Vicar presents a young man and a girl.
She. While he dreams, mine old grand sire,And yon red logs glow,Honey, whisper by the fire,Whisper, honey low.
He. Honey, high's yon weary hill,Stiff's yon weary loam;Lacks the work o' my goodwill,Fain I'd take thee home.O how much longer, and longer, and longer,An' how much longer shall the waiting last?Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past.
She. Honey, bide, the time's awry,Bide awhile, let be.He. Take my wage then, lay it by,Till 't come back with thee.The red money, the white money,Both to thee I bring—She. Bring ye ought beside, honey?He. Honey, ay, the ring.
Duet. But how much longer, and longer, and longer,O how much longer shall the waiting last?Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past.
[Applause.
Mrs. S. (aside).O she's a pretty maid, and sings so smallAnd high, 'tis like a flute. And she must blushTill all her face is roses newly blown.How folks do clap. She knows not where to look.There now she's off; he standing like a manTo face them.
Mrs. G. (aside).Makes his bow, and after her;But what's the good of clapping when they're gone?
Mrs. T. (aside).Why 'tis a London fashion as I'm told,And means they'd have 'em back to sing again.
Mrs. J. (aside).Neighbours, look where her father, red as fire,Sits pleased and 'shamed, smoothing his Sunday hat;And Parson bustles out. Clap on, clap on.Coming? Not she! There comes her sweetheart though.
Vicar presents the young man again.
Rain clouds flew beyond the fell,No more did thunders lower,Patter, patter, on the beckDropt a clearing shower.Eddying floats of creamy foamFlecked the waters brown,As we rode up to cross the ford,Rode up from yonder town.Waiting on the weather,She and I together,Waiting on the weather,Till the flood went down.
The sun came out, the wet leaf shone,Dripped the wild wood vine.Betide me well, betide me woe,That hour's for ever mine.With thee Mary, with thee Mary,Full oft I pace again,Asleep, awake, up yonder glen,And hold thy bridle rein.Waiting on the weather,Thou and I together,Waiting on the weather,Till the flood shall wane.
And who, though hope did come to nought,Would memory give away?I lighted down, she leaned full low,Nor chid that hour's delay.With thee Mary, with thee Mary,Methought my life to crown,But we ride up, but we ride up,No more from yonder town.Waiting on the weather,Thou and I together,Waiting on the weather,Till the flood go down.
Mrs. J. (aside).Well, very well; but what of fiddler Sam?I ask you, neighbours, if't be not his turn.An honest man, and ever pays his score;Born in the parish, old, blind as a bat,And strangers sing before him; 't is a shame!
Mrs. S. (aside).Ay, but his daughter—
Mrs. J. (aside).Why, the maid's a maidOne would not set to guide the chant in church,But when she sings to earn her father's bread,The mildest mother's son may cry 'Amen.'
Mrs. S. (aside).They say he plays not always true.
Mrs. J. (aside)What then?
Mrs. T. (aside).Here comes my lady. She's too fat by halfFor love songs. O! the lace upon her gown,I wish I had the getting of it up,'T would be a pretty penny in my pouch.
Mrs. J. (aside).Be quiet now for manners.
Vicar presents a lady, who sings.
Dark flocks of wildfowl riding out the stormUpon a pitching sea,Beyond grey rollers vex'd that rear and form,When piping winds urge on their destiny,To fall back ruined in white continually.And I at our trysting stone,Whereto I came down alone,Was fain o' the wind's wild moan.O, welcome were wrack and were rainAnd beat of the battling main,For the sake of love's sweet pain,For the smile in two brown eyes,For the love in any wise,To bide though the last day dies;For a hand on my wet hair,For a kiss e'en yet I wear,For—bonny Jock was there.
Pale precipices while the sun lay lowTinct faintly of the rose,And mountain islands mirror'd in a flow,Forgotten of all winds (their manifoldPeaks, reared into the glory and the glow),Floated in purple and gold.And I, o'er the rocks alone,Of a shore all silent grown,Came down to our trysting stone,And sighed when the solemn rayPaled in the wake o' the day.'Wellaway, wellaway,—Comfort is not by the shore,Going the gold that it wore,Purple and rose are no more,World and waters are wan,And night will be here anon,And—bonny Jock's gone.'
[Moderate applause, and calls for fiddler Sam.
Mrs. Jillifer (aside).Now, neighbours, call again and be not shamed;Stand by the parish, and the parish folk,Them that are poor. I told you! here he comes.Parson looks glum, but brings him and his girl.
The fiddler Sam plays, and his daughter sings.
Touch the sweet string. Fly forth, my heart,Upon the music like a bird;The silvery notes shall add their part,And haply yet thou shalt be heard.Touch the sweet string.
The youngest wren of nineDimpled, dark, and merry,Brown her locks, and her two eyneBrowner than a berry.
When I was not in loveMaidens met I many;Under sun now walks but one,Nor others mark I any.
Twin lambs, a mild-eyed ewe,That would her follow bleating,A heifer white as snowI'll give to my sweet sweeting.
Touch the sweet string. If yet too young,O love of loves, for this my song,I'll pray thee count it all unsung,And wait thy leisure, wait it long.Touch the sweet string.
[Much applause.
Vicar. You hear them, Sam. You needs must playagain,Your neighbours ask it.
Fiddler. Thank ye, neighbours all,I have my feelings though I be but poor;I've tanged the fiddle here this forty year,And I should know the trick on 't.
The fiddler plays, and his daughter sings.
For Exmoor— For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart doth cry. She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall his. Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow sky.(Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters,buy.)
For Exmoor—O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh,'Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and yearlingshy,Mid the shrouding vapours walk now like ghosts on high.'(Buy my cherries, blackheart cherries, lads and lassies, buy.)
For Exmoor—Dear my dear, why did ye so? Evil days have I,Mark no more the antler'd stag, hear the curlew cry.Milking at my father's gate while he leans anigh.(Buy my cherries, whiteheart, blackheart, golden girls, O buy.)
Mrs. T. (aside).I've known him play that Exmoorsong afore.'Ah me! and I'm from Exmoor. I could wishTo hear 't no more.
