ling 
 And fir, this man, not now the king, 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 169 
 
 This Sigismund, hath made a fire, 
 And by his wife in the dark night 
 He leans at watch, her guard and squire. 
 His wide eyes stare out for the light 
 Weary. He needs must chide on fate, 
 And she is asleep. l Poor brooding mate, 
 What ! wilt thou on the mountain crest 
 Slippery and cold scoop thy first nest ? 
 Or must I clear some uncouth cave 
 That laired the mother wolf, and save 
 Spearing her cubs the grey pelt fine 
 To be a bed for thee and thine ? 
 It is my doing. Ay,' quoth he, 
 ' Mine ; but who dares to pity thee 
 Shall pity, not for loss of all, 
 But that thou wert my wife perdie, 
 E'en wife unto a witch's thrall, 
 A man beholden to the cold 
 Cloud for a covering, he being sold 
 And hunted for reward of gold.' 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 But who shall chronicle the ways 
 Of common folk the nights and days 
 Spent with rough goatherds- on their snows, 
 Of travellers come whence no man knows, 
 
170 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 Then gone aloft on some sharp height 
 In the dumb peace and the great light 
 Amid brown eagles and wild roes ? 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 'T is the whole world whereon they lie, 
 
 The rocky pastures hung on high 
 
 Shelve off upon an empty sky. 
 
 But they creep near the edge, look down 
 
 Great heaven 1 another world afloat, 
 
 Moored as in seas of air ; remote 
 
 As their own childhood ; swooning away 
 
 Into a tenderer sweeter day, 
 
 Innocent, sunny. ' O for wings ! 
 
 There lie the lands of other kings 
 
 I, Sigismund, my sometime crown 
 
 Forfeit ; forgotten of renown 
 
 My wars, my rule ; I fain would go 
 
 Down to yon peace obscure.' 
 
 Even so ; 
 
 Down to the country of the thyme, 
 Where young kids dance, and a soft chime 
 Of sheepbells tinkles ; then at last 
 Down to a country of hollows, cast 
 Up at the mountains full of trees, 
 Down to fruit orchards and wide leas, 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 171 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 With name unsaid and fame unsunned 
 
 He walks that was King Sigismund. 
 
 With palmers holy and pilgrims brown, 
 
 New from the East, with friar and clown, 
 
 He mingles in a walled town, 
 
 And in the mart where men him scan 
 
 He passes for a merchant man. 
 
 For from his vest, where by good hap 
 
 He thrust it, he his plumed cap 
 
 Hath drawn and plucked the gems away, 
 
 And up and down he makes essay 
 
 To sell them ; they are all his wares 
 
 And wealth. He is a man of cares, 
 
 A man of toil ; no roof hath he 
 
 To shelter her full soon to be 
 
 The mother of his dispossessed 
 
 Desired heir. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Few words are best. 
 He, once King Sigismund, saith few, 
 But makes good diligence and true. 
 Soon with the gold he gather'd so, 
 A little homestead lone and low 
 He buyeth : a field, a copse, with these 
 A melon patch and mulberry trees. 
 
172 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 And is the man content ? Nay, morn 
 Is toilsome, oft is noon forlorn, 
 Though right be done and life be won, 
 Yet hot is weeding in the sun, 
 Yea scythe to wield and axe to swing, 
 Are hard on sinews of a king. 
 
 XL 
 
 And Malva, must she toil ? E'en so. 
 Full patiently she takes her part, 
 All, all so new. But her deep heart 
 Forebodes more change than shall be shown 
 Betwixt a settle and a throne. 
 And lost in musing she will go 
 About the winding of her silk, 
 About the skimming her goat's milk, 
 About the kneading of her bread, 
 And water drawn from her well-head. 
 
 XLI 
 
 Then come the long nights dark and still, 
 Then come the leaves and cover the sill, 
 Then come the swift flocks of the stare, 
 Then comes the snow then comes the heir. 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 173 
 
 XLII 
 
 If he be glad, if he be sad, 
 
 How should one question when the hand 
 
 Is full, the heart. That life he had, 
 
 While leisure was aside may stand, 
 
 Till he shall overtake the task 
 
 Of every day, then let him ask 
 
 (If he remember if he will), 
 
 1 When I could sit me down and muse, 
 
 And match my good against mine ill, 
 
 And weigh advantage dulled by use 
 
 At nothing, was it better with me ? ' 
 
 But Sigismund ! It cannot be 
 
 But that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh, 
 
 A dreamer on a day gone by 
 
 The king is come. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 His vassals two 
 
 Serve with all homage deep and due. 
 He is contented, he doth find 
 Belike the kingdom much to his mind. 
 And when the long months of his long 
 Reign are two years, and like a song 
 From some far sweeter world, a call 
 From the king's mouth for fealty, 
 
174 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 Buds soon to blossom in language fall, 
 They listen and find not any plea 
 Left, for fine chiding at destiny. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 Sigismund hath ricked the hay, 
 
 He sitteth at close o' a sultry day 
 
 Under his mulberry boughs at ease. 
 
 1 Hey for the world, and the world is wide, 
 
 The world is mine, and the world is these.' 
 
 Beautiful Malva leans at his side, 
 
 And the small babbler talks at his knees. 
 
 XLV 
 
 Riseth a waft as of summer air, 
 Floating upon it what moveth there ? 
 Faint as the light of stars and wan 
 As snow at night when the moon is gone, 
 It is the white-witch risen once more. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 The white-witch that tempted of yore 
 
 So utterly doth substance lack, 
 
 You may breathe her nearer and breathe her 
 
 back. 
 
 Soft her eyes, her speech full clear : 
 ' Hail, thou Sigismund my fere, 
 Bargain with me yea or nay. 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 175 
 
 NAY, I go to my true place, 
 And no more thou seest my face. 
 YEA, the good be all thine own, 
 For now will I advance thy day, 
 And yet will leave the night alone.' 
 
 XLVII 
 
 Sigismund makes answer, ' NAY. 
 Though the Highest heaped on me 
 Trouble, yet the same should be 
 Welcomer than weal from thee. 
 Nay ; for ever and ever Nay.' 
 O, the white-witch floats away. 
 Look you, look ! A still pure smile 
 Blossoms on her mouth the while, 
 White wings peaked high behind, 
 Bear her ; no, the wafting wind, 
 For they move not, floats her back, 
 Floats her up. They scarce may track 
 Her swift rising, shot on high 
 Like a ray from the western sky, 
 Or a lark from some grey wold 
 Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold. 
 
 XL VI 1 1 
 
 Then these two long silence hold, 
 And the lisping babe doth say, 
 ' White white bird, it flew away.' 
 
176 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 And they marvel at these things, 
 For her ghostly visitings 
 Turn to them another face. 
 Haply she was sent, a friend 
 Trying them, and to good end 
 For their better weal and grace ; 
 One more wonder let to be 
 In the might and mystery 
 Of the world, where verily 
 And good sooth a man may wend 
 All his life, and no more view 
 Than the one right next to do. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 So, the welcome dusk is here, 
 
 Sweet is even, rest is dear ; 
 
 Mountain heads have lost the light, 
 
 Soon they couch them. Night 't is night. 
 
 t$ismunb breaming belief fscnnelg affcr fyiz paging. 
 
 (' Sleep of the labouring man,' quoth King David, ' is 
 
 sweet.') 
 
 1 Sigismund, Sigismund' c Who is this calling and saying 
 " Sigismund, Sigismund"? O blessed night do not fleet. 
 
 Is it not dark ay, methinks it is dark, I would slumber, 
 O I would rest till the swallow shall chirp 'neath mine 
 eaves.' 
 
THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 177 
 
 1 Sigismund, Sigismund,' multitudes now without number 
 Calling, the noise is as dropping of rain upon leaves. 
 
 1 Ay,' quoth he dreaming, 'say on, for I, Sigismund, 
 
 hear ye.' 
 
 1 Sigismund, Sigismund, all the knights weary full sore. 
 Come back, King Sigismund, come, they shall love thee 
 
 and fear thee, 
 The people cry out, O come back to us, reign evermore. 
 
 The new king is dead, and we will not his son, no nor 
 
 brother, 
 Come with thy queen, is she busy yet, kneading of 
 
 cakes ? - 
 
 Sigismund, show us the boy, is he safe, and his mother, 
 Sigismund?' dreaming he falls into laughter and wakes, 
 
 And men say this dream came true, 
 For he walking in the dew 
 Turned aside while yet was red 
 On the highest mountain head, 
 Looking how the wheat he set 
 Flourished. And the knights him met 
 And him prayed ' Come again, 
 Sigismund our king, and reign.' 
 But at first at first they tell 
 How it liked not Malva well ; 
 
 N 
 
ITS THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 
 
 She must leave her belted bees 
 And the kids that she did rear. 
 When she thought on it full dear 
 Seemed her home. It did not please 
 Sigismund that he must go 
 From the wheat that he did sow ; 
 When he thought on it his mind 
 Was not that should any bind 
 Into sheaves that wheat but he, 
 Only he ; and yet they went, 
 And it may be were content. 
 And they won a nation's heart ; 
 Very well they played their part. 
 They ruled with sceptre and diadem, 
 And their children after them. 
 
179 
 
 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 NLY you 'd have me speak. 
 
 Whether to speak 
 
 Or whether to be silent is all one ; 
 
 Whether to sleep and in my dreaming front 
 Her small scared face forlorn ; whether to wake 
 And muse upon her small soft feet that paced 
 The hated, hard, inhospitable stone 
 I say all 7 s one. But you would have me speak, 
 And change one sorrow for the other. Ay, 
 Right reverend father, comfortable father, 
 Old, long in thrall, and wearied of the cell, 
 So will I here here staring through the grate, 
 Whence, sheer beneath us lying the little town, 
 Her street appears a riband up the rise ; 
 Where 'tis right steep for carts, behold two ruts 
 Worn in the flat, smooth, stone. 
 
