Chapter 54

"Is it even so?" said my lady."Even so!" said my lord.

"Is it even so?" said my lady.

"Even so!" said my lord.

... Not a stone-cast from the summit of the hill where all snow was now parched and evaporated away, stood a cairn of boulders and thereon sate three Eagles whose eyes surveyed the kingdoms of the world, its seas and Man's lost possessions. And the Eagle that was eastwards of the three, a little rimpled her wings and cried: "Where now? where now?" And the Eagle that shook upon her plumes the dazzle of the dying sun stretched out her corded neck and yelped: "Man! Man!" And the midmost Eagle stooped low its golden head and champed between its talons with its beak upon the boulder: "The Earth founders," she mewed. And a stillness was upon the hill as though of a myriad watching eyes.

—and here are two old rhymes for the dancing to. One for a Morris Dance:

Skip it and trip it nimbly, nimbly,Tickle it, tickle it lustily;Strike up the tabour for the wenches' favour,Tickle it, tickle it lustily.Let us be seene in Hygate Freene,To dance for the honour of Holloway.Since we are come hither, let us spare for no leatherTo dance for the honour of Holloway.

Skip it and trip it nimbly, nimbly,Tickle it, tickle it lustily;Strike up the tabour for the wenches' favour,Tickle it, tickle it lustily.

Skip it and trip it nimbly, nimbly,

Tickle it, tickle it lustily;

Strike up the tabour for the wenches' favour,

Tickle it, tickle it lustily.

Let us be seene in Hygate Freene,To dance for the honour of Holloway.Since we are come hither, let us spare for no leatherTo dance for the honour of Holloway.

Let us be seene in Hygate Freene,

To dance for the honour of Holloway.

Since we are come hither, let us spare for no leather

To dance for the honour of Holloway.

And this for a Flower Dance:

Where's my lovely parsley, say?My violets, roses, where are they?My parsley, roses, violets fair,Where are my flowers? Tell me where?

Where's my lovely parsley, say?

My violets, roses, where are they?

My parsley, roses, violets fair,

Where are my flowers? Tell me where?

And yet another for one's Lonesome Low:

The king's young dochter was sitting in her window,Sewing at her silken seam;She lookt out o' the bow-window,And she saw the leaves growing green,My luve;And she saw the leaves growing green.She stuck her needle into her sleeve,Her seam down by her tae,And she is awa' to the merrie greenwood,To pu' the nit and the slae,My luve;To pu' the nit and the slae.

The king's young dochter was sitting in her window,Sewing at her silken seam;She lookt out o' the bow-window,And she saw the leaves growing green,My luve;And she saw the leaves growing green.

The king's young dochter was sitting in her window,

Sewing at her silken seam;

She lookt out o' the bow-window,

And she saw the leaves growing green,

My luve;

And she saw the leaves growing green.

She stuck her needle into her sleeve,Her seam down by her tae,And she is awa' to the merrie greenwood,To pu' the nit and the slae,My luve;To pu' the nit and the slae.

She stuck her needle into her sleeve,

Her seam down by her tae,

And she is awa' to the merrie greenwood,

To pu' the nit and the slae,

My luve;

To pu' the nit and the slae.

The "dochter" is of course daughter, "nit" is nut, and "slae" sloe.

Pause an instant on the fifth word in the third stanza and you can actuallyhearthe birds laughing—yaffle, blackcap, bullfinch and jay, and the droning and the whistling and the whir-r-r.

Scattered through this volume are many songs, a few of them—both words and music—exceedingly ancient. Mr. Nahum had a cofferful of old hand-written music (square crotchets and quavers and handsome clefs); and many outlandish instruments were hung up in the dust and silence in one of his cupboards. I remember some small living thing set a string jangling when for the first time the door admitted me to a sight of their queer shapes and appearances. In an old book of 1548,The Complaynt of Scotland, there is a list of names, not only of old folk-tales such as "The tayl of the wolfe of the varldes end"; and "The tayl of the giantes that eit quyk men," but of songs and dances for long in common love and knowledge even in those old times. Here are a few of the songs:

God You, Good Day, Wild Boy.Broom, Broom on Hill.Trolly lolly leman, dow.All musing of Marvels, amiss have I gone.O Mine Heart, hey, this is my Song.Shall I go with You to Rumbelow Fair?That Day, that Day, that Gentle Day.Alas, that Samyn Sweet Face!In are Mirthful Morrow.

God You, Good Day, Wild Boy.

Broom, Broom on Hill.

Trolly lolly leman, dow.

All musing of Marvels, amiss have I gone.

O Mine Heart, hey, this is my Song.

Shall I go with You to Rumbelow Fair?

That Day, that Day, that Gentle Day.

Alas, that Samyn Sweet Face!

In are Mirthful Morrow.

And here some Dances:

The tunes to these were played at that day on four kinds of bagpipe (including a drone bagpipe), a trump, a recorder, a "fiddell," and a "quhissil"—which is the pleasantest way of spellingwhistleI have yet seen. The melodies and words of most of them are, apparently, all now clean forgotten.