Mrs. S. (aside).Neighbours, 't is mighty hot. Ay, now they throw the window up, that's well, A body could not breathe.
[The fiddler and his daughter go away.
Mrs. Jillifer (aside).They'll hear no parson's preaching,no not they!But innocenter songs, I do allow,They could not well have sung than these to-night.That man knows just so well as if he sawThey were not welcome.
The Vicar stands up, on the point of beginning to read, when the tuning and twang of the fiddle is heard close outside the open window, and the daughter sings in a clear cheerful voice. A little tittering is heard in the room, and the Vicar pauses discomfited.
O my heart! what a coil is here!Laurie, why will ye hold me dear?Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail,With a wiser lass ye'll sure prevail,For ye sing like a woodland nightingale.And there's no sense in it under the sun;For of three that woo I can take but one,So what's to be done—what's to be done?AndThere's no sense in it under the sun.
Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign partsCome home you'll choose among kinder hearts.Forget, forget, you're too good to holdA fancy 't were best should faint, grow cold,And fade like an August marigold;For of three that woo I can take but one,And what's to be done—what's to be done?There's no sense in it under the sun,AndOf three that woo I can take but one.
Geordie, Geordie, I count you true,Though language sweet I have none for you.Nay, but take me home to the churning millWhen cherry boughs white on yon mounting hillHang over the tufts o' the daffodil.For what's to be done—what's to be done?Of three that woo I must e'en take one,Or there's no sense in it under the sun,AndWhat's to be done—what's to be done?
V. (aside). What's to be done, indeed!
Wife(aside). Done! nothing, love.Either the thing has done itself, ortheyMust undo. Did they call for fiddler Sam?Well, now they have him.
[More tuning heard outside.
Mrs. J. (aside). Live and let live's my motto.
Mrs. T. So 't is mine.Who's Sam, that he must fly in Parson's face?He's had his turn. He never gave these lights,Cut his best flowers—
Mrs. S. (aside). He takes no pride in us.Speak up, good neighbour, get the window shut.
Mrs. J. (rising). I ask your pardon truly, that I do—La! but the window—there's a parlous draught;The window punishes rheumatic folk—We'd have it shut, sir.
Others. Truly, that we would.
V. Certainly, certainly, my friends, you shall.
[The window is shut, and the Reading begins amid marked attention.
Into the rock the road is cut full deep,At its low ledges village children play,From its high rifts fountains of leafage weep,And silvery birches sway.
The boldest climbers have its face forsworn,Sheer as a wall it doth all daring flout;But benchlike at its base, and weather-worn,A narrow ledge leans out.
There do they set forth feasts in dishes rudeWrought of the rush—wild strawberries on the bedLeft into August, apples brown and crude,Cress from the cold well-head.
Shy gamesome girls, small daring imps of boys,But gentle, almost silent at their play—Their fledgling daws, for food, make far more noiseRanged on the ledge than they.
The children and the purple martins share(Loveliest of birds) possession of the place;They veer and dart cream-breasted round the fairFaces with wild sweet grace.
Fresh haply from Palmyra desolate,Palmyra pale in light and storyless—From perching in old Tadmor mate by mateIn the waste wilderness.
These know the world; what do the children know?They know the woods, their groaning noises weird,They climb in trees that overhang the slowDeep mill-stream, loved and feared.
Where shaken water-wheels go creak and clack,List while a lorn thrush calls and almost speaks;See willow-wrens with elderberries blackStaining their slender beaks.
They know full well how squirrels spend the day;They peeped when field-mice stole and stored the seed,And voles along their under-water wayDonned collars of bright beads.
Still from the deep-cut road they love to markWhere set, as in a frame, the nearer shapesRise out of hill and wood; then long downs darkAs purple bloom on grapes.
But farms whereon the tall wheat musters gold,High barley whitening, creases in bare hills,Reed-feathered, castle-like brown churches old,Nor churning water-mills,
Shall make ought seem so fair as that beyond—Beyond the down, which draws their fealty;Blow high, blow low, some hearts do aye respondThe wind is from the sea.
Above the steep-cut steps as they did grow,The children's cottage homes embowered are seen;Were this a world unfallen, they scarce could showMore beauteous red and green.
Milk-white and vestal-chaste the hollyhockGrows tall, clove, sweetgale nightly shed forth spice,Long woodbines leaning over scent the rockWith airs of Paradise.
Here comforted of pilot stars they lieIn charmèd dreams, but not of wold nor lea.Behold a ship! her wide yards score the sky;She sails a steel-blue sea.
As turns the great amassment of the tide,Drawn of the silver despot to her throne,So turn the destined souls, so far and wideThe strong deep claims its own.
Still the old tale; these dreaming islanders,Each with hot Sunderbunds a somewhat ownsThat calls, the grandsire's blood within them stirsDutch Java guards his bones.
And these were orphan'd when a leak was sprungFar out from land when all the air was balm;The shipmen saw their faces as they hung,And sank in the glassy calm.
These, in an orange-sloop their father plied,Deck-laden deep she sailed from Cadiz town,A black squall rose, she turned upon her side,Drank water and went down.
They too shall sail. High names of alien landsAre in the dream, great names their fathers knew;Madras, the white surf rearing on her sands,E'en they shall breast it too.
See threads of scarlet down fell Roa creep,When moaning winds rend back her vapourous veil;Wild Orinoco wedge-like split the deep,Raging forth passion-pale;
Or a blue berg at sunrise glittering tall,Great as a town adrift come shining onWith sharp spires, gemlike as the mysticalClear city of Saint John.
Still the old tale; but they are children yet;O let their mothers have them while they may!Soon it shall work, the strange mysterious fretThat mars both toil and play.
The sea will claim its own; and some shall mourn;They also, they, but yet will surely go;So surely as the planet to its bourne,The chamois to his snow.
'Father, dear father, bid us now God-speed;We cannot choose but sail, it thus befell.''Mother, dear mother—' 'Nay, 't is all decreed.Dear hearts, farewell, farewell!'
