I snatched her from her home away—From her great waters, cool and free,My sea-maid, in whose eyes there layThe depths and dangers of the sea.
I brought her where faint breezes sweepThrough lanes walled in with hedges high,And sown with luscious grass and deepAt ease the fatted pastures lie.
I gave her my poor cottage home,The tame face of the countryside—Who knew the waves' withdrawing foam,The thunder of the bursting tide.
And day by day did I rejoiceTo see her sit beside my door,Nor knew that in her heart the voiceOf ocean called forever more.
Until the grace I would not giveDeath gave. His mighty hand set freeMy wild sea-maid, that could not liveWithout her waters' liberty.
And I?—To me the fields are dear;The steadfast earth is home to me.Yet night by night in dreams I hearHer spirit call me from the sea.
All night the waves broke in upon the shoreBeneath my window, and I heard the rainWith querulous, weak fingers, evermoreBeating against the pane.
And through the darkness saw—was it the sweepOf some white sea-bird's wing above the foam,That fain would cross those waters, wild and deep,And find its mate and home?
Or was it—oh, dear feet, why should you leaveThe halls of Heaven, with all their warmth and light,To come where winds wail and where waters grieve,Seeking my door last night?
Surely you came not; 'twas some bird's white breastFlashed through the night, and not your waving hand,Some sea-gull, weary of the waves' unrest,That sought the steadfast land.
And yet, amid the sobbing of the rain,Outside my window in the dark and chill,I heard your voice, that ever and againCalled, and would not be still—
Until the morning came, sullen and red,With waves that beat still foaming on the shore,The wind and rain had ceased, and lo! my deadHad gone from me once more.
Sure, I'm sitting here this evening, while the firelight flickers low,And I'm looking through the shadows into eyes I used to know,Through the years that lie between us, into tender eyes and sweet,And I'm listening in the darkness for the sound of Kitty's feet—Kitty's feet, whose tripping faltered into silence long ago.
Ah, 'tis well I mind those evenings, gathering shades about my chair,And the sound of Kitty's footsteps dancing gaily down the stairThrough the hall and past the doorway, till I'd turn, her eyes to meet,Well my heart it knew the measure that was danced by Kitty's feet—Kitty's feet that dance no longer, lying in the silence there.
Yet to-night as I sit dreaming, while the shadows longer grow,I can almost think I hear them, the dear steps I long for so;Through the years that lie between us comes again the vision sweet,And my heart once more is beating to the tune of Kitty's feet—Kitty's feet, that tripped so lightly past Death's portals long ago.
She lies across the western main,Beyond the sunset's rim;Her quays are packed with reeling mists—A city strange and dim:And silent o'er her harbour barThe ghostly waters brim.
No sound of life is in her streets,No creak of rope or sparComes ever from the water's edgeWhere the great vessels are;Yet ship by ship steals through the mistsAcross her harbour bar.
There many a good galleonHas made her anchor fast,And many a tall caravelHer journeyings ends at last;But no living eye may look uponThat harbour dim and vast.
For one went down in tropic seas,And one put fearless forthTo find her death in loneliness'Mid icebergs of the north;Thus ship by ship and crew by crewThe ocean tried their worth.
She lies across the western mainBeyond the sunset's rim,Her quays are packed with reeling mists—A city strange and dim;And silent o'er her harbour barThe ghostly waters brim.
Behind the pines, when sunset gleams,The white gates of the Land of DreamsStand open wide,And all adown the golden roadThat leads from that most blest abodeThe shadows ride,Who in the light of common dayMay now no more abide.
They leave their meads of asphodel,The starry spaces where they dwell,Where quiet lies:They leave their windless, glassy sea,The angel songs and melodyOf Paradise,To walk again the old-time wayOnce dear to mortal eyes.
With beating heart I watch them rideAcross the gathering shades that hideThat country bright;The faces that I loved of yore,Eyes that shall smile on me no moreWith mortal light;Shadows of all good things and fairCome from the past to-night.
So, when the dying sunset gleamsBehind the hills, the Gate of DreamsStands open wide;And all along the golden roadFrom those fair mansions of their GodWhere they abide—Dear memories of the days that were—I see the shadows ride.
The sky is overcast,The wind wails loud;Grey ghosts go driving pastIn driving cloud;And, in the beating rainAgainst the window-paneDead fingers beat again,Dead faces crowd.
O, grey ghosts, waiting still,My fire burns bright;Without is cold and chill,Here, warm and light.And would you have me creepOutside to you, and sweepWith you along the steepOf the grey night?
Nay, once I held you dear,Before you fledAdown the shadowy, drearPaths of the dead;But now the churchyard mouldHas left you all too cold,Your hands I cannot hold,Your touch I dread.
Yet linger patiently,Ghosts of the past,Soon there shall come to meThat morn's chill blastThat calls me too to treadThose ways of doubt and dread,And numbered with the deadTo lie at last.