"Fa la la" (No. 210) is of a different kind, being one of hundreds of madrigals, "ayres" and ballets of which both the words and the music were written in England in the first twenty years or so of the seventeenth century. There is, of course, a hoard of learning that one may study on this English music—William Byrd's, John Dowland's, Thomas Ford's, Thomas Campion's, John Bartlet's, Philip Rosseter's, Robert Ayres' and others—which in its own day was as famous in the countries of Europe as English poetry is now. It was the coming of foreign music and musicians to England—the Italians and Handel and Mendelssohn—that put it ungratefully out of mind. To-day its dust has at last been brushed away. The Madrigals are being printed and sung again, and Dr. Fellowes has lately published a volume containing the words of hundreds of such lively, nimble and heart-entrancing rhymes—intended by their writers to carry with them a double charm—not only their own verbal melody, grace and beauty, but also their music's.

My own knowledge is scanty indeed, but I gather that amadrigal is intended to be sung, unaccompanied with instruments, by voices only—three to five, six, or seven, it may be, and men's and women's or boys', coursing, echoing, interweaving, responding and rilling together like the countless runnels and wavelets of a brook over its stones, or a wood full of singing birds at evening. An Ayre is different. It is for the voice—singing its melody to the accompaniment of lute, viol or virginal, as a nightingale may sing at dusk above the murmur of a softly-brawling brook. A Ballet, the most ancient of all three, went hand in hand and foot to foot with a dance.

All I wish to make clear is that the printed words of Nos. 210 and 212, for instance, can give only a fraction of the pleasure their poets intended, who in writing had always the singing voice and often the twangling string in mind. Their very age to my fancy gives them an enticing strangeness, grace, and freshness. For in their company the imagination returns to the days when first they rang out in the taverns and parlours and palaces and streets of a London that from every steeple and tower was within sight of green fields; a noble city of but about three hundred thousand people (including children) wherein you might any day find William Shakespeare, Ben Johnson, Chapman and the rest talking together in its taverns, theMermaidor theTriple Tun, while that ill-fortuned traveller and statesman, Sir Walter Raleigh, fallen upon evil days, sat mewed up in the Tower of London, engrossed in hisHistory of the World.

None the less there are human beings who remain deaf to the magic both of words and music—that, like the deaf adder,stoptheir ears: "I know very well," wrote Sir William Temple, "that many who pretend to be wise by the forms of being grave, are apt to despise both poetry and music as toys and trifles too light for the use or entertainment of serious men. But whoever find themselves wholly insensible to these charms, would I think do well to keep their own counsel, for ... while this world lasts, I doubt most but the pleasure and requests of these two entertainments will do so too; and happy those that content themselves with these, or any other so easy and so innocent; and do not trouble the world or other men, because they cannot be quiet themselves, though nobody hurts them!

"When all is done, human life is at the greatest and the best but like a froward child, that must be played with and humoured a little to keep it quiet till it falls asleep, and then the care is over."

"Amo, amas,I love a lass,As cedar tall and slender;Sweet cowslip's faceIs her nominative case,And she's of the feminine gender.Horum quorum,Sunt divorum,Harum, scarum, Divo;Tag rag, merry derry, periwig and hatband,Hic—hoc—hârum, genitivo."John O'keefe

"Amo, amas,

I love a lass,

As cedar tall and slender;

Sweet cowslip's face

Is her nominative case,

And she's of the feminine gender.

Horum quorum,

Sunt divorum,

Harum, scarum, Divo;

Tag rag, merry derry, periwig and hatband,

Hic—hoc—hârum, genitivo."

John O'keefe

There was a mayde come out of Kent,Deintie love, deintie love;There was a mayde cam out of Kent,Daungerous be:There was a mayde cam out of Kent,Fáyre, propre, small and gent,As ever upon the grounde went,For so should it be."When you speake (Sweet)I'ld have you do it ever. When you sing,I'ld have you buy and sell so: so give Almes,Pray so: and for the ord'ring your Affayres,To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish youNothing but that: move still, still so:And owne no other function....My prettiest Perdita."The Winter's Tale.

There was a mayde come out of Kent,

Deintie love, deintie love;

There was a mayde cam out of Kent,

Daungerous be:

There was a mayde cam out of Kent,

Fáyre, propre, small and gent,

As ever upon the grounde went,

For so should it be.

"When you speake (Sweet)I'ld have you do it ever. When you sing,I'ld have you buy and sell so: so give Almes,Pray so: and for the ord'ring your Affayres,To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish youNothing but that: move still, still so:And owne no other function....My prettiest Perdita."The Winter's Tale.

"When you speake (Sweet)

I'ld have you do it ever. When you sing,

I'ld have you buy and sell so: so give Almes,

Pray so: and for the ord'ring your Affayres,

To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you

Nothing but that: move still, still so:

And owne no other function....

My prettiest Perdita."

The Winter's Tale.

"Such pretie things would soon be gonIf we should not so them remembre."

"Such pretie things would soon be gon

If we should not so them remembre."

