EMILY DAVIS
Barb’d blossom of the guarded gorse,I love thee where I see thee shine:Thou sweetener of our common-ways,And brightener of our wintry days.Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,Thou art undying, O be mine!Be mine with all thy thorns, and prestClose on a heart that asks not rest.I pluck thee and thy stigma setUpon my breast, and on my brow;Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreathThat none may know the wounds beneath.O crown of thorn that seem’st of gold,No festal coronal art thou;Thy honey’d blossoms are but hivesThat guard the growth of winged lives.I saw thee in the time of flowersAs sunshine spill’d upon the land,Or burning bushes all ablazeWith sacred fire; but went my ways;I went my ways, and as I wentPluck’d kindlier blooms on either hand;Now of those blooms so passing sweetNone lives to stay my passing feet.And still thy lamp upon the hillFeeds on the autumn’s dying sigh,And from thy midst comes murmuringA music sweeter than in spring.Barb’d blossoms of the guarded gorse,Be mine to wear until I die,And mine the wounds of love which stillBear witness to his human will.
Barb’d blossom of the guarded gorse,I love thee where I see thee shine:Thou sweetener of our common-ways,And brightener of our wintry days.Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,Thou art undying, O be mine!Be mine with all thy thorns, and prestClose on a heart that asks not rest.I pluck thee and thy stigma setUpon my breast, and on my brow;Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreathThat none may know the wounds beneath.O crown of thorn that seem’st of gold,No festal coronal art thou;Thy honey’d blossoms are but hivesThat guard the growth of winged lives.I saw thee in the time of flowersAs sunshine spill’d upon the land,Or burning bushes all ablazeWith sacred fire; but went my ways;I went my ways, and as I wentPluck’d kindlier blooms on either hand;Now of those blooms so passing sweetNone lives to stay my passing feet.And still thy lamp upon the hillFeeds on the autumn’s dying sigh,And from thy midst comes murmuringA music sweeter than in spring.Barb’d blossoms of the guarded gorse,Be mine to wear until I die,And mine the wounds of love which stillBear witness to his human will.
Barb’d blossom of the guarded gorse,I love thee where I see thee shine:Thou sweetener of our common-ways,And brightener of our wintry days.
Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,Thou art undying, O be mine!Be mine with all thy thorns, and prestClose on a heart that asks not rest.
I pluck thee and thy stigma setUpon my breast, and on my brow;Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreathThat none may know the wounds beneath.
O crown of thorn that seem’st of gold,No festal coronal art thou;Thy honey’d blossoms are but hivesThat guard the growth of winged lives.
I saw thee in the time of flowersAs sunshine spill’d upon the land,Or burning bushes all ablazeWith sacred fire; but went my ways;
I went my ways, and as I wentPluck’d kindlier blooms on either hand;Now of those blooms so passing sweetNone lives to stay my passing feet.
And still thy lamp upon the hillFeeds on the autumn’s dying sigh,And from thy midst comes murmuringA music sweeter than in spring.
Barb’d blossoms of the guarded gorse,Be mine to wear until I die,And mine the wounds of love which stillBear witness to his human will.
ERNEST RHYS
To-night we rode beneath a moonThat made the moorland pale;And our horses’ feet kept well the tuneAnd our pulses did not fail.The moon shone clear; the hoar-frost fell,The world slept, as it seemed;Sleep held the night, but we rode well,And as we rode we dreamed.We dreamed of ghostly horse and hound,And flight at dead of night;—The more the fearful thoughts we found,The more was our delight.And when we saw the white-owl fly,With hoot, how woebegone!We thought to see dead men go by,And pressed our horses on.The merrier then was Sylvia’s songUpon the homeward road,—Oh, whether the way be short or longIs all in the rider’s mood!And still our pulses kept the tale,Our gallop kept the tune,As round and over hill and valeWe rode beneath the moon.
To-night we rode beneath a moonThat made the moorland pale;And our horses’ feet kept well the tuneAnd our pulses did not fail.The moon shone clear; the hoar-frost fell,The world slept, as it seemed;Sleep held the night, but we rode well,And as we rode we dreamed.We dreamed of ghostly horse and hound,And flight at dead of night;—The more the fearful thoughts we found,The more was our delight.And when we saw the white-owl fly,With hoot, how woebegone!We thought to see dead men go by,And pressed our horses on.The merrier then was Sylvia’s songUpon the homeward road,—Oh, whether the way be short or longIs all in the rider’s mood!And still our pulses kept the tale,Our gallop kept the tune,As round and over hill and valeWe rode beneath the moon.
To-night we rode beneath a moonThat made the moorland pale;And our horses’ feet kept well the tuneAnd our pulses did not fail.
The moon shone clear; the hoar-frost fell,The world slept, as it seemed;Sleep held the night, but we rode well,And as we rode we dreamed.
We dreamed of ghostly horse and hound,And flight at dead of night;—The more the fearful thoughts we found,The more was our delight.
And when we saw the white-owl fly,With hoot, how woebegone!We thought to see dead men go by,And pressed our horses on.
The merrier then was Sylvia’s songUpon the homeward road,—Oh, whether the way be short or longIs all in the rider’s mood!
And still our pulses kept the tale,Our gallop kept the tune,As round and over hill and valeWe rode beneath the moon.
‘S’ai Plas HendreYn Nghaer Fyrddin:Canu Brechfa,Tithau Lywelyn’.
‘S’ai Plas HendreYn Nghaer Fyrddin:Canu Brechfa,Tithau Lywelyn’.
‘S’ai Plas HendreYn Nghaer Fyrddin:Canu Brechfa,Tithau Lywelyn’.
The House of Hendra stood in Merlin’s Town, and was sung by Brechva on his Harp of gold at the October Feasting of Ivor.
The House of Hendra stood in Merlin’s Town, and was sung by Brechva on his Harp of gold at the October Feasting of Ivor.
In the town where wondrous MerlinLived, and stillIn deep sleep, they say, lies dreamingNear it, under Merlin’s Hill,In that town of pastoral Towy,Once of oldStood the ancient House of Hendra,Sung on Brechva’s harp of gold.With his harp to Ivor’s feastingBrechva came,There he sang and made this ballad,While the last torch spent its flame.Long they told,—the men of Ivor,Of the strainAt the heart of Brechva’s harpingHeard that night, and not again.
In the town where wondrous MerlinLived, and stillIn deep sleep, they say, lies dreamingNear it, under Merlin’s Hill,In that town of pastoral Towy,Once of oldStood the ancient House of Hendra,Sung on Brechva’s harp of gold.With his harp to Ivor’s feastingBrechva came,There he sang and made this ballad,While the last torch spent its flame.Long they told,—the men of Ivor,Of the strainAt the heart of Brechva’s harpingHeard that night, and not again.
In the town where wondrous MerlinLived, and stillIn deep sleep, they say, lies dreamingNear it, under Merlin’s Hill,
In that town of pastoral Towy,Once of oldStood the ancient House of Hendra,Sung on Brechva’s harp of gold.
With his harp to Ivor’s feastingBrechva came,There he sang and made this ballad,While the last torch spent its flame.
Long they told,—the men of Ivor,Of the strainAt the heart of Brechva’s harpingHeard that night, and not again.
ERNEST RHYS
IncipitBrechva’s Ballad of the House of Hendra, and of his deep sleep there on Hallowmas Night, and of his strange awaking.
IncipitBrechva’s Ballad of the House of Hendra, and of his deep sleep there on Hallowmas Night, and of his strange awaking.