 That side I stood ; 
 
 My head was down. At first I did but see 
 Her coming feet ; they gleamed through my hot tears 
 
 N 2 
 
180 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 As she walked barefoot up yon short steep hill 
 Then I dared all, gazed on her face, the maid- 
 Martyr, and utterly, utterly broke my heart. 
 
 Her face, O ! it was wonderful to me, 
 
 There was not in it what I look'd for no, 
 
 I never saw a maid go to her death, 
 
 How should I dream that face and the dumb soul ? 
 
 Her arms and head were bare, seemly she walked 
 All in her smock so modest as she might ; 
 Upon her shoulders hung a painted cape 
 For horrible adornment, flames of fire 
 Portrayed upon it, and mocking demon heads. 
 
 Her eyes she did not see me opened wide, 
 Blue-black, gazed right before her, yet they marked 
 Nothing ; and her two hands uplift as praying, 
 She yet prayed not, wept not, sighed not. O father, 
 She was past that, soft, tender, hunted thing ; 
 But, as it seemed, confused from time to time, 
 She would half-turn her or to left or right 
 To follow other streets, doubting her way. 
 
 Then their base pikes they basely thrust at her, 
 And, like one dazed, obedient to her guides 
 She came ; I knew not if 't was present to her 
 That death was her near goal ; she was so lost, 
 
THE MAID- MARTYR. 181 
 
 And set apart from any power to think. 
 But her mouth pouted as one brooding, father, 
 Over a lifetime of forlorn fear. No, 
 Scarce was it fear ; so looks a timid child 
 (Not more affrighted ; ah ! but not so pale) 
 That has been scolded or has lost its way. 
 
 Mother and father father and mother kind, 
 She was alone, where were you hidden ? Alone, 
 And I that loved her more, or feared death less, 
 Rushed to her side, but quickly was flung back, 
 And cast behind o' the pikemen following her 
 Into a yelling and a cursing crowd, 
 That bristled thick with monks and hooded friars ; 
 Moreover, women with their cheeks ablaze, 
 Who swarmed after up the narrowing street. 
 
 Pitiful heaven ! I knew she did not hear 
 
 In that last hour the cursing, nor the foul 
 
 Words ; she had never heard like words, sweet soul, 
 
 In her life blameless ; even at that pass, 
 
 That dreadful pass, I felt it had been worse, 
 
 Though nought I longed for as for death, to know 
 
 She did. She saw not 'neath their hoods those eyes 
 
 Soft, glittering, with a lust for cruelty ; 
 
 Secret delight, that so great cruelty, 
 
 All in the sacred name of Holy Church, 
 
 Their meed to look on it should be anon. 
 
182 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 Speak ! O, I tell you this thing passeth words ! 
 
 From roofs and oriels high, women looked down ; 
 Men, maidens, children, and a fierce white sun 
 Smote blinding splinters from all spears aslant 
 
 Lo ! next a stand, so please you, certain priests 
 (May God forgive men sinning at their ease), 
 Whose duty 't was to look upon this thing, 
 Being mindful of thick pungent smoke to come, 
 Had caused a stand to rise hard by the stake, 
 Upon its windward side. 
 
 My life ! my love ! 
 
 She utter'd one sharp cry of mortal dread 
 While they did chain her. This thing passeth words, 
 Albeit told out for ever in my soul. 
 As the torch touched, thick volumes of black reek 
 Rolled out and raised the wind, and instantly 
 Long films of flaxen hair floated aloft, 
 Settled alow, in drifts upon the crowd. 
 The vile were merciful ; heaped high, my dear, 
 Thou didst not suffer long. O ! it was soon, 
 Soon over, and I knew not any more, 
 Till grovelling on the ground, beating my head, 
 I heard myself, and scarcely knew 't was I, 
 At Holy Church railing with fierce mad words, 
 Crying and craving for a stake, for me. 
 While fast the folk, as ever, such a work 
 
THE MAID-MARTYR. IS: 
 
 Being over, fled, and shrieked ' A heretic ! 
 
 More heretics ; yon ashes smoking still.' 
 
 And up and almost over me came on 
 
 A robed ecclesiastic with his train 
 
 (I choose the words lest that they do some wrong), 
 
 Call him a robed ecclesiastic proud. 
 
 And I lying helpless, with my bruised face 
 
 Beat on his garnished shoon. But he stepped back, 
 
 Spurned me full roughly with them, called the pikes, 
 
 Delivering orders, ' Take the bruised wretch. 
 
 He raves. Fool ! thou 'It hear more of this anon. 
 
 Bestow him there/ He pointed to a door. 
 
 With that some threw a cloth upon my face 
 
 Because it bled. I knew they carried me 
 
 Within his home, and I was satisfied ; 
 
 Willing my death. Was it an abbey door ? 
 
 Was 't entrance to a palace ? or a house 
 
 Of priests ? I say not, nor if abbot he, 
 
 Bishop or other dignity ; enough 
 
 That he so spake. 'Take in the bruised wretch. 7 
 
 And I was borne far up a turret stair 
 
 Into a peaked chamber taking form 
 
 O' the roof, and on a pallet bed they left 
 
 Me miserable. Yet I knew forsooth, 
 
 Left in my pain, that evil things were said 
 
 Of that same tower ; men thence had disappeared, 
 
 Suspect of heresy had disappeared, 
 
 Deliver'd up, 't was whisper'd, tried and burned. 
 
184 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 So be it methought, I would not live, not I. 
 
 But none did question me. A beldame old, 
 
 Kind, heedless of my sayings, tended me. 
 
 I raved at Holy Church and she was deaf, 
 
 And at whose tower detained me, she was dumb. 
 
 So had I food and water, rest and calm. 
 
 Then on the third day I rose up and sat 
 
 On the side of my low bed right melancholy, 
 
 All that high force of passion overpast, 
 
 I sick with dolourous thought and weak through tears 
 
 Spite of myself came to myself again 
 
 (For I had slept), and since I could not die 
 
 Looked through the window three parts overgrown 
 
 With leafage on the loftiest ivy ropes, 
 
 And saw at foot o' the rise another tower 
 
 In roof whereof a grating, dreary bare. 
 
 Lifetimes gone by, long, slow, dim, desolate, 
 
 I knew even there had been my lost love's cell. 
 
 So musing on the man that with his foot 
 
 Spurned me, the robed ecclesiastic stern, 
 
 4 Would he had haled me straight to prison,' methought, 
 
 ' So made an end at once.' 
 
 My sufferings rose 
 
 Like billows closing over, beating down ; 
 Made heavier far because of a stray, strange, 
 Sweet hope that mocked me at the last. 
 
 'T was thus, 
 
THE MAID-MARTYR. 185 
 
 I came from Oxford secretly, the news 
 
 Terrible of her danger smiting me, 
 
 She was so young, and ever had been bred 
 
 With whom 't was made a peril now to name. 
 
 There had been worship in the night ; some stole 
 
 To a mean chapel deep in woods, and heard 
 
 Preaching, and prayed. She, my betrothed, was there. 
 
 Father and mother, mother and father kind, 
 
 So young, so innocent, had ye no ruth, 
 
 No fear, that ye did bring her to her doom ? 
 
 I know the chiefest Evil One himself 
 
 Sanded that floor. Their footsteps marking it 
 
 Betrayed them. How all came to pass let be. 
 
 Parted, in hiding some, other in thrall, 
 
 Father and mother, mother and father kind, 
 
 It may be yet ye know not this not all. 
 
 I in the daytime lying perdue looked up 
 At the castle keep impregnable, no foot 
 How rash so e'er might hope to scale it. Night 
 Descending, come I near, perplexedness, 
 Contempt of danger, to the door o' the keep 
 Drawing me. There a short stone bench I found, 
 And bitterly weeping sat and leaned my head 
 Against the hopeless hated massiveness 
 Of that detested hold. A lifting moon 
 Had made encroachment on the dark, but deep 
 Was shadow where I leaned. Within a while 
 
186 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 I was aware, but saw no shape, of one 
 
 Who stood beside me, a dark shadow tall. 
 
 I cared not, disavowal mattered nought 
 
 Of grief to one so out of love with life. 
 
 But after pause I felt a hand let down 
 
 That rested kindly, firmly, a man's hand, 
 
 Upon my shoulder ; there was cheer in it. 
 
 And presently a voice clear, whispering, low, 
 
 With pitifulness that faltered, spoke to me. 
 
 Was I, it asked, true son of Mother Church ? 
 
 Coldly I answer'd ' Ay ; ' then blessed words 
 
 That danced into mine ears more excellent 
 
 Music than wedding bells had been were said, 
 
 With certitude that I might see my maid, 
 
 My dear one. He would give a paper, he 
 
 The man beside me. ' Do thy best endeavour, 
 
 Dear youth. Thy maiden being a right sweet child 
 
 Surely will hearken to thee ; an she do, 
 
 And will recant, fair faultless heretic, 
 
 Whose knowledge is but scant of matters high 
 
 Which hard men spake on with her, hard men forced 
 
 From her mouth innocent, then shall she come 
 
 Before me ; have good cheer, all may be well. 
 
 But an she will not she must burn, no power 
 
 Not Solomon the Great on 's ivory throne 
 
 With all his wisdom could find out a way, 
 
 Nor I nor any to save her, she must burn. 
 
