And straightway I went forth, I could no less,Another light unwot of fall'n on me,And rare elation and high happinessSome mighty power set hands of masteryAmong my heartstrings, and they did confessWith wild throbs inly sweet, that minstrelsyA nightingale might dream so rich a strain,And pine to change her song for sleep again.
The harp thrilled ever: O with what a roundAnd series of rich pangs fled forth each noteOracular, that I had found, had found(Head waters of old Nile held less remote)Golden Dorado, dearest, most renowned;But when as 't were a sigh did overfloat,Shaping 'how long, not long shall this endure,Au jour le jour'methought,'Aujour le jour'.
The minutes of that hour my heart knew wellWere like the fabled pint of golden grain,Each to be counted, paid for, till one fell,Grew, shot up to another world amain,And he who dropped might climb it, there to dwell.I too, I clomb another world full fain,But was she there? O what would be the end,Might she nor there appear, nor I descend?
All graceful as a palm the maiden stood;Men say the palm of palms in tropic IslesDoth languish in her deep primeval wood,And want the voice of man, his home, his smiles,Nor flourish but in his dear neighborhood;She too shall want a voice that reconciles,A smile that charms—how sweet would heaven so please—To plant her at my door over far seas.
I paced without, nor ever liege in truthHis sovran lady watched with more grave eyesOf reverence, and she nothing ware forsooth,Did standing charm the soul with new surprise.Moving flow on a dimpled dream of youth.Look! look! a sunbeam on her. Ay, but liesThe shade more sweetly now she passeth throughTo join her fellow maids returned anew.
I saw (myself to bide unmarked intent)Their youthful ease and pretty airs sedate,They are so good, they are so innocent,Those Islanders, they learn their part so late,Of life's demand right careless, dwell contentTill the first love's first kiss shall consecrateTheir future to a world that can but beBy their sweet martyrdom and ministry.
Most happy of God's creatures. AfterwardMore than all women married thou wilt be,E'en to the soul. One glance desired afford,More than knight's service might'st thou ask of me.Not any chance is mine, not the best word,No, nor the salt of life withouten thee.Must this all end, is my day so soon o'er?Untroubled violet eyes, look once,—once more.
No, not a glance: the low sun lay and burned,Now din of drum and cry of fife withal,Blithe teachers mustering frolic swarms returned,And new-world ways in that old market hall,Sweet girls, fair women, how my whole heart yearnedHer to draw near who made my festival.With others closing round, time speeding on,How soon she would be gone, she would be gone!
Ay, but I thought to track the rustic wains,Their goal desired to note, but not anigh,They creaking down long hop ycrested lanes'Neath the abiding flush of that north sky.I ran, my horse I fetched, but fate ordainsLove shall breed laughter when th' unloving spy.As I drew rein to watch the gathered crowd,With sudden mirth an old wife laughed aloud.
Her cheeks like winter apples red of hue,Her glance aside. To whom her speech—to me?'I know the thing you go about to do—The lady—' 'What! the lady—' 'Sir,' saith she,('I thank you kindly, sir), I tell you trueShe's gone,' and 'here's a coil' methought 'will be.''Gone—where?' ''Tis past my wit forsooth to sayIf they went Malvern way or Hereford way.
A carriage took her up—where three roads meetThey needs must pass; you may o'ertake it yet.'And 'Oyez, Oyez' peals adown the street,'Lost, lost, a golden heart with pearls beset.''I know her, sir?—not I. To help this treat,Many strange ladies from the country met.''O heart beset with pearls! my hope was crost.Farewell, good dame. Lost! oh my lady lost.'
And 'Oyez, Oyez' following after meOn my great errand to the sundown went.Lost, lost, and lost, whenas the cross road fleeUp tumbled hills, on each for eyes attentA carriage creepeth.
'Though in neither she,I ne'er shall know life's worst impoverishment,An empty heart. No time, I stake my all,To right! and chase the rose-red evenfall.
Fly up, good steed, fly on. Take the sharp riseAs't were a plain. A lady sits; but one.So fast the pace she turns in startled wise,She sets her gaze on mine and all is done."Persian Roxana" might have raised such eyesWhen Alexander sought her. Now the sunDips, and my day is over; turn and fleetThe world fast flies, again do three roads meet.'
I took the left, and for some cause unknownFull fraught of hope and joy the way pursued,Yet chose strong reasons speeding up aloneTo fortify me 'gainst a shock more rude.E'en so the diver carrieth down a stoneIn hand, lest he float up before he would,And end his walk upon the rich sea-floor,Those pearls he failed to grasp never to look on more.
Then as the low moon heaveth, waxen white,The carriage, and it turns into a gate.Within sit three in pale pathetic light.O surely one of these my love, my fate.But ere I pass they wind away from sight.Then cottage casements glimmer. All elateI cross a green, there yawns with opened latchA village hostel capped in comely thatch.
'The same world made for all is made for each.To match a heart's magnificence of hope.How shall good reason best high action teachTo win of custom, and with home to copeHow warrantably may he hope to winA star, that wants it? Shall he lie and grope,No, truly.—I will see her; tell my tale,See her this once,—and if I fail—I fail.'
Thus with myself I spoke. A rough brick floorMade the place homely; I would rest me there.But how to sleep? Forth of the unlocked doorI passed at midnight, lustreless white airMade strange the hour, that ecstasy not o'erI moved among the shadows, all my care—Counted a shadow—her drawn near to bless,Impassioned out of fear, rapt, motionless.
Now a long pool and water-hens at rest(As doughty seafolk dusk, at Malabar)A few pale stars lie trembling on its breast.Hath the Most High of all His host afarOne most supremely beautiful, one best,Dearest of all the flock, one favourite star?His Image given, in part the children knowThey love one first and best. It may be so.