In yon town, he sang,—there HendraWaits my feet,In renownèd Merlin’s town whereClare’s white castle keeps the street.There, within that house of heroes,I drew breath;And ’tis there my feet must bear me,For the darker grace of death.There that last year’s night I journeyed,—Hallowmas!When the dead of Earth, unburied,In the darkness rise and pass.Then in Hendra (all his harp criedAt the stroke),Twelve moons gone, there came upon meSleep like death. At length I woke:I awoke to utter darkness,Still and deep,With the walls around me fallenOf the sombre halls of sleep:With my hall of dreams downfallen,Dark I lay,Like one houseless, though about meHendra stood, more fast than they:But what broke my sleep asunder,—Light or sound?There was shown no sound, where onlyNight, and shadow’s heart, were found.
In yon town, he sang,—there HendraWaits my feet,In renownèd Merlin’s town whereClare’s white castle keeps the street.There, within that house of heroes,I drew breath;And ’tis there my feet must bear me,For the darker grace of death.There that last year’s night I journeyed,—Hallowmas!When the dead of Earth, unburied,In the darkness rise and pass.Then in Hendra (all his harp criedAt the stroke),Twelve moons gone, there came upon meSleep like death. At length I woke:I awoke to utter darkness,Still and deep,With the walls around me fallenOf the sombre halls of sleep:With my hall of dreams downfallen,Dark I lay,Like one houseless, though about meHendra stood, more fast than they:But what broke my sleep asunder,—Light or sound?There was shown no sound, where onlyNight, and shadow’s heart, were found.
In yon town, he sang,—there HendraWaits my feet,In renownèd Merlin’s town whereClare’s white castle keeps the street.
There, within that house of heroes,I drew breath;And ’tis there my feet must bear me,For the darker grace of death.
There that last year’s night I journeyed,—Hallowmas!When the dead of Earth, unburied,In the darkness rise and pass.
Then in Hendra (all his harp criedAt the stroke),Twelve moons gone, there came upon meSleep like death. At length I woke:
I awoke to utter darkness,Still and deep,With the walls around me fallenOf the sombre halls of sleep:
With my hall of dreams downfallen,Dark I lay,Like one houseless, though about meHendra stood, more fast than they:
But what broke my sleep asunder,—Light or sound?There was shown no sound, where onlyNight, and shadow’s heart, were found.
Anon he hears a voice in the night, and rising from sleep, looks out upon the sleeping town.
Anon he hears a voice in the night, and rising from sleep, looks out upon the sleeping town.
So it passed, till with a troubledLonely noise,Like a cry of men benighted,Midnight made itself a voice.Then I rose, and from the stairloop,Looking down,Nothing saw, where far before meLay, one darkness, all the town.In that grave day seemed for everTo lie dead,Nevermore at wake of morningTo lift up its pleasant head:All its friendly foolish clamour,Its delight,Fast asleep, or dead, beneath me,In that black descent of night:But anon, like fitful harping,Hark, a noise!As in dream, suppose your dreamer’sMen of shadow found a voice.
So it passed, till with a troubledLonely noise,Like a cry of men benighted,Midnight made itself a voice.Then I rose, and from the stairloop,Looking down,Nothing saw, where far before meLay, one darkness, all the town.In that grave day seemed for everTo lie dead,Nevermore at wake of morningTo lift up its pleasant head:All its friendly foolish clamour,Its delight,Fast asleep, or dead, beneath me,In that black descent of night:But anon, like fitful harping,Hark, a noise!As in dream, suppose your dreamer’sMen of shadow found a voice.
So it passed, till with a troubledLonely noise,Like a cry of men benighted,Midnight made itself a voice.
Then I rose, and from the stairloop,Looking down,Nothing saw, where far before meLay, one darkness, all the town.
In that grave day seemed for everTo lie dead,Nevermore at wake of morningTo lift up its pleasant head:
All its friendly foolish clamour,Its delight,Fast asleep, or dead, beneath me,In that black descent of night:
But anon, like fitful harping,Hark, a noise!As in dream, suppose your dreamer’sMen of shadow found a voice.
ERNEST RHYS
Hearing his name called, Brechva descends to the postern, and sees thence a circle of Shadows, in a solemn dance of Death.
Hearing his name called, Brechva descends to the postern, and sees thence a circle of Shadows, in a solemn dance of Death.
Night-wind never sang more strangelySong more strange;All confused, yet with a musicIn confusion’s interchange.Now it cried, like harried night-birds,Flying near,Now, more nigh, with multiplyingVoice on voice, “O Brechva, hear!”I was filled with fearful pleasureAt the call,And I turned, and by the stairwayGained the postern in the wall:Deep as Annwn lay the darknessAt my feet;—Like a yawning grave before me,When I opened, lay the street.Dark as death, and deep as Annwn,—But these eyesYet more deeply, strangely, seeing,From that grave saw life arise.And therewith a mist of shadowsIn a ring,Like the sea-mist on the sea-wind,Waxing, waning, vanishing.Circling as the wheel of spiritsWhirled and spun,Spun and whirled, to forewarn MerlinIn the woods of Caledon.
Night-wind never sang more strangelySong more strange;All confused, yet with a musicIn confusion’s interchange.Now it cried, like harried night-birds,Flying near,Now, more nigh, with multiplyingVoice on voice, “O Brechva, hear!”I was filled with fearful pleasureAt the call,And I turned, and by the stairwayGained the postern in the wall:Deep as Annwn lay the darknessAt my feet;—Like a yawning grave before me,When I opened, lay the street.Dark as death, and deep as Annwn,—But these eyesYet more deeply, strangely, seeing,From that grave saw life arise.And therewith a mist of shadowsIn a ring,Like the sea-mist on the sea-wind,Waxing, waning, vanishing.Circling as the wheel of spiritsWhirled and spun,Spun and whirled, to forewarn MerlinIn the woods of Caledon.
Night-wind never sang more strangelySong more strange;All confused, yet with a musicIn confusion’s interchange.
Now it cried, like harried night-birds,Flying near,Now, more nigh, with multiplyingVoice on voice, “O Brechva, hear!”
I was filled with fearful pleasureAt the call,And I turned, and by the stairwayGained the postern in the wall:
Deep as Annwn lay the darknessAt my feet;—Like a yawning grave before me,When I opened, lay the street.
Dark as death, and deep as Annwn,—But these eyesYet more deeply, strangely, seeing,From that grave saw life arise.
And therewith a mist of shadowsIn a ring,Like the sea-mist on the sea-wind,Waxing, waning, vanishing.
Circling as the wheel of spiritsWhirled and spun,Spun and whirled, to forewarn MerlinIn the woods of Caledon.
The spirits are no dream-folk; but ancient inmates of the House of Hendra.
The spirits are no dream-folk; but ancient inmates of the House of Hendra.
Shades of men, ay, bards and warriors!—Wrought of air,You may deem, but ’twas no dream-folk,Born of night, that crossed me there.And my heart cried out,—“O Vorwyn!They are thoseWho of old-time lived to know hereLife’s great sweetness in this house.”I had bid them kinsman’s welcome,In a word,For the ancient sake of Hendra,Which they served with harp and sword.But as still I watched them, wondering,Curiously,Knowing all they should forewarn me,—Of my death and destiny!Ere I marked all in the silence,Ere I knew,Swift as they had come, as strangelyNow their shadowy life withdrew.
