Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn—Night is the time for the old to die—But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn,When the hind that was sick unscathed went by.
Father lay moaning, "Her fault was sore(Night is the time when the old must die),Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more,For heart is failing: the end is nigh."
"Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I cried(Night is the time for the old to die),"Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide"—Dark was the welkin and wild the sky.
Heavily plunged from the roof the snow—(Night is the time when the old will die),She answered, "My mother, 'tis well, I go."Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high.
First at his head, and last at his feet(Night is the time when the old should die),Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet,None else that loved him, none else were nigh.
I wept in the night as the desolate weep(Night is the time for the old to die),Cometh my daughter? the drifts are deep,Across the cold hollows how white they lie.
I sought her afar through the spectral trees(Night is the time when the old must die),The fells were all muffled, the floods did freeze,And a wrathful moon hung red in the sky.
By night I found her where pent waves steal(Night is the time when the old should die),But she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel,And the old stars lived in their homes on high.
Hark! a lover binding sheavesTo his maiden sings,Flutter, flutter go the leaves,Larks drop their wings.Little brooks for all their mirthAre not blythe as he."Give me what the love is worthThat I give thee.
"Speech that cannot be forborneTells the story through:I sowed my love in with the corn,And they both grew.Count the world full wide of girth,And hived honey sweet,But count the love of more worthLaid at thy feet.
"Money's worth is house and land,Velvet coat and vest.Work's worth is bread in hand,Ay, and sweet rest.Wilt thou learn what love is worth?Ah! she sits above,Sighing, 'Weigh me not with earth,Love's worth is love.'"
Once on a time there walked a mariner,That had been shipwrecked;—on a lonely shore,And the green water made a restless stir,And a great flock of mews sped on before.He had nor food nor shelter, for the tideRose on the one, and cliffs on the other side.
Brown cliffs they were; they seemed to pierce the sky,That was an awful deep of empty blue,Save that the wind was in it, and on highA wavering skein of wild-fowl tracked it through.He marked them not, but went with movement slow,Because his thoughts were sad, his courage low.
His heart was numb, he neither wept nor sighed,But wearifully lingered by the wave;Until at length it chanced that he espied,Far up, an opening in the cliff, a cave,A shelter where to sleep in his distress,And lose his sorrow in forgetfulness.
With that he clambered up the rugged faceOf that steep cliff that all in shadow lay,And, lo, there was a dry and homelike place,Comforting refuge for the castaway;And he laid down his weary, weary head,And took his fill of sleep till dawn waxed red.
When he awoke, warm stirring from the southOf delicate summer air did sough and flow;He rose, and, wending to the cavern's mouth,He cast his eyes a little way belowWhere on the narrow ledges, sharp and rude,Preening their wings the blue rock-pigeons cooed.
Then he looked lower and saw the lavenderAnd sea-thrift blooming in long crevices,And the brown wallflower—April's messenger,The wallflower marshalled in her companies.Then lower yet he looked adown the steep,And sheer beneath him lapped the lovely deep.
The laughing deep;—and it was pacifiedAs if it had not raged that other day.And it went murmuring in the morningtideInnumerable flatteries on its way,Kissing the cliffs and whispering at their feetWith exquisite advancement, and retreat.
This when the mariner beheld he sighed,And thought on his companions lying low.But while he gazed with eyes unsatisfiedOn the fair reaches of their overthow,Thinking it strange he only lived of all,But not returning thanks, he heard a call!
A soft sweet call, a voice of tender ruth,He thought it came from out the cave. And, lo,It whispered, "Man, look up!" But he, forsooth,Answered, "I cannot, for the long waves flowAcross my gallant ship where sunk she liesWith all my riches and my merchandise.
"Moreover, I am heavy for the fateOf these my mariners drowned in the deep;I must lament me for their sad estateNow they are gathered in their last long sleep.O! the unpitying heavens upon me frown,Then how should I look up?—I must look down."
And he stood yet watching the fair green seaTill hunger reached him; then he made a fire,A driftwood fire, and wandered listlesslyAnd gathered many eggs at his desire,And dressed them for his meal, and then he layAnd slept, and woke upon the second day.
Whenas he said, "The cave shall be my home;None will molest me, for the brown cliffs riseLike castles of defence behind,—the foamOf the remorseless sea beneath me lies;'Tis easy from the cliff my food to win—The nations of the rock-dove breed therein.
"For fuel, at the ebb yon fair expanseIs strewed with driftwood by the breaking wave,And in the sea is fish for sustenance.I will build up the entrance of the cave,And leave therein a window and a door,And here will dwell and leave it nevermore."
Then even so he did: and when his task,Many long days being over, was complete,When he had eaten, as he sat to baskIn the red firelight glowing at his feet,He was right glad of shelter, and he said,"Now for my comrades am I comforted."
Then did the voice awake and speak again;It murmured, "Man, look up!" But he replied,"I cannot. O, mine eyes, mine eyes are fainDown on the red wood-ashes to abideBecause they warm me." Then the voice was still,And left the lonely mariner to his will.
And soon it came to pass that he got gain.He had great flocks of pigeons which he fed,And drew great store of fish from out the main,And down from eiderducks; and then he said,"It is not good that I should lead my lifeIn silence, I will take to me a wife."
He took a wife, and brought her home to him;And he was good to her and cherished herSo that she loved him; then when light waxed dimGloom came no more; and she would ministerTo all his wants; while he, being well content,Counted her company right excellent.
But once as on the lintel of the doorShe leaned to watch him while he put to sea,This happy wife, down-gazing at the shore,Said sweetly, "It is better now with meThan it was lately when I used to spinIn my old father's house beside the lin."