 Now hast thou till day dawn. The Mother of God 
 
 Speed thee.' A twisted scroll he gave ; himself 
 
THE MAID-MARTYR. 187 
 
 Knocked at the door behind, and he was gone, 
 A darker pillar of darkness in the dark. 
 Straightway one opened and I gave the scroll. 
 He read, then thrust it in his lanthorn flame 
 Till it was ashes ; ' Follow ' and no more 
 Whisper'd, went up the giddy spiring way, 
 I after, till we reached the topmost door. 
 Then took a key, opened, and crying c Delia, 
 Delia my sweetheart, I am come, I am come,' 
 I darted forward and he locked us in. 
 Two figures ; one rose up and ran to me 
 Along the ladder of moonlight on the floor, 
 Fell on my neck. Long time we kissed and wept. 
 
 But for that other, while she stood appeased 
 
 For cruel parting past, locked in mine arms, 
 
 I had been glad, expecting a good end. 
 
 The cramped pale fellow prisoner ' Courage ' cried. 
 
 Then Delia lifting her fair face, the moon 
 
 Did show me its incomparable calms. 
 
 Her effluent thought needed no word of mine, 
 
 It whelmed my soul as in a sea of tears. 
 
 The warm enchantment leaning on my breast 
 
 Breathed as in air remote, and I was left 
 
 To infinite detachment, even with hers 
 
 To take cold kisses from the lips of doom, 
 
 Look in those eyes and disinherit hope 
 
 From that high place late won. 
 
188 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 Then murmuring low 
 
 That other spake of Him on the cross, and soft 
 As broken-hearted mourning of the dove, 
 She ' One deep calleth to another ' sighed. 
 * The heart of Christ mourns to my heart, " Endure. 
 There was a day when to the wilderness 
 My great forerunner from his thrall sent forth 
 Sad messengers, demanding Art thou He ? 
 Think'st thou I knew no pang in that strange hour ? 
 How could I hold the power, and want the will 
 Or want the love ? That pang was his and mine. 
 He said not, Save me an thou be the Son, 
 But only Art thou He ? In my great way 
 It was not writ, legions of Angels mine, 
 There was one Angel, one ordain'd to unlock 
 At my behest the doomed deadly doors. 
 I could not tell him, tell not thee, why." Lord, 
 We know not why, but would not have Thee grieve, 
 Think not so deeply on 't ; make us endure 
 For thy blest sake, hearing thy sweet voice mourn 
 " I will go forth, thy desolations meet, 
 And with my desolations solace them. 
 I will not break thy bonds, but I am bound, 
 With thee." ' 
 
 I feared. That speech deep furrows cut 
 In my afflicted soul. I whisper'd low, 
 1 Thou wilt not heed her words, my golden girl.' ' 
 But Delia said not ought ; only her hand 
 
THE MAID-MARTYR. 189 
 
 Laid on my cheek and on the other leaned 
 
 Her own. O there was comfort, father, 
 
 In love and nearness, e'en at the crack of doom. 
 
 Then spake I, and that other said no more, 
 For I appealed to God and to his Christ. 
 Unto the strait-barred window led my dear \ 
 No table, bed, nor plenishing ; no place 
 They had for rest : maugre two narrow chairs 
 By day, by night they sat thereon upright. 
 One drew I to the opening ; on it set 
 My Delia, kneeled ; upon its arm laid mine, 
 And prayed to God and prayed of her. 
 
 Father, 
 
 If you should ask e'en now, * And art thou glad 
 Of what befell ? ' I could not say it, father, 
 I should be glad ; therefore God make me glad, 
 Since we shall die to-morrow ! 
 
 Think not sin, 
 
 O holy, harmless reverend man, to fear. 
 'T will be soon over. Now I know thou fear'st 
 Also for me, lest I be lost ; but aye 
 Strong comfortable hope doth wrap me round, 
 A token of acceptance. I am cast 
 From Holy Church, and not received of thine ; 
 But the great Advocate who knoweth all, 
 He whispers with me. 
 
 O my Delia wept 
 
190 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 When I did plead ; ' I have much feared to die,' 
 Answering. (The moonlight on her blue-black eyes 
 Fell ; shining tears upon their lashes hung ; 
 Fair showed the dimple that I loved ; so young. 
 So very young.) 'But they did question me 
 Straitly, and make me many times to swear, 
 To swear of all alas, that I believed. 
 Truly, unless my soul I would have bound 
 With false oaths difficult, innumerous, strong, 
 Way was not left me to get free. 
 
 But now/ 
 
 Said she, ' I am happy ; I have seen the place 
 Where I am going. 
 
 I will tell it you, 
 
 Love, Hubert. Do not weep ; they said to me 
 That you would come, and it would not be long. 
 Thus was it, being sad and full of fear, 
 I was crying in the night ; and prayed to God 
 And said, " I have not learned high things ; ; ' and said 
 To the Saviour, " Do not be displeased with me, 
 I am not crying to get back and dwell 
 With my good mother and my father fond, 
 Nor even with my love, Hubert my love, 
 Hubert ; but I am crying because I fear 
 Mine answers were not rightly given so hard 
 Those questions. If I did not understand, 
 Wilt Thou forgive me ? " And the moon went down 
 While I did pray, and looking on the floor, 
 
THE MAID-MARTYR. 191 
 
 Behold a little diamond lying there, 
 
 So small it might have dropped from out a ring. 
 
 I could but look ! The diamond waxed it grew 
 
 It was a diamond yet, and shot out rays, 
 
 And in the midst of it a rose-red point ; 
 
 It waxed till I might see the rose-red point 
 
 Was a little Angel 'mid those oval rays, 
 
 With a face sweet as the first kiss, O love, 
 
 You gave me, and it meant that self-same thing. 
 
 Now was it tall as I, among the rays 
 Standing ; I touched not. Through the window drawn, 
 This barred and narrow window, but I know 
 Nothing of how, we passed, and seemed to walk 
 Upon the air, till on the roof we sat. 
 
 It spoke. The sweet mouth did not move, but all 
 
 The Angel spoke in strange words full and old, 
 
 It was my Angel sent to comfort me 
 
 With a message, and the message, u I might come, 
 
 And myself see if He forgave me." Then 
 
 Deliver'd he admonition, " Afterwards 
 
 I must return and die." But I being dazed, 
 
 Confused with love and joy that He so far 
 
 Did condescend, " Ay, Eminence," replied, 
 
 " Is the way great ? " I knew not what I said. 
 
 The Angel then, " I know not far nor near, 
 
 But all the stars of God this side it shine." 
 
192 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 And I forgetful wholly for this thing 
 
 My soul did pant in, a rapture and a pain, 
 
 So great as they would melt it quite away 
 
 To a vanishing like mist when sultry rays 
 
 Shot from the daystar reckon with it I 
 
 Said in my simpleness, " But is there time ? 
 
 For in three days I am to burn, and O 
 
 I would fain see that He forgiveth first. 
 
 Pray you make haste." " I know not haste," he said ; 
 
 " I was not fashioned to be thrall of time. 
 
 What is it ? " And I marvelled, saw outlying, 
 
 Shaped like a shield and of dimensions like 
 
 An oval in the sky beyond all stars, 
 
 And trembled with foreknowledge. We were bound 
 
 To that same golden holy hollow. I 
 
 Misdoubted how to go, but we were gone. 
 
 I set off wingless, walking empty air 
 
 Beside him. In a moment we were caught 
 
 Among thick swarms of lost ones, evil, fell, 
 
 Of might, only a little less than gods, 
 
 And strong enough to tear the earth to shreds, 
 
 Set shoulders to the sun and rend it out 
 
 O' its place. Their wings did brush across my face, 
 
 Yet felt I nought ; the place was vaster far 
 
 Than all this wholesome pastoral windy world. 
 
 Through it we spinning, pierced to its far brink, 
 
 Saw menacing frowns and we were forth again. 
 
 Time has no instant for the reckoning ought 
 
THE MAID-MARTYR. 193 
 
 So sudden ; 't was as if a lightning flash 
 Threw us within it, and a swifter flash, 
 - We riding harmless down its swordlike edge, 
 Shot us fast forth to empty nothingness. 
 
 All my soul trembled, and my body it seemed 
 Pleaded than such a sight rather to faint 
 To the last silence, and the eery grave 
 Inhabit, and the slow solemnities 
 Of dying faced, content me with my shroud. 
 
 And yet was lying athwart the morning star 
 That shone in front, that holy hollow ; yet 
 It loomed, as hung atilt towards the world, 
 That in her time of sleep appeared to look 
 Up to it, into it. 
 
 We, though I wept, 
 
 Fearing and longing, knowing not how to go, 
 My heart gone first, both mine eyes dedicate 
 To its all-hallowed sweet desired gold, 
 We on the empty limitless abyss 
 Walked slowly. It was far ; 
 
 And I feared much, 
 
 For lo ! when I looked down deep under me 
 The little earth was such a little thing, 
 How in the vasty dark find her again ? 
 The crescent moon a moored boat hard by, 
 
 o 
 
194 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 Did wait on her and touch her ragged rims 
 With a small gift of silver. 
 
 Love ! my life ! 
 
 Hubert, while I yet wept, O we were there. 
 A menai of Angels first, a swarm of stars 
 Took us among them (all alive with stars 
 Shining and shouting each to each that place) ; 
 The feathered multitude did lie so thick 
 We walked upon them, walked on outspread wings, 
 And the great gates were standing open. 
 
 Love ! 
 
 The country is not what you think ; but oh ! 
 Wlien you have seen it nothing else contents. 
 The voice, the vision was not what you think 
 But oh ! it was all. It was the meaning of life, 
 Excellent consummation of desires 
 For ever, let into the heart with pain 
 Most sweet. That smile did take the feeding soul 
 Deeper and deeper into heaven. The sward 
 (For I had bowed my face on it) I found 
 Grew in my spirit's longed-for native land 
 At last I was at home.' 
 