Shades of men, ay, bards and warriors!—Wrought of air,You may deem, but ’twas no dream-folk,Born of night, that crossed me there.And my heart cried out,—“O Vorwyn!They are thoseWho of old-time lived to know hereLife’s great sweetness in this house.”I had bid them kinsman’s welcome,In a word,For the ancient sake of Hendra,Which they served with harp and sword.But as still I watched them, wondering,Curiously,Knowing all they should forewarn me,—Of my death and destiny!Ere I marked all in the silence,Ere I knew,Swift as they had come, as strangelyNow their shadowy life withdrew.
Shades of men, ay, bards and warriors!—Wrought of air,You may deem, but ’twas no dream-folk,Born of night, that crossed me there.
And my heart cried out,—“O Vorwyn!They are thoseWho of old-time lived to know hereLife’s great sweetness in this house.”
I had bid them kinsman’s welcome,In a word,For the ancient sake of Hendra,Which they served with harp and sword.
But as still I watched them, wondering,Curiously,Knowing all they should forewarn me,—Of my death and destiny!
Ere I marked all in the silence,Ere I knew,Swift as they had come, as strangelyNow their shadowy life withdrew.
ERNEST RHYS
The Spirits being gone, Brechva hears aërial music, and sees in vision all the Bards in the seventh Heaven.
The Spirits being gone, Brechva hears aërial music, and sees in vision all the Bards in the seventh Heaven.
They were gone; but what sweet wonderFilled the air!—With a thousand harping noises,—Harping, chiming, crying there.At that harping and that chiming,Straightway strongGrew my heart, and in the darknessFound great solace at that song.Through the gate of night, its vision,Three times fine,Saw the seventh heaven of heroes,’Mid a thousand torches’ shine:All the bards and all the heroesOf old timeThere with Arthur and with MerlinWeave again the bardic rhyme.There a seat is set and ready,And the nameThere inscribed, and set on high there,—Brechva of the Bards of Fame.
They were gone; but what sweet wonderFilled the air!—With a thousand harping noises,—Harping, chiming, crying there.At that harping and that chiming,Straightway strongGrew my heart, and in the darknessFound great solace at that song.Through the gate of night, its vision,Three times fine,Saw the seventh heaven of heroes,’Mid a thousand torches’ shine:All the bards and all the heroesOf old timeThere with Arthur and with MerlinWeave again the bardic rhyme.There a seat is set and ready,And the nameThere inscribed, and set on high there,—Brechva of the Bards of Fame.
They were gone; but what sweet wonderFilled the air!—With a thousand harping noises,—Harping, chiming, crying there.
At that harping and that chiming,Straightway strongGrew my heart, and in the darknessFound great solace at that song.
Through the gate of night, its vision,Three times fine,Saw the seventh heaven of heroes,’Mid a thousand torches’ shine:
All the bards and all the heroesOf old timeThere with Arthur and with MerlinWeave again the bardic rhyme.
There a seat is set and ready,And the nameThere inscribed, and set on high there,—Brechva of the Bards of Fame.
T. E. BROWN
Nice lookin’, eh?Aye, that’s your way—Well, I tell ye, the first time ever I seen her,She wasn’ much more till[27]a baby—Six years, may be,Would have been herAge; at the little clogs at her,[28]Clitter-clatter,And her little handIn mine, to show me the way, you’ll understand,Down yandher brew,And me a stranger too,That was lost on the mountain;And the little sowl in the house all alone,And for her to be goin’The best part of a mile—Bless the chile!Till she got me right—Not a bit shy, not her!Nor freckened,[29]but talkin’ as purtyAs a woman of thirty—And—“That’s the way down to the School,” says she“And Saul and meIs goin’ there every day;You’ll aisy find the way”—And turns, and off like a bird on the wing,Aw, a bright little thing!Isn’ it that way with these people of the mountain?No accountin’But seemin very fearless though—Very—not for fightin’, no!Nor tearin’, but just the used they areOf fogs and bogs, and all the warOf winds and clouds, and ghos’es creepin’Unknownst upon them, and fairies cheepin’Like birds, you’d think, and big bugganes[30]In holes in rocks; lek makin’ frensWith the like, that’ll work like niggers, they will,If you’ll only let them; and paisibleUncommon they are; and little scraps,That’s hardly off their mammies’ laps’ll walk about there in the nightThe same as the day, and all right—Bless ye! ghos’es! ar’n’ they halfGhos’es themselves? Just hear them laugh,Or hear them cry,It’s like up in the sky—Aw, differin’Total—aye; for the air is thinAnd fine up there, and they suck it inVery strong,Very long,And mixes it in the mouldOf all their body and all their sowl—So they’re often seemin’Like people dreamin’,With their eyes open like a surt of a trance.
Nice lookin’, eh?Aye, that’s your way—Well, I tell ye, the first time ever I seen her,She wasn’ much more till[27]a baby—Six years, may be,Would have been herAge; at the little clogs at her,[28]Clitter-clatter,And her little handIn mine, to show me the way, you’ll understand,Down yandher brew,And me a stranger too,That was lost on the mountain;And the little sowl in the house all alone,And for her to be goin’The best part of a mile—Bless the chile!Till she got me right—Not a bit shy, not her!Nor freckened,[29]but talkin’ as purtyAs a woman of thirty—And—“That’s the way down to the School,” says she“And Saul and meIs goin’ there every day;You’ll aisy find the way”—And turns, and off like a bird on the wing,Aw, a bright little thing!Isn’ it that way with these people of the mountain?No accountin’But seemin very fearless though—Very—not for fightin’, no!Nor tearin’, but just the used they areOf fogs and bogs, and all the warOf winds and clouds, and ghos’es creepin’Unknownst upon them, and fairies cheepin’Like birds, you’d think, and big bugganes[30]In holes in rocks; lek makin’ frensWith the like, that’ll work like niggers, they will,If you’ll only let them; and paisibleUncommon they are; and little scraps,That’s hardly off their mammies’ laps’ll walk about there in the nightThe same as the day, and all right—Bless ye! ghos’es! ar’n’ they halfGhos’es themselves? Just hear them laugh,Or hear them cry,It’s like up in the sky—Aw, differin’Total—aye; for the air is thinAnd fine up there, and they suck it inVery strong,Very long,And mixes it in the mouldOf all their body and all their sowl—So they’re often seemin’Like people dreamin’,With their eyes open like a surt of a trance.
Nice lookin’, eh?Aye, that’s your way—Well, I tell ye, the first time ever I seen her,She wasn’ much more till[27]a baby—Six years, may be,Would have been herAge; at the little clogs at her,[28]Clitter-clatter,And her little handIn mine, to show me the way, you’ll understand,Down yandher brew,And me a stranger too,That was lost on the mountain;And the little sowl in the house all alone,And for her to be goin’The best part of a mile—Bless the chile!Till she got me right—Not a bit shy, not her!Nor freckened,[29]but talkin’ as purtyAs a woman of thirty—And—“That’s the way down to the School,” says she“And Saul and meIs goin’ there every day;You’ll aisy find the way”—And turns, and off like a bird on the wing,Aw, a bright little thing!
Isn’ it that way with these people of the mountain?No accountin’But seemin very fearless though—Very—not for fightin’, no!Nor tearin’, but just the used they areOf fogs and bogs, and all the warOf winds and clouds, and ghos’es creepin’Unknownst upon them, and fairies cheepin’Like birds, you’d think, and big bugganes[30]In holes in rocks; lek makin’ frensWith the like, that’ll work like niggers, they will,If you’ll only let them; and paisibleUncommon they are; and little scraps,That’s hardly off their mammies’ laps’ll walk about there in the nightThe same as the day, and all right—Bless ye! ghos’es! ar’n’ they halfGhos’es themselves? Just hear them laugh,Or hear them cry,It’s like up in the sky—Aw, differin’Total—aye; for the air is thinAnd fine up there, and they suck it inVery strong,Very long,And mixes it in the mouldOf all their body and all their sowl—So they’re often seemin’Like people dreamin’,With their eyes open like a surt of a trance.
