II.

Thesea swallows wheel and flyTo their homes in the grey cliff-side;And the silent ships drift by,The world and its ways are wide!Oh, which of you wandering sailsWill carry a word from me?Spread all your wings in the gales,Fly fast to her northern sea!Go say to my heart’s desired,Too long from her side I roam,And say I am tired, tired,And I would she would call me home!

Thesea swallows wheel and flyTo their homes in the grey cliff-side;And the silent ships drift by,The world and its ways are wide!

Oh, which of you wandering sailsWill carry a word from me?Spread all your wings in the gales,Fly fast to her northern sea!

Go say to my heart’s desired,Too long from her side I roam,And say I am tired, tired,And I would she would call me home!

I thought that I wandered, wandered,All night till the dawn of day,And I came to the house she dwells in,A hundred miles away:So I watched the hills grow golden,I heard the birds begin,And she came to open her window,And let the morning in.But when she would not greet me,And I called to her all in vain,I awoke, and knew I was dreaming,But I could not sleep again.

I thought that I wandered, wandered,All night till the dawn of day,And I came to the house she dwells in,A hundred miles away:

So I watched the hills grow golden,I heard the birds begin,And she came to open her window,And let the morning in.

But when she would not greet me,And I called to her all in vain,I awoke, and knew I was dreaming,But I could not sleep again.

Whatshadow is this of dead delight,That thou art dreaming of?Oh, heart, what ails thee in the evenlight,And is it thine old burden love,That wistful-eyed, like one who roams,I stand and watch from far,The peace of sunset over quiet homes,And the belovéd evening star?

Are not the heavens wide? And yet,Until all journeyings be done,No star shall change the orbit set,That marks its journey round the sun.And, sweet, we travel down our days,As the stars wander in their sky;We cannot change our fated ways,But meet and greet and hasten by.

Are not the heavens wide? And yet,Until all journeyings be done,No star shall change the orbit set,That marks its journey round the sun.

And, sweet, we travel down our days,As the stars wander in their sky;We cannot change our fated ways,But meet and greet and hasten by.

I breathed a name once and again,I said a bitter thing in my pain,“I gave you all my love, and I spent it all in vain!”Then I saw a form across the nightGlide down the stars in a veil of light,And I said, “Who are you, dweller of the Infinite?”And I heard a voice on the stilly air,“You chide amiss in your own despair;Lo, I am the soul of her love, and I follow you everywhere!”

I breathed a name once and again,I said a bitter thing in my pain,“I gave you all my love, and I spent it all in vain!”

Then I saw a form across the nightGlide down the stars in a veil of light,And I said, “Who are you, dweller of the Infinite?”

And I heard a voice on the stilly air,“You chide amiss in your own despair;Lo, I am the soul of her love, and I follow you everywhere!”

Highover the wild sea-border, on the furthest downs to the west,Is the green grave-mound of the Norseman, with the yew-tree grove on its crest.And I heard in the winds his story, as they leapt up salt from the wave,And tore at the creaking branches that grow from the sea-king’s grave.Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild sea-wandering lords,Who sailed in a snake-prowed galley, with a terror of twenty swords.From the fiords of the sunless winter, they came on an icy blast,Till over the whole world’s sea-board the shadow of Odin passed,Till they sped to the inland waters and under the South-land skies,And stared on the puny princes, with their blue victorious eyes.And they said he was old and royal, and a warrior all his days,But the king who had slain his brother lived yet in the island ways;And he came from a hundred battles, and died in his last wild quest,For he said, “I will have my vengeance, and then I will take my rest.”He had passed on his homeward journey, and the king of the isles was dead;He had drunken the draught of triumph, and his cup was the Isle-king’s head;And he spoke of the song and feasting, and the gladness of things to be,And three days over the waters they rowed on a waveless sea;Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and a gust broke out of the cloud,And the spray beat over the rowers, and the murmur of winds was loudWith the voice of the far-off thunders, till the shuddering air grew warm,And the day was as dark as at even, and the wild god rode on the storm.But the old man laughed in the thunder as he set his casque on his brow,And he waved his sword in the lightning and clung to the painted prow.And a shaft from the storm-god’s quiver flashed out from the flame-flushed skies,Rang down on his war-worn harness and gleamed in his fiery eyes,And his mail and his crested helmet, and his hair, and his beard burned red;And they said, “It is Odin calls;” and he fell, and they found him dead.So here, in his war-guise armoured, they laid him down to his rest,In his casque with the rein-deer antlers, and the long grey beard on his breast;His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a sail for a shroud beneath,And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his battle-brand in the sheath;And they buried his bow beside him, and planted the grove of yew,For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for each of his crew;Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where the sea-birds circle and swarm,And the rocks are at war with the waters, with their jagged grey teeth in the storm;And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and the mists encloseThe hill with the grass-grown mound where the Norseman’s yew-tree grows.