Theremightbe an instant's check or faltering at the eighth line, but make it "when theWinds Blowand theSeas Flow"—the great flood of air and water banking up as it were into the words as does the Atlantic in a gale at the Spring Equinox—and all's well.

"The flee is a lyttell worme, and greveth men mooste; and scapeth and voideth peril with lepynge and not with runnynge, and wexeth slowe and fayleth in colde tyme, and in somer tyme it wexeth quiver and swyft; and spareth not kynges."

George Wither, says Aubrey, could make verses as fast as he could write them. So, too, could Shakespeare. "What he thought," said his editors, "he uttered with that easinesse that we have scarse received from him a blot in his papers."

Still:—"So, So-a! fair and softly!" said the old Shropshire farmer to Job his plough-horse when he kicked up his heels as if to break into a gallop; "So, So-a! When thou'rt a racer, my dear, or born a high-blood Arab, there'll be time enough for that.Some goes their best slow."

If the lass's "fives" in the fourth stanza (of 214) were the fives of to-day she must have had a quite comfortable foot, a size or two larger, at any rate, than the bride's in Sir John Suckling'sBallad upon a Wedding:

... Her feet beneath her petticoatLike little mice stole in and out,As if they feared the light;But oh, she dances such a way!No sun upon an Easter-dayIs half so fine a sight.Her cheeks so rare a white was on,No daisy makes comparison;Who sees them is undone;For streaks of red were mingled there,Such as are on a Catharine pear,The side that's next the sun.Her lips were red; and one was thinCompared to that was next her chin(Some bee had stung it newly);But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,I durst no more upon them gaze,Than on the sun in Júly....

... Her feet beneath her petticoatLike little mice stole in and out,As if they feared the light;But oh, she dances such a way!No sun upon an Easter-dayIs half so fine a sight.

... Her feet beneath her petticoat

Like little mice stole in and out,

As if they feared the light;

But oh, she dances such a way!

No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,No daisy makes comparison;Who sees them is undone;For streaks of red were mingled there,Such as are on a Catharine pear,The side that's next the sun.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy makes comparison;

Who sees them is undone;

For streaks of red were mingled there,

Such as are on a Catharine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thinCompared to that was next her chin(Some bee had stung it newly);But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,I durst no more upon them gaze,Than on the sun in Júly....

Her lips were red; and one was thin

Compared to that was next her chin

(Some bee had stung it newly);

But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,

I durst no more upon them gaze,

Than on the sun in Júly....

June 24 is not only the birthday of St. John the Baptist, but also the year's Sun Day, for about this day, following through the night but a little way beneath the horizon, he rises at dawn furthest North of East in his annual journey (see p. xiv). As once on May-day so it was then formerly the custom, all England over, to set bonfires blazing on the hilltops, around which the country people danced and sang. The dairy-maid who had the breath, and was fleet enough of foot to ring around, between dusk and daybreak, nine such merry bonfires before they were burnt out, assured her heart of a happy marriage within the year.

The aïr to gi'e your cheäks a hueO' rwosy red, so feaïr to view,Is what do sheäke the grass-bleädes graeAt breäk o' dae, in mornén dew;Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode,Will meet wi' health upon their road.But biden up till dead o' night,When han's o' clocks do stan' upright,By candlelight, do soon consumeThe feäce's bloom, an' turn it white.An' moon-beäms cast vrom midnight skiesDo blunt the sparklen ov the eyes.Vor health do weäke vrom nightly dreamsBelow the mornen's eärly beams,An' leäve the dead-aïr'd houses' eaves,Vor quiv'ren leaves, an' bubblen streams,A-glitt'ren brightly to the view,Below a sky o' cloudless blue.William Barnes

The aïr to gi'e your cheäks a hue

O' rwosy red, so feaïr to view,

Is what do sheäke the grass-bleädes grae

At breäk o' dae, in mornén dew;

Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode,

Will meet wi' health upon their road.

But biden up till dead o' night,When han's o' clocks do stan' upright,By candlelight, do soon consumeThe feäce's bloom, an' turn it white.An' moon-beäms cast vrom midnight skiesDo blunt the sparklen ov the eyes.

But biden up till dead o' night,

When han's o' clocks do stan' upright,

By candlelight, do soon consume

The feäce's bloom, an' turn it white.

An' moon-beäms cast vrom midnight skies

Do blunt the sparklen ov the eyes.

Vor health do weäke vrom nightly dreamsBelow the mornen's eärly beams,An' leäve the dead-aïr'd houses' eaves,Vor quiv'ren leaves, an' bubblen streams,A-glitt'ren brightly to the view,Below a sky o' cloudless blue.William Barnes

Vor health do weäke vrom nightly dreams

Below the mornen's eärly beams,

An' leäve the dead-aïr'd houses' eaves,

Vor quiv'ren leaves, an' bubblen streams,

A-glitt'ren brightly to the view,

Below a sky o' cloudless blue.

William Barnes

The words in this poem are spelt as they are spoken in the County of Dorset. "Rathe" means early; and "below" beneath. There is a half-secret rhyme in each fourth line.

