Chapter 57

... To the ocean now I fly,And those happy climes that lieWhere day never shuts his eye.Up in the broad fields of the sky;There I suck the liquid airAll amidst the gardens fairOf Hesperus, and his daughters threeThat sing about the golden tree:Along the crispèd shades and bowersRevels the spruce and jocund Spring;The Graces, and the rosy bosomed Hours,Thither all their bounties bring;There eternal Summer dwells,And west winds, with musky wing,About the cedared alleys flingNard and Cassia's balmy smells....But now my task is smoothly done,I can fly, or I can run,Quickly to the green earth's end,Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend;And from thence can soar as soonTo the corners of the moon.Mortals, that would follow me,Love Virtue; she alone is free:She can teach ye how to climbHigher than the sphery chime;Or if Virtue feeble were,Heaven itself would stoop to her.John Milton

... To the ocean now I fly,

And those happy climes that lie

Where day never shuts his eye.

Up in the broad fields of the sky;

There I suck the liquid air

All amidst the gardens fair

Of Hesperus, and his daughters three

That sing about the golden tree:

Along the crispèd shades and bowers

Revels the spruce and jocund Spring;

The Graces, and the rosy bosomed Hours,

Thither all their bounties bring;

There eternal Summer dwells,

And west winds, with musky wing,

About the cedared alleys fling

Nard and Cassia's balmy smells....

But now my task is smoothly done,

I can fly, or I can run,

Quickly to the green earth's end,

Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend;

And from thence can soar as soon

To the corners of the moon.

Mortals, that would follow me,

Love Virtue; she alone is free:

She can teach ye how to climb

Higher than the sphery chime;

Or if Virtue feeble were,

Heaven itself would stoop to her.

John Milton

Master.Steersman, how stands the wind?Steersman.Full north-north-east.Master.What course?Steersman.Full south-south-west.Master.No worse, and blow so fair,Then sink despair,Come solace to the mind!Ere night, we shall the haven find.John Dowland

Master.Steersman, how stands the wind?

Steersman.Full north-north-east.

Master.What course?

Steersman.Full south-south-west.

Master.No worse, and blow so fair,Then sink despair,Come solace to the mind!Ere night, we shall the haven find.John Dowland

Master.No worse, and blow so fair,

Then sink despair,

Come solace to the mind!

Ere night, we shall the haven find.

John Dowland

—Dark-fated Clarence inKing Richard III. dreamt of that "azure day":

... As we paced alongUpon the giddy footing of the Hatches,Me thought that Glouster stumbled, and in fallingStrooke me (that thought to stay him) over-board,Into the tumbling billowes of the maine.O Lord, methought what paine it was to drowne,What dreadfull noise of water in mine eares,What sightes of ugly death within mine eyes....Methought I saw a thousand fearfull wrackes:A thousand men that Fishes gnawed upon:Wedges of Gold, great Anchors, heapes of Pearle,Inestimable Stones, unvalewed Jewels,All scattered in the bottome of the Sea.Some lay in dead-men's Sculles; and in the holesWhere eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,(As 'twere in scorne of eyes) reflecting Gemmes,That wooed the slimy bottome of the deepe,And mocked the dead bones that lay scattred by....

... As we paced along

Upon the giddy footing of the Hatches,

Me thought that Glouster stumbled, and in falling

Strooke me (that thought to stay him) over-board,

Into the tumbling billowes of the maine.

O Lord, methought what paine it was to drowne,

What dreadfull noise of water in mine eares,

What sightes of ugly death within mine eyes....

Methought I saw a thousand fearfull wrackes:

A thousand men that Fishes gnawed upon:

Wedges of Gold, great Anchors, heapes of Pearle,

Inestimable Stones, unvalewed Jewels,

All scattered in the bottome of the Sea.

Some lay in dead-men's Sculles; and in the holes

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,

(As 'twere in scorne of eyes) reflecting Gemmes,

That wooed the slimy bottome of the deepe,

And mocked the dead bones that lay scattred by....

Mr. Nahum's picture to this was of a man clothed in rags that must once have been rich and pompous. He sits, in the picture, gnawing his nails upon a heap of what appears to be precious stones and lumps of gold. All around him stretch the sands of the seashore, and there is a little harbour with a decayed quay, its river-mouth silted up with ooze and flotsam, so that nothing but a row-boat could find entrance there. Animmense sun burns in the sky; and, though a thread of fresh water flows nearby, the man among the jewels seems to be tormented with thirst. For Ormus, or Hormuz, on its narrow island of wild-coloured rocks, date-palms, parrots and many birds, was once the rich mart and treasure-house between Persia and India—spices, pearls, ivory, gold, precious stones, and, in particular, the diamond, being its merchandise. In 1507 the Portuguese Conqueror Alfonso Albuquerque stole it from its dark princes. In 1622 Shah Abbas the Great razed it to the ground. To-day it is but a waste, inhabited by a few fishermen and diggers, its only commodities—that once were gems—salt and sulphur; while still in the height of its Summer blows Julot, Harmatan, Il Sirocco, the Flame-Wind, so deadly in its breath that the troops of an army of 1600 horsemen and 6000 foot, says Marco Polo, marching to punish the city for neglecting to pay tribute to the King of Kîrman, and camping overnight without its walls, were baked next noon as dry as pumice, and not a voice among them to tell the tale, though their bodily shape and colour seemed to appearance unchanged. To protect themselves against this Julot, the citizens of Ormus would build huts of sheltering osier-work over the water, and in the heat of the morning would stand immersed in its coolness up to the chin.

—these are pineapples, the "price" of the next line meaning excellence. "Ambergris" (line 28), is a rare and costly stuff which, as its name tells, resembles grey amber. It has a wondrously sweet smell, was once used in cooking, and is disgorged by the whale that supplies the world with the comforting ointment of childhood called Spermaceti.