HALL CAINE
She was Joney, the rich man’s only child,He was Juan, a son of the sea.“Thy father hath cast me forth of his door,But, poor as I am, to his teeth I sworeI should wed thee, O graih my chree.”He broke a ring and gave her the half,And she buried it close at her heart.“I must leave thee, love of my soul,” he said,“But I vow by our troth that living or dead,I will come back rich to thine arms and thy bed,And fetch thee as sure as we part.”He sailed to the north, he sailed to the south,He sailed to the foreign strand,But whether he touched on the icy coneOr the coral reef of the Indian zone,It turned to a golden land.And he cried to his crew, “Hoist sail and about,For no more do I need to roam;I have silks and satins and lace and gold,I have treasure as deep as my ship will holdTo win me a wife at home.”They had not sailed but half of their courseTo the haven where they would be,When the devil beguiled their barque on a rock,And down it sank with a woeful shockOn the banks of Italy.Then over the roar of the clamorous wavesThe skipper his voice was heard,“I vowed by our troth that dead or aliveI should come back yet to wed and to wive,And by t’ Lady I keep my word.“I will come to thee still, O love of my heart,From the arms of the envious sea;Though the tempest should swallow my choking breath,In the spite of hell and the devil and deathI will come to thee, graih my chree.”
She was Joney, the rich man’s only child,He was Juan, a son of the sea.“Thy father hath cast me forth of his door,But, poor as I am, to his teeth I sworeI should wed thee, O graih my chree.”He broke a ring and gave her the half,And she buried it close at her heart.“I must leave thee, love of my soul,” he said,“But I vow by our troth that living or dead,I will come back rich to thine arms and thy bed,And fetch thee as sure as we part.”He sailed to the north, he sailed to the south,He sailed to the foreign strand,But whether he touched on the icy coneOr the coral reef of the Indian zone,It turned to a golden land.And he cried to his crew, “Hoist sail and about,For no more do I need to roam;I have silks and satins and lace and gold,I have treasure as deep as my ship will holdTo win me a wife at home.”They had not sailed but half of their courseTo the haven where they would be,When the devil beguiled their barque on a rock,And down it sank with a woeful shockOn the banks of Italy.Then over the roar of the clamorous wavesThe skipper his voice was heard,“I vowed by our troth that dead or aliveI should come back yet to wed and to wive,And by t’ Lady I keep my word.“I will come to thee still, O love of my heart,From the arms of the envious sea;Though the tempest should swallow my choking breath,In the spite of hell and the devil and deathI will come to thee, graih my chree.”
She was Joney, the rich man’s only child,He was Juan, a son of the sea.“Thy father hath cast me forth of his door,But, poor as I am, to his teeth I sworeI should wed thee, O graih my chree.”
He broke a ring and gave her the half,And she buried it close at her heart.“I must leave thee, love of my soul,” he said,“But I vow by our troth that living or dead,I will come back rich to thine arms and thy bed,And fetch thee as sure as we part.”
He sailed to the north, he sailed to the south,He sailed to the foreign strand,But whether he touched on the icy coneOr the coral reef of the Indian zone,It turned to a golden land.
And he cried to his crew, “Hoist sail and about,For no more do I need to roam;I have silks and satins and lace and gold,I have treasure as deep as my ship will holdTo win me a wife at home.”
They had not sailed but half of their courseTo the haven where they would be,When the devil beguiled their barque on a rock,And down it sank with a woeful shockOn the banks of Italy.
Then over the roar of the clamorous wavesThe skipper his voice was heard,“I vowed by our troth that dead or aliveI should come back yet to wed and to wive,And by t’ Lady I keep my word.
“I will come to thee still, O love of my heart,From the arms of the envious sea;Though the tempest should swallow my choking breath,In the spite of hell and the devil and deathI will come to thee, graih my chree.”
“He will come no more to thine arms, my child,He is false or lost and dead,Now wherefore make ye these five years’ moan,And wherefore sit by the sea alone?”“He will keep his vow,” she said.She climbed the brows of the cliffs at home,She gazed on the false, false sea.“It comes and it goes for ever,” she cried,“And tidings it brings to the wife and the bride,But never a word to me.”Then, of lovers, another came wooing the maid,But she answered him nay and nay,The manfullest man and her servant true,“Give me thy hand and thou shalt not rue,”She murmured, “Alack, the day.”Her father arose in his pride and his wrath,He was last of his race and name,“Because that a daughter will peak and will pineMust I never have child of my child to my line,But die in my childless shame?”They bore her a bride to the kirkyard gate,It was a pitiful sight to see,Her body they decked in their jewels and gold,But the heart in her bosom sate silent and cold,And she murmured “Ah, woe is me.”
“He will come no more to thine arms, my child,He is false or lost and dead,Now wherefore make ye these five years’ moan,And wherefore sit by the sea alone?”“He will keep his vow,” she said.She climbed the brows of the cliffs at home,She gazed on the false, false sea.“It comes and it goes for ever,” she cried,“And tidings it brings to the wife and the bride,But never a word to me.”Then, of lovers, another came wooing the maid,But she answered him nay and nay,The manfullest man and her servant true,“Give me thy hand and thou shalt not rue,”She murmured, “Alack, the day.”Her father arose in his pride and his wrath,He was last of his race and name,“Because that a daughter will peak and will pineMust I never have child of my child to my line,But die in my childless shame?”They bore her a bride to the kirkyard gate,It was a pitiful sight to see,Her body they decked in their jewels and gold,But the heart in her bosom sate silent and cold,And she murmured “Ah, woe is me.”
“He will come no more to thine arms, my child,He is false or lost and dead,Now wherefore make ye these five years’ moan,And wherefore sit by the sea alone?”“He will keep his vow,” she said.
She climbed the brows of the cliffs at home,She gazed on the false, false sea.“It comes and it goes for ever,” she cried,“And tidings it brings to the wife and the bride,But never a word to me.”
Then, of lovers, another came wooing the maid,But she answered him nay and nay,The manfullest man and her servant true,“Give me thy hand and thou shalt not rue,”She murmured, “Alack, the day.”
Her father arose in his pride and his wrath,He was last of his race and name,“Because that a daughter will peak and will pineMust I never have child of my child to my line,But die in my childless shame?”
They bore her a bride to the kirkyard gate,It was a pitiful sight to see,Her body they decked in their jewels and gold,But the heart in her bosom sate silent and cold,And she murmured “Ah, woe is me.”