Now a long hedge; here dream the woolly folk;A majesty of silence is about.Transparent mist rolls off the pool like smoke,And Time is in his trance and night devout.Now the still house. O an I knew she wokeI could not look, the sacred moon sheds outSo many blessings on her rooftree low,Each more pathetic that she nought doth know.
I would not love a little, nor my startMake with the multitude that love and cease.He gives too much that giveth half a heart,Too much for liberty, too much for peace.Let me the first and best and highest impart,The whole of it, and heaven the whole increase!Forthatwere not too much.
(In the moon's wakeHow the grass glitters, for her sweetest sake.)
I would toward her walk the silver floors.Love loathes an average—all extreme things dealTo love—sea-deep and dazzling height for stores.There are on Fortune's errant foot can steal,Can guide her blindfold in at their own doors,Or dance elate upon her slippery wheel.Courage! there are 'gainst hope can still advance,Dowered with a sane, a wise extravagance.
A songTo one a dreaming: when the dewFalls, 'tis a time for rest; and when the birdCalls, 'tis a time to wake, to wake for you.A long-waking, aye, waking till a wordCome from her coral mouth to be the trueSum of all good heart wanted, ear hath heard.
Yet if alas! might love thy dolour be,Dream, dear heart dear, and do not dream of me.
I singTo one awakened, when the heartCries 'tis a day for thought, and when the soulSighs choose thy part, O choose thy part, thy part.I bring to one belovèd, bring my wholeStore, make in loving, make O make mine artMore. Yet I ask no, ask no wished goal
But this—if loving might thy dolour be,Wake, O my lady loved, and love not me.
'That which the many win, love's niggard sum,I will not, if love's all be left behind.That which I am I cannot unbecome,My past not unpossess, nor future blind.Let me all risk, and leave the deep heart dumbFor ever, if that maiden sits enshrinedThe saint of one more happy. She is she.There is none other. Give her then to me.
Or else to be the better for her faceBeholding it no more.' Then all night throughThe shadow moves with infinite dark grace.The light is on her windows, and the dewComforts the world and me, till in my placeAt moonsetting, when stars flash out to view,Comes 'neath the cedar boughs a great repose,The peace of one renouncing, and then a doze.
There was no dream, yet waxed a sense in meAsleep that patience was the better way,Appeasement for a want that needs must be,Grew as the dominant mind forbore its sway,Till whistling sweet stirred in the cedar tree—I started—woke—it was the dawn of day.That was the end. 'Slow solemn growth of light,Come what come will, remains to me this night.'
It was the end, with dew ordained to melt,How easily was learned, how all too soonNot there, not thereabout such maiden dwelt.What was it promised me so fair a boon?Heart-hope is not less vain because heart-felt,Gone forth once more in search of her at noonThrough the sweet country side on hill, on plain,I sought and sought many long days in vain.
To Malvern next, with feathery woodland hung,Whereto old Piers the Plowman came to teach,On her green vasty hills the lay was sung,He too, it may be, lisping in his speech,'To make the English sweet upon his tongue.'How many maidens beautiful, and eachMight him delight, that loved no other fair;But Malvern blessed not me,—she was not there.
Then to that town, but still my fate the same.Crowned with old works that her right well beseem,To gaze upon her field of ancient fameAnd muse on the sad thrall's most piteous dream,By whom a 'shadow like an angel came,'Crying out on Clarence, its wild eyes agleam,Accusing echoes here still falter and flee,'That stabbed me on the field by Tewkesbury.'
It nothing 'vailed that yet I sought and sought,Part of my very self was left behind,Till risen in wrath against th' o'ermastering thought,'Let me be thankful,' quoth the better mind,Thankful for her, though utterly to noughtShe brings my heart's cry, and I live to findA new self of the old self exigentIn the light of my divining discontent.
The picture of a maiden bidding 'Arise,I am the Art of God. He shows by meHis great idea, so well as sin-stained eyesLove aidant can behold it.'Is this she?Or is it mine own love for her suppliesThe meaning and the power? Howe'er this be,She is the interpreter by whom most nearMan's soul is drawn to beauty and pureness here.
The sweet idea, invisible hitherto,Is in her face, unconscious delegate;That thing she wots not of ordained to do:But also it shall be her votary's fate,Through her his early days of ease to eschew,Struggle with life and prove its weary weight.All the great storms that rising rend the soul,Are life in little, imaging the whole.
Ay, so as life is, love is, in their kenStars, infant yet, both thought to grasp, to keep,Then came the morn of passionate splendour, whenSo sweet the light, none but for bliss could weep,And then the strife, the toil; but we are men,Strong, brave to battle with the stormy deep;Then fear—and then renunciation—thenAppeals unto the Infinite Pity—and sleep.
But after life the sleep is long. Not soWith love. Love buried lieth not straight, not still,Love starts, and after lull awakes to knowAll the deep things again. And next his will,That dearest pang is, never to forego.He would all service, hardship, fret fulfill.Unhappy love! and I of that great hostUnhappy love who cry, unhappy most.
Because renunciation was so short,The starved heart so easily awaked;A dream could do it, a bud, a bird, a thought,But I betook me with that want which achedTo neighbour lands where strangeness with me wrought.The old work was so hale, its fitness slakedSoul-thirst for truth. 'I knew not doubt nor fear,'Its language, 'war or worship, sure sincere.'
Then where by Art the high did best translateLife's infinite pathos to the soul, set downBeauty and mystery, that imperious hateOn its best braveness doth and sainthood frown,Nay more the MASTER'S manifest pity—'wait,Behold the palmgrove and the promised crown.He suffers with thee, for thee.—Lo the Child!Comfort thy heart; he certainly so smiled.'