 And here she paused : 
 
 I must needs weep. I have not been in heaven, 
 Therefore she could not tell me what she heard, 
 Therefore she might not tell me what she saw, 
 Only I understood that One drew near 
 Who said to her she should e'en come, * Because, 7 
 
THE MAID-MARTYR. 195 
 
 Said He, * My Father loves Me. I will ask 
 He send, a guiding Angel for My sake, 
 Since the dark way is long, and rough, and hard, 
 So that I shall not lose whom I love thee.' 
 
 Other words wonderful of things not known, 
 
 When she had uttered, I gave hope away, 
 
 Cried out, and took her in despairing arms, 
 
 Asking no more. Then while the comfortless 
 
 Dawn till night fainted grew, alas ! a key 
 
 That with abhorred jarring probed the door. 
 
 We kissed, we looked, unlocked our arms. She sighed 
 
 ' Remember.' f Ay, I will remember. What ? ' 
 
 'To come to me.' Then I, thrust roughly forth 
 
 I, bereft, dumb, forlorn, unremedied 
 
 My hurt for ever, stumbled blindly down, 
 
 And the great door was shut behind and chained. 
 
 The weird pathetic scarlet of day dawning, 
 More kin to death of night than birth of morn, 
 Peered o'er yon hill bristling with spires of pine. 
 I heard the crying of the men condemned, 
 Men racked, that should be martyr'd presently, 
 And my great grief met theirs with might ; I held 
 All our poor earth's despairs in my poor breast, 
 The choking reek, the faggots were all mine. 
 Ay, and the partings they were all mine mine. 
 Father, it will be very good methinks 
 
196 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 To die so, to die soon. It doth appease 
 The soul in misery for its fellows, when 
 There is no help, to suffer even as they. 
 
 Father, when I had lost her, when I sat 
 After my sickness on the pallet bed, 
 My forehead dropp'd into my hand, behold 
 Some one beside me. A man's hand let down 
 With that same action kind, compassionate, 
 Upon my shoulder. And I took the hand 
 Between mine own, laying my face thereon. 
 I knew this man for him who spoke with me, 
 Letting me see my Delia. I looked up. 
 Lo ! lo ! the robed ecclesiastic proud, 
 He and this other one. Tell you his name ? 
 Am I a fiend ? No, he was good to me, 
 Almost he placed his life in my hand. 
 
 Father, 
 
 He with good pitying words long talked to me, 
 ' Did I not strive to save her ? ' ' Ay,' quoth I. 
 4 But sith it would not be, I also claim 
 Death, burning ; let me therefore die let me. 
 I am wicked, would be heretic, but, faith, 
 I know not how, and Holy Church I hate. 
 She is no mother of mine, she slew my love/ 
 What answer? 'Peace, peace, thou art hard on me. 
 Favour I forfeit with the Mother of God, 
 Lose rank among the saints, foresee my soul 
 
THE MAID-MARTYR. 197 
 
 Drenched in the unmitigated flame, and take 
 My payment in the lives snatched at all risk 
 From battling in it here. O, an thou turn 
 And tear from me, lost to that other world 
 My heart's reward in this, I am twice lost ; 
 Now have I doubly failed.' 
 
 Father, I know 
 
 The Church would rail, hound forth, disgrace, try, burn 
 Make his proud name, discover'd, infamy, 
 Tread underfoot his ashes, curse his soul. 
 But God is greater than the Church. I hope 
 He shall not, for that he loved men, lose God. 
 I hope to hear it said ' Thy sins are all 
 Forgiven ; come in, thou hast done well.' 
 
 For me 
 
 My chronicle comes down to its last page. 
 ' Is not life sweet ? ' quoth he, and comforted 
 My sick heart with good words, ' duty ' and * home.' 
 Then took me at moonsetting down the stair 
 To the dark deserted midway of the street, 
 Gave me a purse of money, and his hand 
 Laid on my shoulder, holding me with words 
 A father might have said, bad me God speed, 
 So pushed me from him, turned, and he was gone. 
 
 There was a Pleiad lost ; where is she now ? 
 None knoweth, O she reigns, it is my creed, 
 Otherwhere dedicate to making day. 
 
138 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 The God of Gods, He doubtless looked to that 
 Who wasteth never ought He fashioned. 
 I have no vision, but where vision fails 
 Faith cheers, and truly, truly there is need, 
 The god of this world being so unkind. 
 O love ! My girl for ever to the world 
 Wanting. Lost, not that any one should find, 
 But wasted for the sake of waste, and lost 
 For love of man's undoing, of man's tears, 
 By envy of the Evil One ; I mourn 
 For thee, my golden girl, I mourn, I mourn. 
 
 He set me free. And it befell anon 
 
 That I must imitate him. Then't befell 
 
 That on the holy Book I read, and all, 
 
 The mediating Mother and her Babe, 
 
 God and the Church, and man and life and death, 
 
 And the dark gulfs of bitter purging flame, 
 
 Did take on alteration. Like a ship 
 
 Cast from her moorings, drifting from her port, 
 
 Not bound to any land, not sure of land, 
 
 My dull'd soul lost her reckoning on that sea 
 
 She sailed, and yet the voyage was nigh done. 
 
 This God was not the God I had known ; this Christ 
 
 Was other. O, a gentler God, a Christ 
 
 By a mother and a Father infinite 
 
 In distance each from each made kin to me. 
 
THE MAID-MARTYR. 199 
 
 Blest Sufferer on the rood ; but yet, I say 
 Other, Far gentler, and I cannot tell, 
 Father, if you, or she, my golden girl, 
 Or I, or any aright those mysteries read. 
 
 I cannot fathom them. There is not time, 
 So quickly men condemned me to this cell. 
 I quarrell'd not so much with Holy Church 
 For that she taught, as that my love she burned. 
 I die because I hid her enemies, 
 And read the Book. 
 
 But O, forgiving God, 
 I do elect to trust Thee. I have thought, 
 What ! are there set between us and the sun 
 Millions of miles, and did He like a tent 
 Rear up yon vasty sky ? Is heaven less wide ? 
 And dwells He there, but for His winged host, 
 Almost alone ? Truly I think not so ; 
 He has had trouble enough with this poor world 
 To make Him as an earthly father would, 
 Love it and value it more. 
 
 He did not give 
 
 So much to have us with Him, and yet fail. 
 And now He knows I would believe e'en so 
 As pleaseth Him, an there was time to learn 
 Or certitude of heart ; but time fails, time. 
 He knoweth also 't were a piteous thing 
 Not to be sure of my love's welfare not 
 
200 THE MAID-MARTYR. 
 
 To see her happy and good in that new home. 
 Most piteous. I could all forego but this. 
 O let me see her, Lord. 
 
 What, also I ! 
 
 White ashes and a waft of vapour I 
 To flutter on before the winds. No, no. 
 And yet for ever ay my flesh shall hiss 
 And I shall hear 't. Dreadful, unbearable ! 
 Is it to-morrow ? 
 
 Ay, indeed, indeed, 
 
 To-morrow. But my moods are as great waves 
 That rise and break and thunder down on me, 
 And then falPn back sink low. 
 
 I have waked long 
 
 And cannot hold my thoughts upon th' event ; 
 They slip, they wander forth. 
 
 How the dusk grows. 
 This is the last moonrising we shall see. 
 Methought till morn to pray, and cannot pray. 
 Where is mine Advocate? let Him say all 
 And more was in my mind to say this night, 
 Because to-morrow Ah ! no more of that, 
 
 The tale is told. Father, I fain would sleep, 
 Truly my soul is silent unto God. 
 
201 
 
 A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST. 
 
 AURA, my Laura ! ' < Yes, mother ! ' 'I 
 
 want you, Laura ; come down/ 
 'What is it, mother what, dearest? O 
 
 your loved face how it pales ! 
 You tremble, alas and alas you heard bad news from 
 
 the town ? ' 
 
 * Only one short half hour to tell it. My poor courage 
 fails- 
 
 Laura/ 'Where's Ronald? O anything else but Ronald ! ' 
 
 ' No, no, 
 
 Not Ronald, if all beside, my Laura, disaster and tears ; 
 But you, it is yours to send them away, for you they will 
 
 g> 
 One short half hour, and must it decide, it must for the 
 
 years. 
 
202 A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Laura, you think of your father sometimes ? ' 
 
 ' Sometimes ! ' ' Ah, but how ? ' 
 
 'I think that we need not think, sweet mother the time 
 
 is not yet, 
 
 He is as the wraith of a wraith, and a far-off shadow now 
 But if you have heard he is dead?' 'Not that.' 
 
 ' Then let me forget.' 
 
 IV 
 
 * The sun is off the south window, draw back the curtain, 
 
 my child.' 
 
 * But tell it, mother.' ' Answer you first what it is that 
 
 you see.' 
 1 The lambs on the mountain slope, and the crevice with 
 
 blue ice piled.' 
 ' Nearer.' < But, mother ! ' ' Nearer ! ' < My heifer she 's 
 
 lowing to me.' 
 
 v 
 
 4 Nearer.' ' Nothing, sweet mother, O yes, for one sits in 
 the bower. 
 
 Black the clusters hang out from the vine about his snow- 
 white head, 
 
 And the scarlet leaves, where my Ronald leaned.' * Only 
 one half hour 
 
 Laura ' ' O mother, my mother dear, all known though 
 nothing said. 
 
A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST. 203 
 
 VI 
 
 it breaks my heart, the face dejected that looks not on 
 
 us, 
 A beautiful face I remember now, though long I forgot/ 
 
 1 Ay and I loved it. I love him to-day, and to see him 
 
 thus ! 
 Saying " I go if she bids it, for work her woe I will not." 
 
 VII 
 
 There ! weep not, wring not your hands, but think, think 
 
 with your heart and soul.' 
 1 Was he innocent, mother? If he was, I, sure had been 
 
 told. 7 
 
 * He said so.' ' Ah, but they do.' * And I hope and 
 
 long was his dole, 
 
 And all for the signing a name (if indeed he signed) for 
 gold.' 
 