There is sweet music here that softer fallsThan petals from blown roses on the grass,Or night-dews on still waters between wallsOf shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.Tennyson

There is sweet music here that softer falls

Than petals from blown roses on the grass,

Or night-dews on still waters between walls

Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,

Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.

Tennyson

Of this I saw the picture in Thrae. It was named Czar Kolokol, and, when cast, was of the weight of about twenty-six hundred heavy men. It now stands clapperless on the ground with a breach in its metal side. Through this breach the people go into its silence to pray.

This "Country Rhime," with Nos. 121 and 434, is taken fromA Book for Boys and Girls, written by John Bunyan. It came out into the world on May 12th, 1686, two years before Bunyan died on Snow Hill in London; and two years after the publication of the Second Part ofThe Pilgrim's Progress, "wherein is set forth the manner of the setting out of Christian's Wife and Children, their dangerous journey, and safe arrival at the Desired Country."

When Bunyan was young he loved ringing the bells with the ringers in the steeple of the village church of Elstow, where he was born, and where his grandfather, Thomas Bonyon, was "a common baker of human bread."

All these "Homely rhimes" are followed in this particularBook for Boys and Girlsby comparisons", as here: first the bells; then a lesson about them. They are parables. But in Mr. Nahum's copying, many of the lessons were omitted;perhaps because he preferred to think out his own. Not that the poetry that is intended to teach, to praise virtue, and to instil wisdom in the heart and mind of its readers is any the less poetry for this reason. Nevertheless,everybeautiful thing in this world—the hyssop in the wall and the cedar of Lebanon, Solomon in all his glory and the ring on his finger, carries with it joy and wonder of the life that is ours, and gratitude to the Maker of all. And poets who, when writing, are too intent upon teaching, are apt to forfeit their rarest poetry.

Dorothy was William Wordsworth's only sister and his friend Coleridge's close friend. What she squandered on these two poets—her self, her talk, her imagination, her love—only they could tell. "She gave me eyes, she gave me ears," once wrote her brother; she shared his visionary happiness. With Coleridge she used to walk and talk so nearly and dearly that again and again in herJournalshe uses all but the very words—that "thin gray cloud," the line on Spring, or on the one red leaf, for instance—which are so magically his own inChristabel(No. 345).

I read this—perhaps the loveliest of John Keats's odes, many times before I realised that the whole of it is addressed to the musing apparition or phantasm of Autumn whom in its second stanza he describes as if she were in image there before him. This, perhaps, was partly because the poem is usually printed with a full stop after "clammy cells," and partly because of my own stupidity.

Thomas Hood, in his scarcely less beautiful Ode, sees Autumn first as an old man:

I saw old Autumn in the misty mornStand shadowless like Silence, listeningTo silence, for no lonely bird would singInto his hollow ear from woods forlorn,Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;Shaking his languid locks all dewy brightWith tangled gossamer that fell by night,Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn

Stand shadowless like Silence, listening

To silence, for no lonely bird would sing

Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,

Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;

Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright

With tangled gossamer that fell by night,

Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

And later, in his fourth stanza:

The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard,The ants have brimmed their garners with ripe grain,And honey bees have storedThe sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;The swallows all have winged across the main;But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,And sighs her tearful spellsAmongst the sunless shadows of the plain.Alone, alone,Upon a mossy stone,She sits and reckons up the dead and gone,With the last leaves for a love-rosary,Whilst all the withered world looks drearily,Like a dim picture of the drownèd pastIn the hushed mind's mysterious far away,Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the lastInto that distance, gray upon the gray....

The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard,

The ants have brimmed their garners with ripe grain,

And honey bees have stored

The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;

The swallows all have winged across the main;

But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,

And sighs her tearful spells

Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.

Alone, alone,

Upon a mossy stone,

She sits and reckons up the dead and gone,

With the last leaves for a love-rosary,

Whilst all the withered world looks drearily,

Like a dim picture of the drownèd past

In the hushed mind's mysterious far away,

Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last

Into that distance, gray upon the gray....

I thee adviseIf thou be wiseTo keep thy witThough it be small:'Tis rare to get.And far to fet,'Twas ever yetDear'st ware of all.George Turberville

I thee advise

If thou be wise

To keep thy wit

Though it be small:

'Tis rare to get.

And far to fet,

'Twas ever yet

Dear'st ware of all.

George Turberville

"Far to fetch" it certainly is; but here is a little counsel to this end from the old IrishInstructions of King Cormac(of the ninth century). Of Carbery I know no more, but doubtless there is much to hear:

"O Cormac, grandson of Conn," said Carbery, "what is the worst for the body of man?"

"Not hard to tell," said Cormac. "Sitting too long, lying too long, long standing, lifting heavy things, exerting oneself beyond one's strength, running too much, leaping too much, frequent falls, sleeping with one's leg over the bed-rail, gazing at glowing embers, wax, biestings [very new milk], new ale,bull-flesh, curdles, dry food, bog-water, rising too early, cold, sun, hunger, drinking too much, eating too much, sleeping too much, sinning too much, grief, running up a height, shouting against the wind, drying oneself by a fire, summer-dew, winter-dew, beating ashes, swimming on a full stomach, sleeping on one's back, foolish romping." ...