Thus love and I wore through the winter time.Then saw her demon blush Vesuvius try,Then evil ghosts white from the awful prime,Thrust up sharp peaks to tear the tender sky.'No more to do but hear that English chime'I to a kinsman wrote. He made reply,'As home I bring my girl and boy full soon,I pass through Evesham,—meet me there at noon.
'The bells your father loved you needs must hear,Seek Oxford next with me,' and told the day.'Upon the bridge I'll meet you. What! how dearSoever was a dream, shall it bear swayTo mar the waking?'I set forth, drew near,Beheld a goodly tower, twin churches grey,Evesham. The bridge, and noon. I nothing knewWhat to my heart that fateful chime would do.
For suddenly the sweet bells overcameA world unsouled; did all with man endow;His yearning almost tell that passeth nameAnd said they were full old, and they were nowAnd should be; and their sighing upon the sameFor our poor sake that pass they did avow,While on clear Avon flowed like man's short dayThe shining river of life lapsing away.
The stroke of noon. The bell-bird! yes and no.Winds of remembrance swept as over the foamOf anti-natal shores. At home is it so,My country folk? Ay, 'neath this pale blue dome,Many of you in the moss lie low—lie low.Ah! since I have not HER, give me too, home.A footstep near! I turned; past likelihood,Past hope, before me on the bridge—SHE STOOD.
A rosy urchin had her hand; this cried,'We think you are our cousin—yes, you are;I said so to Estelle.' The violet-eyed,'If this be Geoffrey?' asked; and as from farA doubt came floating up; but she deniedHer thought, yet blushed. O beautiful! my Star!Then, with the lifting of my hat, each woreThat look which owned to each, 'We have met before.'
Then was the strangest bliss in life made mine;I saw the almost worshipped—all remote;The Star so high above that used to shine,Translated from the void where it did float,And brought into relation with the fineCharities earth hath grown. A great joy smoteMe silent, and the child atween us tway,We watched the lucent river stealing away.
While her deep eyes down on the ripple fell,Quoth the small imp, '"How fast you go and go,You Avon. Does it wish to stop, Estelle,And hear the clock, and see the orchards blow?It does not care!Not when the old big bellMakes a great buzzing noise?—Who told you so?"And then to me, "I like to hear it hum.Why do you think that father could not come?"
Estelle forgot her violin. And he,O then he said: "How careless, child, of you;I must send on for it. 'T would pity beIf that were lost.I want to learn it too;And when I'm nine I shall."Then turning, sheLet her sweet eyes unveil them to my view;Her stately grace outmatched my dream of old,But ah! the smile dull memory had not told.
My kinsman next, with care-worn kindly brow.'Well, father,' quoth the imp, 'we've done our part.We found him.'And she, wholly girlish now,Laid her young hand on his with lovely artAnd sweet excuses. O! I made my vowI would all dare, such life did warm my heart;We journeyed, all the air with scents of priceWas laden, and the goal was Paradise.
When that the Moors betook them to their sand,Their domination over in fair Spain,Each locked, men say, his door in that loved land,And took the key in hope to come again.On Moorish walls yet hung, long dust each hand,The keys, but not the might to use, remain;Is there such house in some blest land for me?I can, I will, I do reach down the key.
A country conquered oft, and long before,Of generations aye ordained to win;If mine the power, I will unlock the door.Enter, O light, I bear a sunbeam in.What, did the crescent wane! Yet man is more,And love achieves because to heaven akin.O life! to hear again that wandering bell,And hear it at thy feet, Estelle, Estelle.
Full oft I want the sacred throated bird,Over our limitless waste of light which spokeThe spirit of the call my fathers heard,Saying 'Let us pray,' and old world echoes wokeEthereal minster bells that still averr'd,And with their phantom notes th' all silence broke.'The fanes are far, but whom they shrined is near.Thy God, the Island God, is here, is here.'
To serve; to serve a thought, and serve apartTo meet; a few short days, a maiden won.'Ah, sweet, sweet home, I must divide my heart,Betaking me to countries of the sun.''What straight-hung leaves, what rays that twinkle and dart,Make me to like them.''Love, it shall be done,''What weird dawn-fire across the wide hill flies.''It is the flame-tree's challenge to yon scarlet skies.'
'Hark, hark, O hark! the spirit of a bell!What would it? ('Toll.') An air-hung sacred call,Athwart the forest shade it strangely fell'—'Toll'—'Toll.'The longed-for voice, but ah, withalI felt, I knew, it was my father's knellThat touched and could the over-sense enthrall.Perfect his peace, a whispering pure and deepAs theirs who 'neath his native towers by Avon sleep.
If love and death are ever reconciled,'T is when the old lie down for the great rest.We rode across the bush, a sylvan wildThat was an almost world, whose calm oppressedWith audible silence; and great hills inisledRose out as from a sea. Consoling, blestAnd blessing spoke she, and the reedflower spread,And tall rock lilies towered above her head.
* * * * *
Sweet is the light aneath our matchless blue,The shade below yon passion plant that lies,And very sweet is love, and sweet are you,My little children dear, with violet eyes,And sweet about the dawn to hear anewThe sacred monotone of peace arise.Love, 't is thy welcome from the air-hung bell,Congratulant and clear, Estelle, Estelle.
Up to far Osteroe and SuderoeThe deep sea-floor lies strewn with Spanish wrecks,O'er minted gold the fair-haired fishers go,O'er sunken bravery of high carvèd decks.
In earlier days great Carthage suffered bale(All her waste works choke under sandy shoals);And reckless hands tore down the temple veil;And Omar burned the Alexandrian rolls.The Old World arts men suffered not to last,Flung down they trampled lie and sunk from view,He lets wild forest for these ages pastGrow over the lost cities of the New.