 VIII 
 
 * To find us again, in the far far West, where hid, we were 
 
 free 
 
 But if he was innocent O my heart, it is riven in two, 
 If he goes how hard upon him or stays how harder on 
 
 me, 
 For O my Ronald, my Ronald, my dear, my best what 
 
 of you ! ' 
 
204 A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST. 
 
 IX 
 
 ' Peace ; think, my Laura I say he will go there, weep 
 not so sore. 
 
 And the time is come, Ronald knows nothing, your father 
 will go, 
 
 As the shadow fades from its place will he, and be seen 
 no more.' 
 
 1 There '11 be time to think to-morrow, and after, but to- 
 day, no. 
 
 I'm going down the garden, mother.' ' Laura ! ' ' I've 
 
 dried my tears.' 
 4 O how will this end?' f I know not the end, I can but 
 
 begin.' 
 4 But what will you say?' l Not "Welcome, father," 
 
 though long were those years, 
 But I '11 say to him, " O my poor father, we wait you, come 
 
205 
 
 LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 
 
 ND you brought him home ? ' ( I did, ay Ronald, 
 
 it rested with me.' 
 ' Love ! ' * Yes.' * I would fain you were not 
 
 so calm.' * I cannot weep. No.' 
 1 What is he like, your poor father ? ' ' He is like this 
 
 fallen tree 
 
 Prone at our feet, by the still lake taking on rose from 
 the glow, 
 
 ii 
 
 Now scarlet, O look ! overcoming the blue both lake and 
 
 sky, 
 While the waterfalls waver like smoke, then leap in and 
 
 are not. 
 And shining snow-points of high sierras cast down, there 
 
 they lie.' 
 1 Laura I cannot bear it. Laura ! as if I forgot.' 
 
206 LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ' No, you remember, and I remember that evening like 
 
 this 
 When we come forth from the gloomy Canyon, lo, a 
 
 sinking sun. 
 And, Ronald, you gave to me your troth ring, I gave my 
 
 troth kiss.' 
 * Give me another, I say that this makes no difference, 
 
 none. 
 
 IV 
 
 It hurts me keenly. It hurts to the soul that you thought 
 
 it could/ 
 ' I never thought so, my Ronald, my love, never thought 
 
 you base. 
 
 No, but I look for a nobler nobleness, loss understood, 
 Accepted, and not that common truth which can hold 
 
 through disgrace. 
 
 O ! we remember, and how ere that noon through deeps 
 
 of the lake 
 We floating looked down and the boat's shadow followed 
 
 on rocks below, 
 
 So clear the water. O all pathetic as if for love's sake 
 Our life that is but a fleeting shadow ? t would under us 
 
 show. 
 
LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 207 
 
 VI 
 
 we remember forget-me-not pale, and white colum- 
 
 bine 
 You wreathed for my hair ; because we remember this 
 
 cannot be. 
 Ah ! here is your ring see, I draw it off it must not 
 
 be mine, 
 Put it on, love, if but for the moment and listen to me. 
 
 VII 
 
 1 look for the best, I look for the most, I look for the 
 
 all 
 From you, it consoles this misery of mine, there is you to 
 
 trust. 
 O if you can weep, let us weep together, tears may well 
 
 fall 
 For that lost sunsetting and what it promised, they may, 
 
 they must. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Do you say nothing, mine own beloved, you know what I 
 
 mean, 
 And whom. To her pride and her love from YOU shall 
 
 such blow be dealt. . . . 
 . . . Silence uprisen, is like a presence, it comes us 
 
 between . . . 
 As once there was darkness, now is there silence that 
 
 may be felt. 
 
208 LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 
 
 IX 
 
 Ronald, your mother, so gentle, so pure, and you are her 
 
 best, 
 'T is she whom I think of, her quiet sweetness, her 
 
 gracious way. 
 How could she bear it ? ' ' Laura ! ' * Yes, Ronald.' ' Let 
 
 that matter rest.' 
 ' You might give your name to my father's child ? ' ' My 
 
 father's name. Ay, 
 
 x 
 
 Who died before it was soiled.' 'You mutter.' 'Why, 
 
 love, are you here ? ' 
 1 Because my mother fled forth to the West, her trouble to 
 
 hide, 
 And I was so small, the lone pine forest, and tier upon 
 
 tier, 
 Far off Mexican snowy sierras pushed England aside.' 
 
 XI 
 
 ' And why am I here ? ' ' But what did you mutter ? ' * O 
 
 pardon, sweet.' 
 ' Why came I here and my mother ? In truth then I 
 
 cannot tell.' 
 'Yet you drew my ring from your finger see I kneel 
 
 at your feet. 
 Put it on. 'T was for no fault of mine.' ' Love ! I knew 
 
 that full well.' 
 
LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE, 209 
 
 XII 
 
 And yet there be faults that long repented, are aye to 
 
 deplore, 
 Wear my ring, Laura, at least till I choose some words I 
 
 can say, 
 If indeed any word need be said/ ' No ! wait, Ronald, 
 
 no more ; 
 What ! is there respite ? Give me a moment to think 
 
 "nay "or "ay," 
 
 XIII 
 
 I know not, but feel there is. O pardon me, pardon me 
 
 peace j 
 For nought is to say, and the dawn of hope is a solemn 
 
 thing, 
 Let us have silence. Take me back, Ronald, full sweet 
 
 is release.' 
 4 Laura ! but give me my troth kiss again.' ' And give 
 
 me my ring. 7 
 
210 
 
 THE WHITE MOON WASTETH, 
 
 HE white moon wasteth, 
 And cold morn hasteth 
 
 Athwart the snow, 
 The red east burneth 
 And the tide turneth, 
 And thou must go. 
 
 Think not, sad rover, 
 Their story all over 
 
 Who come from far 
 Once, in the ages 
 Won goodly wages 
 
 Led by a star. 
 
 Once, for all duly 
 Guidance doth truly 
 
 Shine as of old, 
 Opens for me and thee 
 Once, opportunity 
 
 Her gates of gold. 
 
THE WHITE MOON WASTETH. 211 
 
 Enter, thy star is out, 
 Traverse nor faint nor doubt 
 
 Earth's antres wild, 
 Thou shalt find good and rest 
 As found the Magi blest 
 
 That divine Child. 
 
212 
 
 AN ARROW-SLIT. 
 
 CLOMB full high the belfry tower 
 Up to yon arrow-slit, up and away, 
 
 I said ' Let me look on my heart's fair flower 
 In the walled garden where she doth play.' 
 
 My care she knoweth not, no nor the cause, 
 White rose, red rose about her hung, 
 
 And I aloft with the doves and the daws. 
 They coo and call to their callow young. 
 
 Sing, ' O an she were a white rosebud fair 
 Dropt, and in danger from passing feet, 
 
 'T is I would render her service tender, 
 
 Upraised on my bosom with reverence meet.' 
 
 Playing at the ball, my dearest of all, 
 When she grows older how will it be, 
 
 I dwell far away from her thoughts to-day 
 That heed not, need not, or mine or me. 
 
AN ARROW-SLIT. 213 
 
 Sing, l O an my love were a fledgeling dove 
 That flutters forlorn o' her shallow nest, 
 
 T is I would render her service tender, 
 And carry her, carry her on my breast.' 
 
214 
 
 WENDOVER. 
 
 UPLIFTED and lone, set apart with our love 
 
 On the crest of a soft swelling down, 
 Cloud shadows that meet on the grass at our 
 
 feet 
 Sail on above Wendover town. 
 
 Wendover town takes the smile of the sun 
 
 As if yearning and strife were no more, 
 From her red roofs float high neither plaint neither sigh, 
 
 All the weight of the world is our own. 
 
 Would that life were more kind and that souls might 
 have peace 
 
 As the wide mead from storm and from bale, 
 We bring up our own care, but how sweet over there 
 
 And how strange is their calm in the vale. 
 
WENDOVER. 215 
 
 As if trouble at noon had achieved a deep sleep, 
 Lapped and lulled from the weariful fret, 
 
 Or shot down out of day, had a hint dropt away 
 As if grief might attain to forget. 
 
 Not if we two indeed had gone over the bourne 
 
 And were safe on the hills of the blest, 
 Not more strange they might show to us drawn from 
 below, 
 
 Come up from long dolour to rest. 
 
 But the peace of that vale would be thine, love, and mine 
 
 And sweeter the air than of yore, 
 And this life we have led as a dream that is fled 
 
 Might appear to our thought evermore. 
 
 ' Was it life, was it life ? ' we might say, ' 't was scarce life,' 
 4 Was, it love? 't was scarce love,' looking down, 
 
 ' Yet we rnind a sweet ray of the red sun one day 
 Low lying on Wendover town.' 
 
216 
 
 THE LOVER PLEADS. 
 
 HEN I had guineas many a one 
 Nought else I lacked 'neath the sun, 
 I had two eyes the bluest seen, 
 A perfect shape, a gracious mien, 
 
 I had a voice might charm the bale 
 
 From a two days' widowed nightingale, 
 
 And if you ask how this I know 
 
 I had a love who told me so. 
 
 The lover pleads, the maid hearkeneth, 
 Her foot turns, his day darkeneth. 
 Love unkind, O can it be 
 'T was your foot false did turn from me ? 
 
THE LOVER PLEADS. 
 
 II 
 
 The gear is gone, the red gold spent, 
 Favour and beauty with them went, 
 Eyes take the veil, their shining done, 
 Not fair to him is fair to none, 
 Sweet as a bee's bag 't was to taste 
 His praise. O honey run to waste, 
 He loved not ! spoiled is all my way 
 In the spoiling of that yesterday. 
 
 The shadows wax, the low light alters, 
 Gold west fades, and false heart falters. 
 The pity of it ! Love 's a rover, 
 The last word said, and all over. 
 