HALL CAINE
They had not been wedded a year, a year,A year but barely two,When the good wife close to the hearth-stone creptAnd rocked her babe while the good man sleptAnd the wind in the chimney blew.Loud was the sea and fierce was the night,Gloomy and wild and dour;From a flying cloud came a lightning flash,A pane of the window fell in with a crash,And something rang on the floor.O, was it a stone from the waste sea-beach?O, was it an earthly thing?She stirred the peat and stooped to the ground,And there in the red, red light she foundThe half of a broken ring.She rose upright in a terror of frightAs one that hath sinned a sin,And out of the dark and the wind and rain,Through the jagged gap of the broken pane,A man’s white face looked in.“Oh, why didst thou stay so long, Juan?Five years I waited for thee.”“I vowed by our troth, that living or deadI should come back yet to thine arms and thy bed,And my vow I have kept, my chree.”“But I have been false to my troth, Juan;Falsely I swore me away.”“I have silks and satins and lace and gold,I have treasure as deep as my ship will hold;And my barque lies out in the bay.”“But I have a husband that loves me dear;I promised him never to part.”“Through the salt sea’s foam and the earth’s hot breath,Through the grapplings of hell and the gates of deathI have come for thee, Joney, my heart.”“But I have a child of my body so sweet—Little Jannie that sleeps in the cot.”“By the glimpse of the moon, at the top of the tide,Ere the crow of the cock our vessel must ride,Or what will befall us, God wot.”“Now, ever alack, thou must kiss and go back;My love, I am never for thee.”“As sure as yon ship to the billows that roll,By the plight of our troth, both body and soulYou belong to me, graih my chree.”She followed him forth like to one in a sleep;It was a woeful and wonderous sight.The moon on his face from a rift in a cloudShowed it white and wan as a face in a shroud,And his ship on the sea gleamed white.
They had not been wedded a year, a year,A year but barely two,When the good wife close to the hearth-stone creptAnd rocked her babe while the good man sleptAnd the wind in the chimney blew.Loud was the sea and fierce was the night,Gloomy and wild and dour;From a flying cloud came a lightning flash,A pane of the window fell in with a crash,And something rang on the floor.O, was it a stone from the waste sea-beach?O, was it an earthly thing?She stirred the peat and stooped to the ground,And there in the red, red light she foundThe half of a broken ring.She rose upright in a terror of frightAs one that hath sinned a sin,And out of the dark and the wind and rain,Through the jagged gap of the broken pane,A man’s white face looked in.“Oh, why didst thou stay so long, Juan?Five years I waited for thee.”“I vowed by our troth, that living or deadI should come back yet to thine arms and thy bed,And my vow I have kept, my chree.”“But I have been false to my troth, Juan;Falsely I swore me away.”“I have silks and satins and lace and gold,I have treasure as deep as my ship will hold;And my barque lies out in the bay.”“But I have a husband that loves me dear;I promised him never to part.”“Through the salt sea’s foam and the earth’s hot breath,Through the grapplings of hell and the gates of deathI have come for thee, Joney, my heart.”“But I have a child of my body so sweet—Little Jannie that sleeps in the cot.”“By the glimpse of the moon, at the top of the tide,Ere the crow of the cock our vessel must ride,Or what will befall us, God wot.”“Now, ever alack, thou must kiss and go back;My love, I am never for thee.”“As sure as yon ship to the billows that roll,By the plight of our troth, both body and soulYou belong to me, graih my chree.”She followed him forth like to one in a sleep;It was a woeful and wonderous sight.The moon on his face from a rift in a cloudShowed it white and wan as a face in a shroud,And his ship on the sea gleamed white.
They had not been wedded a year, a year,A year but barely two,When the good wife close to the hearth-stone creptAnd rocked her babe while the good man sleptAnd the wind in the chimney blew.
Loud was the sea and fierce was the night,Gloomy and wild and dour;From a flying cloud came a lightning flash,A pane of the window fell in with a crash,And something rang on the floor.
O, was it a stone from the waste sea-beach?O, was it an earthly thing?She stirred the peat and stooped to the ground,And there in the red, red light she foundThe half of a broken ring.
She rose upright in a terror of frightAs one that hath sinned a sin,And out of the dark and the wind and rain,Through the jagged gap of the broken pane,A man’s white face looked in.
“Oh, why didst thou stay so long, Juan?Five years I waited for thee.”“I vowed by our troth, that living or deadI should come back yet to thine arms and thy bed,And my vow I have kept, my chree.”
“But I have been false to my troth, Juan;Falsely I swore me away.”“I have silks and satins and lace and gold,I have treasure as deep as my ship will hold;And my barque lies out in the bay.”
“But I have a husband that loves me dear;I promised him never to part.”“Through the salt sea’s foam and the earth’s hot breath,Through the grapplings of hell and the gates of deathI have come for thee, Joney, my heart.”
“But I have a child of my body so sweet—Little Jannie that sleeps in the cot.”“By the glimpse of the moon, at the top of the tide,Ere the crow of the cock our vessel must ride,Or what will befall us, God wot.”
“Now, ever alack, thou must kiss and go back;My love, I am never for thee.”“As sure as yon ship to the billows that roll,By the plight of our troth, both body and soulYou belong to me, graih my chree.”
She followed him forth like to one in a sleep;It was a woeful and wonderous sight.The moon on his face from a rift in a cloudShowed it white and wan as a face in a shroud,And his ship on the sea gleamed white.
“Now weigh and away, my merry men all.”The crew laughed loud in their glee.“With the rich man’s pride and his sweet daughter,In the spite of wind and the wild water—To the banks of Italy!”The anchor was weighed, the canvas was spread,All in the storm and the dark,With never a reef in a stitch of sail,But standing about to burst the galeMerrily sped the barque.The first night out there was fear on the ship,For the lady lay in a swoon;The second night out she woke from her trance,And the skipper did laugh and his men would dance,But she made a piteous moan.“O, where is my home and my sweet baby—My Jannie I nursed on my knee?He will wake in his cot by the cold hearth-stoneAnd cry for his mother who left him alone;My Jannie, I’m wae for thee.”The skipper he shouted for music and song,And his crew they answered his call.He clothed her in silk and satin and lace,But still through the rout and riot her faceShowed fit for a funeral.And ever at night they sailed by the moon,Through the wild white foam so fleet,And ever again at the coming of day,When the sun rose out of the sea they layIn a mist like a winding sheet.And still the skipper he kissed her and cried,“Be merry and let-a-be.”And still to soothe her he sat through the nightsWith his hand in her hand, till they opened the lightsBy the banks of Italy.Then his face shone green as with ghostly sheen,And the moon began to dip.“O, think not you, I am the lover ye knew;I am a ghostly man with a ghostly crew,And this is a ghostly ship.”Then he rose upright to a fearsome height,And stamped his foot on the deck;He smote the mast at the topsail yards,And the rigging fell like a house of cards,And the hulk was a splitting wreck.O, then as she sank in the water’s womb,In the churn of the choking sea,She knew that his arms were about her breast,As close as his arms might be.And he cried o’er the tramp of the champing tideOn the banks of Italy,“By the plight of our troth, by the power of our bond,If not in this world in the world beyond,Thou art mine, O graih my chree.”
“Now weigh and away, my merry men all.”The crew laughed loud in their glee.“With the rich man’s pride and his sweet daughter,In the spite of wind and the wild water—To the banks of Italy!”The anchor was weighed, the canvas was spread,All in the storm and the dark,With never a reef in a stitch of sail,But standing about to burst the galeMerrily sped the barque.The first night out there was fear on the ship,For the lady lay in a swoon;The second night out she woke from her trance,And the skipper did laugh and his men would dance,But she made a piteous moan.“O, where is my home and my sweet baby—My Jannie I nursed on my knee?He will wake in his cot by the cold hearth-stoneAnd cry for his mother who left him alone;My Jannie, I’m wae for thee.”The skipper he shouted for music and song,And his crew they answered his call.He clothed her in silk and satin and lace,But still through the rout and riot her faceShowed fit for a funeral.And ever at night they sailed by the moon,Through the wild white foam so fleet,And ever again at the coming of day,When the sun rose out of the sea they layIn a mist like a winding sheet.And still the skipper he kissed her and cried,“Be merry and let-a-be.”And still to soothe her he sat through the nightsWith his hand in her hand, till they opened the lightsBy the banks of Italy.Then his face shone green as with ghostly sheen,And the moon began to dip.“O, think not you, I am the lover ye knew;I am a ghostly man with a ghostly crew,And this is a ghostly ship.”Then he rose upright to a fearsome height,And stamped his foot on the deck;He smote the mast at the topsail yards,And the rigging fell like a house of cards,And the hulk was a splitting wreck.O, then as she sank in the water’s womb,In the churn of the choking sea,She knew that his arms were about her breast,As close as his arms might be.And he cried o’er the tramp of the champing tideOn the banks of Italy,“By the plight of our troth, by the power of our bond,If not in this world in the world beyond,Thou art mine, O graih my chree.”