And then the soft voice of the cave awoke—The soft voice which had haunted it erewhile—And gently to the wife it also spoke,"Woman, look up!" But she, with tender guile,Gave it denial, answering, "Nay, not so,For all that I should look on lieth below.
"The great sky overhead is not so goodFor my two eyes as yonder stainless sea,The source and yielder of our livelihood,Where rocks his little boat that loveth me."This when the wife had said she moved away,And looked no higher than the wave all day.
Now when the year ran out a child she bore,And there was such rejoicing in the caveAs surely never had there been beforeSince God first made it. Then full, sweet, and grave,The voice, "God's utmost blessing brims thy cup,O, father of this child, look up, look up!"
"Speak to my wife," the mariner replied."I have much work—right welcome work 'tis true—Another mouth to feed." And then it sighed,"Woman, look up!" She said, "Make no ado,For I must needs look down, on anywise,My heaven is in the blue of these dear eyes."
The seasons of the year did swiftly whirl,They measured time by one small life alone;On such a day the pretty pushing pearl,That mouth they loved to kiss had sweetly shown,That smiling mouth, and it had made essayTo give them names on such another day.
And afterward his infant history,Whether he played with baubles on the floor,Or crept to pat the rock-doves pecking nigh,And feeding on the threshold of the door,They loved to mark, and all his marvellings dim,The mysteries that beguiled and baffled him.
He was so sweet, that oft his mother said,"O, child, how was it that I dwelt contentBefore thou camest? Blessings on thy head,Thy pretty talk it is so innocent,That oft for all my joy, though it be deep,When thou art prattling, I am like to weep."
Summer and winter spent themselves again,The rock-doves in their season bred, the cliffGrew sweet, for every cleft would entertainIts tuft of blossom, and the mariner's skiff,Early and late, would linger in the bay,Because the sea was calm and winds away.
The little child about that rocky height,Led by her loving hand who gave him birth,Might wander in the clear unclouded light,And take his pastime in the beauteous earth;Smell the fair flowers in stony cradles swung,And see God's happy creatures feed their young.
And once it came to pass, at eventide,His mother set him in the cavern door,And filled his lap with grain, and stood asideTo watch the circling rock-doves soar, and soar,Then dip, alight, and run in circling bands,To take the barley from his open hands.
And even while she stood and gazed at him,And his grave father's eyes upon him dwelt,They heard the tender voice, and it was dim,And seemed full softly in the air to melt;"Father," it murmured, "Mother," dying away,"Look up, while yet the hours are called to-day."
"I will," the father answered, "but not now;"The mother said, "Sweet voice, O speak to meAt a convenient season." And the browOf the cliff began to quake right fearfully,There was a rending crash, and there did leapA riven rock and plunge into the deep.
They said, "A storm is coming;" but they sleptThat night in peace, and thought the storm had passed,For there was not a cloud to interceptThe sacred moonlight on the cradle cast;And to his rocking boat at dawn of day,With joy of heart the mariner took his way.
But when he mounted up the path at night,Foreboding not of trouble or mischance,His wife came out into the fading light,And met him with a serious countenance;And she broke out in tears and sobbings thick,"The child is sick, my little child is sick."
They knelt beside him in the sultry dark,And when the moon looked in his face was pale,And when the red sun, like a burning barque,Rose in a fog at sea, his tender wailSank deep into their hearts, and piteouslyThey fell to chiding of their destiny.
The doves unheeded cooed that livelong day,Their pretty playmate cared for them no more;The sea-thrift nodded, wet with glistening spray,None gathered it; the long wave washed the shore;He did not know, nor lift his eyes to trace,The new fallen shadow in his dwelling-place.
The sultry sun beat on the cliffs all day,And hot calm airs slept on the polished sea,The mournful mother wore her time away,Bemoaning of her helpless misery,Pleading and plaining, till the day was done,"O look on me, my love, my little one.
"What aileth thee, that thou dost lie and moan?Ah would that I might bear it in thy stead!"The father made not his forebodings known,But gazed, and in his secret soul he said,"I may have sinned, on sin waits punishment,But as for him, sweet blameless innocent,
"What has he done that he is stricken down?O it is hard to see him sink and fade,When I, that counted him my dear life's crown,So willingly have worked while he has played;That he might sleep, have risen, come storm, come heat,And thankfully would fast that he might eat."
My God, how short our happy days appear!How long the sorrowful! They thought it long,The sultry morn that brought such evil cheer,And sat, and wished, and sighed for evensong;It came, and cooling wafts about him stirred,Yet when they spoke he answered not a word.
"Take heart," they cried, but their sad hearts sank lowWhen he would moan and turn his restless head,And wearily the lagging morns would go,And nights, while they sat watching by his bed,Until a storm came up with wind and rain,And lightning ran along the troubled main.
Over their heads the mighty thunders brake,Leaping and tumbling down from rock to rock,Then burst anew and made the cliffs to quakeAs they were living things and felt the shock;The waiting sea to sob as if in pain,And all the midnight vault to ring again.
A lamp was burning in the mariner's cave,But the blue lightning flashes made it dim;And when the mother heard those thunders rave,She took her little child to cherish him;She took him in her arms, and on her breastFull wearily she courted him to rest,
And soothed him long until the storm was spent,And the last thunder peal had died away,And stars were out in all the firmament.Then did he cease to moan, and slumbering lay,While in the welcome silence, pure and deep,The care-worn parents sweetly fell asleep.
And in a dream, enwrought with fancies thick,The mother thought she heard the rock-doves coo(She had forgotten that her child was sick),And she went forth their morning meal to strew;Then over all the cliff with earnest careShe sought her child, and lo, he was not there!
But she was not afraid, though long she soughtAnd climbed the cliff, and set her feet in grass,Then reached a river, broad and full, she thought,And at its brink he sat. Alas! alas!For one stood near him, fair and undefiled,An innocent, a marvellous man-child.