In Shakespeare's day, Marvell's "remote Bermudas" were known as the "Isle of Divels"—because of the nocturnal yellings, cries and yelpings that were reported to haunt them. English sailors, wrecked and cast away on Great Bermuda in 1709, however, brought home in their boats of cedar-wood the news that this wild music was caused (at least in part) by descendants of the hogs that had been left there by the long-gone Spaniard, Juan Bermudez and his men! They told, too, that it was an island fair and commodious, of a gentle climate, and a sweet-smelling air; and Shakespeare almost certainlyhad its enchantments in mind when he wrote of Ariel, Caliban and Miranda. Was not Ariel in Prospero's more solitary days called up at midnight "to fetch dewe from the still-vext Bermoothes"?

To the Puritan voyagers of Andrew Marvell's poem the Islands were as welcome and angelic as the Hesperides. And no poet could better tell of them than he. For in Marvell's verse dwells a curious happiness, like sunshine on a pool of water-lilies. Yet he, too, like other dreamers, was a man of affairs, and of endless industry and zeal. He was thrice Member of Parliament for his birthplace, Kingston-on-Hull, and, with Milton, was one of Oliver Cromwell's Latin Secretaries. John Aubrey describes him as "of a middling stature, pretty strong sett, roundish face, cherry-cheek't, hazell eie, brown hair. He was in his conversation very modest, and of very few words. And though he loved wine, he would never drink heartilie in company, and was wont to say, that,he would not play the good fellow in any man's company in whose hands he would not trust his life.... He lies interred under the pewes in the south side of St. Giles' church-in-the-fields, under the window wherein is painted in glass a red lyon...." And there George Chapman, William Shirley, and Lord Herbert of Cherbury share his rest.

"... And now my name; which way shall lead to allMy miseries after, that their sounds may fallThrough your ears also, and shew (having fledSo much affliction) first, who rests his headIn your embraces, when, so far from home,I knew not where t' obtain it resting room:I am Ulysses Laertiades,The fear of all the world...."The Odysseys,George Chapman

"... And now my name; which way shall lead to all

My miseries after, that their sounds may fall

Through your ears also, and shew (having fled

So much affliction) first, who rests his head

In your embraces, when, so far from home,

I knew not where t' obtain it resting room:

I am Ulysses Laertiades,

The fear of all the world...."

The Odysseys,George Chapman

The prose "argument" to the "Ancient Mariner," which is almost as rare a piece of reading as the Rime itself, has been omitted. But here is a fragment of it relating to the passage on pages 390-4: "...The Wedding-Guest feareth that a Spiritis talking to him; but the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance. He despiseth the creatures of the calm, and envieth thattheyshould live, and so many lie dead. But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men. In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and every where the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.

"By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm—their beauty and their happiness. He blesseth them in his heart. The spell begins to break. By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain. He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element. The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired and inspirited, and the ship moves on; but not by the souls of the men, nor by dæmons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint...."

"Daemons of earth or middle air" have been told of also by land travellers—by Friar Odoric, for example, in the account of his journey through Cathay during the years 1316-1330:

"Another great and terrible thing I saw. For, as I went through a certain valley which lieth by the River of Delights, I saw therein many dead corpses lying. And I heard also therein sundry kinds of music, but chiefly nakers, which were marvellously played upon. And so great was the noise thereof that very great fear came upon me. Now, this valley is seven or eight miles long; and if any unbeliever enter therein he quitteth it never again, but perisheth incontinently. Yet I hesitated not to go in that I might see once for all what the matter was. And when I had gone in I saw there, as I have said, such numbers of corpses as no one without seeing it could deem credible. And at one side of the valley, in the very rock, I beheld as it were the face of a man very great and terrible, so very terrible indeed that for my exceeding great fear my spirit seemed to die in me. Wherefore I made the sign of the cross, and began continually to repeatVERBUM CARO FACTUM, but I dared not at all to come nigh that face, but kept at sevenor eight paces from it. And so I came at length to the other end of the valley, and there I ascended a hill of sand and looked around me. But nothing could I descry, only I still heard those nakers to play which were played so marvellously. And when I got to the top of that hill I found there a great quantity of silver heaped up as it had been fishes' scales, and some of this I put into my bosom. But as I cared nought for it, and was at the same time in fear lest it should be a snare to hinder my escape, I cast it all down again to the ground. And so by God's grace I came forth scathless. Then all the Saracens, when they heard of this, showed me great worship, saying that I was a baptised and holy man. But those who had perished in that valley they said belonged to the devil."

As an Arab journeyethThrough a sand of Ayaman,Lean Thirst, lolling its cracked tongue,Lagging by his side along;And a rusty wingèd DeathGrating its low flight before,Casting ribbèd shadows o'erThe blank desert, blank and tan:He lifts by hap to'rd where the morning's roots areHis weary stare,—Sees, although they plashless mutes are,Set in a silver airFountains of gelid shoots are,Making the daylight fairest fair;Sees the palm and tamarindTangle the tresses of a phantom wind;—A sight like innocence when one has sinnedA green and maiden freshness smiling there,While with unblinking glareThe tawny-hided desert crouches watching her....The Mirage,Francis Thompson

As an Arab journeyeth

Through a sand of Ayaman,

Lean Thirst, lolling its cracked tongue,

Lagging by his side along;

And a rusty wingèd Death

Grating its low flight before,

Casting ribbèd shadows o'er

The blank desert, blank and tan:

He lifts by hap to'rd where the morning's roots are

His weary stare,—

Sees, although they plashless mutes are,

Set in a silver air

Fountains of gelid shoots are,

Making the daylight fairest fair;

Sees the palm and tamarind

Tangle the tresses of a phantom wind;—

A sight like innocence when one has sinned

A green and maiden freshness smiling there,

While with unblinking glare

The tawny-hided desert crouches watching her....