“Now weigh and away, my merry men all.”The crew laughed loud in their glee.“With the rich man’s pride and his sweet daughter,In the spite of wind and the wild water—To the banks of Italy!”
The anchor was weighed, the canvas was spread,All in the storm and the dark,With never a reef in a stitch of sail,But standing about to burst the galeMerrily sped the barque.
The first night out there was fear on the ship,For the lady lay in a swoon;The second night out she woke from her trance,And the skipper did laugh and his men would dance,But she made a piteous moan.
“O, where is my home and my sweet baby—My Jannie I nursed on my knee?He will wake in his cot by the cold hearth-stoneAnd cry for his mother who left him alone;My Jannie, I’m wae for thee.”
The skipper he shouted for music and song,And his crew they answered his call.He clothed her in silk and satin and lace,But still through the rout and riot her faceShowed fit for a funeral.
And ever at night they sailed by the moon,Through the wild white foam so fleet,And ever again at the coming of day,When the sun rose out of the sea they layIn a mist like a winding sheet.
And still the skipper he kissed her and cried,“Be merry and let-a-be.”And still to soothe her he sat through the nightsWith his hand in her hand, till they opened the lightsBy the banks of Italy.
Then his face shone green as with ghostly sheen,And the moon began to dip.“O, think not you, I am the lover ye knew;I am a ghostly man with a ghostly crew,And this is a ghostly ship.”
Then he rose upright to a fearsome height,And stamped his foot on the deck;He smote the mast at the topsail yards,And the rigging fell like a house of cards,And the hulk was a splitting wreck.
O, then as she sank in the water’s womb,In the churn of the choking sea,She knew that his arms were about her breast,As close as his arms might be.And he cried o’er the tramp of the champing tideOn the banks of Italy,“By the plight of our troth, by the power of our bond,If not in this world in the world beyond,Thou art mine, O graih my chree.”
A. T. QUILLER COUCH
Not on the neck of prince or hound,Nor on a woman’s finger twin’d,May gold from the deriding groundKeep sacred that we sacred bind:Only the heelOf splendid steelShall stand secure on sliding fate,When golden navies weep their freight.The scarlet hat, the laurell’d staveAre measures, not the springs of worth;In a wife’s lap, as in a grave,Man’s airy notions mix with earth.Seek other spurBravely to stirThe dust in this loud world, and treadAlp-high among the whisp’ring dead.Trust in thyself,—then spur amain:So shall Charybdis wear a grace,Grim Ætna laugh, the Libyan plainTake roses to her shrivell’d face.This orb—this roundOf sight and sound—Count it the lists that God hath builtFor haughty hearts to ride a-tilt.
Not on the neck of prince or hound,Nor on a woman’s finger twin’d,May gold from the deriding groundKeep sacred that we sacred bind:Only the heelOf splendid steelShall stand secure on sliding fate,When golden navies weep their freight.The scarlet hat, the laurell’d staveAre measures, not the springs of worth;In a wife’s lap, as in a grave,Man’s airy notions mix with earth.Seek other spurBravely to stirThe dust in this loud world, and treadAlp-high among the whisp’ring dead.Trust in thyself,—then spur amain:So shall Charybdis wear a grace,Grim Ætna laugh, the Libyan plainTake roses to her shrivell’d face.This orb—this roundOf sight and sound—Count it the lists that God hath builtFor haughty hearts to ride a-tilt.
Not on the neck of prince or hound,Nor on a woman’s finger twin’d,May gold from the deriding groundKeep sacred that we sacred bind:Only the heelOf splendid steelShall stand secure on sliding fate,When golden navies weep their freight.
The scarlet hat, the laurell’d staveAre measures, not the springs of worth;In a wife’s lap, as in a grave,Man’s airy notions mix with earth.Seek other spurBravely to stirThe dust in this loud world, and treadAlp-high among the whisp’ring dead.
Trust in thyself,—then spur amain:So shall Charybdis wear a grace,Grim Ætna laugh, the Libyan plainTake roses to her shrivell’d face.This orb—this roundOf sight and sound—Count it the lists that God hath builtFor haughty hearts to ride a-tilt.
A. T. QUILLER COUCH
If a leaf rustled, she would start:And yet she died, a year ago.How had so frail a thing the heartTo journey where she trembled so?And do they turn and turn in fright,Those little feet, in so much night?The light above the poet’s headStreamed on the page and on the cloth,And twice and thrice there buffetedOn the black pane a white-wing’d moth:’Twas Annie’s soul that beat outside,And “Open, open, open!” cried:“I could not find the way to God;There were too many flaming sunsFor signposts, and the fearful roadLed over wastes where millionsOf tangled comets hissed and burned—I was bewilder’d and I turned.“O, it was easy then! I knewYour window and no star beside.Look up and take me back to you!”He rose and thrust the window wide.’Twas but because his brain was hotWith rhyming; for he heard her not.But poets polishing a phraseShow anger over trivial things:And as she blundered in the blazeTowards him, on ecstatic wings,He raised a hand and smote her dead;Then wrote, “That I had died instead.”
If a leaf rustled, she would start:And yet she died, a year ago.How had so frail a thing the heartTo journey where she trembled so?And do they turn and turn in fright,Those little feet, in so much night?The light above the poet’s headStreamed on the page and on the cloth,And twice and thrice there buffetedOn the black pane a white-wing’d moth:’Twas Annie’s soul that beat outside,And “Open, open, open!” cried:“I could not find the way to God;There were too many flaming sunsFor signposts, and the fearful roadLed over wastes where millionsOf tangled comets hissed and burned—I was bewilder’d and I turned.“O, it was easy then! I knewYour window and no star beside.Look up and take me back to you!”He rose and thrust the window wide.’Twas but because his brain was hotWith rhyming; for he heard her not.But poets polishing a phraseShow anger over trivial things:And as she blundered in the blazeTowards him, on ecstatic wings,He raised a hand and smote her dead;Then wrote, “That I had died instead.”
If a leaf rustled, she would start:And yet she died, a year ago.How had so frail a thing the heartTo journey where she trembled so?And do they turn and turn in fright,Those little feet, in so much night?
The light above the poet’s headStreamed on the page and on the cloth,And twice and thrice there buffetedOn the black pane a white-wing’d moth:’Twas Annie’s soul that beat outside,And “Open, open, open!” cried:
“I could not find the way to God;There were too many flaming sunsFor signposts, and the fearful roadLed over wastes where millionsOf tangled comets hissed and burned—I was bewilder’d and I turned.
“O, it was easy then! I knewYour window and no star beside.Look up and take me back to you!”He rose and thrust the window wide.’Twas but because his brain was hotWith rhyming; for he heard her not.
But poets polishing a phraseShow anger over trivial things:And as she blundered in the blazeTowards him, on ecstatic wings,He raised a hand and smote her dead;Then wrote, “That I had died instead.”