O for a life that shall not be refusedTo see the lost things found, and waste things used.
As a forlorn soul waiting by the StyxDimly expectant of lands yet more dim,Might peer afraid where shadows change and mixTill the dark ferryman shall come for him.
And past all hope a long ray in his sight,Fall'n trickling down the steep crag Hades-blackReveals an upward path to life and light,Nor any let but he should mount that track.
As with the sudden shock of joy amazed,He might a motionless sweet moment stand,So doth that mortal lover, silent, dazed,For hope had died and loss was near at hand.
'Wilt thou?' his quest. Unready but for 'Nay,'He stands at fault for joy, she whispering 'Ay.'
The doom'd king pacing all night through the windy fallow.'Let me alone, mine enemy, let me alone,'Never a Christian bell that dire thick gloom to hallow,Or guide him, shelterless, succourless, thrust from his own.
Foul spirits riding the wind do flout at him friendless,The rain and the storm on his head beat ever at will;His weird is on him to grope in the dark with endlessWeariful feet for a goal that shifteth still.
A sleuth-hound baying! The sleuth-hound bayeth behind him,His head, he flying and stumbling turns back to the sound,Whom doth the sleuth-hound follow? What if it find him;Up! for the scent lieth thick, up from the level ground.
Up, on, he must on, to follow his weird essaying,Lo you, a flood from the crag cometh raging past,He falls, he fights in the water, no stop, no staying,Soon the king's head goes under, the weird is dreed at last.
'Wake, O king, the best star wornIn the crown of night, forlornBlinks a fine white point—'t is morn.'Soft! The queen's voice, fair is she,'Wake!' He waketh, living, free,In the chamber of arras lieth he.Delicate dim shadows yieldSilken curtains over headAll abloom with work of neeld,Martagon and milleflower spread.On the wall his golden shield,Dinted deep in battle field,When the host o' the Khalif fled.Gold to gold. Long sunbeams flitUpward, tremble and break on it.'Ay, 't is over, all things writOf my sleep shall end awake,Now is joy, and all its baneThe dark shadow of after pain.'Then the queen saith, 'Nay, but breakUnto me for dear love's sakeThis thy matter. Thou hast beenIn great bitterness I weenAll the night-time.' But 'My queen,Life, love, lady, rest content,Ill dreams fly, the night is spent,Good day draweth on. Lament'Vaileth not,—yea peace,' quoth he;'Sith this thing no better may be,Best were held 'twixt thee and me.'Then the fair queen, 'Even soAs thou wilt, O king, but knowMickle nights have wrought thee woe,Yet the last was troubled soreAbove all that went before.'Quoth the king, 'No more, no more.'Then he riseth, pale of blee,As one spent, and utterlyMaster'd of dark destiny.
Comes a day for glory famedTidings brought the enemy shamed,Fallen; now is peace proclaimed.And a swarm of bells on highMake their sweet din scale the sky,'Hail! hail! hail!' the people cryTo the king his queen beside,And the knights in armour rideAfter until eventide.
All things great may life afford,Praise, power, love, high pomp, fair gaud,Till the banquet be towardHath this king. Then day takes flight,Sinketh sun and fadeth light,Late he coucheth—Night; 't is night.
The proud king heading the host on his red roan charger.Dust. On a thicket of spears glares the Syrian sun,The Saracens swarm to the onset, larger aye largerLoom their fierce cohorts, they shout as the day were won.
Brown faces fronting the steel-bright armour, and everThe crash o' the combat runs on with a mighty cry,Fell tumult; trampling and carnage—then fails endeavour,O shame upon shame—the Christians falter and fly.
The foe upon them, the foe afore and behind them,The king borne back in the mêlée; all, all is vain;They fly with death at their heels, fierce sun-rays blind them,Riderless steeds affrighted, tread down their ranks amain.
Disgrace, dishonour, no rally, ah no retrieving,The scorn of scorns shall his name and his nation brand,'T is a sword that smites from the rear, his helmet cleaving,That hurls him to earth, to his death on the desert sand.
Ever they fly, the cravens, and ever revilingFlies after. Athirst, ashamèd, he yieldeth his breath,While one looks down from his charger; and calm slow smiling,Curleth his lip. 'T is the Khalif. And this is death.
'Wake, yon purple peaks arise,Jagged, bare, through saffron skies;Now is heard a twittering sweet,For the mother-martins meet,Where wet ivies, dew-besprent,Glisten on the battlement.Now the lark at heaven's gold gateAiming, sweetly chides on fateThat his brown wings wearied wereWhen he, sure, was almost there.Now the valley mist doth break,Shifting sparkles edge the lake,Love, Lord, Master, wake, O wake!'
Ay, he wakes,—and dull of cheer,Though this queen be very dear,Though a respite come with dayFrom th' abhorrèd flight and fray,E'en though life be not the cost,Nay, nor crown nor honour lost;For in his soul abideth fearWorse than of the Khalif's spear,Smiting when perforce in flightHe was borne,—for that was night,That his weird. But now 't is day,'And good sooth I know not—nay,Know not how this thing could be.Never, more it seemeth meThan when left the weird to dree,I am I. And it was IFelt or ever they turned to fly,How, like wind, a tremor ran,The right hand of every manShaking. Ay, all banners shook,And the red all cheeks forsook,Mine as theirs. Since this was I,Who my soul shall certifyWhen again I face the foeManful courage shall not go.Ay, it is not thrust o' a spear,Scorn of infidel eyes austere,But mine own fear—is to fear.'
After sleep thus sore bestead,Beaten about and buffeted,Featly fares the morning spentIn high sport and tournament.