218 
 
 SONG IN THREE PARTS. 
 
 jHE white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm 
 June weather, 
 
 ' O most sweet wear ; 
 
 Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me, 
 Four am I fair/ 
 
 Quoth the brown bee, 
 * In thy white wear 
 Four thou art fair. 
 A mystery 
 Of honeyed snow 
 In scented air 
 The bee lines flow 
 Straight unto thee. 
 Great boon and bliss 
 All pure I wis, 
 And sweet to grow 
 Ay, so to give 
 That many live. 
 
SONG IN THREE PARTS. 219 
 
 Now as for me, 
 I/ quoth the bee, 
 4 Have not to give, 
 Through long hours sunny 
 Gathering I live : 
 Aye debonair 
 Sailing sweet air 
 After my fare, . 
 Bee-bread and honey. 
 In thy deep coombe 
 
 thou white broom, 
 Where no leaves shake, 
 Brake, 
 
 Bent nor clover, 
 
 1 a glad rover 
 Thy calms partake, 
 While winds of might 
 From height to height 
 Go bodily over. 
 
 Till slanteth light, 
 And up the rise 
 Thy shadow lies, 
 A shadow of white, 
 A beauty-lender 
 Pathetic, tender. 
 
 Short is thy day ? 
 Answer with " Nay," 
 
2:20 SONG IN THREE PARTS. 
 
 Longer the hours 
 That wear thy flowers 
 Than all dull, cold 
 Years manifold 
 That gift withhold. 
 A long liver, 
 
 honey-giver, 
 Thou by all showing 
 Art made, bestowing, 
 
 1 envy not 
 Thy greater lot, 
 Nor thy white wear. 
 But, as for me, 
 
 V quoth the bee, 
 * Never am fair.' 
 
 ii 
 
 The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brooding 
 
 Deeply and long, 
 
 ' Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas ! 
 all 's over, 
 
 lost my song.' 
 
 One in the tree, 
 
 1 Hush now ! Let be : 
 The song at ending 
 Left my long tending 
 
SONG IN THREE PARTS. 221 
 
 Over also. 
 Let be, let us go 
 Across the wan sea. 
 The little ones care not, 
 And I fare not 
 Amiss with thee. 
 
 Thou hast sung all, 
 This hast thou had. 
 Love, be not sad ; 
 It shall befall 
 Assuredly, 
 
 When the bush buddeth 
 And the bank studdeth 
 Where grass is sweet 
 And damps do fleet, 
 Her delicate beds 
 With daisy heads 
 That the Stars Seven 
 Leaned down from heaven 
 Shall sparkling mark 
 In the warm dark 
 Thy most dear strain 
 W^hich ringeth aye true- 
 Piercing vale, croft 
 Lifted aloft 
 Dropt even as dew 
 With a sweet quest 
 To her on the nest 
 
222 SONG IN THREE PARTS. 
 
 When damps we love 
 Fall from above. 
 " Art thou asleep ? 
 Answer me, answer me, 
 Night is so deep 
 Thy right fair form 
 I cannot see ; 
 Answer me, answer me, 
 Are the eggs warm ? 
 Is 't well with thee ? " 
 
 Ay, this shall be 
 Assuredly. 
 Ay, thou full fain 
 In the soft rain 
 Shalt sing again.' 
 
 in 
 
 A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken, 
 
 Her good days o'er ; 
 
 ' Seven sweet years of my life did I live beloved, 
 Seven no more. 7 
 
 Then Echo woke and spoke 
 ' No more no more, 7 
 
 And a wave broke 
 On the sad shore 
 
SONG IN THREE PARTS. 223 
 
 When Echo said 
 
 ' No more/ 
 
 Nought else made reply, 
 Nor land, nor loch, nor sky 
 Did any comfort try, 
 But the wave spread 
 Echo's faint tone 
 Alone, 
 
 All down the desolate shore, 
 1 No more no more.' 
 
224 
 
 'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM; 
 
 UT of the melancholy that is made 
 Of ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs, 
 Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed, 
 A note in new love-pipings on the bough, 
 Grieving with grief till all the full-fed air 
 And shaken milky corn doth wot of it, 
 The pity of it trembling in the talk 
 Of the beforetime merrymaking brook 
 Out of that melancholy will the soul, 
 In proof that life is not forsaken quite 
 Of the old trick and glamour which made gla d, 
 Be cheated some good day and not perceive 
 How sorrow ebbing out is gone from view, 
 How tired trouble fall'n for once on sleep, 
 How keen self-mockery that youth's eager dream 
 Interpreted to mean so much is found 
 To mean and give so little frets no more, 
 Floating apart as on a cloud O then 
 
' IF I FORGET THEE ' 225 
 
 Not e'en so much as murmuring 'Let this end,' 
 She will, no longer weighted, find escape, 
 Lift up herself as if on wings and flit 
 Back to the morning time. 
 
 ' O once with me 
 
 It was all one, such joy I had at heart, 
 As I heard sing the morning star, or God 
 Did hold me with an Everlasting Hand, 
 And dip me in the day. 
 
 O once with me/ 
 
 Reflecting ' 't was enough to live, to look 
 Wonder and love. Now let that come again. 
 Rise ! ' And ariseth first a tanglement 
 Of flowering bushes, peonies pale that drop 
 Upon a mossy lawn, rich iris spikes, 
 Bee-borage, mealy-stemmed auricula, 
 Brown wallflower, and the sweetbriar ever sweet, 
 Her pink buds pouting from their green. 
 
 To these 
 
 Add thick espaliers where the bullfinch came 
 To strew much budding wealth, and was not chid. 
 Then add wide pear trees on the warmed wall, 
 The old red wall one cannot see beyond. 
 That is the garden. 
 
 In the wall a door 
 
 Green, blistered with the sun. You open it, 
 And lo ! a sunny waste of tumbled hills 
 And a glad silence, and an open calm. 
 
 Q 
 
226 ' IF I FORGET THEE 
 
 Infinite leisure, and a slope where rills 
 Dance down delightedly, in every crease, 
 And lambs stoop drinking and the finches dip. 
 Then shining waves upon a lonely beach. 
 That is the world. 
 
 An all- sufficient world, 
 And as it seems an undiscovered world, 
 So very few the folk that come to look. 
 Yet one has heard of towns ; but they are far. 
 The world is undiscovered, and the child 
 Is undiscovered that with stealthy joy 
 Goes gathering like a bee who in dark cells 
 Hideth sweet food to live on in the cold. 
 What matters to the child ? it matters not 
 More than it mattered to the moons of Mars, 
 That they for ages undiscovered went 
 Marked not of man, attendant on their king. 
 
 A shallow line of sand curved to the cliff, 
 There dwelt the fisherfolk, and there inland 
 Some scattered cottagers in thrift and calm. 
 Their talk full oft was of old days, for here 
 Was once a fosse, and by this rock-hewn path 
 Our wild fore-elders as 't is said would come 
 To gather jetsam from some Viking wreck, 
 Like a sea-beast wide breasted (her snake head 
 Reared up as staring while she rocked ashore) 
 That split, and all her ribs were on their fires 
 
1 IF I FORGET THEE ' 227 
 
 The red whereof at their wives' throats made bright 
 Gold gauds which from the weed they picked ere yet 
 The tide had turned. 
 
 ' Many,' methought, * and rich 
 They must have been, so long their chronicle. 
 Perhaps the world was fuller then of folk, 
 For ships at sea are few that near us now.' 
 
 Yet sometimes when the clouds were torn to rags, 
 Flying black before a gale, we saw one rock 
 In the offing, and the mariner folk would cry, 
 1 Look how she labours ; those aboard may hear 
 Her timbers creak e'en as she 'd break her heart.' 
 
 T was then the grey gulls blown ashore would light 
 In flocks, and pace the lawn with flat cold feet. 
 
 And so the world was sweet, and it was strange, 
 
 Sweet as a bee-kiss to the crocus flower, 
 
 Surprising, fresh, direct, but ever one. 
 
 The laughter of glad music did not yet 
 
 In its echo yearn, as hinting ought beyond, 
 
 Nor pathos tremble at the edge of bliss 
 
 Like a moon halo in a watery sky, 
 
 Nor the sweet pain alike of love and fear 
 
 In a world not comprehended touch the heart 
 
 The poetry of life was not yet born. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 ' IF I FORGET THEE 
 
 'T was a thing hidden yet that there be days 
 When some are known to feel ' God is about,' 
 As if that morn more than another morn 
 Virtue flowed forth from Him, the rolling world 
 Swam in a soothed calm made resonant 
 And vital, swam as in the lap of God 
 Come down ; until she slept and had a dream 
 (Because it was too much to bear awake), 
 That all the air shook with the might of Him 
 And whispered how she was the favourite world 
 That day, and bade her drink His essence in. 
 
 7 T is on such days that seers prophesy 
 And poets sing, and many who are wise 
 Find out for man's wellbeing hidden things 
 Whereof the hint came in that Presence known 
 Yet unknown. But a seer what is he ? 
 A poet is a name of long ago. 
 
 Men love the largeness of the field the wild 
 Quiet that soothes the moor. In other days 
 They loved the shadow of the city wall, 
 In its stone ramparts read their poetry ; 
 Safety and state, gold, and the arts of peace, 
 Law-giving, leisure, knowledge, all were there. 
 
 This to excuse a child's allegiance and 
 A spirit's recurrence to the older way. 
 
1 IF I FORGET THEE ' 229 
 
 Orphan'd, with aged guardians kind and true, 
 Things came to pass not told before to me. 
 
 Thus, we did journey once when eve was near. 
 Through carriage windows I beheld the moors, 
 Then, churches, hamlets cresting of low hills. 
 The way was long, at last I, fall'n asleep, 
 Awoke to hear a rattling 'neath the wheels 
 And see the lamps alight. This was the town. 
 