"O Cormac, grandson of Conn," said Carbery, "I desire to know how I shall behave among the wise and the foolish, among friends and strangers, among the old and the young, among the innocent and the wicked."

"Not hard to tell," said Cormac.

"Be not too wise, nor too foolish,Be not too conceited, nor too diffident,Be not too haughty, nor too humble,Be not too talkative, nor too silent,Be not too hard, nor too feeble.If you be too wise, men will expect too much of you;If you be too foolish, you will be deceived;If you be too conceited, you will be thought vexatious;If you be too humble, you will be without honour;If you be too talkative, you will not be heeded;If you be too silent, you will not be regarded;If you be too bard, you will be broken;If you be too feeble, you will be crushed."

"Be not too wise, nor too foolish,

Be not too conceited, nor too diffident,

Be not too haughty, nor too humble,

Be not too talkative, nor too silent,

Be not too hard, nor too feeble.

If you be too wise, men will expect too much of you;

If you be too foolish, you will be deceived;

If you be too conceited, you will be thought vexatious;

If you be too humble, you will be without honour;

If you be too talkative, you will not be heeded;

If you be too silent, you will not be regarded;

If you be too bard, you will be broken;

If you be too feeble, you will be crushed."

But what the exact total of all these "too's" may be is a riddle only the Higher Mathematics can solve.

—after which, in Elizabeth's day, "the characters (one or more) were wont to kneel down upon the stage and to offer a solemn prayer for the sovereign, or other patron":

"My tongue is wearie; when my Legs are too, I will bid you good night; and so kneele down before you: But (indeed) to pray for the Queene."

Henry IV.

I know that all beneath the moon decays,And what by mortals in this world is broughtIn Time's great periods shall return to nought;That fairest states have fatal nights and days;I know how all the Muse's heavenly lays,With toil of spright which is so dearly bought,As idle sounds, of few or none are sought;And that nought lighter is than airy praise.I know frail beauty's like the purple flower,To which one morn oft birth and death affords;That love a jarring is of minds' accords,Where sense and will invassall reason's power.Know what I list, this all can not me move,But that—O me! I both must write and love!William Drummond

I know that all beneath the moon decays,And what by mortals in this world is broughtIn Time's great periods shall return to nought;That fairest states have fatal nights and days;

I know that all beneath the moon decays,

And what by mortals in this world is brought

In Time's great periods shall return to nought;

That fairest states have fatal nights and days;

I know how all the Muse's heavenly lays,With toil of spright which is so dearly bought,As idle sounds, of few or none are sought;And that nought lighter is than airy praise.

I know how all the Muse's heavenly lays,

With toil of spright which is so dearly bought,

As idle sounds, of few or none are sought;

And that nought lighter is than airy praise.

I know frail beauty's like the purple flower,To which one morn oft birth and death affords;That love a jarring is of minds' accords,Where sense and will invassall reason's power.

I know frail beauty's like the purple flower,

To which one morn oft birth and death affords;

That love a jarring is of minds' accords,

Where sense and will invassall reason's power.

Know what I list, this all can not me move,But that—O me! I both must write and love!William Drummond

Know what I list, this all can not me move,

But that—O me! I both must write and love!

William Drummond

"I hear the crane, if I mistake not, cryWho in the clouds forming the forked Y,By the brave orders practized under her,Instructeth souldiers in the art of war.For when her troops of wandring cranes forsakeFrost-firmèd Strymon, and (in autumn) takeTruce with the northern dwarfs, to seek adventureIn southern climates for a milder winter;A-front each band a forward captain flies,Whose pointed bill cuts passage through the skies,Two skilful sergeants keep the ranks aright,And with their voyce hasten their tardy flight;And when the honey of care-charming sleepSweetly begins through all their veines to creepOne keeps the watch, and ever carefull-most,Walks many a round about the sleeping hoast,Still holding in his claw a stony clod,Whose fall may wake him if he hap to nod.Another doth as much, a third, a fourth,Untill, by turns the night be turnèd forth."

"I hear the crane, if I mistake not, cry

Who in the clouds forming the forked Y,

By the brave orders practized under her,

Instructeth souldiers in the art of war.

For when her troops of wandring cranes forsake

Frost-firmèd Strymon, and (in autumn) take

Truce with the northern dwarfs, to seek adventure

In southern climates for a milder winter;

A-front each band a forward captain flies,

Whose pointed bill cuts passage through the skies,

Two skilful sergeants keep the ranks aright,

And with their voyce hasten their tardy flight;

And when the honey of care-charming sleep

Sweetly begins through all their veines to creep

One keeps the watch, and ever carefull-most,

Walks many a round about the sleeping hoast,

Still holding in his claw a stony clod,

Whose fall may wake him if he hap to nod.

Another doth as much, a third, a fourth,

Untill, by turns the night be turnèd forth."

So also, according to travellers, talk, argue in parliament, camp, and keep watch the wandering tribes of the gaudy-dyed Baboons.

If this poem is read softly, pausingly, without haste, the very words will seem like snowflakes themselves, floating into the mind; and then, the beauty and the wonder.