The Mirage,Francis Thompson

Thou to me art such a springAs the Arab seeks at eve,Thirsty from the shining sands;There to bathe his face and hands,While the sun is taking leave,And dewy sleep is a delicious thing.Thou to me art such a dreamAs he dreams upon the grass,While the bubbling coolness nearMakes sweet music in his ear;And the stars that slowly passIn solitary grandeur o'er him gleam.Thou to me art such a dawnAs the dawn whose ruddy kissWakes him to his darling steed;And again the desert speed,And again the desert bliss,Lightens thro' his veins, and he is gone!George Meredith

Thou to me art such a springAs the Arab seeks at eve,Thirsty from the shining sands;There to bathe his face and hands,While the sun is taking leave,And dewy sleep is a delicious thing.

Thou to me art such a spring

As the Arab seeks at eve,

Thirsty from the shining sands;

There to bathe his face and hands,

While the sun is taking leave,

And dewy sleep is a delicious thing.

Thou to me art such a dreamAs he dreams upon the grass,While the bubbling coolness nearMakes sweet music in his ear;And the stars that slowly passIn solitary grandeur o'er him gleam.

Thou to me art such a dream

As he dreams upon the grass,

While the bubbling coolness near

Makes sweet music in his ear;

And the stars that slowly pass

In solitary grandeur o'er him gleam.

Thou to me art such a dawnAs the dawn whose ruddy kissWakes him to his darling steed;And again the desert speed,And again the desert bliss,Lightens thro' his veins, and he is gone!George Meredith

Thou to me art such a dawn

As the dawn whose ruddy kiss

Wakes him to his darling steed;

And again the desert speed,

And again the desert bliss,

Lightens thro' his veins, and he is gone!

George Meredith

So, too, does the Ship's Captain in yet such another ore-loaden poem of the marvellous, "The Sale of St. Thomas," by Lascelles Abercrombie, telling how the saint in terror of the unknown would turn back from his mission, is rebuked by his Master, and sold by him for twenty pieces of silver to the Captain of a slant-sailed vessel bound for the barbarous Indies. Here is but a fragment of the poem:

"...A Ship's Captain.You are my man, my passenger?Thomas.I am.I go to India with you.Captain.Well, I hope so.There's threatening in the weather. Have you a mindTo hug your belly to the slanted deck,Like a louse on a whip-top, when the boatSpins on an axle in the hissing gales?Thomas.Fear not. 'Tis likely indeed that storms are nowPlotting against our voyage; ay, no doubtThe very bottom of the sea preparesTo stand up mountainous or reach a limbOut of his night of water and huge shingles,That he and the waves may break our keel. Fear not;Like those who manage horses, I've a wordWill fasten up within their evil naturesThe meanings of the winds and waves and reefs.Captain.You have a talisman? I have one too;I know not if the storms think much of it.I may be shark's meat yet. And would your spellBe daunting to a cuttle, think you now?We had a bout with one on our way here;It had green lidless eyes like lanterns, armsAs many as the branches of a tree,But limber, and each one of them wise as a snake.It laid hold of our bulwarks, and with threeLong knowing arms, slimy, and of a fleshSo tough they'ld fool a hatchet, searcht the ship,And stole out of the midst of us all a man;Yes, and he the proudest man upon the seasFor the rare powerful talisman he'd got.And would yours have done better?Thomas.I am oneNot easily frightened. I'm for India...."

"...A Ship's Captain.You are my man, my passenger?

Thomas.I am.I go to India with you.

Thomas.I am.

I go to India with you.

Captain.Well, I hope so.There's threatening in the weather. Have you a mindTo hug your belly to the slanted deck,Like a louse on a whip-top, when the boatSpins on an axle in the hissing gales?

Captain.Well, I hope so.

There's threatening in the weather. Have you a mind

To hug your belly to the slanted deck,

Like a louse on a whip-top, when the boat

Spins on an axle in the hissing gales?

Thomas.Fear not. 'Tis likely indeed that storms are nowPlotting against our voyage; ay, no doubtThe very bottom of the sea preparesTo stand up mountainous or reach a limbOut of his night of water and huge shingles,That he and the waves may break our keel. Fear not;Like those who manage horses, I've a wordWill fasten up within their evil naturesThe meanings of the winds and waves and reefs.

Thomas.Fear not. 'Tis likely indeed that storms are now

Plotting against our voyage; ay, no doubt

The very bottom of the sea prepares

To stand up mountainous or reach a limb

Out of his night of water and huge shingles,

That he and the waves may break our keel. Fear not;

Like those who manage horses, I've a word

Will fasten up within their evil natures

The meanings of the winds and waves and reefs.

Captain.You have a talisman? I have one too;I know not if the storms think much of it.I may be shark's meat yet. And would your spellBe daunting to a cuttle, think you now?We had a bout with one on our way here;It had green lidless eyes like lanterns, armsAs many as the branches of a tree,But limber, and each one of them wise as a snake.It laid hold of our bulwarks, and with threeLong knowing arms, slimy, and of a fleshSo tough they'ld fool a hatchet, searcht the ship,And stole out of the midst of us all a man;Yes, and he the proudest man upon the seasFor the rare powerful talisman he'd got.And would yours have done better?

Captain.You have a talisman? I have one too;

I know not if the storms think much of it.

I may be shark's meat yet. And would your spell

Be daunting to a cuttle, think you now?

We had a bout with one on our way here;

It had green lidless eyes like lanterns, arms

As many as the branches of a tree,

But limber, and each one of them wise as a snake.