 Then a wide inn received us, and full soon 
 Came supper, kisses, bed. 
 
 The lamp without 
 
 Shone in ; the door was shut, and I alone. 
 An ecstasy of exultation took 
 My soul, for there were voices heard and steps, 
 I was among so many, none of them 
 Knew I was come ! 
 
 I rose, with small bare feet, 
 Across the carpet stole, a white-robed child, 
 And through the window peered. Behold the town. 
 
 There had been rain, the pavement glistened yet 
 In a soft lamplight down the narrow street ; 
 The church was nigh at hand, a clear-toned clock 
 Chimed slowly, open shops across the way 
 Showed store of fruit, and store of bread, and one 
 Many caged birds. About were customers, 
 
230 ' IF I FORGET THEE 
 
 I saw them bargain, and a rich high voice 
 Was heard, a woman sang, her little babe 
 Slept 'neath her shawl, and by her side a boy 
 Added wild notes and sweet to hers. 
 
 Some passed 
 
 Who gave her money. It was far from me 
 To pity her, she was a part of that 
 Admired town. E'en so within the shop 
 A rosy girl, it may be ten years old, 
 Quaint, grave. She helped her mother, deftly weij.,heu 
 The purple plums, black mulberries rich and ripe 
 For boyish customers, and counted pence 
 And dropped them in an apron that she wore. 
 Methought a queen had ne'er so grand a lot, 
 She knew it, she looked up at me, and smiled. 
 
 But yet the song went on, and in a while 
 
 The meaning came ; the town was not enough 
 
 To satisfy that singer, for a sigh 
 
 With her wild music came. What wanted she ? 
 
 Whate'er she wanted wanted all. O how 
 
 T was poignant, her rich voice ; not like a bird's. 
 
 Could she not dwell content and let them be, 
 
 That they might take their pleasure in the town, 
 
 For no, she was not poor, witness the pence. 
 
 I saw her boy and that small saleswoman ; 
 He wary, she with grave persuasive air, 
 
4 IF I FORGET THEE ' 231 
 
 Till he came forth with filberts in his cap, 
 And joined his mother, happy, triumphing. 
 
 This was the town ; and if you ask what else, 
 I say good sooth that it was poetry 
 Because it was the all, and something more, 
 It was the life of man, it was the world 
 That made addition to the watching heart, 
 First conscious its own beating, first aware 
 How, beating it kept time with all the race ; 
 Nay, 't was a consciousness far down and dim 
 Of a Great Father watching too. 
 
 But lo ! the rich lamenting voice again ; 
 She sang not for herself ; it was a song 
 For me, for I had seen the town and knew, 
 Yearning I knew the town was not enough. 
 
 What more ? To-day looks back on yesterday, 
 Life's yesterday, the waiting time, the dawn, 
 And reads a meaning into it, unknown 
 When it was with us. 
 
 It is always so. 
 
 But when as ofttimes I remember me 
 Of the warm wind that moved the beggar's hair, 
 Of the wet pavement, and the lamps alit, 
 I know it was not pity that made yearn 
 My heart for her, and that same dimpled boy. 
 How grand methought to be abroad so late, 
 
232 ' IF I FORGET THEE 
 
 And barefoot dabble in the shining wet ; 
 
 How fine to peer as other urchins did 
 
 At those pent huddled doves they let not rest ; 
 
 No, it was almost envy. Ay, how sweet 
 
 The clash of bells ; they rang to boast that far 
 
 That cheerful street was from the cold sea-fog, 
 
 From dark ploughed field and narrow lonesome lane. 
 
 How sweet to hear the hum of voices kind, 
 
 To see the coach come up with din of horn, 
 
 Quick tramp of horses, mark the passers-by 
 
 Greet one another, and go on. 
 
 But now 
 
 They closed the shops, the wild clear voice was still, 
 The beggars moved away where was their home ? 
 The coach which came from out dull darksome fells 
 Into the light, passed to the dark again 
 Like some old comet which knows well her way, 
 Whirled to the sun that as her fateful loop 
 She turns, forebodes the destined silences. 
 Yes, it was gone ; the clattering coach was gone, 
 And those it bore I pitied even to tears, 
 Because they must go forth, nor see the lights, 
 Nor hear the chiming bells. 
 
 In after days, 
 
 Remembering of the childish envy and 
 The childish pity, it has cheered my heart 
 To think e'en now pity and envy both 
 It may be are misplaced, or needed not. 
 
* IF I FORGET THEE 233 
 
 Heaven may look down in pity on some soul 
 Half envied, or some wholly pitied smile, 
 For that it hath to wait as it were an hour 
 To see the lights that go not out by night, 
 To walk the golden street and hear a song ; 
 Other-world poetry that is the all 
 And something more. 
 
234 
 
 NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 
 
 KITE as white butterflies that each one dons 
 Her face their wide white wings to shade 
 
 withal, 
 
 Many moon-daisies throng the water-spring, 
 While couched in rising barley titlarks call, 
 And bees alit upon their martagons 
 Do hang a-murmuring, a-murmuring. 
 
 They chide, it may be, alien tribes that flew 
 And rifled their best blossom, counted on 
 
 And dreamed on in the hive ere dangerous dew 
 
 That clogs bee-wings had dried ; but when outshone 
 
 Long shafts of gold (made all for them) of power 
 
 To charm it away, those thieves had sucked the flower. 
 
 Now must they go ; a-murmuring they go, 
 
 And little thrushes twitter in the nest ; 
 The world is made for them, and even so 
 
 The clouds are ; they have seen no stars, the breast 
 Of their soft mother hid them all the night, 
 Till her mate came to her in red dawn-light. 
 
NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 235 
 
 Eggs scribbled over with strange writing, signs, 
 Prophecies, and their meaning (for you see 
 
 The yolk within) is life, 'neath yonder bines 
 Lie among sedges ; on a hawthorn tree 
 
 The slender lord and master perched hard by, 
 
 Scolds at all comers if they step too nigh. 
 
 And our small river makes encompassment 
 
 Of half the mead and holm : yon lime trees grow 
 
 All heeling over to it, diligent 
 
 To cast green doubles of themselves below, 
 
 But shafts of sunshine reach its shallow floor 
 
 And warm the yellow sand it ripples o'er. 
 
 Ripples and ripples to a pool it made 
 
 Turning. The cows are there, one creamy white 
 She should be painted with no touch of shade 
 
 If any list to limn her she the light 
 Above, about her, treads out circles wide, 
 And sparkling water flashes from her side. 
 
 The clouds have all retired to so great height 
 As earth could have no dealing with them more 
 
 As they were lost, for all her drawing and might, 
 And must be left behind ; but down the shore 
 
 Lie lovelier clouds in ranks of lace-work frail, 
 
 Wild parsley with a myriad florets pale, 
 
236 NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 
 
 Another milky- way, more intricate 
 
 And multitudinous, with every star 
 Perfect. Long changeful sunbeams undulate 
 
 Amid the stems where sparklike creatures are 
 That hover and hum for gladness, then the last 
 Tree rears her graceful head, the shade is passed. 
 
 And idle fish in warm wellbeing lie 
 
 Each with his shadow under, while at ease 
 
 As clouds that keep their shape the darting fry 
 Turn and are gone in company ; o'er these 
 
 Strangers to them,' strangers to us, from holes 
 
 Scooped in the bank peer out shy water-voles. 
 
 Here, take for life and fly with innocent feet 
 
 The brown-eyed fawns, from moving shadows clear ; 
 
 There, down the lane with multitudinous bleat 
 Plaining on shepherd lads a flock draws near ; 
 
 A mild lamenting fills the morning air, 
 
 ' Why to yon upland fold must we needs fare ? ' 
 
 These might be fabulous creatures every one, 
 And this their world might be some other sphere 
 
 We had but heard of, for all said or done 
 To know of them, of what this many a year 
 
 They may have thought of man, or of his sway, 
 
 Or even if they have a God and pray. 
 
NATURE, FOR NATURES SAKE. 237 
 
 The sweetest river bank can never more 
 
 Home to its source tempt back the lapsed stream, 
 
 Nor memory reach the ante-natal shore, 
 Nor one awake behold a sleeper's dream, 
 
 Not easier 't were that unbridged chasm to walk, 
 
 And share the strange lore of their wordless talk. 
 
 Like to a poet voice, remote from ken, 
 
 That unregarded sings and undesired, 
 Like to a star unnamed by lips of men, 
 
 That faints at dawn in saffron light retired, 
 Like to an echo in some desert deep 
 From age to age unwakened from its sleep, 
 
 So falls unmarked that other world's great song, 
 And lapsing wastes without interpreter. 
 
 Slave world ! not man's to raise, yet man's to wrong, 
 He cannot to a loftier place prefer, 
 
 But he can, all its earlier rights forgot, 
 
 Reign reckless if its nations rue their lot ; 
 
 If they can sin or feel life's wear and fret, 
 An men had loved them better, it may be 
 
 We had discovered. But who e'er did yet, 
 After the sage saints in their clemency, 
 
 Ponder in hope they had a heaven to win, 
 
 Or make a prayer with a dove's name therein ? 
 
238 NATURE, FOR NATURE S SAKE. 
 
 As grave Augustine pleading in his day, 
 1 Have pity, Lord, upon the unfledged bird, 
 
 Lest such as pass do trample it in the way, 
 Not marking, or not minding ; give the word, 
 
 O bid an angel in the nest again 
 
 To place it, lest the mother's love be vain. 
 
 And let it live, Lord God, till it can fly.' v 
 
 This man dwelt yearning, fain to guess, to spell 
 
 The parable ; all work of God Most High 
 
 Took to his man's heart. Surely this was well ; 
 
 To love is more than to be loved, by leave 
 
 Of Heaven, to give is more than to receive. 
 