He had passed on his homeward journey, and the king of the isles was dead;He had drunken the draught of triumph, and his cup was the Isle-king’s head;And he spoke of the song and feasting, and the gladness of things to be,And three days over the waters they rowed on a waveless sea;Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and a gust broke out of the cloud,And the spray beat over the rowers, and the murmur of winds was loudWith the voice of the far-off thunders, till the shuddering air grew warm,And the day was as dark as at even, and the wild god rode on the storm.But the old man laughed in the thunder as he set his casque on his brow,And he waved his sword in the lightning and clung to the painted prow.And a shaft from the storm-god’s quiver flashed out from the flame-flushed skies,Rang down on his war-worn harness and gleamed in his fiery eyes,And his mail and his crested helmet, and his hair, and his beard burned red;And they said, “It is Odin calls;” and he fell, and they found him dead.

So here, in his war-guise armoured, they laid him down to his rest,In his casque with the rein-deer antlers, and the long grey beard on his breast;His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a sail for a shroud beneath,And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his battle-brand in the sheath;And they buried his bow beside him, and planted the grove of yew,For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for each of his crew;Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where the sea-birds circle and swarm,And the rocks are at war with the waters, with their jagged grey teeth in the storm;And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and the mists encloseThe hill with the grass-grown mound where the Norseman’s yew-tree grows.

Ah!what would youth be doingTo hoist his crimson sails,To leave the wood-doves cooing,The song of nightingales;To leave this woodland quietFor murmuring winds at strife,For waves that foam and riotAbout the seas of life?From still bays, silver sanded,Wild currents hasten downTo rocks where ships are strandedAnd eddies where men drown.Far out, by hills surrounded,Is the golden haven gate,And all beyond unboundedAre shoreless seas of fate.They steer for those far highlandsAcross the summer tideAnd dream of fairy islandsUpon the further side.They only see the sunlight,The flashing of gold bars;But the other side is moonlightAnd glimmer of pale stars.They will not heed the warningBlown back on every wind,For hope is born with morning,The secret is behind.Whirled through in wild confusion,They pass the narrow strait,To the sea of disillusionThat lies beyond the gate.

From still bays, silver sanded,Wild currents hasten downTo rocks where ships are strandedAnd eddies where men drown.Far out, by hills surrounded,Is the golden haven gate,And all beyond unboundedAre shoreless seas of fate.

They steer for those far highlandsAcross the summer tideAnd dream of fairy islandsUpon the further side.They only see the sunlight,The flashing of gold bars;But the other side is moonlightAnd glimmer of pale stars.

They will not heed the warningBlown back on every wind,For hope is born with morning,The secret is behind.Whirled through in wild confusion,They pass the narrow strait,To the sea of disillusionThat lies beyond the gate.

Sothe dark shadows deepen in the treesThat crown the border mountains, all the airIs filled with mist-begotten phantasiesShaped and transfigured in the sunset glare.What wildly spurring warrior-wraiths are these?What tossing headgear, and what red-gold hair?What lances flashing, what far trumpet’s blare,That dies along the desultory breeze?Slow night comes creeping with her misty wingsUp to the hill’s crest, where the yew trees grow;About their shadow-haunted circle clingsThe rumour of an unrecorded woe,Old as the battle of those border kingsSlain in the darkling hollow-lands below.

Slow night comes creeping with her misty wingsUp to the hill’s crest, where the yew trees grow;About their shadow-haunted circle clingsThe rumour of an unrecorded woe,Old as the battle of those border kingsSlain in the darkling hollow-lands below.

WhenHe had finished, first his orbèd sunBlazed through the startled firmament, and allHis hosts cried glory, and the stars each oneSang joy together,—then did there not fallA peace of solemn silence on His world,A moment’s hush before one leaf was stirredOr one wave o’er the ocean mirror curled!Lo! then it was the carol of a birdGave the joy-note of being, up the skySome lark’s song mounted and the young greenwoodWoke to a matin of wild melody,—And He looked down and saw that it was good.