A waxing moon that, crescent yet,In all its silver beauty set,And rose no more in the lonesome nightTo shed full-orbed its longed-for light.Then was it dark; on wold and lea,In home, in heart, the hours were drear.Father and mother could no light see,And the hearts trembled and there was fear.—So on the mount, Christ's chosen three,Unware that glory it did shroud,Feared when they entered into the cloud.
She was the best part of love's fairAdornment, life's God-given care,As if He bade them guard His own,Who should be soon anear His throne.Dutiful, happy, and who sayWhen childhood smiles itself away,'More fair than morn shall prove the day.'Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest,How shall be bettering of your best!That promise heaven alone shall view,That hope can ne'er with us come true,That prophecy life hath not skill,No, nor time leave that it fulfil.
There is but heaven, for childhood neverCan yield the all it meant, for ever.Or is there earth, must wane to lessWhat dawned so close by perfectness.
How guileless, sweet, by gift divine,How beautiful, dear child, was thine—Spared all their grief of thee bereaven.Winner, who had not greatly striven,Hurts of sin shall not thee soil,Carking care thy beauty spoil.So early blest, so young forgiven.
Among the meadows fresh to view,And in the woodland ways she grew,On either side a hand to hold,Nor the world's worst of evil knew,Nor rued its miseries manifold,Nor made discovery of its cold.What more, like one with morn content.Or of the morrow diffident,Unconscious, beautiful she stood,Calm, in young stainless maidenhood.Then, with the last steps childhood trod,Took up her fifteen years to God.
Farewell, sweet hope, not long to last,All life is better for thy past.Farewell till love with sorrow meet,To learn that tears are obsolete.
Her younger sister, that Speranza hight.
England puts on her purple, and pale, paleWith too much light, the primrose doth but waitTo meet the hyacinth; then bower and daleShall lose her and each fairy woodland mate.April forgets them, for their utmost sumOf gift was silent, and the birds are come.
The world is stirring, many voices blend,The English are at work in field and way;All the good finches on their wives attend,And emmets their new towns lay out in clay;Only the cuckoo-bird only doth sayHer beautiful name, and float at large all day.
Everywhere ring sweet clamours, chirrupping,Chirping, that comes before the grasshopper;The wide woods, flurried with the pulse of spring,Shake out their wrinkled buds with tremor and stir;Small noises, little cries, the ear receivesLight as a rustling foot on last year's leaves.
All in deep dew the satisfied deep grassLooking straight upward stars itself with white,Like ships in heaven full-sailed do long clouds passSlowly o'er this great peace, and wide sweet light.While through moist meads draws down yon rushy mereInfluent waters, sobbing, shining, clear.
Almost is rapture poignant; somewhat ailsThe heart and mocks the morning; somewhat sighs,And those sweet foreigners, the nightingales,Made restless with their love, pay down its price,Even the pain; then all the story unfoldOver and over again—yet 't is not told.
The mystery of the world whose name is life(One of the names of God) all-conquering wendsAnd works for aye with rest and cold at strife.Its pedigree goes up to Him and ends.For it the lucent heavens are clear o'erhead,And all the meads are made its natal bed.
Dear is the light, and eye-sight ever sweet,What see they all fair lower things that nurse,No wonder, and no doubt? Truly their meat,Their kind, their field, their foes; man's eyes are more;Sight is man's having of the universe,His pass to the majestical far shore.
But it is not enough, ah! not enoughTo look upon it and be held away,And to be sure that, while we tread the rough,Remote, dull paths of this dull world, no rayShall pierce to us from the inner soul of things,Nor voice thrill out from its deep master-strings.
'To show the skies, and tether to the sod!A daunting gift!' we mourn in our long strife.And God is more than all our thought of God;E'en life itself more than our thought of life,And that is all we know—and it is noon,Our little day will soon be done—how soon!
O let us to ourselves be dutiful:We are not satisfied, we have wanted all,Not alone beauty, but that Beautiful;A lifted veil, an answering mystical.Ever men plead, and plain, admire, implore,'Why gavest Thou so much—and yet—not more?
We are but let to look, and Hope is weighed.'Yet, say the Indian words of sweet renown,'The doomèd tree withholdeth not her shadeFrom him that bears the axe to cut her down;'Is hope cut down, dead, doomed, all is vain:The third day dawns, she too has risen again
(For Faith is ours by gift, but Hope by right),And walks among us whispering as of yore:'Glory and grace are thrown thee with the light;Search, if not yet thou touch the mystic shore;Immanent beauty and good are nigh at hand,For infants laugh and snowdrops bloom in the land.
Thou shalt have more anon.' What more? in sooth,The mother of to-morrow is to-day,And brings forth after her kind. There is no ruthOn the heart's sigh, that 'more' is hidden away,And man's to-morrow yet shall pine and yearn;He shall surmise, and he shall not discern,
But list the lark, and want the rapturous criesAnd passioning of morning stars that singTogether; mark the meadow-orchis riseAnd think it freckled after an angel's wing;Absent desire his land, and feel this, oneWith the great drawing of the central sun.
But not to all such dower, for there be eyesAre colour-blind, and souls are spirit-blind.Those never saw the blush in sunset skies,Nor the others caught a sense not made of wordsAs if were spirits about, that sailed the windAnd sank and settled on the boughs like birds.
Yet such for aye divided from us areAs other galaxies that seem no moreThan a little golden millet-seed afar.Divided; swarming down some flat lee shore,Then risen, while all the air that takes no wordTingles, and trembles as with cries not heard.
For they can come no nearer. There is foundNo meeting point. We have pierced the lodging-placeOf stars that cluster'd with their peers lie bound,Embedded thick, sunk in the seas of space,Fortunate orbs that know not night, for allAre suns;—but we have never heard that call,
Nor learned it in our world, our citadelWith outworks of a Power about it traced;Nor why we needs must sin who would do well,Nor why the want of love, nor why its waste,Nor how by dying of One should all be sped,Nor where, O Lord, thou hast laid up our dead.