When the toils of the day are over and the sun has sunk in the west,And my lips are tired of laughter, and my heart is heavy for rest,I will sit awhile in the shadows, till Our Lady of Darkness shall shedThe healing balms of her silence and her dreams upon my head.
Ye seek in vain in your temples—she dwells not in aisles of stone;Apart, and at peace, and silent, she waits in the night alone.Her eyes are as moonlit waters, her brows with the stars are bound,And her footsteps move to music, but no man has heard the sound.
No incense burns at her altar—at her shrine no lamplight gleams,But she guards the Fountains of Quiet, and she keeps the key of Dreams,And I will sit in the shadows and pray her, of her grace,To open her guarded visions and grant me to dream of your face.
I ask not to break the silence, but only that you shall stand,As oft you stood in the old-time, with your hand upon my hand;So I will sit very quiet, that Our Lady of Darkness may shedHer balms of healing and silence and of dreams upon my head.
Daluan, the Shepherd,When winter winds blow chill,Goes piping o'er the upland,Goes piping by the rill;And whoso hears his musicMust follow where he will.
Daluan, the Shepherd,(So the old story saith)He pipes the tunes of laughter,The songs of sighing breath;He pipes the souls of mortalsThrough the dark gates of Death.
Daluan, the Shepherd,Who listens to his strainShall look no more on laughter,Shall taste no more of pain,Shall know no more the longingThat eats at heart and brain.
Daluan, the Shepherd—Beside the sobbing rill,And through the dripping woodlands,And up the gusty hill,I hear the pipes of DaluanCrying and calling still.
The Question
If we should tap on your pane to-night, dear,Standing here in the dark outside,As in the far-off days and bright, dear,Say, would you fling the window wide?
Nay, you would turn to the firelight's gold, dear,Saying, "'Tis but a dream that fled;"Deep we lie in the churchyard mould, dear,Who shall remember to love the dead?
(Ah, the dead, who shall come no more, dear,Gone and forgotten, so you say—Standing here in the dark at your door, dear,—Dead and forgotten and gone for aye.)
Your hours pass with laughter and song, dear,Do we blame you that you forget?All our years are empty and long, dear,We, in our graves, remember yet.
We remember, and ofttimes rise, dear,From our beds 'neath the churchyard sod,Walking ever, with wistful eyes, dear,Old-time ways that in life we trod.
We remember, who are forgot, dear—Do we blame you that you forget?How should we live in your lightest thought, dear?Only—the dead remember yet.
The Reply
Do we forget?—We cannot hear your call;Your tap upon the paneSounds to our ears but as the leaves that fall,Or beat of sobbing rain.
We cannot see you standing at the door,Or passing through the gloom;We strain our ears, yet hear your step no moreIn the familiar room.
And seeing not—but waiting, with a numb,Bewildered heart and brain,And hearing not—but only winds that comeAnd wail against the pane,
And dreaming of you in some brighter sphere,We—we, too—grieve and fretThat you, whom still we hold so dear, so dear,Should all so soon forget.
Into the western watersSlow sinks the sunset light,And the voice of the Wind of ShadowsCalls to my heart to-night—
Calls from the magic countries,The lost and the lovely landsWhere stands the Master of Shadows,Holding the dreams in his hands.
All the dreams of the agesGather around him there,Visions of things forgottenAnd of things that never were.
Birds in the swaying woodlands,Creatures furry and small,Turn to the Master of ShadowsAnd he gives of his dreams to all.
Lo! I am worn and weary,Sick of the garish light;Blow, thou Wind of the Shadows,Into my heart to-night.
Out of the magic countries,The lost and the lovely lands,Where he, the Master of Shadows,Waits, with the dreams in his hands.
Through the sere woods she walks alone,With bow unstrung and empty quiver;Her hounds are dead, her maidens gone,She walks alone forever;Watching the while with wistful eyesHer crescent shining in the skies.
The flutes of Pan are silent now,Hushed is the sound of Faunus' singing;Through winds that shake the withering boughNo dryad's voice is ringing.Syrinx has left her river deep,E'en old Silenus sound doth sleep.
The startled deer before her flee,The nightingales with music meet her;Yet never mortal eye shall seeOr mortal voices greet her.Her shrines with weeds are overgrown,Their fires are out; their worship done.
Yet sometimes, so 'twas told to me,The children playing in the meadowsMay hear her song, that mournfullyComes floating through the shadows,And sometimes see, through boughs grown bare,The moonlit brightness of her hair.
And, it may be, her weary feet,White gleaming through those dusky spaces,May, after many wanderings, meetThe dear, familiar places;And find, beyond the sunset's gold,Ghosts of the Gods she knew of old.