Hollowedand worn by tide on tideThe rocks are steep, to the water’s side;Never a swimmer might hope to landWith the sheer, sheer rocks upon either hand;Never a ship dare enter inFor the sunken reefs are cruel and thin;Only at times a plaintive moanComes from yon arch in the caverned stone,When the seals that dwell in the ocean caveRise to look through the lifting wave;Only the gulls as they float or flyAnswer the waves with their wind-borne cry.Weeds of the waste uptossed lie thereOn the sandy space that the tide leaves bare,Ever at ebb some waif or strayThat ever the flood wave washes away,And round and round in the lonely bay.And one dwells there in the caves belowThat only the seals and the seagulls know,And the haunting spirit is passing fairWith sea-flowers set in her grey-green hair,But she looks not oft to the daylight skiesFor the sunshine dazzles her ocean eyes;But now and again the sea-winds say,In the twilight hour of after-day,They have seen her look through her veil of spray.Stilled are the waves when she lies asleepAnd the stars are mirrored along the deep,The gulls are at rest on the rifted rocksAnd slumbering round are the ocean flocks,Where the waving oarweeds lull and lullAnd the calm of the water is beautiful.But ever and aye in the moonless night,When the waves are at war and the surf is white,When the storm-wind howls in the dreary sky,And the storm-clouds break as it whirls them by;When it tears the boughs from the churchyard treeAnd they think in the world of the folk at sea,When the great cliffs quake in the thunder’s crashAnd the gulls are scared at the lightning flash,You will hear her laugh in the depths below,Where the moving swell is a sheet of snow,Mocking the mariner’s shriek of woe.Let us away, for the sky grows wildAnd the wind has the voice of a moaning child!And if she looked through her veil of spray,And called and beckoned, you might not stay;You would leap from the height to her cold embraceAnd drown in the smile of her wanton face!She would carry you under the mazy wavesFrom deep to deep of her ocean caves,Hold you fast with the things that beHeld in the drifts of the drifting sea,Round and round for eternity!The sun goes under, away, away!It’s dark and weird by the lonely bay.

Weeds of the waste uptossed lie thereOn the sandy space that the tide leaves bare,Ever at ebb some waif or strayThat ever the flood wave washes away,And round and round in the lonely bay.

And one dwells there in the caves belowThat only the seals and the seagulls know,And the haunting spirit is passing fairWith sea-flowers set in her grey-green hair,But she looks not oft to the daylight skiesFor the sunshine dazzles her ocean eyes;But now and again the sea-winds say,In the twilight hour of after-day,They have seen her look through her veil of spray.

Stilled are the waves when she lies asleepAnd the stars are mirrored along the deep,The gulls are at rest on the rifted rocksAnd slumbering round are the ocean flocks,Where the waving oarweeds lull and lullAnd the calm of the water is beautiful.

But ever and aye in the moonless night,When the waves are at war and the surf is white,When the storm-wind howls in the dreary sky,And the storm-clouds break as it whirls them by;When it tears the boughs from the churchyard treeAnd they think in the world of the folk at sea,When the great cliffs quake in the thunder’s crashAnd the gulls are scared at the lightning flash,You will hear her laugh in the depths below,Where the moving swell is a sheet of snow,Mocking the mariner’s shriek of woe.

Let us away, for the sky grows wildAnd the wind has the voice of a moaning child!And if she looked through her veil of spray,And called and beckoned, you might not stay;You would leap from the height to her cold embraceAnd drown in the smile of her wanton face!She would carry you under the mazy wavesFrom deep to deep of her ocean caves,Hold you fast with the things that beHeld in the drifts of the drifting sea,Round and round for eternity!The sun goes under, away, away!It’s dark and weird by the lonely bay.

Whatangel viol, effortless and sure,Speaks through the straining silence, whence, ah whenceThat tremulous low joy, so keen, so pureThat all existence narrows to one sense,Lapped round and roundIn rapture of sweet sound?Oh, how it wins along the steep, and loud and loud,Over the chasm and the cloud,Swells in its lordly tideHigher and higher, and undenied,Full throated to the star!—Then lowlier, softer, dreaming dies and diesOver the closing eyes,Dies with my spirit away, afar,Swayed as on ocean’s breastDies into rest.