It laid hold of our bulwarks, and with three

Long knowing arms, slimy, and of a flesh

So tough they'ld fool a hatchet, searcht the ship,

And stole out of the midst of us all a man;

Yes, and he the proudest man upon the seas

For the rare powerful talisman he'd got.

And would yours have done better?

Thomas.I am oneNot easily frightened. I'm for India...."

Thomas.I am one

Not easily frightened. I'm for India...."

—this gaudy and longevous bird, that seems to contain all the wisdom of Solomon and more than the craft of Cleopatra in his eye, perched first upon England many centuries ago. Skelton speaks of him:

My name is parrot, a bird of Paradise ...With my becke bent, my little wanton eye,My fethers fresh, as is the emrawde grene,About my neck a circulet, lyke the ryche rubye,My little legges, my fete both nete and cleane....

My name is parrot, a bird of Paradise ...

With my becke bent, my little wanton eye,

My fethers fresh, as is the emrawde grene,

About my neck a circulet, lyke the ryche rubye,

My little legges, my fete both nete and cleane....

And so, too, John Maplet, a "naturalist" who in 1567 wroteA Greene Forest:

"The Parret hath all hir whole bodie greene, saving that onely about hir necke she hath a Coller or Chaine naturally wrought like to Sinople or Vermelon. Indie hath of this kinde such as will counterfaite redily a mans speach: what wordes they heare, those commonly they pronounce. There have bene found of these that have saluted Emperours...."

But which Emperors, and when and to what end he does not relate. A parrot of price indeed would be she that had held converse with "Ozymandias, king of kings."

Say, is there aught that can conveyAn image of its transient stay?'Tis an hand's breadth; 'tis a tale;'Tis a vessel under sail:'Tis a courser's straining steed;'Tis a shuttle in its speed;'Tis an eagle in its way,Darting down upon its prey;'Tis an arrow in its flight,Mocking the pursuing sight;'Tis a vapour in the air;'Tis a whirlwind rushing there;'Tis a short-lived fading flower;'Tis a rainbow on a shower;'Tis a momentary raySmiling in a winter's day;'Tis a torrent's rapid stream;'Tis a shadow; 'tis a dream;'Tis the closing watch of night,Dying at approaching light;'Tis a landscape vainly gay,Painted upon crumbling clay;'Tis a lamp that wastes its fires,'Tis a smoke that quick expires;'Tis a bubble,'tis a sigh:Be prepared, O Man! to die.

Say, is there aught that can convey

An image of its transient stay?

'Tis an hand's breadth; 'tis a tale;

'Tis a vessel under sail:

'Tis a courser's straining steed;

'Tis a shuttle in its speed;

'Tis an eagle in its way,

Darting down upon its prey;

'Tis an arrow in its flight,

Mocking the pursuing sight;

'Tis a vapour in the air;

'Tis a whirlwind rushing there;

'Tis a short-lived fading flower;

'Tis a rainbow on a shower;

'Tis a momentary ray

Smiling in a winter's day;

'Tis a torrent's rapid stream;

'Tis a shadow; 'tis a dream;

'Tis the closing watch of night,

Dying at approaching light;

'Tis a landscape vainly gay,

Painted upon crumbling clay;

'Tis a lamp that wastes its fires,

'Tis a smoke that quick expires;

'Tis a bubble,'tis a sigh:

Be prepared, O Man! to die.

They are like strings of precious stones, rosaries, these Tudor laments, one image following another, and however sad in colour, all making beauty:

As withereth the primrose by the river,As fadeth summer's sun from gliding fountains,As vanisheth the light-blown bubble ever,As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains:So melts, so vanisheth, so fades, so withers,The rose, the shine, the bubble, and the snow,Of praise, pomp, glory, joy, which short life gathers,Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy.The withered primrose by the mourning river,The faded summer's sun from weeping fountains,The light-blown bubble vanishèd for ever,The molten snow upon the naked mountains,Are emblems that the treasures we uplay,Soon wither, vanish, fade, and melt away....

As withereth the primrose by the river,

As fadeth summer's sun from gliding fountains,

As vanisheth the light-blown bubble ever,

As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains:

So melts, so vanisheth, so fades, so withers,

The rose, the shine, the bubble, and the snow,

Of praise, pomp, glory, joy, which short life gathers,

Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy.

The withered primrose by the mourning river,

The faded summer's sun from weeping fountains,

The light-blown bubble vanishèd for ever,

The molten snow upon the naked mountains,

Are emblems that the treasures we uplay,

Soon wither, vanish, fade, and melt away....

In old times it was believed that if a hungry hyaena or jaccatray—who cannot wry his neck "because his backbone stretches itself out to the head"—dreams, he dreams so vividly that he calls into his sleeping brain a vision of the beasts he covets for prey. And this vision is so lifelike that he howls out of his sleep in mockery of the beasts—and thus decoys them to his den! He is a nocturnal scavenger, haunting graveyards, and "when" says Lyly, he "speaketh lyke a man," he "deviseth most mischief."

"Now, this lord (the Great Caan)," says Friar Odoric in hisCathay, "passeth the summer at a certain place which is called SANDU, situated towards the north, and the coolest habitation in the world. But in the winter season he abideth in Cambalech. And when he will ride from the one place to the other this is the order thereof. He hath four armies of horsemen, one of which goeth a day's march in front of him, one at each side, and one a day's march in rear, so that he goeth always as it were, in the middle of a cross. And marching thus, each army hath its route laid down for it day by day, and findeth at its halts all necessary provender. But his own immediate company hath its order of march thus. The king travelleth in a two-wheeled carriage, in which is formed a very goodly chamber, all of lign-aloes and gold, and covered over with great and fine skins, and set with many precious stones. And the carriage is drawn by four elephants, well broken in and harnessed, and also by four splendid horses, richly caparisoned. And alongside go four barons, who are called CUTHE, keeping watch and ward over the chariot that no hurt come to the king. Moreover, he carrieth with him in his chariot twelve gerfalcons; so that even as he sits therein upon his chair of state or other seat, if he sees any birds pass he lets flyhis hawks at them. And none may dare to approach within a stone's throw of the carriage, unless those whose duty brings them there. And thus it is that the king travelleth."