In garments white as wool, and O, most fair,A rainbow covered him with mystic light;Upon the warmèd grass his feet were bare,And as he breathed, the rainbow in her sightIn passions of clear crimson trembling lay,With gold and violet mist made fair the day.
Her little life! she thought, his little handsWere full of flowers that he did play withal;But when he saw the boy o' the golden lands,And looked him in the face, he let them fall,Held through a rapturous pause in wistful wiseTo the sweet strangeness of those keen child-eyes.
"Ah, dear and awful God, who chastenest me,How shall my soul to this be reconciled!It is the Saviour of the world," quoth she,"And to my child He cometh as a child."Then on her knees she fell by that vast stream—Oh, it was sorrowful, this woman's dream!
For lo, that Elder Child drew nearer now,Fair as the light, and purer than the sun.The calms of heaven were brooding on his brow,And in his arms He took her little one,Her child, that knew her, but with sweet demurDrew back, nor held his hands to come to her.
With that in mother misery sore she wept—"O Lamb of God, I love my child so MUCH!He stole away to Thee while we two slept,But give him back, for Thou hast many such;And as for me I have but one. O deign,Dear Pity of God, to give him me again."
His feet were on the river. Oh, his feetHad touched the river now, and it was great;And yet He hearkened when she did entreat,And turned in quietness as He would wait—Wait till she looked upon Him, and behold,There lay a long way off a city of gold.
Like to a jasper and a sardine stone,Whelmed in the rainbow stood that fair man-child,Mighty and innocent, that held her own,And as might be his manner at home he smiled,Then while she looked and looked, the vision brake,And all amazed she started up awake.
And lo, her little child was gone indeed!The sleep that knows no waking he had slept,Folded to heaven's own heart; in rainbow bredeClothed and made glad, while they two mourned and wept,But in the drinking of their bitter cupThe sweet voice spoke once more, and sighed, "Look up!"
They heard, and straightway answered, "Even so:For what abides that we should look on here?The heavens are better than this earth below,They are of more account and far more dear.We will look up, for all most sweet and fair,Most pure, most excellent, is garnered there."
When I do sit apartAnd commune with my heart,She brings me forth the treasures once my own;Shows me a happy placeWhere leaf-buds swelled apace,And wasting rims of snow in sunlight shone.
Rock, in a mossy glade,The larch-trees lend thee shade,That just begin to feather with their leaves;From out thy crevice deepWhite tufts of snowdrops peep,And melted rime drips softly from thine eaves.
Ah, rock, I know, I knowThat yet thy snowdrops grow,And yet doth sunshine fleck them through the tree,Whose sheltering branches hideThe cottage at its side,That nevermore will shade or shelter me.
I know the stockdoves' noteAthwart the glen doth float:With sweet foreknowledge of her twins oppressed,And longings onward sent,She broods before the event,While leisurely she mends her shallow nest.
Once to that cottage door,In happy days of yore,My little love made footprints in the snow.She was so glad of spring,She helped the birds to sing,I know she dwells there yet—the rest I do not know.
They sang, and would not stop,While drop, and drop, and drop,I heard the melted rime in sunshine fall;And narrow wandering rills,Where leaned the daffodils,Murmured and murmured on, and that was all.
I think, but cannot tell,I think she loved me well,And some dear fancy with my future twined.But I shall never know,Hope faints, and lets it go,That passionate want forbid to speak its mind.
I held my way through Defton Wood,And on to Wandor Hall;The dancing leaf let down the light,In hovering spots to fall."O young, young leaves, you match me well,"My heart was merry, and sung—"Now wish me joy of my sweet youth;My love—she, too, is young!O so many, many, manyLittle homes above my head!O so many, many, manyDancing blossoms round me spread!O so many, many, manyMaidens sighing yet for none!Speed, ye wooers, speed with any—Speed with all but one."
I took my leave of Wandor Hall,And trod the woodland ways."What shall I do so long to bearThe burden of my days?"I sighed my heart into the boughsWhereby the culvers cooed;For only I between them wentUnwooing and unwooed."O so many, many, manyLilies bending stately heads!O so many, many, manyStrawberries ripened on their beds!O so many, many, manyMaids, and yet my heart undone!What to me are all, are any—I have lost my—one."
As I came round the harbor buoy,The lights began to gleam,No wave the land-locked water stirred,The crags were white as cream;And I marked my love by candle-lightSewing her long white seam.It's aye sewing ashore, my dear,Watch and steer at sea,It's reef and furl, and haul the line,Set sail and think of thee.
I climbed to reach her cottage door;O sweetly my love sings!Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,My soul to meet it springsAs the shining water leaped of old,When stirred by angel wings.Aye longing to list anew,Awake and in my dream,But never a song she sang like this,Sewing her long white seam.
Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights,That brought me in to thee,And peace drop down on that low roofFor the sight that I did see,And the voice, my dear, that rang so clearAll for the love of me.For O, for O, with brows bent lowBy the candle's flickering gleam,Her wedding gown it was she wrought,Sewing the long white seam.
And what will ye hear, my daughters dear?—Oh, what will ye hear this night?Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide cheer,Or of lovers and ladies bright?
"Thou shalt sing," they say (for we dwell far awayFrom the land where fain would we be),"Thou shalt sing us again some old-world strainThat is sung in our own countrie.
"Thou shalt mind us so of the times long ago,When we walked on the upland lea,While the old harbor light waxed faint in the white,Long rays shooting out from the sea;
"While lambs were yet asleep, and the dew lay deepOn the grass, and their fleeces clean and fair.Never grass was seen so thick nor so greenAs the grass that grew up there!
"In the town was no smoke, for none there awoke—At our feet it lay still as still could be;And we saw far below the long river flow,And the schooners a-warping out to sea.