Whatholds thee back then? Hast thou aught to do,And fearest for the venture, art thou too,So light a thing that every wind blows through?What hast thou envied in the lives of these,That thou should’st heed to please them or displeaseAnd fill thine own with mirrored mockeries?This arm of thine is thine alone, and strongTo thy free service through thy whole life long,Hear thine heart’s voice, it will not lead thee wrong!

Whatholds thee back then? Hast thou aught to do,And fearest for the venture, art thou too,So light a thing that every wind blows through?

What hast thou envied in the lives of these,That thou should’st heed to please them or displeaseAnd fill thine own with mirrored mockeries?

This arm of thine is thine alone, and strongTo thy free service through thy whole life long,Hear thine heart’s voice, it will not lead thee wrong!

Theautumn wind goes sighingThrough the quivering aspen tree,The swallows will be flyingToward their summer sea;The grapes begin to sweetenOn the trellised vine above,And on my brows have beatenThe little wings of love.Oh wind if you should meet herYou will whisper all I sing!Oh swallow fly to greet her,And bring me word in spring!

I seeyour white arms gliding,In music o’er the keys,Long drooping lashes hidingA blue like summer seas:The sweet lips wide asunder,That tremble as you sing,I could not choose but wonder,You seemed so fair a thing.For all these long years afterThe dream has never died,I still can hear your laughter,Still see you at my side;One lily hiding underThe waves of golden hair;I could not choose but wonder,You were so strangely fair.I keep the flower you braidedAmong those waves of gold,The leaves are sere and faded,And like our love grown old.Our lives have lain asunder,The years are long, and yet,I could not choose but wonder.I cannot quite forget.

For all these long years afterThe dream has never died,I still can hear your laughter,Still see you at my side;One lily hiding underThe waves of golden hair;I could not choose but wonder,You were so strangely fair.

I keep the flower you braidedAmong those waves of gold,The leaves are sere and faded,And like our love grown old.Our lives have lain asunder,The years are long, and yet,I could not choose but wonder.I cannot quite forget.

Allthrough the golden weatherUntil the autumn fell,Our lives went by togetherSo wildly and so well.—But autumn’s wind unclosesThe heart of all your flowers,I think as with the roses,So hath it been with ours.Like some divided riverYour ways and mine will be,—To drift apart for ever,For ever till the sea.And yet for one word spoken,One whisper of regret,The dream had not been brokenAnd love were with us yet.

Allthrough the golden weatherUntil the autumn fell,Our lives went by togetherSo wildly and so well.—

But autumn’s wind unclosesThe heart of all your flowers,I think as with the roses,So hath it been with ours.

Like some divided riverYour ways and mine will be,—To drift apart for ever,For ever till the sea.

And yet for one word spoken,One whisper of regret,The dream had not been brokenAnd love were with us yet.

I rememberlow on the waterThey hung from the dripping moss,In the broken shrine of some streamgod’s daughterWhere the north and south roads cross;And I plucked some sprays for my love to wear,Some tangled sprays of maidenhair.So you went north with the swallowAway from this southern shore,And the summers pass, and the winters follow,And the years, but you come no more,You have roses now in your breast to wear,And you have forgotten the maidenhair.And the sound of the echoing laughter,The songs that we used to sing,To remember these in the years long afterMay seem but a foolish thing,—Yet I know to me they are always fairMy withered sprays of maidenhair.

So you went north with the swallowAway from this southern shore,And the summers pass, and the winters follow,And the years, but you come no more,You have roses now in your breast to wear,And you have forgotten the maidenhair.

And the sound of the echoing laughter,The songs that we used to sing,To remember these in the years long afterMay seem but a foolish thing,—Yet I know to me they are always fairMy withered sprays of maidenhair.

Thewide seas lay before usThe moon was late to rise,The skies were starry o’er usAnd Love was in our eyes;And “like those stars, abiding,”You whispered “Love shall be,”Then one great star went glidingRight down into the sea.Since then beyond recallingHow many moons have set!And still the stars keep falling,But the sky is starry yet:And I look up and wonderIf they can hear and know,For still we walk asunder,And that was years ago.

Since then beyond recallingHow many moons have set!And still the stars keep falling,But the sky is starry yet:And I look up and wonderIf they can hear and know,For still we walk asunder,And that was years ago.