Served within his sumptuous tent,Looks the king in quiet wise,Till this fair queen yield the prizeTo the bravest; but when dayFalleth to the west away,Unto her i' the silent hour,While she sits in her rose-bower.Come, 'O love, full oft,' quoth she,'I at dawn have prayèd theeThou would'st tell o' the weird to me,Sith I might some counsel findOf my wit or in my mindThee to better.' 'Ay, e'en so,But the telling shall let thee know,'Quoth the king, 'is neither scopeFor sweet counsel nor fair hope,Nor is found for respite room,Till the uttermost crack of doom.
Then the queen saith, 'Woman's witNo man asketh aid of it,Not wild hyssop on a wallIs of less account; or smallGlossy gnats that flit i' the sunLess worth weighing—light so light!Yet when all's said—ay, all done,Love, I love thee! By love's mightI will counsel thee aright,Or would share the weird to-night.'Then he answer'd 'Have thy way.Know 't is two years gone and a daySince I, walking lone and late,Pondered sore mine ill estate;Open murmurers, foes concealed,Famines dire i' the marches round,Neighbour kings unfriendly found,Ay, and treacherous plots revealedWhere I trusted. I bid stayAll my knights at the high crossway,And did down the forest fareTo bethink me, and despair.'Ah! thou gilded toy a throne,If one mounts to thee alone,Quoth I, mourning while I went,Haply he may drop contentAs a lark wing-weary downTo the level, and his crownLeave for another man to don;Throne, thy gold steps raised upon.But for me—O as for meWhat is named I would not dree,Earn, or conquer, or foregoFor the barring of overthrow.'
'Aloud I spake, but verilyNever an answer looked should be.But it came to pass from shadePacing to an open glade,Which the oaks a mighty wallFence about, methought a callSounded, then a pale thin mistRose, a pillar, and fronted me,Rose and took a form I wist,And it wore a hood on 'ts head,And a long white garment spread,And I saw the eyes thereof.
Then my plumèd cap I doff,Stooping. 'T is the white-witch. 'Hail,'Quoth the witch, 'thou shalt prevailAn thou wilt; I swear to theeAll thy days shall glorious shine,Great and rich, ay, fair and fine,So what followeth rest my fee,So thou'lt give thy sleep to me.'
While she spake my heart did leap.Waking is man's life, and sleep—What is sleep?—a little deathComing after, and methoughtLife is mine and death is noughtTill it come,—so day is mineI will risk the sleep to shineIn the waking.And she saith,In a soft voice clear and low,'Give thy plumèd cap alsoFor a token.''Didst thou give?'Quoth the queen; and 'As I liveHe makes answer 'none can tell.I did will my sleep to sell,And in token held to herThat she askèd. And it fellTo the grass. I saw no stirIn her hand or in her face,And no going; but the placeOnly for an evening mistWas made empty. There it lay,That same plumèd cap, alwayOn the grasses—but I wistWell, it must be let to lie,And I left it. Now the taleEnds, th' events do testifyOf her truth. The days go byBetter and better; nought doth ailIn the land, right happy and haleDwell the seely folk; but sleepBrings a reckoning; then forth creepDreaded creatures, worms of might.Crested with my plumèd capLoll about my neck all night,Bite me in the side, and lapMy heart's blood. Then oft the weirdDrives me, where amazed, afeard,I do safe on a river strandMark one sinking hard at handWhile fierce sleuth-hounds that me trackFly upon me, bear me back,Fling me away, and he for lackOf man's aid in piteous wiseGoeth under, drowns and dies.
'O sweet wife, I suffer sore—O methinks aye more and moreDull my day, my courage numb,Shadows from the night to come.But no counsel, hope, nor aidIs to give; a crown being madePower and rule, yea all good thingsYet to hang on this same weirdI must dree it, ever that bringsChastening from the white-witch feared.O that dreams mote me forsake,Would that man could alway wake.'
Now good sooth doth counsel fail,Ah this queen is pale, so pale.'Love,' she sigheth, 'thou didst not wellListening to the white-witch fell,Leaving her doth thee advanceThy plumèd cap of maintenance.'
'She is white, as white snow flake,'Quoth the king; 'a man shall makeBargains with her and not sin.''Ay,' she saith, 'but an he win,Let him look the right be doneElse the rue shall be his own.
No more words. The stars are bright,For the feast high halls be dightLate he coucheth. Night—'t is night.
The dead king lying in state in the Minster holy.Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his feet,A crown and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly,And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold palms meet.
Two days dead. Is he dead? Nay, nay—but is he living?The weary monks have ended their chantings manifold,The great door swings behind them, night winds entrance giving,The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he so cold.
Neither to move nor to moan, though sunk and though swallow'dIn earth he shall soon be trodden hard and no more seen.Soft you the door again! Was it a footstep followed,Falter'd, and yet drew near him?—Malva, Malva the queen!
One hand o' the dead king liveth (e'en so him seemeth)On the purple robe, on the ermine that folds his breastCold, very cold. Yet e'en at that pass esteemethThe king, it were sweet if she kissed the place of its rest.
Laid her warm face on his bosom, a fair wife grievèdFor the lord and love of her youth, and bewailed him sore;Laid her warm face on the bosom of her bereavèdSoon to go under, never to look on her more.
His candles guide her with pomp funereal flaring,Out of the gulfy dark to the bier whereon he lies.Cometh this queen i' the night for grief or for daring,Out o' the dark to the light with large affrighted eyes?
The pale queen speaks in the Presence with fear upon her,'Where is the ring I gave to thee, where is my ring?I vowed—'t was an evil vow—by love, and by honour,Come life or come death to be thine, thou poor dead king.'
The pale queen's honour! A low laugh scathing and sereing—A mumbling as made by the dead in the tombs ye wot.Braveth the dead this queen? 'Hear it, whoso hath hearing,I vowed by my love, cold king, but I loved thee not.'