"Sing us now a strain shall make us feel againAs we felt in that sacred peace of morn,When we had the first view of the wet sparkling dew,In the shyness of a day just born."
So I sang an old song—it was plain and not long—I had sung it very oft when they were small;And long ere it was done they wept every one:Yet this was all the song—this was all:—
The snow lies white, and the moon gives light,I'll out to the freezing mere,And ease my heart with one little song,For none will be nigh to hear.And it's O my love, my love!And it's O my dear, my dear!It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring,When nobody's nigh to hear.
My love is young, she is young, is young;When she laughs the dimple dips.We walked in the wind, and her long locks blewTill sweetly they touched my lips.And I'll out to the freezing mere,Where the stiff reeds whistle so low.And I'll tell my mind to the friendly wind,Because I have loved her so.
Ay, and she's true, my lady is true!And that's the best of it all;And when she blushes my heart so yearnsThat tears are ready to fall.And it's O my love, my love!And it's O my dear, my dear!It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring,When nobody's nigh to hear.
Cold, my dear,—cold and quiet.In their cups on yonder lea,Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet;So the moss enfoldeth thee."Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower—Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree;And when our children sleep," she sighed, "at the dusk hour,And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me!"
Lost, my dear? Lost! nay deepestLove is that which loseth least;Through the night-time while thou sleepest,Still I watch the shrouded east.Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth,"Lost" is no word for such a love as mine;Love from her past to me a present giveth,And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine.Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showethThat which was, and not in vainSacred have I kept, God knoweth,Love's last words atween us twain."Hold by our past, my only love, my lover;Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me!"Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over.Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee.
The logs burn red; she lifts her head,For sledge-bells tinkle and tinkle, O lightly swung."Youth was a pleasant morning, but ah! to think 'tis fled,Sae lang, lang syne," quo' her mother, "I, too, was young."
No guides there are but the North star,And the moaning forest tossing wild arms before,The maiden murmurs, "O sweet were yon bells afar,And hark! hark! hark! for he cometh, he nears the door."
Swift north-lights show, and scatter and go.How can I meet him, and smile not, on this cold shore?Nay, I will call him, "Come in from the night and the snow,And love, love, love in the wild wood, wander no more."
Midsummer night, not dark, not light,Dusk all the scented air,I'll e'en go forth to one I love,And learn how he doth fare.O the ring, the ring, my dear, for me,The ring was a world too fine,I wish it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea,Or ever thou mad'st it mine.
Soft falls the dew, stars tremble through,Where lone he sits apart,Would I might steal his grief awayTo hide in mine own heart.Would, would 'twere shut in yon blossom fair,The sorrow that bows thy head,Then—I would gather it, to thee unaware,And break my heart in thy stead.
That charmèd flower, far from thy bower,I'd bear the long hours through,Thou should'st forget, and my sad breastThe sorrows twain should rue.O sad flower, O sad, sad ring to me.The ring was a world too fine;And would it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea,Ere the morn that made it mine.
Fairest fair, best of good,Too high for hope that stood;White star of womanhood shining apartO my liege lady,And O my one lady,And O my loved lady, come down to my heart.
Reach me life's wine and gold,What is man's best all told,If thou thyself withhold, sweet, from thy throne?O my liege lady,And O my loved lady,And O my heart's lady, come, reign there alone.
The fairy woman maketh moan,"Well-a-day, and well-a-day,Forsooth I brought thee one rose, one,And thou didst cast my rose away."Hark! Oh hark, she mourneth yet,"One good ship—the good ship sailed,One bright star, at last it set,One, one chance, forsooth it failed."
Clear thy dusk hair from thy veiled eyes,Show thy face as thee beseems,For yet is starlight in the skies,Weird woman piteous through my dreams."Nay," she mourns, "forsooth not now,Veiled I sit for evermore,Rose is shed, and charmèd prowShall not touch the charmèd shore."
There thy sons that were to be,Thy small gamesome children play;There all loves that men foreseeStraight as wands enrich the way.Dove-eyed, fair, with me they wormWhere enthroned I reign a queen,In the lovely realms foregone,In the lives that might have been.
And can this be my own world?'Tis all gold and snow,Save where scarlet waves are hurledDown yon gulf below.'Tis thy world, 'tis my world,City, mead, and shore,For he that hath his own worldHath many worlds more.
[Footnote 1: "Above the Clouds," and thirteen poems following, are from"Mopsa the Fairy."]
"Wake, baillie, wake! the crafts are out;Wake!" said the knight, "be quick!For high street, bye street, over the townThey fight with poker and stick."Said the squire, "A fight so fell was ne'erIn all my bailliewick."What said the old clock in the tower?"Tick, tick, tick!"
"Wake, daughter, wake! the hour draws on;Wake!" quoth the dame, "be quick!The meats are set, the guests are coming,The fiddler waxing his stick."She said, "The bridegroom waiting and waitingTo see thy face is sick."What said the new clock in her bower?"Tick, tick, tick!"
The dove laid some little sticks,Then began to coo;The gnat took his trumpet upTo play the day through;The pie chattered soft and long—But that she always does;The bee did all he had to do,And only said, "Buzz."
My good man—he's an old, old man—And my good man got a fall,To buy me a bargain so fast he ranWhen he heard the gypsies call:"Buy, buy brushes,Baskets wrought o' rushes.Buy them, buy them, take them, try them,Buy, dames all."
My old man, he has money and land,And a young, young wife am I.Let him put the penny in my white handWhen he hears the gypsies cry:"Buy, buy laces,Veils to screen your faces.Buy them, buy them, take and try them.Buy, maids, buy."