Our English eyes, loving light, weary a little of the short cold days in our country, when the sun makes "winter arches." Sadder still would be our state in the regions told of by Marco Polo in the following passage:

"Beyond the most distant part of the territory of the Tartars, ... there is another region [thick set with dark impenetrable woods] which extends to the utmost bounds of the north, and is called the Region of Darkness, because during most part of the winter months the sun is invisible, and the atmosphere is obscured to the same degree as that in which we find it just about the dawn of day, when we may be said to see and not to see. The men of this country are well made and tall, but of a very pallid complexion. They are not united under the government of a king or prince, and they live without any established laws or usages, in the manner of the brute creation. Their intellects also are dull, and they have an air of stupidity. The Tartars often proceed on plundering expeditions against these people, to rob them of their cattle and goods. For this purpose they avail themselves of those months in which the darkness prevails, in order that their approach may be unobserved; but, being unable to ascertain the direction in which they should return homeward with their booty, they provide against the chance of going astray by riding mares that have young foals at the time, which latter they suffer to accompany the dams as far as the confines of their own territory, but leave them, under proper care, at the commencement of the gloomy region. When their works of darkness have been accomplished, and they are desirous of revisiting the region of light, they lay the bridles on the necks of their mares, and suffer them freely to take their own course. Guided by maternal instinct, they make their way directly to the spot where they had quitted their foals; and by these means the riders are enabled to regain in safety the places of their residence."

... Gather a shell from the strown beachAnd listen at its lips: they sighThe same desire and mystery,The echo of the whole sea's speech.And all mankind is thus at heartNot anything but what thou art:And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each.Dante Gabriel Rossetti

... Gather a shell from the strown beach

And listen at its lips: they sigh

The same desire and mystery,

The echo of the whole sea's speech.

And all mankind is thus at heart

Not anything but what thou art:

And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

... In the caves of the deep—lost Youth! lost Youth!—O'er and o'er, fleeting billows! fleeting billows!—Rung to his restless everlasting sleepBy the heavy death-bells of the deep,Under the slimy-drooping sea-green willows,Poor Youth! lost Youth!Laying his dolorous head, forsooth,On Carian reefs uncouth—Poor Youth!On the wild sand's ever-shifting pillows!...O could my Spirit wingHills over, where salt Ocean hath his fresh headspringAnd snowy curls bedeck the Blue-haired King,Up where sweet oral birds articulate singWithin the desert ring—Their mighty shadows o'er broad Earth the LunarMountains fling,Where the Sun's chariot bathes in Ocean's fresh headspring—O could my Spirit wing!...George Darley

... In the caves of the deep—lost Youth! lost Youth!—

O'er and o'er, fleeting billows! fleeting billows!—

Rung to his restless everlasting sleep

By the heavy death-bells of the deep,

Under the slimy-drooping sea-green willows,

Poor Youth! lost Youth!

Laying his dolorous head, forsooth,

On Carian reefs uncouth—

Poor Youth!

On the wild sand's ever-shifting pillows!...

O could my Spirit wingHills over, where salt Ocean hath his fresh headspringAnd snowy curls bedeck the Blue-haired King,Up where sweet oral birds articulate singWithin the desert ring—Their mighty shadows o'er broad Earth the LunarMountains fling,Where the Sun's chariot bathes in Ocean's fresh headspring—O could my Spirit wing!...George Darley

O could my Spirit wing

Hills over, where salt Ocean hath his fresh headspring

And snowy curls bedeck the Blue-haired King,

Up where sweet oral birds articulate sing

Within the desert ring—

Their mighty shadows o'er broad Earth the Lunar

Mountains fling,

Where the Sun's chariot bathes in Ocean's fresh headspring—

O could my Spirit wing!...

George Darley

Full fathom five thy Father lies,Of his bones are Corrall made:Those are Pearles that were his eies,Nothing of him that doth fade,But doth suffer a Sea-changeInto something rich, and strange:Sea-Nimphs hourly ring his knell—Ding dong.Harke now I heare them,ding-dong bell.William Shakespeare

Full fathom five thy Father lies,

Of his bones are Corrall made:

Those are Pearles that were his eies,

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a Sea-change

Into something rich, and strange:

Sea-Nimphs hourly ring his knell—

Ding dong.

Harke now I heare them,ding-dong bell.

William Shakespeare

This is a patchwork of stanzas from three versions of the old ballad. In one version the "Golden Vanity" is said to be the " Sweet Trinity," and to have been built by Sir Walter Raleigh in the Netherlands. According to yet another, the Cabin-boy, after threatening to sink the "Goulden Vanitie" as he had "sunk the French gallee," is taken on board and the Captain and merchant adventurers proved "far better than their word." But if stanza 12 is any witness, this seems unlikely. Can one not actuallyseethe cold faces mocking down upon the water?

To an eye and ear new to them, these old Scottish ballads may seem a little difficult and forbidding. But read on, and their enchantment has no match—the very strangeness of the words, the rare music, the colour and light and clearness and vehemence, and, besides these, a wildness and ancientness like that of an old folk-tune which seems to carry with its burden as many lost memories as an old churchyard has gravestones. The stories they tell are world wide. How they came into that world (for of some of them there are as many as twenty to thirty different versions), how they have fared in their long journey, and even when and by whom they were made, are still questions on which even scholars are not yet agreed.