He came and whinnied at my door,The wild red horse, with flowing mane;And I—I crossed the threshold o'er,Leaving behind my wonted life,And hope of joy, and fear of pain,And clasp of friend, and kiss of wife,And clinging touch of childish hands,And love and laughter, grief and glee,And rode him out across the sandsBeside a dark, mysterious sea.
Across my face his mane was blown,I saw the eddying stars grow dim,And suddenly the past had grownA dream of weariness gone by,And I was fain to ride with himForever up a darkening sky,And hear the far, thin, fairy tuneThat through the darkness seemed to beat,Until at length the crescent moonWas lying underneath our feet.
And there the unknown beaches layWith stars for silvery pebbles strown,And thin and faint and far awayCame all the noises of the world,And up those glimmering reaches blownThe whispering waves of darkness curled.And there my wild steed paused at last,And there, wrapped round in dreams, I lie,And in the wind that whistles pastI hear a far, faint, fairy cry.
We rode from the north, a valiant band,With shining armour and swords aflame,Till we came at length to a silent land—To a sunless, shadowy land we came,A desolate land, without a name.
No songs of birds in that land were known,No voices of human joy or pain,But mists on the silent winds were blown,And shadows clung to our bridle rein,Dim forms that no answer gave again.
Then some grew tired of those weary waysAnd hied them back to a happier coast,And many followed some phantom faceDown one of the winding ways that crossedThat shadowy land, and so were lost.
And the rust grew red on our harness bright,And dull grew our swords, and a dream the Quest,And ever wearier grew the fightWith thronging phantoms that round us pressed,And ever our hearts grew sick for rest.
Till, few and feeble who were so strong,Weary, who dreamed we could never tire,We won at last through those ways so long,And, bathed in the sunset, dome and spire,We saw the City of Heart's Desire.
Silent amid the shadowsOutside my door,The Watcher of the ThresholdWaits evermore.
One day the door will open,And I shall seeThe Watcher of the ThresholdBeckon to me.
And I must leave the firelight,And seek the gloomWhere stands that shadowy figureOutside my room.
In vain it is to questionOf how, or why,The Watcher of the ThresholdMakes no reply.
Only amid the shadowsSilent he stands,With eyes that hold a secret,And folded hands.
Still standing in the darknessOutside my door,The Watcher of the ThresholdWaits evermore.
Why ride so fast through the wind and rain,Grey Rider of the Shee?Lest a soul should call for me in vainTo-night, O Vanathee.
Now, whose is the soul shall seek thine aid,Grey Rider of the Shee?The soul of one that is sore afraidTo-night, O Vanathee.
O fears he the flurry of wind and rain,Grey Rider of the Shee?More deep is the dread that sears his brainTo-night, O Vanathee.
Does he fear the tumult of clanging blows,Grey Rider of the Shee?Nay, darker still is the fear he knowsTo-night, O Vanathee.
Does he fear the loss of wife or child,Grey Rider of the Shee?Nay, a terror holds him that's still more wildTo-night, O Vanathee.
O what should make him so sore afraid,Grey Rider of the Shee?He fears a wraith that himself has madeTo-night, O Vanathee.
Then how shall you cleanse from fear his mind,Grey Rider of the Shee?I will touch his eyes, and they shall be blindTo-night, O Vanathee.
Yet still may he know the voice of fear,Grey Rider of the Shee?I will touch his ears that he shall not hearTo-night, O Vanathee.
Yet that wraith may linger around his bed,Grey Rider of the Shee?No terror shall touch the quiet deadTo-night, O Vanathee.
Shee, Sidhe—Fairies.
Vanathee, Bean-an-Tighe—Woman of the house.
Still, they say, she moves through the old-time places,Joan the Maid, with her great sword girt at her side;Sheen of wings and shimmer of angel facesGather around her as she on doth ride.
Rheims or Orleans may see her thus in splendour,Never the old Domremy streets she knew,Here she walks as a maiden, shy and slender,Brushing with bare brown feet the evening dew.
Oft do the children, playing in the meadows,See her watching them, white and very fair,Smiling lips and eyes that dream in the shadows,Lilies of France she loved so in her hair.
So she comes, through those quiet roadways stealing,Where in the grey church still her people bend,Unto the Maiden, their own saint, appealing;Hears them name her saviour of France and friend.
She has forgotten now the mocking faces,Prison, and wounds, and torture of the flame;Still, they say, she moves through the old-time places,Joan the Maid, whence once, long since, she came.
Rupert's soldiers came riding, riding,All in the sunshine riding down,Scented curls on the breezes flowing,Banners dancing and bugles blowing,Gaily the troops came riding, riding,Through the streets of Newbury town.
Bells in the church towers all were swinging,Flags were waving and flowers were strown;Roses lay in the road before them,Roses rained from the casements o'er them,All in the streets, with shout and singing,Prayed that the King might win his own.