Here again, as in music, there are rests in the second, fourth and fifth lines of each stanza. Is there any magic to compare with that still solemn unearthly radiance when the world is masked with snow; and the very sparkling of the mind is like hoar-frost on the bark of a tree.

Allan Cunningham's in Scotland, and these—Mr. Robert Frost's—in Vermont U.S.A.:

Whose Woods these are I think I know,His house is in the village thoughHe will not see my stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queer,To stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake,The only other sounds the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.The woods are lovely dark and deep;But I have promises to keepAnd miles to go before I sleep:And miles to go before I sleep.

Whose Woods these are I think I know,His house is in the village thoughHe will not see my stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.

Whose Woods these are I think I know,

His house is in the village though

He will not see my stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,To stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.

My little horse must think it queer,

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake,The only other sounds the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake,

The only other sounds the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely dark and deep;But I have promises to keepAnd miles to go before I sleep:And miles to go before I sleep.

The woods are lovely dark and deep;

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep:

And miles to go before I sleep.

There may be a few small verbal puzzles in this fifteenth-century carol—otherwise as clear, sharp and shining as a winter moon.

Kechounis kitchen, and Stephen (who waited on the King at bed and board) stepped out of it into the hall, "boar's head on hand."Kyst, means cast;eylet, aileth;wodis mad. So toobrede, I fancy. When the roasted capon or cock crowed in its dish, Herod, in wrath and fear cried on his torturers, "by two and all by one" to rise up and kill.

In later times a clay or earthenware box made all of a piece, with a slit in it, was carried by apprentices through the streets on St. Stephen's day, for money. And never a Catholic missionary once sailed for the Indies, Barbary, or the Islands of the Anthropophagites, but a box was hung by the priests in the church for alms against his return. From the former old custom comes our "Boxing Day."

In the Isle of Man, however, the Christmas Box was called the Wren Box, and for this reason: There dwelt of old a Lorelei, siren or sea-elf, in the emerald green creeks and caves of a solitary precipitous island. She was as lovely as she was cruel, and her shrill sweet voice rose amid the roaring and soughing of the waves in her steep rocky habitation as shines a poisonous flower in the dark of a forest. Thus she would at daybreak enchant to their doom sailors following their craft on the sea. Leaning to listen to this music creeping by them on the waters, they drew in to her haunts. Of their bones were coral made; while she lived on; sang on. She was hunted down at last in her sea-grottoes by those who, like Ulysses, had stopped their ears against her incantations. Brought finally to bay, her beauty and bright hair suddenly dwindled and dimmed, and she escaped in the shape of—Jenny Wren. Alas, for Jenny Wren! condemned ever after for the woes of this siren to be pursued with sticks and stones by young loons, cullions and Jerry Sneaks, on every St. Stephen's Day. As goes the rhyme:

"Oh, where are you going?" says milder to melder;"Oh, where are you going?" says the younger to the elder."Oh, I cannot tell," says Festel to Fose;"We're going to the woods," says John the Red Nose."We're going to the woods," says John the Red Nose."Oh, what will you do there?" says milder to melder;"Oh, what will you do there?" says the younger to the elder."Oh, I do not know," says Festel to Fose;"To shoot the cutty wren," says John the Red Nose."To shoot the cutty wren," says John the Red Nose."Oh, what of her corpsums?" etc. etc.,

"Oh, where are you going?" says milder to melder;

"Oh, where are you going?" says the younger to the elder.

"Oh, I cannot tell," says Festel to Fose;

"We're going to the woods," says John the Red Nose.

"Oh, what will you do there?" says milder to melder;"Oh, what will you do there?" says the younger to the elder."Oh, I do not know," says Festel to Fose;"To shoot the cutty wren," says John the Red Nose."To shoot the cutty wren," says John the Red Nose.

"Oh, what will you do there?" says milder to melder;

"Oh, what will you do there?" says the younger to the elder.

"Oh, I do not know," says Festel to Fose;

"To shoot the cutty wren," says John the Red Nose.

"Oh, what of her corpsums?" etc. etc.,

and a sinister company they look, especially "milder"!

Lullay, lullay, thou lytill child,Sleep and be well still;The King of bliss thy father is,As it was his will.The other night I saw a sight,A mayd a cradle keep:"Lullay," she sung, and said among,"Lie still, my child, and sleep.""How should I sleep? I may not for weep,So sore am I begone:Sleep I would; I may not for cold,And clothes have I none."For Adam's guilt mankind is spiltAnd that me rueth sore;For Adam and Eve here shall I liveThirty winter and more."

Lullay, lullay, thou lytill child,Sleep and be well still;The King of bliss thy father is,As it was his will.

Lullay, lullay, thou lytill child,

Sleep and be well still;

The King of bliss thy father is,

As it was his will.

The other night I saw a sight,A mayd a cradle keep:"Lullay," she sung, and said among,"Lie still, my child, and sleep."

The other night I saw a sight,

A mayd a cradle keep:

"Lullay," she sung, and said among,

"Lie still, my child, and sleep."