But Hope is ours by right, and Faith by gift.Though Time be as a moon upon the wane,Who walk with Faith far up the azure liftOft hear her talk of lights to wax again.'If man be lost,' she cries, 'in this vast seaOf being,—lost—he would be lost with Thee
Who for his sake once, as he hears, lost all.For Thou wilt find him at the end of the days:Then shall the flocking souls that thicker fallThan snowflakes on the everlasting waysBe counted, gathered, claimed.—Will it be long?Earth has begun already her swan-song.
Who, even that might, would dwell for ever pentIn this fair frame that doth the spirit inhearse,Nor at the last grow weary and content,Die, and break forth into the universe,And yet man would not all things—all—were new.'Then saith the other, that one robed in blue:
'What if with subtle change God touch their eyesWhen he awakes them,—not far off, but hereIn a new earth, this: not in any wiseStrange, but more homely sweet, more heavenly dear,Or if He roll away, as clouds disperseSomewhat, and lo, that other universe.
O how 't were sweet new waked in some good hour,Long time to sit on a hillside green and highThere like a honeybee domed in a flowerTo feed unneath the azure bell o' the sky,Feed in the midmost home and fount of lightSown thick with stars at noonday as by night
To watch the flying faultless ones wheel down,Alight, and run along some ridged peak,Their feet adust from orbs of old renown,Procyon or Mazzaroth, haply;—when they speakOther-world errands wondrous, all discernThat would be strange, there would be much to learn.
Ay, and it would be sweet to share unblamedLove's shining truths that tell themselves in tears,Or to confess and be no more ashamedThe wrongs that none can right through earthly years;And seldom laugh, because the tendernessCalm, perfect, would be more than joy—would bless.
I tell you it were sweet to have enough,And be enough. Among the souls forgivenIn presence of all worlds, without rebuffTo move, and feel the excellent safety leavenWith peace that awe must loss and the grave survive—But palpitating moons that are alive
Nor shining fogs swept up together afar,Vast as a thought of God, in the firmament;No, and to dart as light from star to starWould not long time man's yearning soul content:Albeit were no more ships and no more sea,He would desire his new earth presently.
Leisure to learn it. Peoples would be here;They would come on in troops, and take at willThe forms, the faces they did use to wearWith life's first splendours—raiment rich with skillOf broidery, carved adornments, crowns of gold;Still would be sweet to them the life of old.
Then might be gatherings under golden shade,Where dust of water drifts from some sheer fall,Cooling day's ardour. There be utterance madeOf comforted love, dear freedom after thrall,Large longings of the Seer, through earthly yearsAn everlasting burden, but no tears.
Egypt's adopted child might tell of loreThey taught him underground in shrines all dim,And of the live tame reptile gods that woreGold anklets on their feet. And after him,With fairest eyes ere met of mortal ken,Glorious, forgiven, might speak the mother of men.
Talk of her apples gather'd by the margeOf lapsing Gihon. 'Thus one spoke, I stood,I ate.' Or next the mariner-saint enlargeRight quaintly on his ark of gopher woodTo wandering men through high grass meads that ranOr sailed the sea Mediterranean.
It might be common—earth afforestedNewly, to follow her great ones to the sun,When from transcendent aisles of gloom they spedSome work august (there would be work) now done.And list, and their high matters strive to scanThe seekers after God, and lovers of man,
Sitting together in amity on a hill,The Saint of Visions from Greek Patmos come—Aurelius, lordly, calm-eyed, as of willAustere, yet having rue on lost, lost Rome,And with them One who drank a fateful bowl,And to the unknown God trusted his soul.
The mitred Cranmer pitied even there(But could it be?) for that false hand which signedO, all pathetic—no. But it might bearTo soothe him marks of fire—and gladsome kindThe man, as all of joy him well beseemedWho 'lighted on a certain place and dreamed.'
And fair with the meaning of life their divine brows,The daughters of well-doing famed in song;But what! could old-world love for child, for spouse,For land, content through lapsing eons long?Oh for a watchword strong to bridge the deepAnd satisfy of fulness after sleep.
What know we? Whispers fall, 'And the last first,And the first last.' The child before the king?The slave before that man a master erst?The woman before her lord? Shall glory flingThe rolls aside—time raze out triumphs past?They sigh, 'And the last first, and the first last.'
Answers that other, 'Lady, sister, friend,It is enough, for I have worshipped Life;With Him that is the Life man's life shall blend,E'en now the sacred heavens do help his strife.There do they knead his bread and mix his cup,And all the stars have leave to bear him up.
Yet must he sink and fall away to a sleep,As did his Lord. This Life his worshippedReligion, Life. The silence may be deep,Life listening, watching, waiting by His dead,Till at the end of days they wake full fainBecause their King, the Life, doth love and reign.
I know the King shall come to that new earth,And His feet stand again as once they stood,In His man's eyes will shine Time's end and worthThe chiefest beauty and the chiefest good,And all shall have the all and in it bide,And every soul of man be satisfied.
They tell strange things of the primeval earth,But things that be are never strange to thoseAmong them. And we know what it was like,Many are sure they walked in it; the proofThis, the all gracious, all admired wholeCalled life, called world, called thought, was all as one.Nor yet divided more than that old earthAmong the tribes. Self was not fully come—Self was asleep, embedded in the whole.
I too dwelt once in a primeval world,Such as they tell of, all things wonderful;Voices, ay visions, people grand and tallThronged in it, but their talk was overheadAnd bore scant meaning, that one wanted notWhose thought was sight as yet unbound of words,This kingdom of heaven having entered throughBeing a little child.
Such as can see,Why should they doubt? The childhood of a race.The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubtNor fear. Where all is super-naturalThe guileless heart doth feed on it, no moreAfraid than angels are of heaven.
Who saithAnother life, the next one shall not haveAnother childhood growing gently thus,Able to bear the poignant sweetness, takeThe rich long awful measure of its peace,Endure the presence sublime.
I sawOnce in that earth primeval, once—a face,A little face that yet I dream upon.'