Rupert's soldiers came riding, riding,All in the darkness riding down;Never a church-bell chimed to greet them,Never a maid came forth to meet them;Broken, defeated, they came ridingThrough the streets of Newbury town.
Never more while the bells are callingRupert's soldiers come riding down;They have ridden, with bugles blowingInto a land beyond our knowing,Never more shall their footsteps fallingHaunt the streets of Newbury town.
Yet, as I sit here, idly dreaming,Watching the water onward flow,Still I see, in the sun or shadow,Rupert's soldiers across the meadow,Banners blowing and lovelocks streaming,Riding back from the long ago.
And in my dreams they still are riding,Victor or vanquished, riding down;Now with the roses strewn before them—Now with the darkness gathering o'er them—Rupert's soldiers, forever ridingThrough the streets of Newbury town.
No room for Thee, O Baby Jesukin,No room within the inn;Only the stable door is standing wide,And there insideThe ox and ass their patient foreheads bowBefore Thee now.
No room for Thee, O little Lord of all,In cottage or in hall;Yet o'er Thy stable angel voices soundTelling aroundTo the wide world a Prince is born to themIn Bethlehem.
No room for Thee—yet the wise Kings have spedTo kneel beside Thy bed,Offering their gifts, myrrh, frankincense, and gold,To Thee to hold;And all the angel armies of the airAre gathered there.
No room for Thee—yet the wide earth is Thine,And this poor heart of mine;Though oft Thy Hand has tried its doors in vain,Yet come again;Wide open now it stands—O Light of Light,Enter to-night.
We be silly shepherds,Men of no renown,Guarding well our sheepfoldsHard by Bethlehem town;Baby Jesus, guard us all,Cot and sheepfold, bower and stall.
Wild the wind was blowing,Sudden all was still,Laughter soft of angelsRang from hill to hill.Baby Jesus, Thou wast bornEre that midnight paled to morn.
Seek we now Thy presenceWith our gifts of love;Felix brings a lambkin,I will give a dove.Baby Jesus, small and sweet,Lo, we lay them at Thy feet.
Just a little baby lying in a manger,God of Gods and Light of Lights, the mighty King of Kings,Hark! the choiring angels chant their glad evangels,All the air is pulsing with the music of their wings.
Just a little baby on Mary's breast that bore Him,Helpless feet, and clinging hands, and lips that knew no word,And the darkness ringing with the angels' singing,Sounding through the solemn night, "All glory to the Lord."
Just a little baby wrapped in swaddling clothing—All the earth forever thrills rejoicing in that birth,Through the centuries flying still hears those angels crying,"Glory be to God on high, and peace, goodwill to earth."
Lord, from this prison-house that we have built,This dark abode of pain and misery,Failure and guilt,We stretch our hands, we stretch our hands to Thee,Lord, set us free.
O Lord, Thou knowest all—Thou knowest wellThe groping hands, the eyes that would not see,The feet that fell;Yet are we fain—are fain to come to Thee,Lord, set us free.
Bitter the chains that we have borne so long,The chains of sin we wove so heedlessly;Lo, Thou art strong,Out of the deeps we cry—we cry to Thee,Lord, set us free.
Have you no pity for us?—You, who standWithin that Heaven that we may never win,Who know the golden streets of that fair landOur weary feet are fain to be within.Have you no ruth for us, who must abideIn the great horror of the night outside?
We, too, once knew of laughter and delight,Who now must walk these weary roads of pain;Our hearts were pure as yours, our faces bright,In that glad life we may not know again;We might have gained your Heaven too—even weWho dwell with madness and with memory.
Within the pleasant pastures where your feetStray, comes there never thought of our distress?Do our wails never mar your music sweet?Our parched throats change your draught to bitterness?Your chance was ours—we lost it; yes, we knowOurs was the fault—but, is it easier so?
Yet was it ours?—The dazzled eyes and blind,The wills that knew, but could not hold the good,The groping feet, that failed the path to find,The wild desires that filled the tainted blood?Have you no ruth, who those bright barriers crossed,For us, who saw them open—and are lost?
She stoops to us from her dim recessWith weary and wistful eyes;She has grown so tired of the censer's swing,Of the white-robed choir and the songs they sing,Of the priest's pale hand, upraised to bless,And the feast and the sacrifice.
They bow to her as the Mother blestOf the great and awful God;But her heart holds dearest His early years,The childish laughter, the childish tears,Ere His feet had the road of sorrows pressed,Or the way to the cross had trod.
Her thoughts go back to the days of yore—Away from the garish light,And the organ's droning melody,To the starry shores of Galilee,To the vines that shaded her cottage door,And the hush of the Eastern night.
So she bends to us from her dim recessWith weary and wistful eyes,And turns away from the tapers' lightTo dream of the cool and the hush of night,From the priest's pale hand, upraised to bless,To the starry Eastern skies.