"Kevels" in line 5 of "Brown Robyn," meanslots, and recalls a far older story:

"Now the word of the Lord came unto Jonah the son of Amittai, saying, Arise, go to Nineveh, that great city, and cry against it; for their wickedness is come up before me. But Jonah rose up to flee unto Tarshish from the presence of the Lord, and went down to Joppa; and he found a ship going to Tarshish, so he paid the fare thereof, and went down into it, to go with them unto Tarshish from the presence of the Lord.But the Lord sent out a great wind into the sea, and there was a mighty tempest in the sea, so that the ship was like to be broken. Then the mariners were afraid, and cried every man unto his god, and cast forth the wares that were in the ship into the sea, to lighten it of them. But Jonah was gone down into the sides of the ship; and he lay, and was fast asleep.... And they said every one to his fellow, Come, and let us cast lots, that we may know for whose cause this evil is upon us. So they cast lots, and the lot fell upon Jonah.... Then said they unto him, What shall we do unto thee, that the sea may be calm unto us? for the sea wrought, and was tempestuous. And he said unto them, Take me up, and cast me forth into the sea; so shall the sea be calm upon you: for I know that for my sake this great tempest is upon you.... So they took up Jonah, and cast him forth into the sea; and the sea ceased from her raging."

Notes of music for the enticement of seals, with other beautiful old Gaelic airs and poems and tales, will be found in Journals 23/5 of The Folk-Song Society, collected by Mr. Martin Freeman.

The longer version of the ballad into which the genius of Sir Walter Scott wove a few new stanzas is the better known. But this, I think, is the best. Indeed, the secret art of this naked and lovely poetry seems nowadays to be lost: its marvel is how much it tells by means of the little it says.

With money in his pocket and bewaring of glass, the Man of Superstitions bows low and seven times to the new moon. If he sees a dim cindrous light filling in the circle of which this crescent is the edge, he "looks out for squalls"—the new moon has "the auld moone in hir arme." That light is the earth-shine. The sun illumines the earth; the earth like a looking-glass reflects his radiance upon the moon; and she thus melancholily returns it; whereas the silver blaze on her eastern edge is light direct: eyes looking upward thence into her black skies are lit with her prodigious mornings.

Here I have changed only two words of the original.

If this ballad tells of a fact, then the young Sir Hugh was beguiled out of his life by the dark beautiful Jewess in the year 1255. The story comes from a monastery, and it is historically certain that the wealthiest Jews of Lincoln were in this year crucified on this charge. True or false, what a clear, pellucid picture the ballad builds up in the imagination—the ancient town; the boys at their game; the narrow, gabled, cobbled streets; the evening gold on roof and wall; night; lamentation; and the clanging of the bells.

The spelling of this ballad usually begins "Why dois your brand sae dripp wie bluid," and so on. This spelling Professor Child thought "affectedly antique." But since, as he says, mere antiquated "spelling will not make an old ballad, so it will notunmake one." And "Edward" in any guise is "one of the noblest" of the popular ballads. Here it is, then, in our own spelling for proof.

The king in the third line is James the Sixth of Scotland and the First of England—the king, according to the old waggery, "who never said a foolish thing and never did a wise one." But see Green. The "wanton laird of young Logie" is John Wemyss who plotted against him with the Earl of Bothwell in 1592. His bold, crafty and merry young wife, May Margaret, says Mr. Sidgwick, had one of these four delectable maiden names—Vinstar, Weiksterne, Twynstoun, or Twinslace. It is dubious which.

All ladies in those old days carried knives at their girdles. The one in stanza 8 was clearly a wedding gift. And to judge from the ballads, doughty uses they sometimes put them to.

In the margins of Mr. Nahum's copy of this ballad, two exquisite damosels were painted in green, blue and amethyston gold (as in a monk's work), and between their fingers hung a linen napkin seemingly broidered with pearls and in the midst of it a sleeping dove. Whatever he may have meant by this, I confess that at first reading I fell in love with both these ladies. My feelings for the "noble knight" who ransomed fair Annie, then wearied of her, were different. It was strange to find a noble knight so hard a gentleman, not so much because he wearied of her (since to weary of one so true, intelligent and tender was even more of a punishment than a misfortune) but most particularly, with regard to his craving for "gowd and gear." He reminds me of a similar piece of humanity described in three short stanzas which were found by Mr. Macmath written on the fly-leaf of a little volume printed at Edinburgh about 1670, and whichIfound in Child's Ballads:

"He steps full statly on the street,He hads the charters of him sell,In to his cloathing he is complete,In Craford's mure he bears the bell...."I wish I had died my own fair death,In tender age, when I was young;I would never [then] have broke my heartFor the love of any churl's son."Wo be to my parents all,That lives so farr beyond the sea!I might have lived a noble life,And wedded in my own countrée."

"He steps full statly on the street,He hads the charters of him sell,In to his cloathing he is complete,In Craford's mure he bears the bell....

"He steps full statly on the street,

He hads the charters of him sell,

In to his cloathing he is complete,

In Craford's mure he bears the bell....

"I wish I had died my own fair death,In tender age, when I was young;I would never [then] have broke my heartFor the love of any churl's son.

"I wish I had died my own fair death,

In tender age, when I was young;

I would never [then] have broke my heart

For the love of any churl's son.

"Wo be to my parents all,That lives so farr beyond the sea!I might have lived a noble life,And wedded in my own countrée."

"Wo be to my parents all,

That lives so farr beyond the sea!

I might have lived a noble life,

And wedded in my own countrée."