'Of this world was it?''Not of this world—no,In the beginning—for methinks it wasIn the beginning but an if you askHow long ago, time was not then, nor dateFor marking. It was always long ago,E'en from the first recalling of it, longAnd long ago.
And I could walk, and went,Led by the hand through a long mead at morn,Bathed in a ravishing excess of light.It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven,Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sunGave every blade a bright and a dark side,Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slippedTo soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay.The wide oaks in their early green stood stillAnd took delight in it. Brown specks that madeVery sweet noises quivered in the blue;Then they came down and ran along the brinkOf a long pool, and they were birds.
The poolPranked at the edges with pale peppermint,A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowersAnd flags blue-green was lying below. This allWas sight it condescended not to wordsTill memory kissed the charmed dream.
The meadHollowing and heaving, in the hollows fairWith dropping roses fell away to it,A strange sweet place; upon its further sideSome people gently walking took their wayUp to a wood beyond; and also bellsSang, floated in the air, hummed—what you will.'
'Then it was Sunday?''Sunday was not yet;It was a holiday, for all the daysWere holy. It was not our day of rest(The earth for all her rolling asks not rest,For she was never weary).
It was sweet,Full of dear leisure and perennial peace,As very old days when life went easily,Before mankind had lost the wise, the goodHabit of being happy.
For the poolA beauteous place it was as might be seen,That led one down to other meads, and hadClouds and another sky. I thought to goDeep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope.
Then she who led me reached the brink, her footStaying to talk with one who met her there.Here were fresh marvels, sailing things whose vansFloated them on above the flowering flags.We moved a little onward, paused again,And here there was a break in these, and hereThere came the vision; for I stooped to gazeSo far as my small height would let me—gazeInto that pool to see the fishes dart,And in a moment from her under hillsCame forth a little child who lived down there,Looked up at me and smiled. We could not talk,But looked and loved each other. I a handHeld out to her, so she to me, but ah,She would not come. Her home, her little bed,Was doubtless under that soft shining thingThe water, and she wanted not to runAmong red sorrel spires, and fill her handIn the dry warmed grass with cowslip buds.Awhile our feeding hearts all satisfied,Took in the blue of one another's eyes,Two dimpled creatures, rose-lipped innocent.But when we fain had kissed—O! the end came,For snatched aloft, held in the nurse's arms,She parting with her lover I was borneFar from that little child.
And no one knewShe lived down there, but only I; and noneSought for her, but I yearned for her and leftPart of myself behind, as the lambs leaveTheir wool upon a thorn.'
'And was she seenNever again, nor known for what she was?'
'Never again, for we did leave anonThe pasture and the pool. I know not whereThey lie, and sleep a heaven on earth, but knowFrom thenceforth yearnings for a lost delight;On certain days I dream about her still.'
Where do you go, Bob, when you 're fast asleep?''Where? O well, once I went into a deepMine, father told of, and a cross man saidHe'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread.I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near.She said, "You rude boy, Bob, how came you here?"'
'Was it like mother's boudoir?'
'Grander far,Gold chairs and things—all over diamonds—Ah!'
'You're sure it was the Queen?''Of course, a crownWas on her, and a spangly purple gown.'
'I went to heaven last night.'
'O Lily, no,How could you?'
'Yes I did, they told me so,And my best doll, my favourite, with the blueFrock, Jasmine, I took her to heaven too.''What was it like?'
'A kind of—I can't tell—A sort of orchard place in a long dell,With trees all over flowers. And there were birdsWho could do talking, say soft pretty words;They let me stroke them, and I showed it allTo Jasmine. And I heard a blue dove call,"Child, this is heaven." I was not frightened whenIt spoke, I said "Where are the angels then?"'
'Well.'
'So it said, "Look up and you shall see."There were two angels sitting in the tree,As tall as mother; they had long gold hair.They let drop down the fruit they gather'd thereAnd little angels came for it—so sweet.Here they were beggar children in the street,And the dove said they had the prettiest things,And wore their best frocks every day.'
'And wings,Had they no wings?'
'O yes, and lined with whiteLike swallow wings, so soft—so very lightFluttering about.'
'Well.'
'Well, I did not stay,So that was all.'
'They made you go away?'
'I did not go—but—I was gone.'
'I know.'
'But it's a pity, Bob, we never goTogether.'
'Yes, and have no dreams to tell,But the next day both know it all quite well.'
'And, Bob, if I could dream you came with meYou would be there perhaps.'
'Perhaps—we'll see.'
Toll—Toll.' 'The bell-bird sounding far away,Hid in a myall grove.' He raised his head,The bush glowed scarlet in descending day,A masterless wild country—and he said,My father ('Toll.') 'Full oft by her to stray,As if a spirit called, have I been led;Oft seems she as an echo in my soul('Toll.') from my native towers by Avon ('Toll').
('Toll.') Oft as in a dream I see full fainThe bell-tower beautiful that I love well,A seemly cluster with her churches twain.I hear adown the river faint and swellAnd lift upon the air that sound again,It is, it is—how sweet no tongue can tell,For all the world-wide breadth of shining foam,The bells of Evesham chiming "Home, sweet home."
The mind hath mastery thus—it can defyThe sense, and make all one as it DID HEAR—Nay, I mean more; the wraiths of sound gone byRise; they are present 'neath this dome all clear.ONE, sounds the bird—a pause—then doth supplySome ghost of chimes the void expectant ear;Do they ring bells in heaven? The learnedest soulShall not resolve me such a question. ('Toll.')
('Toll.') Say I am a boy, and fishing standBy Avon ('Toll.') on line and rod intent,How glitters deep in dew the meadow land—What, dost thou flit, thy ministry all spent,Not many days we hail such visits bland,Why steal so soon the rare enravishment?Ay gone! the soft deceptive echoes rollAway, and faint into remoteness.' ('Toll.')