My fair lady's a dear, dear lady—I walked by her side to woo.In a garden alley, so sweet and shady,She answered, "I love not you,John, John Brady,"Quoth my dear lady,"Pray now, pray now, go your way now,Do, John, do!"
Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady,For I passed another day;While making her moan, she sat all alone,And thus, and thus did she say:"John, John Brady,"Quoth my dear lady,"Do now, do now, once more woo now.Pray, John, pray!"
"Master," quoth the auld hound"Where will ye go?""Over moss, over muir,To court my new jo.""Master, though the night be merk,I'se follow through the snow.
"Court her, master, court her,So shall ye do weel;But and ben she'll guide the house,I'se get milk and meal.Ye'se get lilting while she sitsWith her rock and reel."
"For, oh! she has a sweet tongue,And een that look down,A gold girdle for her waist,And a purple gown.She has a good word forbyeFra a' folk in the town."
In the night she told a story,In the night and all night through,While the moon was in her glory,And the branches dropped with dew.
'Twas my life she told, and round itRose the years as from a deep;In the world's great heart she found it,Cradled like a child asleep.
In the night I saw her weavingBy the misty moonbeam cold,All the weft her shuttle cleavingWith a sacred thread of gold.
Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow,Lulling tears so mystic sweet;Then she wove my last to-morrow,And her web lay at my feet.
Of my life she made the story:I must weep—so soon 'twas told!But your name did lend it glory,And your love its thread of gold!
Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes,O honey-dew! drop from the tree.Float up through your clear river shallows,White lilies, beloved of the bee.
Let the people, O Queen! say, and bless thee,Her bounty drops soft as the dew,And spotless in honor confess thee,As lilies are spotless in hue.
On the roof stands yon white stork awaking,His feathers flush rosy the while,For, lo! from the blushing east breaking,The sun sheds the bloom of his smile.
Let them boast of thy word, "It is certain;We doubt it no more," let them say,"Than to-morrow that night's dusky curtainShall roll back its folds for the day."
When I sit on market-days amid the comers and the goers,Oh! full oft I have a vision of the days without alloy,And a ship comes up the river with a jolly gang of towers,And a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"
There is busy talk around me, all about mine ears it hummeth,But the wooden wharves I look on, and a dancing, heaving buoy,For 'tis tidetime in the river, and she cometh—oh, she cometh!With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"
Then I hear the water washing, never golden waves were brighter,And I hear the capstan creaking—'tis a sound that cannot cloy.Bring her to, to ship her lading, brig or schooner, sloop or lighter,With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"
"Will ye step aboard, my dearest? for the high seas lie before us."So I sailed adown the river in those days without alloy.We are launched! But when, I wonder, shall a sweeter sound float o'er usThan yon "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"
The marten flew to the finch's nest,Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay:"The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast;Low in the broom is thy mate to-day."
"Liest thou low, love? low in the broom?Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom."She beateth her wings, and away, away.
"Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told(Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay)!Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold.O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!"
The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest,Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,Mine is the trouble that rent her breast,And home is silent, and love is clay.
On the rocks by Aberdeen,Where the whislin' wave had been,As I wandered and at e'enWas eerie;
There I saw thee sailing west,And I ran with joy opprest—Ay, and took out all my best,My dearie.
Then I busked mysel' wi' speed,And the neighbors cried "What need?'Tis a lass in any weedAye bonny!"
Now my heart, my heart is sair.What's the good, though I be fair,For thou'lt never see me mair,Man Johnnie!
It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye,All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay.Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride!All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side.
What's the world, my lass, my love!—what can it do?I am thine, and thou art mine; life is sweet and new.If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by,For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try.
Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride!It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side.Take a kiss from me thy man; now the song begins:"All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins."
When the darker days come, and no sun will shine,Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I'll dry thine.It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away,Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day.
Little babe, while burns the west,Warm thee, warm thee in my breast;While the moon doth shine her best,And the dews distil not.
All the land so sad, so fair—Sweet its toils are, blest its care.Child, we may not enter there!Some there are that will not.
Fain would I thy margins know,Land of work, and land of snow;Land of life, whose rivers flowOn, and on, and stay not.
Fain would I thy small limbs fold,While the weary hours are told,Little babe in cradle cold.Some there are that may not.
One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved,All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease;'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!"And the lark sang, "Give us glory!"And the dove said, "Give us peace!"
Then I listened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved,To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove;When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!"When the wren sang, "Give us beauty!"She made answer, "Give us love!"
Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved;Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase,And my prayer goes up, "Oh, give us, crowned in youth with marriage glory,Give for all our life's dear story,Give us love, and give us peace!"
Lying imbedded in the green champaignThat gives no shadow to thy silvery face,Open to all the heavens, and all their train,The marshalled clouds that cross with stately pace,No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest,Nor waver with the dimpling of thy breast.
O, silent Mere! about whose marges springThick bulrushes to hide the reed-bird's nest;Where the shy ousel dips her glossy wing,And balanced in the water takes her rest:While under bending leaves, all gem-arrayed,Blue dragon-flies sit panting in the shade:
Warm, stilly place, the sundew loves thee well,And the green sward comes creeping to thy brink,And golden saxifrage and pimpernelLean down to thee their perfumed heads to drink;And heavy with the weight of bees doth bendWhite clover, and beneath thy wave descend:
While the sweet scent of bean-fields, floated wideOn a long eddy of the lightsome airOver the level mead to thy lone side,Doth lose itself among thy zephyrs rare,With wafts from hawthorn bowers and new-cut hay,And blooming orchards lying far away.
Thou hast thy Sabbaths, when a deeper calmDescends upon thee, quiet Mere, and thenThere is a sound of bells, a far off psalmFrom gray church towers, that swims across the fen;And the light sigh where grass and waters meet,Is thy meek welcome to the visit sweet.