"How should I sleep? I may not for weep,So sore am I begone:Sleep I would; I may not for cold,And clothes have I none.

"How should I sleep? I may not for weep,

So sore am I begone:

Sleep I would; I may not for cold,

And clothes have I none.

"For Adam's guilt mankind is spiltAnd that me rueth sore;For Adam and Eve here shall I liveThirty winter and more."

"For Adam's guilt mankind is spilt

And that me rueth sore;

For Adam and Eve here shall I live

Thirty winter and more."

and here is a rhyme (entitled Jolagiafir) for a memory-game they used to play in old times on Twelfth Night after the bean or silver-penny had been discovered in the Twelfth Cake, and the Wassail Bowl has gone round with the Mince Pies.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to meA partridge in a pear-tree.On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to meTwo turtle doves and a partridge in a pear-tree.On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to meThree French hens, two turtle doves andA partridge in a pear-tree.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to meA partridge in a pear-tree.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me

A partridge in a pear-tree.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to meTwo turtle doves and a partridge in a pear-tree.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me

Two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear-tree.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to meThree French hens, two turtle doves andA partridge in a pear-tree.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me

Three French hens, two turtle doves and

A partridge in a pear-tree.

And so on to—

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to meTwelve lords a-leaping, eleven ladies dancing,Ten pipers piping, nine drummers drumming,Eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming,Six geese a-laying, five gold rings,Four colly birds, three French hens,Two turtle doves, andA partridge in a pear-tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me

Twelve lords a-leaping, eleven ladies dancing,

Ten pipers piping, nine drummers drumming,

Eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming,

Six geese a-laying, five gold rings,

Four colly birds, three French hens,

Two turtle doves, and

A partridge in a pear-tree.

And here is a recipe for Lamb's Wool, with which to fill "the Bowl": Take "the pulpe of rosted apples, in number four or five according to the greatnesse of the apples (especially the pome water), and mix it heartily in a wine quart of faire water"—or old ale—"with a due and fair lacing of nutmegs, sugar and ginger"—until the company can wait no longer.

And here's another "Twelve"; from Scotland:

What will be our twelve, boys?What will be our twelve, boys?Twelve's the Twelve Apostles;Eleven's maidens in a dance;Ten's the Ten Commandments;Nine's the Muses o' Parnassus;Eight's the table rangers;Seven's the stars of heaven;Six the echoing waters;Five's the hymnlers o' my bower;Four's the gospel-makers;Three, three thrivers;Twa's the lily and the rose,That shine baith red and green, boys:My only ane, she walks alane,And evermair has dune, boys.

What will be our twelve, boys?

Twelve's the Twelve Apostles;

Eleven's maidens in a dance;

Ten's the Ten Commandments;

Nine's the Muses o' Parnassus;

Eight's the table rangers;

Seven's the stars of heaven;

Six the echoing waters;

Five's the hymnlers o' my bower;

Four's the gospel-makers;

Three, three thrivers;

Twa's the lily and the rose,

That shine baith red and green, boys:

My only ane, she walks alane,

And evermair has dune, boys.

It looks as if this carol—of Henry VI.'s reign—was once a singing game: On the one side in the blaze of the Yule Log the Holly men with gilded and garlanded pole; and on the other Ivy with her maidens; each side taunting the other, and maybe tugging for prisoners. "Ivy-girls," too, used to be burned by companies of boys, and Holly-boys by girls—all yawping and jodelling at the sport.

"Poppynguy" may perhaps be the jay, but it would be pleasanter company for the lark, if here it means the green woodpecker. His other names are rain-bird, hew-hole, wood-sprite, woodweele, woodspeek and yaffle, the very sound ofwhich is like the echo of his own laughter in the sunny green tops of the wood.

There is a peculiar magic (which may perhaps be less apparent to the Greenlanders) in icicles. Nor are its effects unknown to the four-footed. In certain remote regions of Siberia there is said to be a little animal called the Iccė-vulff (or Ice-wolf). He has prick-ears, is a fierce feeder, and wears a coat so wondrous close and dense that three or four of our English moles' skins laid one atop the other would yet fall short of its match. But he seldom attains to a ripe age, and for this reason. As soon as he is freed from his dam's snow-burrow, he hastes off to the dwellings of the men of those parts, snuffing their dried seal-steaks and blubber, being a most incorrigible thief and a very wary. And such is his craft that he mocks at gins, traps and pitfalls. But he has a habit which is often to his undoing. It is in this wise: The heat of these hovels is apt to melt a little the snow upon them, its water trickling and coursing softly down till long, keen icicles are formed, upon which, whether hungry or fed, taking up his station in a plumb line beneath them, he will squat and gloat for an hour together, having a marvellous greedy pleasure in clear glasslike colours. Hearing his breathing or faint snuffing, any human who wakes within will of a sudden violently shake the wall between. This dislodges the pendent icicles, and the squatting Iccė-vulff is pierced to his death as with a sword.