While thus he spoke the doom'd sun touched his bedIn scarlet, all the palpitating airStill loyal waited on. He dipped his head,Then all was over, and the dark was there;And northward, lo! a star, one likewise redBut lurid, starts from out her day-long lair,Her fellows trail behind; she bears her part,The balefullest star that shines, the Scorpion's heart
Or thus of old men feigned, and then did fear,Then straight crowd forth the great ones of the skyIn flashing flame at strife to reach more near.The little children of Infinity,They next look down as to report them 'Here,'From deeps all thoughts despair and heights past high,Speeding, not sped, no rest, no goal, no shore,Still to rush on till time shall be no more.
'Loved vale of Evesham, 'tis a long farewell,Not laden orchards nor their April snowThese eyes shall light upon again; the swellAnd whisper of thy storied river know,Nor climb the hill where great old Montfort fellIn a good cause hundreds of years ago;So fall'n, elect to live till life's ally,The river of recorded deeds, runs dry.
This land is very well, this air,' saith he,'Is very well, but we want echoes here.Man's past to feed the air and move the sea;Ages of toil make English furrows dear,Enriched by blood shed for his liberty,Sacred by love's first sigh and life's last fear,We come of a good nest, for it shall yearnPoor birds of passage, but may not return,
Spread younger wings, and beat the winds afar.There sing more poets in that one small isleThan all isles else can show—of such you are;Remote things come to you unsought erewhile,Near things a long way round as by a star.Wild dreams!' He laughed, 'A sage right infantile;With sacred fear behold life's waste deplored,Undaunted by the leisure of the Lord.
Ay go, the island dream with eyes make good,Where Freedom rose, a lodestar to your race;And Hope that leaning on her anchor stoodDid smile it to her feet: a right small place.Call her a mother, high such motherhood,Home in her name and duty in her face;Call her a ship, her wide arms rake the clouds,And every wind of God pipes in her shrouds.
Ay, all the more go you. But some have cried"The ship is breaking up;" they watch amazedWhile urged toward the rocks by some that guide;Bad steering, reckless steering, she all dazedTempteth her doom; yet this have none deniedShips men have wrecked and palaces have razed,But never was it known beneath the sun,They of such wreckage built a goodlier one.
God help old England an't be thus, nor lessGod help the world.' Therewith my mother spake,'Perhaps He will! by time, by faithlessness,By the world's want long in the dark awake,I think He must be almost due: the stressOf the great tide of life, sharp misery's ache,In a recluseness of the soul we rueFar off, but yet—He must be almost due.
God manifest again, the coming King.'Then said my father, 'I beheld erewhile,Sitting up dog-like to the sunrising,The giant doll in ruins by the Nile,With hints of red that yet to it doth cling,Fell, battered, and bewigged its cheeks were vile,A body of evil with its angel fled,Whom and his fellow fiends men worshipped.
The gods die not, long shrouded on their biers,Somewhere they live, and live in memory yet;Were not the Israelites for forty yearsHid from them in the desert to forget—Did they forget? no more than their lost feresSons of to-day with faces southward set,Who dig for buried lore long ages fled,And sift for it the sand and search the dead.
Brown Egypt gave not one great poet birth,But man was better than his gods, with layHe soothed them restless, and they zoned the earth,And crossed the sea; there drank immortal praise;Then from his own best self with glory and worthAnd beauty dowered he them for dateless days.Ever "their sound goes forth" from shore to shore,When was there known an hour that they lived more.
Because they are beloved and not believed,Admired not feared, they draw men to their feet;All once, rejected, nothing now, receivedWhere once found wanting, now the most complete;Man knows to-day, though manhood stand achieved,His cradle-rockers made a rustling sweet;That king reigns longest which did lose his crown,Stars that by poets shine are stars gone down.
Still drawn obedient to an unseen hand,From purer heights comes down the yearning west,Like to that eagle in the morning land,That swooping on her predatory quest,Did from the altar steal a smouldering brand,The which she bearing home it burned her nest,And her wide pinions of their plumes bereaven.Spoiled for glad spiring up the steeps of heaven.
I say the gods live, and that reign abhor,And will the nations it should dawn? Will theyWho ride upon the perilous edge of war?Will such as delve for gold in this our day?Neither the world will, nor the age will, norThe soul—and what, it cometh now? Nay, nay,The weighty sphere, unready for release,Rolls far in front of that o'ermastering peace.
Wait and desire it; life waits not, free thereTo good, to evil, thy right perilous—All shall be fair, and yet it is not fair.I thank my God He takes th'advantage thus;He doth not greatly hide, but still declareWhich side He is on and which He loves, to us,While life impartial aid to both doth lend,And heed not which the choice nor what the end.
Among the few upright, O to be found,And ever search the nobler path, my son,Nor say 'tis sweet to find me common groundToo high, too good, shall leave the hours alone—Nay, though but one stood on the height renowned,Deny not hope or will, to be that one.Is it the many fall'n shall lift the land,The race, the age!—Nay, 't is the few that stand.'
While in the lamplight hearkening I sat mute,Methought 'How soon this fire must needs burn out'Among the passion flowers and passion fruitThat from the wide verandah hung, misdoubtWas mine. 'And wherefore made I thus long suitTo leave this old white head? His words devout,His blessing not to hear who loves me so—He that is old, right old—I will not go.'
But ere the dawn their counsels wrought with me,And I went forth; alas that I so wentUnder the great gum-forest canopy,The light on every silken filamentOf every flower, a quivering ecstasyOf perfect paleness made it; sunbeams sentUp to the leaves with sword-like flash enduedEach turn of that grey drooping multitude.
I sought to look as in the light of oneReturned. 'Will this be strange to me that day?Flocks of green parrots clamorous in the sunTearing out milky maize—stiff cacti greyAs old men's beards—here stony ranges lone,Their dust of mighty flocks upon their wayTo water, cloudlike on the bush afar,Like smoke that hangs where old-world cities are.
Is it not made man's last endowment hereTo find a beauty in the wilderness;Feel the lorn moor above his pastures dear,Mountains that may not house and will not blessTo draw him even to death? He must insphereHis spirit in the open, so doth lessDesire his feres, and more that unvex'd woldAnd fine afforested hills, his dower of old.