Thou hast thy lovers. Though the angler's rodDimple thy surface seldom; though the oarFill not with silvery globes thy fringing sod,Nor send long ripples to thy lonely shore;Though few, as in a glass, have cared to traceThe smile of nature moving on thy face;
Thou hast thy lovers truly. 'Mid the coldOf northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee,And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold,And shape their course, high soaring, till they seeDown in the world, like molten silver, restTheir goal, and screaming plunge them in thy breast.
Fair Margaret, who sittest all day longOn the gray stone beneath the sycamore,The bowering tree with branches lithe and strong,The only one to grace the level shore,Why dost thou wait? for whom with patient cheerGaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere?
Thou canst not tell, thou dost not know, alas!Long watchings leave behind them little trace;And yet how sweetly must the mornings pass,That bring that dreamy calmness to thy face!How quickly must the evenings come that findThee still regret to leave the Mere behind!
Thy cheek is resting on thy hand; thine eyesAre like twin violets but half unclosed,And quiet as the deeps in yonder skies.Never more peacefully in love reposedA mother's gaze upon her offspring dear,Than thine upon the long far-stretching Mere.
Sweet innocent! Thy yellow hair floats lowIn rippling undulations on thy breast,Then stealing down the parted love-locks flow,Bathed in a sunbeam on thy knees to rest,And touch those idle hands that folded lie,Having from sport and toil a like immunity.
Through thy life's dream with what a touching graceChildhood attends thee, nearly woman grown;Her dimples linger yet upon thy face,Like dews upon a lily this day blown;Thy sighs are born of peace, unruffled, deep;So the babe sighs on mother's breast asleep.
It sighs, and wakes,—but thou! thy dream is all,And thou wert born for it, and it for thee;Morn doth not take thy heart, nor evenfallCharm out its sorrowful fidelity,Nor noon beguile thee from the pastoral shore,And thy long watch beneath the sycamore.
No, down the Mere as far as eye can see,Where its long reaches fade into the sky,Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly;But neither thou nor any can descryAught but the grassy banks, the rustling sedge,And flocks of wild-fowl splashing at their edge.
And yet 'tis not with expectation hushedThat thy mute rosy mouth doth pouting close;No fluttering hope to thy young heart e'er rushed,Nor disappointment troubled its repose;All satisfied with gazing evermoreAlong the sunny Mere and reedy shore.
The brooding wren flies pertly near thy seat,Thou wilt not move to mark her glancing wing;The timid sheep browse close before thy feet,And heedless at thy side do thrushes sing.So long amongst them thou hast spent thy days,They know that harmless hand thou wilt not raise.
Thou wilt not lift it up—not e'en to takeThe foxglove bells that nourish in the shade,And put them in thy bosom; not to makeA posy of wild hyacinth inlaidLike bright mosaic in the mossy grass,With freckled orchis and pale sassafras.
Gaze on;—take in the voices of the Mere.The break of shallow water at thy feet,Its plash among long weeds and grasses sere,And its weird sobbing,—hollow music meetFor ears like thine; listen and take thy till,And dream on it by night when all is still.
Full sixteen years have slowly passed away,Young Margaret, since thy fond mother hereCame down, a six month's wife, one April day,To see her husband's boat go down the Mere,And track its course, till, lost in distance blue,In mellow light it faded from her view.
It faded, and she never saw it more;—Nor any human eye;—oh, grief! oh, woe!It faded,—and returned not to the shore;But far above it still the waters flow—And none beheld it sink, and none could tellWhere coldly slept the form she loved so well!
But that sad day, unknowing of her fate,She homeward turn'd her still reluctant feet;And at her wheel she spun, till dark and lateThe evening fell—the time when they should meet;Till the stars paled that at deep midnight burned—And morning dawned, and he was not returned.
And the bright sun came up—she thought too soon—And shed his ruddy light along the Mere;And day wore on too quickly, and at noonShe came and wept beside the waters clear."How could he be so late?"—and then hope fled;And disappointment darkened into dread.
He NEVER came, and she with weepings sorePeered in the water-nags unceasingly;Through all the undulations of the shore,Looking for that which most she feared to see.And then she took home sorrow to her heart,And brooded over its cold cruel smart.
And after, desolate she sat aloneAnd mourned, refusing to be comforted,On the gray stone, the moss-embroidered stone,With the great sycamore above her head;Till after many days a broken oarHard by her seat was drifted to the shore.
It came,—a token of his fate,—the whole,The sum of her misfortune to reveal;As if sent up in pity to her soul,The tidings of her widowhood to seal;And put away the pining hope forlorn,That made her grief more bitter to be borne.
And she was patient; through the weary dayShe toiled; though none was there her work to bless;And did not wear the sullen months away,Nor call on death to end her wretchedness,But lest the grief should overflow her breast,She toiled as heretofore, and would not rest.
But, her work done, what time the evening starRose over the cool water, then she cameTo the gray stone, and saw its light from farDrop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame,And wondered whether there might be the placeWhere the soft ripple wandered o'er HIS face.
Unfortunate! In solitude forlornShe dwelt, and thought upon her husband's grave,Till when the days grew short a child was bornTo the dead father underneath the wave;And it brought back a remnant of delight,A little sunshine to its mother's sight;
A little wonder to her heart grown numb,And a sweet yearning pitiful and keen:She took it as from that poor father come,Her and the misery to stand between;Her little maiden babe, who day by daySucked at her breast and charmed her woes away.
But years flew on; the child was still the same,Nor human language she had learned to speak:Her lips were mute, and seasons went and came,And brought fresh beauty to her tender cheek;And all the day upon the sunny shoreShe sat and mused beneath the sycamore.