Twotear-drops of the bluest seasWere prisoned in those laughing eyes,And soft as wind in summer treesThe music of her low replies;A sunbeam caught entangled thereMakes light in all her golden hair;The wild rose where the wild bees sipIs not so delicate as this,And yet that little rose-curled lipIs very poisonous to kiss,And they were stars of wintry skiesThat lit the lustre in her eyes.And she will smile and bid you stayAnd love a little at her will,And love a little—and betrayBut smile as ever sweetly still;She knows that roses fade away,To-morrows turn to yesterday.She walks the smooth and easy waysApparelled in her queenly dress,She hears no word that is not praise,And ever of her loveliness;And she will kill, that cannot hate,Dispassionately passionate.

Twotear-drops of the bluest seasWere prisoned in those laughing eyes,And soft as wind in summer treesThe music of her low replies;A sunbeam caught entangled thereMakes light in all her golden hair;

The wild rose where the wild bees sipIs not so delicate as this,And yet that little rose-curled lipIs very poisonous to kiss,And they were stars of wintry skiesThat lit the lustre in her eyes.

And she will smile and bid you stayAnd love a little at her will,And love a little—and betrayBut smile as ever sweetly still;She knows that roses fade away,To-morrows turn to yesterday.

She walks the smooth and easy waysApparelled in her queenly dress,She hears no word that is not praise,And ever of her loveliness;And she will kill, that cannot hate,Dispassionately passionate.

Inthe year of battles, ninety-three,In Vendée, by the westward sea,The word was whispered—Liberty.There was a child that would not stay,When he watched them arm and ride away,For the sword was bared in la Vendée.Thirteen years, and girl-like fair,With blue wide eyes and yellow hair—And the word had moved him unaware.“Mother,” he said, “if I were old,My arm should win the young ones gold—A boy’s life may be dearly sold.“Mother, the hearts of the children bleed,There are lips enough for one hand to feed,And the youngest born have the greater need.”In the year of battles, ninety-three,In Vendée by the westward sea,He rode to fight for liberty.They wondered how his stedfast eyeCould see the strong men bleed and die,His shrill lips shape the battle cry.At Chollet, in the month FrimaireThey found the lion in his lair,And long the struggle wavered there.Till wide and scattered, man with man,The bloody waves of battle ran,The boy was leading in the van.His bugle at his waist he wore,His sword-arm pointing straight before,And on his brow the tricolore.Horse and rider overthrown,Lay about him stark as stone,The bugle boy stood all alone.They closed about him menacing,To strike him seemed a murderous thing;“Take life, cry homage to the King!”Fearless their bayonets he eyed,The dead he loved were at his side,And “Vive la République,” he cried.Sword thrust and bayonetIn his young heart’s-blood met,The groan died in his lips hard set,And through his eyes shone life’s regret.O’er his torn and bleeding breastAll the storm of battle pressed,—He lay lowly with the rest.When the bitter fight was doneThere they found their little one,Stark and staring at the sun.Freedom, let thy banners wave,Where he lies among the brave,For that young fresh life he gave!Song above the names that dieShrine his name in memory!

Inthe year of battles, ninety-three,In Vendée, by the westward sea,The word was whispered—Liberty.

There was a child that would not stay,When he watched them arm and ride away,For the sword was bared in la Vendée.

Thirteen years, and girl-like fair,With blue wide eyes and yellow hair—And the word had moved him unaware.

“Mother,” he said, “if I were old,My arm should win the young ones gold—A boy’s life may be dearly sold.

“Mother, the hearts of the children bleed,There are lips enough for one hand to feed,And the youngest born have the greater need.”

In the year of battles, ninety-three,In Vendée by the westward sea,He rode to fight for liberty.

They wondered how his stedfast eyeCould see the strong men bleed and die,His shrill lips shape the battle cry.

At Chollet, in the month FrimaireThey found the lion in his lair,And long the struggle wavered there.

Till wide and scattered, man with man,The bloody waves of battle ran,The boy was leading in the van.

His bugle at his waist he wore,His sword-arm pointing straight before,And on his brow the tricolore.

Horse and rider overthrown,Lay about him stark as stone,The bugle boy stood all alone.

They closed about him menacing,To strike him seemed a murderous thing;“Take life, cry homage to the King!”

Fearless their bayonets he eyed,The dead he loved were at his side,And “Vive la République,” he cried.

Sword thrust and bayonetIn his young heart’s-blood met,The groan died in his lips hard set,And through his eyes shone life’s regret.

O’er his torn and bleeding breastAll the storm of battle pressed,—He lay lowly with the rest.