But shall we lose again that new-found senseWhich sees the earth less for our tillage fair?Oh, let her speak with her best eloquenceTo me, but not her first and her right rareCan equal what I may not take from hence.The gems are left: it is not otherwhereThe wild Nepèan cleaves her matchless way,Nor Sydney harbour shall outdo the day.
Adding to day this—that she lighteth it.'But I beheld again, and as must beWith a world-record by a spirit writ,It was more beautiful than memory,Than hope was more complete.Tall brigs did sitEach in her berth the pure flood placidly,Their topsails drooping 'neath the vast blue domeListless, as waiting to be sheeted home.
And the great ships with pulse-like throbbing clear,Majestical of mien did take their wayLike living creatures from some grander sphere,That having boarded ours thought good to stay,Albeit enslaved. They most divided hereFrom God's great art and all his works in clay,In that their beauty lacks, though fair it showsThat divine waste of beauty only He bestows.
The day was young, scarce out the harbour lightsThat morn I sailed: low sun-rays tremulousOn golden loops sped outward. Yachts in flightsFlutter'd the water air-like clear, while thusIt crept for shade among brown rocky bightsWith cassia crowned and palms diaphanous,And boughs ripe fruitage dropping fitfully,That on the shining ebb went out to sea.
'Home,' saith the man self-banished, 'my sonShall now go home.' Therewith he sendeth himAbroad, and knows it not, but thence is won,Rescued, the son's true home. His mind doth limnBeautiful pictures of it, there is noneSo dear, a new thought shines erewhile but dim,'That was my home, a land past all compare,Life, and the poetry of life, are there.'
But no such thought drew near to me that day;All the new worlds flock forth to greet the old,All the young souls bow down to own its sway,Enamoured of strange richness manifold;Not to be stored, albeit they seek for aye,Besieging it for its own life to hold,E'en as Al Mamoun fain for treasures hid,Stormed with an host th' inviolate pyramid.
And went back foiled but wise to walled Bagdad.So I, so all. The treasure sought not found,But some divine tears found to superaddThemselves to a long story. The great roundOf yesterdays, their pathos sweet as sad,Found to be only as to-day, close boundWith us, we hope some good thing yet to know,But God is not in haste, while the lambs grow
The Shepherd leadeth softly. It is greatThe journey, and the flock forgets at last(Earth ever working to obliterateThe landmarks) when it halted, where it passed;And words confuse, and time doth ruinate,And memory fail to hold a theme so vast;There is request for light, but the flock feeds,And slowly ever on the Shepherd leads.
'Home,' quoth my father, and a glassy seaMade for the stars a mirror of its breast,While southing, pennon-like, in braveryOf long drawn gold they trembled to their rest.Strange the first night and morn, when DestinySpread out to float on, all the mind oppressed;Strange on their outer roof to speed forth thus,And know th' uncouth sea-beasts stared up at us.
But yet more strange the nights of falling rain,That splashed without—a sea-coal fire within;Life's old things gone astern, the mind's disdain,For murmurous London makes soft rhythmic din.All courtier thoughts that wait on words would fainExpress that sound. The words are not to winTill poet made, but mighty, yet so mildShall be as cooing of a cradle-child.
Sensation like a piercing arrow flies,Daily out-going thought. This Adamhood,This weltering river of mankind that hiesAdown the street; it cannot be withstood.The richest mundane miles not otherwiseThan by a symbol keep possession good,Mere symbol of division, and they holdThe clear pane sacred, the unminted gold
And wild outpouring of all wealth not less.Why this? A million strong the multitude,And safe, far safer than our wildernessThe walls; for them it daunts with right at feud,Itself declares for law; yet sore the stressOn steeps of life: what power to ban and bless,Saintly denial, waste inglorious,Desperate want, and riches fabulous.
Of souls what beautiful embodimentFor some; for some what homely housing writ;What keen-eyed men who beggared of contentEat bread well earned as they had stolen it;What flutterers after joy that forward went,And left them in the rear unqueened, unfitFor joy, with light that faints in strugglings drearOf all things good the most awanting here.
Some in the welter of this surging tideMove like the mystic lamps, the Spirits Seven,Their burning love runs kindling far and wide,That fire they needed not to steal from heaven,'Twas a free gift flung down with them to bide,And be a comfort for the hearts bereaven,A warmth, a glow, to make the failing storeAnd parsimony of emotion more.
What glorious dreams in that find harbourage,The phantom of a crime stalks this beside,And those might well have writ on some past page,In such an hour, of such a year, we—died,Put out our souls, took the mean way, false wage,Course cowardly; and if we be deniedThe life once loved, we cannot alway rueThe loss; let be: what vails so sore ado.
And faces pass of such as give consentTo live because 'tis not worth while to die;This never knew the awful tremblementWhen some great fear sprang forward suddenly,Its other name being hope—and there forthwentAs both confronted him a rueful cryFrom the heart's core, one urging him to dare,'Now! now! Leap now.' The other, 'Stand, forbear.'
A nation reared in brick. How shall this be?Nor by excess of life death overtake.To die in brick of brick her destiny,And as the hamadryad eats the snakeHis wife, and then the snake his son, so sheAir not enough, 'though everyone doth takeA little,' water scant, a plague of gold,Light out of date—a multitude born old.
And then a three-day siege might be the end;E'en now the rays get muddied struggling downThrough heaven's vasty lofts, and still extendThe miles of brick and none forbid, and noneForbode; a great world-wonder that doth sendHigh fame abroad, and fear no setting sun,But helpless she through wealth that flouts the dayAnd through her little children, even as they.
But forth of London, and all visions dearTo eastern poets of a watered landAre made the commonplace of nature here,Sweet rivers always full, and always bland.Beautiful, beautiful! What runlets clearTwinkle among the grass. On every handFall in the common talk from lips aroundThe old names of old towns and famous ground.
It is not likeness only charms the sense,Not difference only sets the mind aglow,It is the likeness in the difference,Familiar language spoken on the snow,To have the Perfect in the Present tense,To hear the ploughboy whistling, and to know,It smacks of the wild bush, that tune—'Tis ours,And look! the bank is pale with primrose flowers,
What veils of tender mist make soft the lea,What bloom of air the height; no veils conferOn warring thought or softness or degreeOr rest. Still falling, conquering, strife and stir.For this religion pays indemnity.She pays her enemies for conquering her.And then her friends; while ever, and in vainLots for a seamless coat are cast again.