Honour! An echo in aisles and the solemn portals,Low sinketh this queen by the bier with its freight forlorn;Yet kneeling, 'Hear me!' she crieth, 'you just immortals,You saints bear witness I vowed and am not forsworn.
I vowed in my youth, fool-king, when the golden fetterThy love that bound me and bann'd me full weary I wore,But all poor men of thy menai I held them better,All stalwart knights of thy train unto me were more.
Twenty years I have lived on earth and two beside thee,Thirty years thou didst live on earth, and two on the throne:Let it suffice there be none of thy rights denied thee,Though I dare thy presence—I—come for my ring alone.'
She risen shuddereth, peering, afraid to lingerBehold her ring, it shineth! 'Now yield to me, thou dead,For this do I dare the touch of thy stark stiff finger.'The queen hath drawn her ring from his hand, the queen hath fled.
'O woman fearing sore, to whom my man's heart cleavèd,The faith enwrought with love and life hath mocks for its meed'—The dead king lying in state, of his past bereavèd,Twice dead. Ay, this is death. Now dieth the king indeed.
'Wake, the seely gnomes do fly,Drenched across yon rainy sky,With the vex'd moon-mother'd elves,And the clouds do weep themselvesInto morning.
All night longHath thy weird thee sore opprest;Wake, I have found within my breastCounsel.' Ah, the weird was strong,But the time is told. ReleaseOpeneth on him when his eyesLift them in dull desolate wise,And behold he is at peace.
Ay, but silent. Of all doneAnd all suffer'd in the night,Of all ills that do him spiteShe shall never know that one.Then he heareth accents bland,Seeth the queen's ring on his hand,And he riseth calmed withal.
Rain and wind on the palace wallBeat and bluster, sob and moan,When at noon he musing lone,Comes the queen anigh his seat,And she kneeleth at his feet.
Quoth the queen, 'My love, my lord,Take thy wife and take thy sword,We must forth in the stormy weather,Thou and I to the witch together.Thus I rede thee counsel deep,Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep,Turning so man's wholesome lifeFrom its meaning. Thine intentNone shall hold for innocent.Thou dost take thy good things first,Then thou art cast into the worst;First the glory, then the strife.Nay, but first thy trouble dree,So thy peace shall sweeter be.First to work and then to rest,Is the way for our humanity,Ay, she sayeth that loves thee best,We must forth and from this strifeBuy the best part of man's life;Best and worst thou holdest stillSubject to a witch's will.Thus I rede thee counsel deep,Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep;Take the crown from off thy head,Give it the white-witch instead,If in that she say thee nay,Get the night,—and give the day.'
Then the king (amazèd, mild,As one reasoning with a childAll his speech): 'My wife! my fair!And his hand on her brown hairTrembles; 'Lady, dost indeedWeigh the meaning of thy rede?Would'st thou dare the dropping awayOf allegiance, should our swayAnd sweet splendour and renownAll be risked? (methinks a crownDoth become thee marvellous well).We ourself are, truth to tell,Kingly both of wont and kind,Suits not such the craven mind.''Yet this weird thou can'st not dree.'Quoth the queen, 'And live;' then he,'I must die and leave the fairUnborn, long-desired heirTo his rightful heritage.'
But this queen arisen doth highHer two hands uplifting, sigh'God forbid.' And he to assuageHer keen sorrow, for his partSearcheth, nor can find in his heartWords. And weeping she will restHer sweet cheek upon his breast,Whispering, 'Dost thou verilyKnow thou art to blame? Ah me,Come,' and yet beseecheth she,'Ah me, come.'
For good for ill,Whom man loveth hath her will.Court and castle left behind,Stolen forth in the rain and wind,Soon they are deep in the forest, fainThe white-witch to raise again;Down and deep where flat o'erheadLayer on layer do cedars spread,Down where lordly maples strain,Wrestling with the storm amain.
Wide-wing'd eagles struck on highHeadlong fall'n break through, and lieWith their prey in piteous wise,And no film on their dead eyes.Matted branches grind and crash,Into darkness dives the flash,Stabs, a dread gold dirk of fire,Loads the lift with splinters dire.Then a pause i' the deadly feud—And a sick cowed quietude.
Soh! A pillar misty and grey,'T is the white-witch in the way.Shall man deal with her and gain?I trow not. Albeit the twainCostly gear and gems and goldFreely offer, she will holdSleep and token for the payShe did get for greatening day.
'Or the night shall rest my feeOr the day shall nought of me,'Quoth the witch. 'An't thee beseem,Sell thy kingdom for a dream.'
'Now what will be let it be!'Quoth the queen; 'but choose the right.'And the white-witch scorns at her,Stately standing in their sight.Then without or sound or stirShe is not. For offering meetLieth the token at their feet,Which they, weary and sore besteadIn the storm, lift up, full fainEre the waning light hath fledThose high towers they left to gain.
Deep among tree roots astrayHere a torrent tears its way,There a cedar split aloftLies head downward. Now the oftMuttering thunder, now the windWakens. How the path to find?How the turning? Deep ay deep,Far ay far. She needs must weep,This fair woman, lost, astrayIn the forest; nought to say.Yet the sick thoughts come and go,'I, 't was I would have it so.'
Shelter at the last, a roofWrought of ling (in their behoof,Foresters, that drive the deer).What, and must they couch them here?Ay, and ere the twilight fallGather forest berries smallAnd nuts down beaten for a meal.
Now the shy wood-wonners stealNearer, bright-eyed furry things,Winking owls on silent wingsGlance, and float away. The lightIn the wake o' the storm takes flight,Day departeth: night—'t is night.