Strange sympathy! she watched and wearied not,Haply unconscious what it was she sought;Her mother's tale she easily forgot,And if she listened no warm tears it brought;Though surely in the yearnings of her heartThe unknown voyager must have had his part.
Unknown to her; like all she saw unknown,All sights were fresh as when they first began,All sounds were new; each murmur and each toneAnd cause and consequence she could not scan,Forgot that night brought darkness in its train,Nor reasoned that the day would come again.
There is a happiness in past regret;And echoes of the harshest sound are sweet.The mother's soul was struck with grief, and yet,Repeated in her child, 'twas not unmeetThat echo-like the grief a tone should takePainless, but ever pensive for her sake.
For her dear sake, whose patient soul was linkedBy ties so many to the babe unborn;Whose hope, by slow degrees become extinct,For evermore had left her child forlorn,Yet left no consciousness of want or woe,Nor wonder vague that these things should be so.
Truly her joys were limited and few,But they sufficed a life to satisfy,That neither fret nor dim foreboding knew,But breathed the air in a great harmonyWith its own place and part, and was at oneWith all it knew of earth and moon and sun.
For all of them were worked into the dream,—The husky sighs of wheat-fields in it wrought;All the land-miles belonged to it; the streamThat fed the Mere ran through it like a thought.It was a passion of peace, and loved to wait'Neath boughs with fair green light illuminate.
To wait with her alone; always alone:For any that drew near she heeded not,Wanting them little as the lily grownApart from others in a shady plot,Wants fellow-lilies of like fair degree,In her still glen to bear her company.
Always alone: and yet, there was a childWho loved this child, and, from his turret towers,Across the lea would roam to where, in-isledAnd fenced in rapturous silence, went her hours,And, with slow footsteps drawn anear the placeWhere mute she sat, would ponder on her face,
And wonder at her with a childish awe,And come again to look, and yet again,Till the sweet rippling of the Mere would drawHis longing to itself; while in her trainThe water-hen, come forth, would bring her broodFrom slumbering in the rushy solitude;
Or to their young would curlews call and clangTheir homeless young that down the furrows creep;Or the wind-hover in the blue would hang,Still as a rock set in the watery deep.Then from her presence he would break away,Unmarked, ungreeted yet, from day to day.
But older grown, the Mere he haunted yet,And a strange joy from its sweet wildness caught;Whilst careless sat alone maid Margaret,And "shut the gates" of silence on her thought,All through spring mornings gemmed with melted rime,All through hay-harvest and through gleaning time.
O pleasure for itself that boyhood makes,O happiness to roam the sighing shore,Plough up with elfin craft the water-flakes,And track the nested rail with cautious oar;Then floating lie and look with wonder newStraight up in the great dome of light and blue.
O pleasure! yet they took him from the wold,The reedy Mere, and all his pastime there,The place where he was born, and would grow oldIf God his life so many years should spare;From the loved haunts of childhood and the plainAnd pasture-lands of his own broad domain.
And he came down when wheat was in the sheaf,And with her fruit the apple-branch bent low,While yet in August glory hung the leaf,And flowerless aftermath began to grow;He came from his gray turrets to the shore,And sought the maid beneath the sycamore.
He sought her, not because her tender eyesWould brighten at his coming, for he knewFull seldom any thought of him would riseIn her fair breast when he had passed from view;But for his own love's sake, that unbeguiledDrew him in spirit to the silent child.
For boyhood in its better hour is proneTo reverence what it hath not understood;And he had thought some heavenly meaning shoneFrom her clear eyes, that made their watchings good:While a great peacefulness of shade was shedLike oil of consecration on her head.
A fishing wallet from his shoulder slung,With bounding foot he reached the mossy place,A little moment gently o'er her hung,Put back her hair and looked upon her face,Then fain from that deep dream to wake her yet,He "Margaret!" low murmured, "Margaret!
"Look at me once before I leave the land,For I am going,—going, Margaret."And then she sighed, and, lifting up her hand,Laid it along his young fresh cheek, and setUpon his face those blue twin-deeps, her eyes,And moved it back from her in troubled wise,
Because he came between her and her fate,The Mere. She sighed again as one oppressed;The waters, shining clear, with delicateReflections wavered on her blameless breast;And through the branches dropt, like flickerings fair,And played upon her hands and on her hair.
And he, withdrawn a little space to see,Murmured in tender ruth that was not pain,"Farewell, I go; but sometimes think of me,Maid Margaret;" and there came by againA whispering in the reed-beds and the swayOf waters: then he turned and went his way.
And wilt thou think on him now he is gone?No; thou wilt gaze: though thy young eyes grow dim,And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan,Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no thought on him;There is no sweetness in his laugh for thee—Nobeauty in his fresh heart's gayety.
But wherefore linger in deserted haunts?Why of the past, as if yet present, sing?The yellow iris on the margin flaunts,With hyacinth the banks are blue in spring,And under dappled clouds the lark afloatPours all the April-tide from her sweet throat.
But Margaret—ah! thou art there no more,And thick dank moss creeps over thy gray stoneThy path is lost that skirted the low shore,With willow-grass and speedwell overgrown;Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine earDrinks in no more the music of the Mere.
The boy shall come—shall come again in spring,Well pleased that pastoral solitude to share,And some kind offering in his hand will bringTo cast into thy lap, O maid most fair—Some clasping gem about thy neck to rest,Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast.
And he shall wonder why thou art not hereThe solitude with "smiles to entertain,"And gaze along the reaches of the Mere;But he shall never see thy face again—Shall never see upon the reedy shoreMaid Margaret beneath her sycamore.
["Concerning this man (Robert Delacour), little further is known than that he served in the king's army, and was wounded in the battle of Marston Moor, being then about twenty-seven years of age. After the battle of Nazeby, finding himself a marked man, he quitted the country, taking with him the child whom he had adopted; and he made many voyages between the different ports of the Mediterranean and Levant."]