When the bitter fight was doneThere they found their little one,Stark and staring at the sun.

Freedom, let thy banners wave,Where he lies among the brave,For that young fresh life he gave!

Song above the names that dieShrine his name in memory!

Throughyonder windows stained and old,Four level rays of red and goldStrike down the twilight dim,Four lifted heads are aureoledOf the sculptured cherubim,And soft like sounds on faint winds blownOf voices dying far away,The organ’s dreamy undertone,The murmur while they pray;And I sit here alone, alone,And have no word to say;Cling closer shadows, darker yet,And heart be happy to forget.And now, the mystic silence—and they kneel,A young priest lifts a star of gold,—And then the sudden organ peal!Ave and Ave! and the music rolledAlong the carven wonder of the choir,Thrilled canopy and spire,Up till the echoes mingled with the song;And now a boy’s flute note that ringsShrill sweet and long,Ave and Ave, louder and more loud,Rises the strain he sings,Upon the angel’s wings!Right up to God!And you that sit there in the lowliest place,With lips that hardly dare to move;You with the old sad furrowed face,Dream on your dream of love!For you, glide down the music’s swellThe folding arms of peace,For me wild thoughts, I dare not tellDesires that never cease.For you the calm, the angel’s breast,Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest;For me the beat of broken wings,The old unanswered questionings.

And now, the mystic silence—and they kneel,A young priest lifts a star of gold,—And then the sudden organ peal!Ave and Ave! and the music rolledAlong the carven wonder of the choir,Thrilled canopy and spire,Up till the echoes mingled with the song;And now a boy’s flute note that ringsShrill sweet and long,Ave and Ave, louder and more loud,Rises the strain he sings,Upon the angel’s wings!Right up to God!

And you that sit there in the lowliest place,With lips that hardly dare to move;You with the old sad furrowed face,Dream on your dream of love!For you, glide down the music’s swellThe folding arms of peace,For me wild thoughts, I dare not tellDesires that never cease.For you the calm, the angel’s breast,Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest;For me the beat of broken wings,The old unanswered questionings.

Herewhere shallows ripple by,And the woody banks are high,Every little wind that fretsWaves the scent of violets;Here the greening beech has madeSuch a palace of cool shade,You and I would rather sitSilent in the shade of it,Seeking questions and repliesOnly through each other’s eyes.Sweet, than climb the thorny waysUp their barren hills of praise.In the gloom of yonder glenHides the crimson cyclamen,And the tall narcissus stillLingers near the reedy rill,In the ooze the rushes growPipes for merry lips to blow;Here the songs that we shall singShall be all of love or spring;Here the emerald dragon-flyFlits and stays and passes by,While the bird that overheadMocked our song, grows unafraid,Splashing till his breast be coolAt the margin of the pool.In my hand the hand I holdLies more daintily than gold;On your lips is all the praiseI would barter for my lays,In your eyes I look to seeWitness of my sovereignty.They that long for high estateTurn to look for love too late,Climbing on at last they findLove has long been left behind;Sweet, we do not envy theseIn our riverland of trees.Seldom feet of mortals passHere along the dewy grass;Only in the loneliest spot,Where the woodman enters not,Spirits of these groves and springsMake their nightly wanderings.Never now they walk at daySince the Satyrs fled away,Only when the fireflies gleamUp the winding wooded stream,You may hear low silver tones,Like the ripple on the stones,Asking some familiar starWhere their olden lovers are.Listen, listen, up aboveAll the branches sing of love!When the world is tired of May,When the springtide fades away,When the clouds draw over head,And the moon of love is dead,When the joy is no more new,Seek we other work to do!Only while the heart is youngLet no other song be sung!

Seldom feet of mortals passHere along the dewy grass;Only in the loneliest spot,Where the woodman enters not,Spirits of these groves and springsMake their nightly wanderings.Never now they walk at daySince the Satyrs fled away,Only when the fireflies gleamUp the winding wooded stream,You may hear low silver tones,Like the ripple on the stones,Asking some familiar starWhere their olden lovers are.Listen, listen, up aboveAll the branches sing of love!When the world is tired of May,When the springtide fades away,When the clouds draw over head,And the moon of love is dead,When the joy is no more new,Seek we other work to do!Only while the heart is youngLet no other song be sung!