Down in yon garden sweet and gayWhere bonnie grows the lily,I heard a fair maid sighing say,"My wish be wi' sweet Willie!""Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,And Willie's wondrous bonny;And Willie hecht to marry meGin e'er he married ony."O gentle wind, that bloweth southFrom where my Love repaireth,Convey a kiss frae his dear mouthAnd tell me how he fareth!"O tell sweet Willie to come dounAnd hear the mavis singing,And see the birds on ilka bushAnd leaves around them hinging."The lav'rock there, wi' her white breastAnd gentle throat sae narrow;There's sport eneuch for gentlemenOn Leader haughs and Yarrow."O Leader haughs are wide and braidAnd Yarrow haughs are bonny;There Willie hecht to marry meIf e'er he married ony."But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,And does not hear the weepingDraws many a tear frae's true love's e'e,When other maids are sleeping."Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,The night I'll mak' it narrow,For a' the lee-lang winter nightI lie twined o' my marrow."O came ye by yon water-side?Pu'd you the rose or lily?Or came you by yon meadow green,Or saw you my sweet Willie?"She sought him up, she sought him down,She sought him braid and narrow;Syne, in the cleaving of a crag,She found him drowned in Yarrow!

Down in yon garden sweet and gayWhere bonnie grows the lily,I heard a fair maid sighing say,"My wish be wi' sweet Willie!"

Down in yon garden sweet and gay

Where bonnie grows the lily,

I heard a fair maid sighing say,

"My wish be wi' sweet Willie!"

"Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,And Willie's wondrous bonny;And Willie hecht to marry meGin e'er he married ony.

"Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,

And Willie's wondrous bonny;

And Willie hecht to marry me

Gin e'er he married ony.

"O gentle wind, that bloweth southFrom where my Love repaireth,Convey a kiss frae his dear mouthAnd tell me how he fareth!

"O gentle wind, that bloweth south

From where my Love repaireth,

Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth

And tell me how he fareth!

"O tell sweet Willie to come dounAnd hear the mavis singing,And see the birds on ilka bushAnd leaves around them hinging.

"O tell sweet Willie to come doun

And hear the mavis singing,

And see the birds on ilka bush

And leaves around them hinging.

"The lav'rock there, wi' her white breastAnd gentle throat sae narrow;There's sport eneuch for gentlemenOn Leader haughs and Yarrow.

"The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast

And gentle throat sae narrow;

There's sport eneuch for gentlemen

On Leader haughs and Yarrow.

"O Leader haughs are wide and braidAnd Yarrow haughs are bonny;There Willie hecht to marry meIf e'er he married ony.

"O Leader haughs are wide and braid

And Yarrow haughs are bonny;

There Willie hecht to marry me

If e'er he married ony.

"But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,And does not hear the weepingDraws many a tear frae's true love's e'e,When other maids are sleeping.

"But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,

And does not hear the weeping

Draws many a tear frae's true love's e'e,

When other maids are sleeping.

"Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,The night I'll mak' it narrow,For a' the lee-lang winter nightI lie twined o' my marrow.

"Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,

The night I'll mak' it narrow,

For a' the lee-lang winter night

I lie twined o' my marrow.

"O came ye by yon water-side?Pu'd you the rose or lily?Or came you by yon meadow green,Or saw you my sweet Willie?"

"O came ye by yon water-side?

Pu'd you the rose or lily?

Or came you by yon meadow green,

Or saw you my sweet Willie?"

She sought him up, she sought him down,She sought him braid and narrow;Syne, in the cleaving of a crag,She found him drowned in Yarrow!

She sought him up, she sought him down,

She sought him braid and narrow;

Syne, in the cleaving of a crag,

She found him drowned in Yarrow!

Hecht(line 6) means vowed;haughsare water-meadows; and to be twined o' one's marrow, is to be separated from one's loved one.

Here is another ballad—"The Water o Wearie's Well,"—of a similar pattern. But in this the drowner of the King's daughters himself finds a "watery grave":

There came a bird out o a bush,On water for to dine,An sighing sair, says the king's daughter,"O wae's this heart o mine!"He's taen a harp into his hand,He's harped them all asleep,Except it was the king's daughter,Who one wink couldna get.He's luppen on his berry-brown steed,Taen 'er on behind himsell,Then baith rede down to that waterThat they ca Wearie's Well."Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,No harm shall thee befall;Oft times I've watered my steedWi the water o Wearie's Well."The first step that she steppèd in,She stepped to the knee;And sighend says this lady fair,"This water's nae for me.""Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,No harm shall thee befall;Oft times I've watered my steedWi the water o Wearie's Well."The next step that she stepped in,She stepped to the middle;"O," sighend says this lady fair,"I've wat my gowden girdle.""Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,No harm shall thee befall;Oft times have I watered my steedWi the water o Wearie's Well."The next step that she steppèd in,She stepped to the chin;"O," sighend says this lady fair,"They sud gar twa loves twin!""Seven king's daughters I've drownd there,In the water o Wearie's Well,And I'll make you the eight o them,And ring the common bell.""Since I am standing here," she says,"This dowie death to die,One kiss o your comely mouthI'm sure wad comfort me."He louted him oer his saddle bow,To kiss her cheek and chin;She's taen him in her arms twa,And thrown him headlong in."Since seven king's daughters ye've drowned there,In the water o Wearie's Well,I'll make you bridegroom to them a',An ring the bell mysell."And aye she warsled, and aye she swam,And she swam to dry lan;She thankèd God most cheerfullyThe dangers she oercame.

There came a bird out o a bush,On water for to dine,An sighing sair, says the king's daughter,"O wae's this heart o mine!"

There came a bird out o a bush,

On water for to dine,

An sighing sair, says the king's daughter,

"O wae's this heart o mine!"

He's taen a harp into his hand,He's harped them all asleep,Except it was the king's daughter,Who one wink couldna get.