Resting within his tent at turn of day,A wailing voice his scanty sleep beset:He started up—it did not flee away—'Twas no part of his dream, but still did fretAnd pine into his heart, "Ah me! ah me!"Broken with heaving sobs right mournfully.
Then he arose, and, troubled at this thing,All wearily toward the voice he wentOver the down-trod bracken and the ling,Until it brought him to a soldier's tent,Where, with the tears upon her face, he foundA little maiden weeping on the ground;
And backward in the tent an aged croneUpbraided her full harshly more and more,But sunk her chiding to an undertoneWhen she beheld him standing at the door,And calmed her voice, and dropped her lifted hand,And answered him with accent soft and bland.
No, the young child was none of hers, she said,But she had found her where the ash lay whiteAbout a smouldering tent; her infant headAll shelterless, she through the dewy nightHad slumbered on the field,—ungentle fateFor a lone child so soft and delicate.
"And I," quoth she, "have tended her with care,And thought to be rewarded of her kin,For by her rich attire and features fairI know her birth is gentle: yet withinThe tent unclaimed she doth but pine and weep,A burden I would fain no longer keep."
Still while she spoke the little creature wept,Till painful pity touched him for the flowOf all those tears, and to his heart there creptA yearning as of fatherhood, and lo!Reaching his arms to her, "My sweet," quoth he,"Dear little madam, wilt thou come with me?"
Then she left off her crying, and a lookOf wistful wonder stole into her eyes.The sullen frown her dimpled face forsook,She let him take her, and forgot her sighs,Contented in his alien arms to rest,And lay her baby head upon his breast.
Ah, sure a stranger trust was never soughtBy any soldier on a battle-plain.He brought her to his tent, and soothed his voice,Rough with command; and asked, but all in vain,Her story, while her prattling tongue rang sweet,She playing, as one at home, about his feet.
Of race, of country, or of parentage,Her lisping accents nothing could unfold;—No questioning could win to read the pageOf her short life;—she left her tale untold,And home and kin thus early to forget,She only knew,—her name was—Margaret.
Then in the dusk upon his arm it chancedThat night that suddenly she fell asleep;And he looked down on her like one entranced,And listened to her breathing still and deep,As if a little child, when daylight closed,With half-shut lids had ne'er before reposed.
Softly he laid her down from off his arm,With earnest care and new-born tenderness:Her infancy, a wonder-working charm,Laid hold upon his love; he stayed to blessThe small sweet head, then went he forth that nightAnd sought a nurse to tend this new delight.
And day by day his heart she wrought upon,And won her way into its inmost fold—A heart which, but for lack of that whereonTo fix itself, would never have been cold;And, opening wide, now let her come to dwellWithin its strong unguarded citadel.
She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden springsOf his past thoughts, and set their current freeTo talk with him of half-forgotten things—The pureness and the peace of infancy,"Thou also, thou," to sigh, "wert undefiled(O God, the change!) once, as this little child."
The baby-mistress of a soldier's heart,She had but friendlessness to stand her friend,And her own orphanhood to plead her part,When he, a wayfarer, did pause, and bend,And bear with him the starry blossom sweetOut of its jeopardy from trampling feet.
A gleam of light upon a rainy day,A new-tied knot that must be sever'd soon,At sunrise once before his tent at play,And hurried from the battle-field at noon,While face to face in hostile ranks they stood,Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood.
But ere the fight, when higher rose the sun,And yet were distant far the rebel bands,She heard at intervals a booming gun,And she was pleased, and laughing clapped her hands;Till he came in with troubled look and tone,Who chose her desolate to be his own.
And he said, "Little madam, now farewell,For there will be a battle fought ere night.God be thy shield, for He alone can tellWhich way may fall the fortune of the fight.To fitter hands the care of thee pertain,My dear, if we two never meet again."
Then he gave money shortly to her nurse,And charged her straitly to depart in haste,And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curseOf war should light with ruin, death, and waste,And all the ills that must its presence blight,E'en if proud victory should bless the right.
"But if the rebel cause should prosper, thenIt were not good among the hills to wend;But journey through to Boston in the fen,And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send;And if my life is spared, I will essay,"Quoth he, "to join you there as best I may."
So then he kissed the child, and went his way;But many troubles rolled above his head;The sun arose on many an evil day,And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed;And hope was lost, and loyal hearts were fainIn dust to hide,—ere they two met again.
So passed the little child from thought, from view—(The snowdrop blossoms, and then is not there,Forgotten till men welcome it anew),He found her in his heavy days of care,And with her dimples was again beguiled,As on her nurse's knee she sat and smiled.
And he became a voyager by sea,And took the child to share his wandering state;Since from his native land compelled to flee,And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate;For all was lost that might have made him pause,And, past a soldier's help, the royal cause.
And thus rolled on long days, long months and years,And Margaret within the Xebec sailed;The lulling wind made music in her ears,And nothing to her life's completeness failed.Her pastime 'twas to see the dolphins spring,And wonderful live rainbows glimmering.
The gay sea-plants familiar were to her,As daisies to the children of the land;Red wavy dulse the sunburnt marinerRaised from its bed to glisten in her hand;The vessel and the sea were her life's stage—Her house, her garden, and her hermitage.
Also she had a cabin of her own,For beauty like an elfin palace bright,With Venice glass adorned, and crystal stoneThat trembled with a many-colored light;And there with two caged ringdoves she did play,And feed them carefully from day to day.
Her bed with silken curtains was enclosed,White as the snowy rose of Guelderland;On Turkish pillows her young head reposed,And love had gathered with a careful handFair playthings to the little maiden's side,From distant ports, and cities parted wide.