Hetells his story with his young sad eyes,The rags are drooping from his sunburnt breast,He had sat down a little while to rest,Far off the country of his longing lies;He sits there looking at his bare bruised feetAnd sees the rich man and the priest pass by,There where the crucifix is planted highOn the grass bank outside the village street.Beside him lies his little flageolet—The children danced that morning when he played,Laughed loud to hear the music that he made;—Now the day closes and he wanders yet.Oh, if some one of all the folk who pass,Would turn and speak one word and hear him though,And help! It were so small a thing to do;And all they see him lying in the grass.So the day ended, and the evening sunCast the long shadows down; he turned and sawThe crucifix blood-red, and in mute awe,He crossed himself, and shuddered, and went on.And then, it seemed that the pale form aboveMoved slowly, lifting up the thorn-crowned head,And the drooped eyelids opened, and he said,“Oh, ye who make profession of your love,“With voices echoing a hollow cry,My name is ever on your lips, and yetI wander wearily and ye forget,I am as nothing to you passers by,“I had no heed of any shame or loss,And will ye leave me tired and homeless stillOh, call my name by any name ye will,But leave me not for ever on my cross!”

Hetells his story with his young sad eyes,The rags are drooping from his sunburnt breast,He had sat down a little while to rest,Far off the country of his longing lies;

He sits there looking at his bare bruised feetAnd sees the rich man and the priest pass by,There where the crucifix is planted highOn the grass bank outside the village street.

Beside him lies his little flageolet—The children danced that morning when he played,Laughed loud to hear the music that he made;—Now the day closes and he wanders yet.

Oh, if some one of all the folk who pass,Would turn and speak one word and hear him though,And help! It were so small a thing to do;And all they see him lying in the grass.

So the day ended, and the evening sunCast the long shadows down; he turned and sawThe crucifix blood-red, and in mute awe,He crossed himself, and shuddered, and went on.

And then, it seemed that the pale form aboveMoved slowly, lifting up the thorn-crowned head,And the drooped eyelids opened, and he said,“Oh, ye who make profession of your love,

“With voices echoing a hollow cry,My name is ever on your lips, and yetI wander wearily and ye forget,I am as nothing to you passers by,

“I had no heed of any shame or loss,And will ye leave me tired and homeless stillOh, call my name by any name ye will,But leave me not for ever on my cross!”

Itwas a tomb in Flanders, old and grey,A knight in armour, lying dead, unknownAmong the long-forgotten, yet the stoneCried out for vengeance where the dead man lay;No name was chiselled at his side to sayWhat wrongs his spirit thirsted to atone,Only the armour with green moss o’ergrown,And those grim words no years had worn away.It may be haply in the songs of oldHis deeds were wonders to sweet music set,His name the thunder of a battle call,Among the things forgotten and untold;His only record is the dead man’s threat—“An hour will come that shall atone for all!”

Itwas a tomb in Flanders, old and grey,A knight in armour, lying dead, unknownAmong the long-forgotten, yet the stoneCried out for vengeance where the dead man lay;

No name was chiselled at his side to sayWhat wrongs his spirit thirsted to atone,Only the armour with green moss o’ergrown,And those grim words no years had worn away.

It may be haply in the songs of oldHis deeds were wonders to sweet music set,His name the thunder of a battle call,Among the things forgotten and untold;His only record is the dead man’s threat—“An hour will come that shall atone for all!”

Itis spring by now in the world, but hereThe doom of winter on all the year;A little brown bird flits to and fro,Watching perhaps for a rift of blueWhere the mists divide and the sky looks through,Or a crocus-bell in the half-thawed snow.Little brown bird, have you no nest hereWhen winds blow cold in the long starlight?Never a tree, and the fields so white—And are you ever a wayfarer?It is spring by now in the vales below,And why do you stay in the world of snow?

Little brown bird, have you no nest hereWhen winds blow cold in the long starlight?Never a tree, and the fields so white—And are you ever a wayfarer?It is spring by now in the vales below,And why do you stay in the world of snow?