 He made it so that said it. As for us 
 
 Strange is their case toward us, for they give 
 
 And we receive. Made martyrs ever thus 
 In deed but not in will, for us they live, 
 
 For us they die, we quench their little day, 
 
 Remaining blameless, and they pass away. 
 
 The world is better served than it is ruled, 
 
 And not alone of them, for ever more 
 Ruleth the man, the woman serveth fooled 
 
 Full oft of love, not knowing his yoke is sore. 
 Life's greatest Son nought from life's measure swerved, 
 He was among us ' as a man that served.' 
 
NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 239 
 
 Have they another life, and was it won 
 
 In the sore travail of another death, 
 Which loosed the manacles from our race undone 
 
 And plucked the pang from dying ? If this breath 
 Be not their all, reproach no more debarred, 
 ' O unkind lords, you made our bondage hard,' 
 
 May be their plaint when we shall meet again 
 And make our peace with them ; the sea of life 
 
 Find flowing, full, nor ought or lost or vain. 
 Shall the vague hint whereof all thought is rife, 
 
 The sweet pathetic guess indeed come true, 
 
 And things restored reach that great residue ? 
 
 Shall we behold fair flights of phantom doves, 
 Shall furred creatures couch in moly flowers, 
 
 Swan souls the rivers oar with their world-loves, 
 In difference welcome as these souls of ours ? 
 
 Yet soul of man from soul of man far more 
 
 May differ, even as thought did heretofore 
 
 That ranged and varied on th' undying gleam : 
 From a pure breath of God aspiring, high, 
 
 Serving and reigning, to the tender dream, 
 The winged Psyche and her butterfly 
 
 From thrones and powers, to fresh from death alarms 
 
 Child spirits entering in an angel's arms. 
 
240 NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 
 
 Why must we think, begun in paradise, 
 
 That their long line, cut off with severance fell, 
 
 Shall end in nothingness the sacrifice 
 Of their long service in a passing knell ? 
 
 Could man be wholly blest if not to say 
 
 ' Forgive ' nor make amends for ever and aye ? 
 
 Waste, waste on earth, and waste of God afar. 
 
 Celestial flotsam, blazing spars on high, 
 Drifts in the meteor month from some wrecked star, 
 
 Strew oft th' unwrinkled ocean of the sky, 
 And pass no more accounted of than be 
 Long dulses limp that stripe a mundane sea. 
 
 The sun his kingdom fills with light, but all 
 Save where it strikes some planet and her moons 
 
 Across cold chartless gulfs ordained to fall, 
 
 Void antres, reckoneth no man's nights or noons, 
 
 But feeling forth as for some outmost shore, 
 
 Faints in the blank of doom, and is no more. 
 
 God scattereth His abundance as forgot, 
 
 And what then doth He gather ? If we know, 
 
 T is that One told us it was life. ' For not 
 A sparrow,' quoth He, uttering long ago 
 
 The strangest words that e'er took earthly sound, 
 
 ' Without your Father falleth to the ground,' 
 
241 
 
 PERDITA. 
 
 GO beyond the commandment? So be it. Then 
 
 mine be the blame, 
 The loss, the lack, the yearning, till life's last 
 
 sand be run, 
 I go beyond the commandment, yet Honour stands fast 
 
 with her claim, 
 
 And what I have rued I shall rue ; for what I have done 
 I have done. 
 
 Hush, hush ! for what of the future ; you cannot the base 
 
 exalt, 
 There is no bridging a chasm over, that yawns with so 
 
 sheer incline ; 
 I will not any sweet daughter's cheek should pale for this 
 
 mother's fault, 
 
 Nor son take leave to lower his life a-thinking on mine. 
 
 R 
 
242 PERDITA. 
 
 ' Will I tell you allV So ! this, e'en this, will I do for 
 
 your great love's sake ; 
 Think what it costs. * Then let there be silence silence 
 
 you 'II count consent? 
 
 No, and no, and for ever no : rather to cross and to break, 
 And to lower your passion I speak that other it was I 
 
 meant. 
 
 That other I meant (but I know not how) to speak of, 
 
 nor April days, 
 Nor a man's sweet voice that pleaded O (but I promised 
 
 this) 
 He never talked of marriage, never ; I grant him that 
 
 praise ; 
 And he bent his stately head, and I lost, and he won 
 
 with a kiss. 
 
 He led me away O, how poignant sweet the nightin- 
 gale's note that noon 
 
 I beheld, and each crisped spire of grass to him for my 
 sake was fair, 
 
 And warm winds flattered my soul, blowing straight from 
 the soul of June, 
 
 And a lovely lie was spread on the fields, but the blue 
 was bare. 
 
PERDITA. 243 
 
 When I looked up, he said : c Love, fair love ! O rather 
 
 look in these eyes 
 With thine far sweeter than eyes of Eve when she stepped 
 
 the valley unshod '- 
 For ONE might be looking through it, he thought, and he 
 
 would not in any wise 
 I should mark it open, limitless, empty, bare 'neath the 
 
 gaze of God. 
 
 Ah me ! I was happy yes, I was ; 't is fit you should 
 
 know it all, 
 While love was warm and tender and yearning, the rough 
 
 winds troubled me not ; 
 I heard them moan without in the forest ; heard the 
 
 chill rains fall 
 But I thought my place was sheltered with him I forgot, 
 
 I forgot. 
 
 After came news of a wife ; I think he was glad I should 
 
 know, 
 To stay my pleading, ( take me to church and give me 
 
 my ring ; ' 
 1 You should have spoken before/ he had sighed, when I 
 
 prayed him so, 
 For his heart was sick for himself and me, and this bitter 
 
 thing. 
 
 R 2 
 
244 PERDITA. 
 
 But my dream was over me still, I was half beguiled, 
 And he in his kindness left me seldom, O seldom, 
 
 alone, 
 And yet love waxed cold, and I saw the face of my little 
 
 child, 
 And then at the last I knew what I was, and what I had 
 
 done. 
 
 ' You will give me the name of wife. You will give me a 
 
 ring' O peace ! 
 You are not let to ruin your life because I ruined 
 
 mine; 
 You will go to your people at home. There will be rest 
 
 and release ; 
 The bitter now will be sweet full soon ay, and denial 
 
 divine. 
 
 But spare me the ending. I did not wait to be quite 
 
 cast away ; 
 I left him asleep, and the bare sun rising shone red on 
 
 my gown. 
 There was dust in the lane, I remember ; prints of feet in 
 
 it lay, 
 And honeysuckle trailed in the path that led on to the 
 
 down. 
 
PERDITA. 245 
 
 I was going nowhere I wandered up, then turned and 
 
 dared to look back, 
 Where low in the valley he careless and quiet quiet 
 
 and careless slept. 
 ' Did I love him yet ? ' I loved him. Ay, my heart on the 
 
 upland track 
 Cried to him, sighed to him out by the wheat, as I 
 
 walked, and I wept. 
 
 I knew of another alas, one that had been in my place, 
 
 Her little ones, she forsaken, were almost in need ; 
 
 I went to her, and carried my babe, then all in my satins 
 
 and lace 
 I sank at the step of her desolate door, a mourner 
 
 indeed. 
 
 I cried, ' T is the way of the world, would I had never 
 
 been born ! ' 
 ' Ay, 't is the way of the world, but have you no sense 
 
 to see 
 For all the way of the world,' she answers and laughs me 
 
 to scorn, 
 ' The world is made the world that it is by fools like 
 
 you, like me ? ' 
 
246 PERDITA. 
 
 Right hard upon me, hard on herself, and cold as the 
 
 cold stone, 
 But she took me in ; and while I lay sick I knew I was 
 
 lost, 
 Lost with the man I loved, or lost without him, making 
 
 my moan 
 Blighted and rent of the bitter frost, wrecked, tempest 
 
 tossed, lost, lost ! 
 
 How am I fallen : we that might make of the world what 
 
 we would, 
 Some of us sink in deep waters. Ah ! 'you would raise 
 
 me again ? ' 
 No, true heart, you cannot, you cannot, and all in my 
 
 soul that is good 
 Cries out against such a wrong. Let be, your quest is for 
 
 ever in vain. 
 
 For I feel with another heart, I think with another 
 
 mind, 
 I have worsened life, I have wronged the world, I have 
 
 lowered the light ; 
 But as for him, his words and his ways were after his 
 
 kind, 
 He did but spoil where he could, and waste where he 
 
 might. 
 
PERDITA. 247 
 
 For he was let to do it ; I let him and left his soul 
 
 To walk mid the ruins he made of home in remem- 
 brance of love's despairs, 
 
 Despairs that harden the hearts of men and shadow their 
 heads with dole, 
 
 And woman's fault, though never on earth, may be 
 healed, but what of theirs ? 
 
 T was fit you should hear it all What, tears ? they com- 
 fort me ; now you will go, 
 
 Nor wrong your life for the nought you call f a pair of 
 beautiful eyes, 7 
 
 ' I will not say I love you? Truly I will not, no. 
 
 ' Will I pity you ? ' Ay, but the pang will be short, you 
 shall wake and be wise. 
 
 * Shall we meet ? J We shall meet on the other side, but 
 
 not before. 
 I shall be pure and fair, I shall hear the sound of THE 
 
 NAME, 
 
 And see the form of His face. You too will walk on that 
 
 shore, 
 In the garden of the Lord God, where neither is sorrow 
 
 nor shame. 
 
248 PERDITA. 
 
 Farewell, I shall bide alone, for God took my one white 
 
 lamb, 
 
 I work for such as she was, and I will the while I last, 
 But there 's no beginning again, ever I am what I am, 
 And nothing, nothing, nothing, can do away with the 
 
 past. 
 
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