Whose it shall be; unless it shall endowThousands of thousands it can fall to none,But faith and hope are not so simple now,As in the year of our redemption—One.The pencil of pure light must disallowIts name and scattering, many hues put on,And faith and hope low in the valley feel,There it is well with them, 'tis very well.
The land is full of vision, voices call.Can spirits cast a shadow? Ay, I trowPast is not done, and over is not all,Opinion dies to live and wanes to grow,The gossamer of thought doth filmlike fall,On fallows after dawn make shimmering show,And with old arrow-heads, her earliest prize,Mix learning's latest guess and last surmise.
There heard I pipes of fame, saw wrens 'aboutThat time when kings go forth to battle' dart,Full valorous atoms pierced with song, and stoutTo dare, and down yclad; I shared the smartOf grievèd cushats, bloom of love, devoutBeyond man's thought of it. Old song my heartRejoiced, but O mine own forelders' waysTo look on, and their fashions of past days.
The ponderous craft of arms I craved to see,Knights, burghers, filtering through those gates ajar,Their age of serfdom with my spirit free;We cannot all have wisdom; some there areBelieve a star doth rule their destiny,And yet they think to overreach the star,For thought can weld together things apart,And contraries find meeting in the heart.
In the deep dust at Suez without soundI saw the Arab children walk at eve,Their dark untroubled eyes upon the ground,A part of Time's grave quiet. I receiveSince then a sense, as nature might have foundLove kin to man's that with the past doth grieve;And lets on waste and dust of ages fallHer tender silences that mean it all.
We have it of her, with her; it were illFor men, if thought were widowed of the world,Or the world beggared of her sons, for stillA crownèd sphere with many gems impearledShe rolls because of them. We lend her willAnd she yields love. The past shall not be hurledIn the abhorred limbo while the twain,Mother and son, hold partnership and reign.
She hangs out omens, and doth burdens dree.Is she in league with heaven? That knows but One.For man is not, and yet his work we seeFull of unconscious omen darkly done.I saw the ring-stone wrought at AveburyTo frame the face of the midwinter sun,Good luck that hour they thought from him forth smiledAt midwinter the Sun did rise—the Child.
Still would the world divine though man forbore,And what is beauty but an omen?—whatBut life's deep divination cast before,Omen of coming love? Hard were man's lot,With love and toil together at his door,But all-convincing eyes hath beauty got;His love is beautiful, and he shall sue.Toil for her sake is sweet, the omen true.
Love, love, and come it must, then life is foundBeforehand that was whole and fronting care,A torn and broken half in durance boundThat mourns and makes request for its right fairRemainder, with forlorn eyes cast aroundTo search for what is lost, that unawareWith not an hour's forebodement makes the dayFrom henceforth less or more for ever and aye.
Her name—my love's—I knew it not; who saysOf vagrant doubt for such a cause that stirsHis fancy shall not pay arrearagesTo all sweet names that might perhaps be hers?The doubts of love are powers. His heart obeys,The world is in them, still to love defers,Will play with him for love, but when 't beginsThe play is high, and the world always wins.
For 'tis the maiden's world, and his no more.Now thus it was: with new found kin flew byThe temperate summer; every wheatfield woreIts gold, from house to house in ardencyOf heart for what they showed I westward bore—My mother's land, her native hills drew nigh;I was—how green, how good old earth can be—Beholden to that land for teaching me.
And parted from my fellows, and went onTo feel the spiritual sadness spreadAdown long pastoral hollows. And anonDid words recur in far remoteness said:'See the deep vale ere dews are dried and gone,Where my so happy life in peace I led,And the great shadow of the Beacon lies—See little Ledbury trending up the rise.
With peakèd houses and high market hall—An oak each pillar—reared in the old days.And here was little Ledbury, quaint withal,The forest felled, her lair and sheltering placeShe long time left in age pathetical.'Great oaks' methought, as I drew near to gaze,'Were but of small account when these came down,Drawn rough-hewn in to serve the tree-girt town.
And thus and thus of it will question beThe other side the world.' I paused awhileTo mark. 'The old hall standeth utterlyWithout or floor or side, a comely pile,A house on pillars, and by destinyDrawn under its deep roof I saw a fileOf children slowly through their way make good,And lifted up mine eyes—and there—SHE STOOD.
She was so stately that her youthful graceDrew out, it seemed, my soul unto the air,Astonished out of breathing by her faceSo fain to nest itself in nut-brown hairLying loose about her throat. But that old placeProved sacred, she just fully grown too fairFor such a thought. The dimples that she had!She was so truly sweet that it was sad.
I was all hers. That moment gave her power—And whom, nay what she was, I scarce might know,But felt I had been born for that good hour.The perfect creature did not move, but soAs if ordained to claim all grace for dower.She leaned against the pillar, and belowThree almost babes, her care, she watched the whileWith downcast lashes and a musing smile.
I had been 'ware without a rustic treat,Waggons bedecked with greenery stood anigh,A swarm of children in the cheerful streetWith girls to marshal them; but all went byAnd none I noted save this only sweet:Too young her charge more venturous sport to try,With whirling baubles still they play content,And softly rose their lisping babblement.
'O what a pause! to be so near, to markThe locket rise and sink upon her breast;The shadow of the lashes lieth darkUpon her cheek. O fleeting time, O rest!A slant ray finds the gold, and with a sparkAnd flash it answers, now shall be the best.Her eyes she raises, sets their light on mine,They do not flash nor sparkle—no—but shine.'
As I for very hopelessness made boldDid off my hat ere time there was for thought,She with a gracious sweetness, calm, not cold,Acknowledged me, but brought my chance to nought'This vale of imperfection doth not holdA lovelier bud among its loveliest wrought!She turns,' methought 'O do not quite forgetTo me remains for ever—that we met.'