STEPHEN HAWKER
Twist thou and twine! in light and gloomA spell is on thine hand;The wind shall be thy changeful loom,Thy web, the shifting sand.
Twist thou and twine! in light and gloomA spell is on thine hand;The wind shall be thy changeful loom,Thy web, the shifting sand.
Twist thou and twine! in light and gloomA spell is on thine hand;The wind shall be thy changeful loom,Thy web, the shifting sand.
Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil,On Blackrock’s sullen shore;Till cordage of the hand shall coilWhere crested surges roar.
Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil,On Blackrock’s sullen shore;Till cordage of the hand shall coilWhere crested surges roar.
Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil,On Blackrock’s sullen shore;Till cordage of the hand shall coilWhere crested surges roar.
’Tis for that hour, when, from the wave,Near voices wildly cried;When thy stern hand no succour gave,The cable at thy side.
’Tis for that hour, when, from the wave,Near voices wildly cried;When thy stern hand no succour gave,The cable at thy side.
’Tis for that hour, when, from the wave,Near voices wildly cried;When thy stern hand no succour gave,The cable at thy side.
Twist thou and twine! in light and gloomThe spell is on thine hand;The wind shall be thy changeful loom,Thy web, the shifting sand.
Twist thou and twine! in light and gloomThe spell is on thine hand;The wind shall be thy changeful loom,Thy web, the shifting sand.
Twist thou and twine! in light and gloomThe spell is on thine hand;The wind shall be thy changeful loom,Thy web, the shifting sand.
STEPHEN HAWKER
Did the wild blast of battle sound,Of old, from yonder lonely mound?Race of Pendragon! did ye pour,On this dear earth, your votive gore?
Did the wild blast of battle sound,Of old, from yonder lonely mound?Race of Pendragon! did ye pour,On this dear earth, your votive gore?
Did the wild blast of battle sound,Of old, from yonder lonely mound?Race of Pendragon! did ye pour,On this dear earth, your votive gore?
Did stern swords cleave along this plainThe loose rank of the roving Dane?Or Norman chargers’ sounding treadSmite the meek daisy’s Saxon head?
Did stern swords cleave along this plainThe loose rank of the roving Dane?Or Norman chargers’ sounding treadSmite the meek daisy’s Saxon head?
Did stern swords cleave along this plainThe loose rank of the roving Dane?Or Norman chargers’ sounding treadSmite the meek daisy’s Saxon head?
The wayward winds no answer breathe,No legend cometh from beneath,Of chief, with good sword at his side,Or Druid in his tomb of pride.
The wayward winds no answer breathe,No legend cometh from beneath,Of chief, with good sword at his side,Or Druid in his tomb of pride.
The wayward winds no answer breathe,No legend cometh from beneath,Of chief, with good sword at his side,Or Druid in his tomb of pride.
One quiet bird that comes to makeHer lone nest in the scanty brake;A nameless flower, a silent fern—Lo! the dim stranger’s storied urn.
One quiet bird that comes to makeHer lone nest in the scanty brake;A nameless flower, a silent fern—Lo! the dim stranger’s storied urn.
One quiet bird that comes to makeHer lone nest in the scanty brake;A nameless flower, a silent fern—Lo! the dim stranger’s storied urn.
Hark! on the cold wings of the blastThe future answereth to the past;The bird, the flower, may gather still,Thy voice shall cease upon the hill!
Hark! on the cold wings of the blastThe future answereth to the past;The bird, the flower, may gather still,Thy voice shall cease upon the hill!
Hark! on the cold wings of the blastThe future answereth to the past;The bird, the flower, may gather still,Thy voice shall cease upon the hill!
RICCARDO STEPHENS
Who hath not met Witch Margaret?Red gold her rippling hair,Eyes like sweet summer seas are setBeneath her brow so fair;And cream and damask rose have metHer lips and cheek to share.Come up! and you shall see her yet,Before she groweth still;Before her cloak of flame and smokeThe winter air shall fill;For they must burn Witch MargaretUpon the Castle Hill.. . . . . . . . . .They found on her the devil’s mark,Wherein naught maketh pain,—“Bind her and dip her! stiff and starkShe floateth aye again;Her body changeth after dark,When powers of darkness reign.”They drave the boot on MargaretAnd crushed her dainty feet;The hissing searing-irons setTo kiss her lips so sweet:She hath not asked for mercy yet,Nor mercy shall she meet.The silent sky was cold and grey,The earth was cold and white,They brought her out that Christmas DayTo burn her in our sight;The snow that fell and fell alwayWould cover her ere night.All feebly as a child would goHer bleeding feet dragged by,Blood-red upon the white, white snowI saw her footprints lie;And some one shrieked to see her so—God knows if it was I!Upon her body, all in black,Fell down her red-gold hair;All bruised and bleeding from the rackHer writhen arms hung bare;Red blood dripped all along her track,Red blood seemed in the air.The while they told her deeds of shame,She, resting in the snow,Stretched out weak hands toward the flame,Watched the sparks upward go,Till on the pale pinched face there cameSome of the red fire’s glow.. . . . . . . . . .Oh, is it blood that blinds mine eyes,Or is it driving snow?And are these but the wild wind’s criesThat drive me to and fro,That beat about mine ears and riseWherever I may go?It’s red and black on Castle Hill!The people go to pray,A little wind sighs on, untilThe ashes float away;And then God’s earth is very still,For this is Christmas Day.
Who hath not met Witch Margaret?Red gold her rippling hair,Eyes like sweet summer seas are setBeneath her brow so fair;And cream and damask rose have metHer lips and cheek to share.Come up! and you shall see her yet,Before she groweth still;Before her cloak of flame and smokeThe winter air shall fill;For they must burn Witch MargaretUpon the Castle Hill.. . . . . . . . . .They found on her the devil’s mark,Wherein naught maketh pain,—“Bind her and dip her! stiff and starkShe floateth aye again;Her body changeth after dark,When powers of darkness reign.”They drave the boot on MargaretAnd crushed her dainty feet;The hissing searing-irons setTo kiss her lips so sweet:She hath not asked for mercy yet,Nor mercy shall she meet.The silent sky was cold and grey,The earth was cold and white,They brought her out that Christmas DayTo burn her in our sight;The snow that fell and fell alwayWould cover her ere night.All feebly as a child would goHer bleeding feet dragged by,Blood-red upon the white, white snowI saw her footprints lie;And some one shrieked to see her so—God knows if it was I!Upon her body, all in black,Fell down her red-gold hair;All bruised and bleeding from the rackHer writhen arms hung bare;Red blood dripped all along her track,Red blood seemed in the air.The while they told her deeds of shame,She, resting in the snow,Stretched out weak hands toward the flame,Watched the sparks upward go,Till on the pale pinched face there cameSome of the red fire’s glow.. . . . . . . . . .Oh, is it blood that blinds mine eyes,Or is it driving snow?And are these but the wild wind’s criesThat drive me to and fro,That beat about mine ears and riseWherever I may go?It’s red and black on Castle Hill!The people go to pray,A little wind sighs on, untilThe ashes float away;And then God’s earth is very still,For this is Christmas Day.
Who hath not met Witch Margaret?Red gold her rippling hair,Eyes like sweet summer seas are setBeneath her brow so fair;And cream and damask rose have metHer lips and cheek to share.