Winter indeed makes crystal even of ink. It has the power of enchanting every imagination; and particularly Coleridge's:

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,Whether the summer clothe the general earthWith greenness, or the redbreast sit and singBetwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branchOf mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatchSmokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fallHeard only in the trances of the blast,Or if the secret ministry of frostShall hang them up in silent icicles,Quietly shining to the quiet Moon....

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth

With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing

Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch

Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch

Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall

Heard only in the trances of the blast,

Or if the secret ministry of frost

Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon....

This means, I think, that she adds her own grieved cadences to the melody, as may one, among many voices, singing in harmony.

This rainbow "bubble"—like Shelley's "many-coloured dome of glass" in hisAdonais—seems, before our very eyes, to be floating up into the empty blue heavens, until it smalls into a bead of gold, and vanishes. It brings to memory—though I am uncertain of the first line—an epitaph in the church at Zennor, a village clustered above the Atlantic on the dreamlike coast of Cornwall—an epitaph cut in fine lettering into its slate slab, while at each corner of the slab Cherubs' heads puff out their round cheeks, representing the winds of the world:

Sorrow, and sin, false hope, and trouble—These the Four Winds that daily vex this Bubble:His breath a Vapour, and his life a Span;'Tis Glorious Misery to be born a Man.

Sorrow, and sin, false hope, and trouble—

These the Four Winds that daily vex this Bubble:

His breath a Vapour, and his life a Span;

'Tis Glorious Misery to be born a Man.

There is a jewel which no Indian minesCan buy, no chymic art can counterfeit;It makes men rich in greatest poverty;Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,The homely whistle to sweet music's strain:Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent,That much in little, all in naught—Content.

There is a jewel which no Indian mines

Can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit;

It makes men rich in greatest poverty;

Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,

The homely whistle to sweet music's strain:

Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent,

That much in little, all in naught—Content.

The subject being riches, here from Hugh Rhodes, is a nourishing crumb or two of advice.Cautionsthe poem is called, and it may be found in theBook of Nurture:

He that spendeth much,And getteth nought;He that oweth much,And hath nought;He that looketh in his purseAnd findeth nought,—He may be sorry,And say nought.He that may and will not,He then that would shall not.He that would and cannotMay repent and sigh not.He that swearethTill no man trust him;He that liethTill no man believe him;He that borrowethTill no man will lend him;Let him go whereNo man knoweth him.He that hath a good master,And cannot keep him;He that hath a good servant,And is not content with him;He that hath such conditions,That no man loveth him;May well know other,But few men will know him.

He that spendeth much,And getteth nought;He that oweth much,And hath nought;He that looketh in his purseAnd findeth nought,—He may be sorry,And say nought.

He that spendeth much,

And getteth nought;

He that oweth much,

And hath nought;

He that looketh in his purse

And findeth nought,—

He may be sorry,

And say nought.

He that may and will not,He then that would shall not.He that would and cannotMay repent and sigh not.

He that may and will not,

He then that would shall not.

He that would and cannot

May repent and sigh not.

He that swearethTill no man trust him;He that liethTill no man believe him;He that borrowethTill no man will lend him;Let him go whereNo man knoweth him.

He that sweareth

Till no man trust him;

He that lieth

Till no man believe him;

He that borroweth

Till no man will lend him;

Let him go where

No man knoweth him.

He that hath a good master,And cannot keep him;He that hath a good servant,And is not content with him;He that hath such conditions,That no man loveth him;May well know other,But few men will know him.

He that hath a good master,

And cannot keep him;

He that hath a good servant,

And is not content with him;

He that hath such conditions,

That no man loveth him;

May well know other,

But few men will know him.

And, to make trebly sure:

Three false sisters: "Perhaps," "May be," "I dare say."

Three timid brothers: "Hush!" "Stop!" "Listen!"

The most ancient poem I know of consists of such a sigh. It comes from an Egyptian tomb, was composed about 5000 years ago, and might have been written by some melancholy soul at his sick-room window yesterday afternoon. For, after all, these ancients whose mummies are now a mere wonder for the curious, all lived, as Raleigh says, "in the same newness of time which we call 'old time.'"

"Death is before me to-dayLike the recovery of a sick man,Like going forth into a garden after sickness."Death is before me to-dayLike the odour of myrrh,Like sitting under the sail on a windy day...."Death is before me to-dayLike the course of the freshet,Like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house...."Death is before me to-dayAs a man longs to see his houseWhen he has spent years in captivity."

"Death is before me to-dayLike the recovery of a sick man,Like going forth into a garden after sickness.

"Death is before me to-day

Like the recovery of a sick man,

Like going forth into a garden after sickness.

"Death is before me to-dayLike the odour of myrrh,Like sitting under the sail on a windy day....

"Death is before me to-day

Like the odour of myrrh,

Like sitting under the sail on a windy day....

"Death is before me to-dayLike the course of the freshet,Like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house....

"Death is before me to-day

Like the course of the freshet,

Like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house....

"Death is before me to-dayAs a man longs to see his houseWhen he has spent years in captivity."

"Death is before me to-day

As a man longs to see his house

When he has spent years in captivity."

And here is another poem by William Barnes which I have ventured to spell not as it appears in its original dialect, but in the usual way:

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