The crown'd king musing at morn by a clear sweet river.Palms on the slope o' the valley, and no winds blow;Birds blameless, dove-eyed, mystical talk deliver,Oracles haply. The language he doth not know.
Bare, blue, are yon peakèd hills for a rampart lying,As dusty gold is the light in the palms o'erhead,'What is the name o' the land? and this calm sweet sighing,If it be echo, where first was it caught and spread?
I might—I might be at rest in some field Elysian,If this be asphodel set in the herbage fair,I know not how I should wonder, so sweet the vision,So clear and silent the water, the field, the air.
Love, are you by me! Malva, what think you this meaneth?Love, do you see the fine folk as they move over there?Are they immortals? Look you a wingèd one leanethDown from yon pine to the river of us unaware.
All unaware; and the country is full of voices,Mild strangers passing: they reck not of me nor of thee.List! about and around us wondrous sweet noises,Laughter of little children and maids that dreaming be.
Love, I can see their dreams.' A dim smile flittethOver her lips, and they move as in peace supreme,And a small thing, silky haired, beside her sitteth,'O this is thy dream atween us—this is thy dream.'
Was it then truly his dream with her dream that blended?'Speak, dear child dear,' quoth the queen, 'and mine own little son.''Father,' the small thing murmurs; then all is ended,He starts from that passion of peace—ay, the dream is done.
'I have been in a good land,'Quoth the king: 'O sweet sleep bland,Blessed! I am grown to more,Now the doing of right hath movedMe to love of right, and provedIf one doth it, he shall beTwice the man he was before.Verily and verily,Thou fair woman, thou didst well;I look back and scarce may tellThose false days of tinsel sheen,Flattery, feasting, that have been.Shows of life that were but shows,How they held me; being I weenLike sand-pictures thin, that roseQuivering, when our thirsty bandsMarched i' the hot Egyptian lands;Shade of palms on a thick green plot,Pools of water that was not,Mocking us and melting away.
I have been a witch's prey,Art mine enemy now by day,Thou fell Fear? There comes an endTo the day; thou canst not wendAfter me where I shall fare,My foredoomèd peace to share.And awake with a better heart,I shall meet thee and take my partO' the dull world's dull spite; with thineHard will I strive for me and mine.'
A page and a palfrey pacing nigh,Malva the queen awakes. A sigh—One amazèd moment—'Ay,We remember yesterday,Let us to the palace straight:What! do all my ladies wait—Is no zeal to find me? What!No knights forth to meet the king;Due observance, is it forgot?'
'Lady,' quoth the page, 'I bringEvil news. Sir king, I say,My good lord of yesterday,Evil news,' This king saith low,'Yesterday, and yesterday,The queen's yesterday we know,Tell us thine.' 'Sir king,' saith he,Hear. Thy castle in the nightWas surprised, and men thy flightLearned but then; thine enemyOf old days, our new king, reigns;And sith thou wert not at painsTo forbid it, hear also,Marvelling whereto this should growHow thy knights at break of mornHave a new allegiance sworn,And the men-at-arms rejoice,And the people give their voiceFor the conqueror. I, Sir king,Rest thine only friend. I bringMeans of flight; now therefore fly,A great price is on thy head.Cast her jewel'd mantle by,Mount thy queen i' the selle and hie(Sith disguise ye need, and bread)Down yon pleachèd track, down, down,Till a tower shall on thee frown;Him that holds it show this ring:So farewell, my lord the king.'
Had one marked that palfrey ledTo the tower, he sooth had said,These are royal folk and rare—Jewels in her plaited hairShine not clearer than her eyes,And her lord in goodly wiseWith his plumèd cap in 's handMoves in the measure of command.
Had one marked where stole forth twoFrom the friendly tower anew,'Common folk' he sooth had said,Making for the mountain track.Common, common, man and maid,Clad in russet, and of kindMeet for russet. On his backA wallet bears the stalwart hind;She, all shy, in rustic graceSteps beside her man apace,And wild roses match her face.
Whither speed they? Where are toss'dLike sea foam the dwarfed pinesAt the jagged sharp inclines;To the country of the frostUp the mountains to be lost,Lost. No better now may be,Lost where mighty hollows thrust'Twixt the fierce teeth of the world,Fill themselves with crimson dustWhen the tumbling sun down hurl'dStares among them drearily,As a' wondering at the loneGulfs that weird gaunt companyFenceth in. Lost there unknown,Lineage, nation, name, and throne.
Lo, in a crevice choked with lingAnd fir, this man, not now the king,This Sigismund, hath made a fire,And by his wife in the dark nightHe leans at watch, her guard and squire.His wide eyes stare out for the lightWeary. He needs must chide on fate,And she is asleep. 'Poor brooding mate,What! wilt thou on the mountain crestSlippery and cold scoop thy first nest?Or must I clear some uncouth caveThat laired the mother wolf, and save—Spearing her cubs—the grey pelt fineTo be a bed for thee and thine?It is my doing. Ay,' quoth he,'Mine; but who dares to pity theeShall pity, not for loss of all,But that thou wert my wife perdie,E'en wife unto a witch's thrall,—A man beholden to the coldCloud for a covering, he being soldAnd hunted for reward of gold.
But who shall chronicle the waysOf common folk—the nights and daysSpent with rough goatherds on their snows,Of travellers come whence no man knows,Then gone aloft on some sharp heightIn the dumb peace and the great lightAmid brown eagles and wild roes?
'Tis the whole world whereon they lie,The rocky pastures hung on highShelve off upon an empty sky.But they creep near the edge, look down—Great heaven! another world afloat,Moored as in seas of air; remoteAs their own childhood; swooning awayInto a tenderer sweeter day,Innocent, sunny. 'O for wings!There lie the lands of other kings—I Sigismund, my sometime crownForfeit; forgotten of renownMy wars, my rule; I fain would goDown to yon peace obscure.'