He's taen a harp into his hand,

He's harped them all asleep,

Except it was the king's daughter,

Who one wink couldna get.

He's luppen on his berry-brown steed,Taen 'er on behind himsell,Then baith rede down to that waterThat they ca Wearie's Well.

He's luppen on his berry-brown steed,

Taen 'er on behind himsell,

Then baith rede down to that water

That they ca Wearie's Well.

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,No harm shall thee befall;Oft times I've watered my steedWi the water o Wearie's Well."

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,

No harm shall thee befall;

Oft times I've watered my steed

Wi the water o Wearie's Well."

The first step that she steppèd in,She stepped to the knee;And sighend says this lady fair,"This water's nae for me."

The first step that she steppèd in,

She stepped to the knee;

And sighend says this lady fair,

"This water's nae for me."

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,No harm shall thee befall;Oft times I've watered my steedWi the water o Wearie's Well."

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,

No harm shall thee befall;

Oft times I've watered my steed

Wi the water o Wearie's Well."

The next step that she stepped in,She stepped to the middle;"O," sighend says this lady fair,"I've wat my gowden girdle."

The next step that she stepped in,

She stepped to the middle;

"O," sighend says this lady fair,

"I've wat my gowden girdle."

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,No harm shall thee befall;Oft times have I watered my steedWi the water o Wearie's Well."

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,

No harm shall thee befall;

Oft times have I watered my steed

Wi the water o Wearie's Well."

The next step that she steppèd in,She stepped to the chin;"O," sighend says this lady fair,"They sud gar twa loves twin!"

The next step that she steppèd in,

She stepped to the chin;

"O," sighend says this lady fair,

"They sud gar twa loves twin!"

"Seven king's daughters I've drownd there,In the water o Wearie's Well,And I'll make you the eight o them,And ring the common bell."

"Seven king's daughters I've drownd there,

In the water o Wearie's Well,

And I'll make you the eight o them,

And ring the common bell."

"Since I am standing here," she says,"This dowie death to die,One kiss o your comely mouthI'm sure wad comfort me."

"Since I am standing here," she says,

"This dowie death to die,

One kiss o your comely mouth

I'm sure wad comfort me."

He louted him oer his saddle bow,To kiss her cheek and chin;She's taen him in her arms twa,And thrown him headlong in.

He louted him oer his saddle bow,

To kiss her cheek and chin;

She's taen him in her arms twa,

And thrown him headlong in.

"Since seven king's daughters ye've drowned there,In the water o Wearie's Well,I'll make you bridegroom to them a',An ring the bell mysell."

"Since seven king's daughters ye've drowned there,

In the water o Wearie's Well,

I'll make you bridegroom to them a',

An ring the bell mysell."

And aye she warsled, and aye she swam,And she swam to dry lan;She thankèd God most cheerfullyThe dangers she oercame.

And aye she warsled, and aye she swam,

And she swam to dry lan;

She thankèd God most cheerfully

The dangers she oercame.

Hermione.Come Sir, now I am for you againe:Pray you sit by us, and tell's a Tale.Mamillius(her son).Merry, or sad, shal't bee?Hermione.As merry as you will.Mamillius.A sad Tale's best for Winter:I have one of Sprights, and Goblins.Hermione.Let's have that, good Sir.Come-on, sit downe, come-on, and doe your bestTo fright me with your Sprights: you're powrefull at it.Mamillius.There was a man....Hermione.Nay, come sit downe: then on.Mamillius.Dwelt by a Churchyard:I will tell it softly,Yond Crickets shall not heare it.Hermione.Come on then, and giv't me in mine eare....The Winter's Tale

Hermione.Come Sir, now I am for you againe:Pray you sit by us, and tell's a Tale.

Hermione.Come Sir, now I am for you againe:

Pray you sit by us, and tell's a Tale.

Mamillius(her son).Merry, or sad, shal't bee?

Hermione.As merry as you will.

Mamillius.A sad Tale's best for Winter:I have one of Sprights, and Goblins.

Mamillius.A sad Tale's best for Winter:

I have one of Sprights, and Goblins.

Hermione.Let's have that, good Sir.Come-on, sit downe, come-on, and doe your bestTo fright me with your Sprights: you're powrefull at it.

Hermione.Let's have that, good Sir.

Come-on, sit downe, come-on, and doe your best

To fright me with your Sprights: you're powrefull at it.

Mamillius.There was a man....

Hermione.Nay, come sit downe: then on.

Mamillius.Dwelt by a Churchyard:I will tell it softly,Yond Crickets shall not heare it.

Mamillius.Dwelt by a Churchyard:

I will tell it softly,

Yond Crickets shall not heare it.

Hermione.Come on then, and giv't me in mine eare....The Winter's Tale

Hermione.Come on then, and giv't me in mine eare....

The Winter's Tale

The strangest feature of these ballads is that the stories they tell, the customs, beliefs, lore they refer to, may be found scattered up and down all over the world. In Russia, for one small instance, the birk or birch tree is honoured in this fashion: A little before Whitsuntide, says Sir James Fraser inThe Golden Bough, the young women, with dancing and feasting, cut down a living birch-tree, deck it with bright clothes or hang it with ribbons; then set it up as an honoured guest in one of the village houses. On Whit Sunday itself they fling it, finery and all, into a stream for a charm.

And now for England: "Thirty years ago," says Mrs. Wright, "it was still customary in some west-Midland districts to decorate village churches on Whit Sunday with sprigs of birch stuck in holes bored in the tops of the pews. I can remember this being done by an old village clerk in Herefordshire, but when he was gathered to his fathers in the same profession, the custom died with him." How happy must he have been then—as happy as for that one evening was the Wife of Usher's Well herself—to lift his eyes upon a silver birch brushing with its green tresses the very gates of Paradise!

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