There were two had died one daySo they told me by the way;“One, ah well, poor soul,” they said,“Better off that he is dead,Such a poor man!—but the otherHe was our good prefect’s brother;Rich! And surely of great worth;—”Both at one now—earth and earth!—“Half the town is deep in prayer;Round him at our Lady’s there;But the poor man’s funeralIs in the church outside the wall;Aye, our Lady’s nave is wide,Would you lay them side by side?”So I followed both these dead;—Where the poor man’s pall was spread,Boarded in his box of deal,There were only six to kneel,And a priest that hurried throughSuch quick office as would do.Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine,Et lux perpetua luceat ei.Oh, but here how good to seeThe great sable canopy!All the columns shrouded o’er,The rich curtains at the door,And the purple velvet pall,And the high catafalque o’er all,Where a hundred tapers glowOn the same pale face of death below.—All the good town’s folk are there,Some to weep and some to stare;Little reckshehow ye weep,Very sound he lies asleep;Little reckshehow ye pray,For his ears are sealed alway!Many a monk to thumb his beads,Chant his canticles and creeds;Aye and here with quivering lipsO’er his meagre finger-tipsPrays the priest, and all the whileDrones the deep organ thrill; and thenAlong the gloomy curtained aisle,Swells the full chant again;Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine,Et lux perpetua luceat ei.Now beyond the city wallWinds his pomp of funeral;Feebly do those tapers flareIn the sunshine’s summer glare,Loud above their chanting swellsThe horror of the tolling bells,Tapers burn where light is neededFor the living, not the dead!Aye, and if your chants be heeded,For the living be they said!Where were all this folk who prayWhen the poor man passed this way?Long ago the spirit fled,All of him that was of worth,In his sojourning on earth;Wherefore o’er a body dead,Need long litanies be said?Shall the jewelled cross he pressesIn those bony hands of his,Aught avail, when death caressesWith his equal mouldering kiss?Shall the rosary they twinedRound and round his stiffened wrists,Hold his body sanctifiedFrom the worms, the socialists?Gaudea sempiterna possideat!So the two that died one dayTravelled down the selfsame way,One in simple coffin boardPainted cross along it scored,One with all his high estateGraven on the silver plate,All the pomp that he could saveTo adorn him in the grave,Lily wreaths of eucharisTo cover those poor bones of his,From the graveyard’s mouldy sod,—But the poor man’s soul and thisWent the same way up to God!In Paradisum deducant te angeli,Æternam habeas requiem!By the sable shrouded door,Of our Lady’s church once more!Softly came low music floating from above,And a voice seemed to breathe its cadence through;“Peace, peace! Lo this we did it of our love,There was so little we could do!”Requiem æternam dona iis, Domine,Et lux æterna luceat iis.

Oh, but here how good to seeThe great sable canopy!All the columns shrouded o’er,The rich curtains at the door,And the purple velvet pall,And the high catafalque o’er all,Where a hundred tapers glowOn the same pale face of death below.—All the good town’s folk are there,Some to weep and some to stare;Little reckshehow ye weep,Very sound he lies asleep;Little reckshehow ye pray,For his ears are sealed alway!Many a monk to thumb his beads,Chant his canticles and creeds;Aye and here with quivering lipsO’er his meagre finger-tipsPrays the priest, and all the whileDrones the deep organ thrill; and thenAlong the gloomy curtained aisle,Swells the full chant again;Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine,Et lux perpetua luceat ei.

Now beyond the city wallWinds his pomp of funeral;Feebly do those tapers flareIn the sunshine’s summer glare,Loud above their chanting swellsThe horror of the tolling bells,Tapers burn where light is neededFor the living, not the dead!Aye, and if your chants be heeded,For the living be they said!Where were all this folk who prayWhen the poor man passed this way?

Long ago the spirit fled,All of him that was of worth,In his sojourning on earth;Wherefore o’er a body dead,Need long litanies be said?

Shall the jewelled cross he pressesIn those bony hands of his,Aught avail, when death caressesWith his equal mouldering kiss?Shall the rosary they twinedRound and round his stiffened wrists,Hold his body sanctifiedFrom the worms, the socialists?Gaudea sempiterna possideat!

So the two that died one dayTravelled down the selfsame way,One in simple coffin boardPainted cross along it scored,One with all his high estateGraven on the silver plate,All the pomp that he could saveTo adorn him in the grave,Lily wreaths of eucharisTo cover those poor bones of his,From the graveyard’s mouldy sod,—But the poor man’s soul and thisWent the same way up to God!In Paradisum deducant te angeli,Æternam habeas requiem!By the sable shrouded door,Of our Lady’s church once more!Softly came low music floating from above,And a voice seemed to breathe its cadence through;“Peace, peace! Lo this we did it of our love,There was so little we could do!”Requiem æternam dona iis, Domine,Et lux æterna luceat iis.

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