Come up! and you shall see her yet,Before she groweth still;Before her cloak of flame and smokeThe winter air shall fill;For they must burn Witch MargaretUpon the Castle Hill.. . . . . . . . . .They found on her the devil’s mark,Wherein naught maketh pain,—“Bind her and dip her! stiff and starkShe floateth aye again;Her body changeth after dark,When powers of darkness reign.”
They drave the boot on MargaretAnd crushed her dainty feet;The hissing searing-irons setTo kiss her lips so sweet:She hath not asked for mercy yet,Nor mercy shall she meet.
The silent sky was cold and grey,The earth was cold and white,They brought her out that Christmas DayTo burn her in our sight;The snow that fell and fell alwayWould cover her ere night.
All feebly as a child would goHer bleeding feet dragged by,Blood-red upon the white, white snowI saw her footprints lie;And some one shrieked to see her so—God knows if it was I!
Upon her body, all in black,Fell down her red-gold hair;All bruised and bleeding from the rackHer writhen arms hung bare;Red blood dripped all along her track,Red blood seemed in the air.
The while they told her deeds of shame,She, resting in the snow,Stretched out weak hands toward the flame,Watched the sparks upward go,Till on the pale pinched face there cameSome of the red fire’s glow.. . . . . . . . . .Oh, is it blood that blinds mine eyes,Or is it driving snow?And are these but the wild wind’s criesThat drive me to and fro,That beat about mine ears and riseWherever I may go?
It’s red and black on Castle Hill!The people go to pray,A little wind sighs on, untilThe ashes float away;And then God’s earth is very still,For this is Christmas Day.
RICCARDO STEPHENS
The Autumn leaves went whispering by,Like ghosts that never slept.Up through the dusk a curlew’s cryFrom glen to hill-top crept.The Dead Man heard the burn moan byAnd thought for him it wept.Lapped in his grave, a night and day,The Dead Man marked the sound:He knew the moon rose far away,Grey shadows gathered round,Then down the glen, he heard the bayRaised by his great grey hound.A stag crashed out, and thundered back—She never turned aside.The swollen stream ran cold and black,—She leapt the waters wide,Nor paused, nor left the shadowy trackTill at the dark grave side.“What brings you here, my great grey hound,What brings you here, alone?True I am dead, but is there foundBeneath my board no bone?No rushy bed for your grey headNow I am dead and gone?”“Your brother reads your title-deeds,Your wife counts out red gold,And laughs in rich black widow’s-weeds,Red-lipped and smooth and bold.I want no bone, to gnaw alone,Now that your hand is cold.”The Dead Man laughed in scornful hate,While the great hound growled low,“Last night I rose to Heaven’s gate,”He said, “for I would knowThe best or worst dealt out by Fate,And whither I must go.”He paused—“My grave is damp and cold;I feel the slow worms glideSmoothly and softly through the mould,And nestle by my side.What lives and moves, in wood and wold,Where love and laughter bide?”“The wild fowl fly across, and callIn from the grey salt sea;I scent the red stag by the Fall,He fears no more from me.The moon comes up, and over allShe glimmers eerily.”The corpse replied, “At Heaven’s gatesThey stand to let me through,And there, years hence, a welcome waitsFalse Wife and Brother too.Do what you will, my hound, and stillHeaven holds no place for you.“With tooth and claw tear down to me,And Death shall be no tether.The swift red deer once more shall flee,Panting through burn and heather:And you and I once more shall beHunting my hills together!”. . . . . . . . . .That night the deer across the woldFrom dark to dawning fled;The lady dreamt that, shroud-enrolled,A corpse had shared her bed;But by the grave wind-swept and cold,The great grey hound lay dead!
The Autumn leaves went whispering by,Like ghosts that never slept.Up through the dusk a curlew’s cryFrom glen to hill-top crept.The Dead Man heard the burn moan byAnd thought for him it wept.Lapped in his grave, a night and day,The Dead Man marked the sound:He knew the moon rose far away,Grey shadows gathered round,Then down the glen, he heard the bayRaised by his great grey hound.A stag crashed out, and thundered back—She never turned aside.The swollen stream ran cold and black,—She leapt the waters wide,Nor paused, nor left the shadowy trackTill at the dark grave side.“What brings you here, my great grey hound,What brings you here, alone?True I am dead, but is there foundBeneath my board no bone?No rushy bed for your grey headNow I am dead and gone?”“Your brother reads your title-deeds,Your wife counts out red gold,And laughs in rich black widow’s-weeds,Red-lipped and smooth and bold.I want no bone, to gnaw alone,Now that your hand is cold.”The Dead Man laughed in scornful hate,While the great hound growled low,“Last night I rose to Heaven’s gate,”He said, “for I would knowThe best or worst dealt out by Fate,And whither I must go.”He paused—“My grave is damp and cold;I feel the slow worms glideSmoothly and softly through the mould,And nestle by my side.What lives and moves, in wood and wold,Where love and laughter bide?”“The wild fowl fly across, and callIn from the grey salt sea;I scent the red stag by the Fall,He fears no more from me.The moon comes up, and over allShe glimmers eerily.”The corpse replied, “At Heaven’s gatesThey stand to let me through,And there, years hence, a welcome waitsFalse Wife and Brother too.Do what you will, my hound, and stillHeaven holds no place for you.“With tooth and claw tear down to me,And Death shall be no tether.The swift red deer once more shall flee,Panting through burn and heather:And you and I once more shall beHunting my hills together!”. . . . . . . . . .That night the deer across the woldFrom dark to dawning fled;The lady dreamt that, shroud-enrolled,A corpse had shared her bed;But by the grave wind-swept and cold,The great grey hound lay dead!
The Autumn leaves went whispering by,Like ghosts that never slept.Up through the dusk a curlew’s cryFrom glen to hill-top crept.The Dead Man heard the burn moan byAnd thought for him it wept.
Lapped in his grave, a night and day,The Dead Man marked the sound:He knew the moon rose far away,Grey shadows gathered round,Then down the glen, he heard the bayRaised by his great grey hound.
A stag crashed out, and thundered back—She never turned aside.The swollen stream ran cold and black,—She leapt the waters wide,Nor paused, nor left the shadowy trackTill at the dark grave side.
“What brings you here, my great grey hound,What brings you here, alone?True I am dead, but is there foundBeneath my board no bone?No rushy bed for your grey headNow I am dead and gone?”
“Your brother reads your title-deeds,Your wife counts out red gold,And laughs in rich black widow’s-weeds,Red-lipped and smooth and bold.I want no bone, to gnaw alone,Now that your hand is cold.”
The Dead Man laughed in scornful hate,While the great hound growled low,“Last night I rose to Heaven’s gate,”He said, “for I would knowThe best or worst dealt out by Fate,And whither I must go.”
He paused—“My grave is damp and cold;I feel the slow worms glideSmoothly and softly through the mould,And nestle by my side.What lives and moves, in wood and wold,Where love and laughter bide?”
“The wild fowl fly across, and callIn from the grey salt sea;I scent the red stag by the Fall,He fears no more from me.The moon comes up, and over allShe glimmers eerily.”
The corpse replied, “At Heaven’s gatesThey stand to let me through,And there, years hence, a welcome waitsFalse Wife and Brother too.Do what you will, my hound, and stillHeaven holds no place for you.
“With tooth and claw tear down to me,And Death shall be no tether.The swift red deer once more shall flee,Panting through burn and heather:And you and I once more shall beHunting my hills together!”. . . . . . . . . .That night the deer across the woldFrom dark to dawning fled;The lady dreamt that, shroud-enrolled,A corpse had shared her bed;But by the grave wind-swept and cold,The great grey hound lay dead!