Even so;Down to the country of the thyme,Where young kids dance, and a soft chimeOf sheepbells tinkles; then at lastDown to a country of hollows, castUp at the mountains full of trees,Down to fruit orchards and wide leas.
With name unsaid and fame unsunnedHe walks that was King Sigismund.With palmers holy and pilgrims brown,New from the East, with friar and clown,He mingles in a wallèd town,And in the mart where men him scanHe passes for a merchant man.For from his vest, where by good hapHe thrust it, he his plumèd capHath drawn and plucked the gems away,And up and down he makes essayTo sell them; they are all his waresAnd wealth. He is a man of cares,A man of toil; no roof hath heTo shelter her full soon to beThe mother of his dispossessedDesirèd heir.
Few words are best.He, once King Sigismund, saith few,But makes good diligence and true.Soon with the gold he gather'd so,A little homestead lone and lowHe buyeth: a field, a copse, with theseA melon patch and mulberry trees.And is the man content? Nay, mornIs toilsome, oft is noon forlorn,Though right be done and life be won,Yet hot is weeding in the sun,Yea scythe to wield and axe to swing,Are hard on sinews of a king.
And Malva, must she toil? E'en so.Full patiently she takes her part,All, all so new. But her deep heartForebodes more change than shall be shownBetwixt a settle and a throne.And lost in musing she will goAbout the winding of her silk,About the skimming her goat's milk,About the kneading of her bread,And water drawn from her well-head.
Then come the long nights dark and still,Then come the leaves and cover the sill,Then come the swift flocks of the stare,Then comes the snow—then comes the heir.
If he be glad, if he be sad,How should one question when the handIs full, the heart. That life he had,While leisure was aside may stand,Till he shall overtake the taskOf every day, then let him ask(If he remember—if he will),'When I could sit me down and muse,And match my good against mine ill,And weigh advantage dulled by useAt nothing, was it better with me?'But Sigismund! It cannot beBut that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh,A dreamer on a day gone byThe king is come.
His vassals twoServe with all homage deep and due.He is contented, he doth findBelike the kingdom much to his mind.And when the long months of his longReign are two years, and like a songFrom some far sweeter world, a callFrom the king's mouth for fealty,Buds soon to blossom in language fall,They listen and find not any pleaLeft, for fine chiding at destiny.
Sigismund hath ricked the hay,He sitteth at close o' a sultry dayUnder his mulberry boughs at ease.'Hey for the world, and the world is wide,The world is mine, and the world is—theseBeautiful Malva leans at his side,And the small babbler talks at his knees.
Riseth a waft as of summer air,Floating upon it what moveth there?Faint as the light of stars and wanAs snow at night when the moon is gone,It is the white-witch risen once more.
The white-witch that tempted of yoreSo utterly doth substance lack,You may breathe her nearer and breathe her back.Soft her eyes, her speech full clear:'Hail, thou Sigismund my fere,Bargain with me yea or nay.NAY, I go to my true place,And no more thou seest my face.YEA, the good be all thine own,For now will I advance thy day,And yet will leave the night alone.
Sigismund makes answer 'NAY.Though the Highest heaped on meTrouble, yet the same should beWelcomer than weal from thee.Nay;—for ever and ever Nay.'O, the white-witch floats away.Look you, look! A still pure smileBlossoms on her mouth the while,White wings peakèd high behind,Bear her;—no, the wafting wind,For they move not,—floats her back,Floats her up. They scarce may trackHer swift rising, shot on highLike a ray from the western sky,Or a lark from some grey woldUtterly whelm'd in sunset gold.
Then these two long silence hold,And the lisping babe doth say'White white bird, it flew away.'And they marvel at these things,For her ghostly visitingsTurn to them another face.Haply she was sent, a friendTrying them, and to good endFor their better weal and grace;One more wonder let to beIn the might and mysteryOf the world, where verilyAnd good sooth a man may wendAll his life, and no more viewThan the one right next to do.
So, the welcome dusk is here,Sweet is even, rest is dear;Mountain heads have lost the light,Soon they couch them. Night—'t is night.
Sigismund dreaming delightsomely after his haying.('Sleep of the labouring man,' quoth King David, 'is sweet.')'Sigismund, Sigismund'—'Who is this calling and saying"Sigismund, Sigismund," O blessed night do not fleet.
Is it not dark—ay, methinks it is dark, I would slumber,O I would rest till the swallow shall chirp 'neath mine eaves.''Sigismund, Sigismund,' multitudes now without numberCalling, the noise is as dropping of rain upon leaves.
'Ay,' quoth he dreaming, 'say on, for I, Sigismund, hear ye.''Sigismund, Sigismund, all the knights weary full sore.Come back, King Sigismund, come, they shall love thee and fear thee,The people cry out O come back to us, reign evermore.
The new king is dead, and we will not his son, no nor brother,Come with thy queen, is she busy yet, kneading of cakes?Sigismund, show us the boy, is he safe, and his mother,Sigismund?'—dreaming he falls into laughter and wakes.
And men say this dream came true,For he walking in the dewTurned aside while yet was redOn the highest mountain head,Looking how the wheat he setFlourished. And the knights him metAnd him prayed 'Come again,Sigismund our king, and reign.'But at first—at first they tellHow it liked not Malva well;She must leave her belted beesAnd the kids that she did rear.When she thought on it full dearSeemed her home. It did not pleaseSigismund that he must goFrom the wheat that he did sow;When he thought on it his mindWas not that should any bindInto sheaves that wheat but he,Only he; and yet they went,And it may be were content.And they won a nation's heart;Very well they played their part.They ruled with sceptre and diadem,And their children after them.