"I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air,but I hit hard and straight at my own body."—1 Cor.ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S Translation).'T'was breakfast time, and outside inthe streetThe factory men went by with hurryingfeet.And on the bridge, in dim December light,The newsboys shouted of the great prizefight.Then, as I dished the bacon, and servedoutThe porridge, all our youngsters gavea shout.The letter-box had clicked, and throughthe dinThe Picture News was suddenly pushed in.John showed the lads the pictures, andexplainedJust how the fight took place, and whatwas gainedBy that slim winner. Then, he looked at meAs I sat, busy, pouring out the tea:"Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled.She hits the air sometimes, though," andJohn smiled."Yet she fights on." Young Jack, withwidened eyesSaid: "Dad, how soon will mother get aprize?"We laughed. And yet it set me thinking,howI beat the air, because a neighbour's cowMunched at our early cabbages, and ateThe lettuce up, and tramped my mignon-ette!And many a time I kicked against thepricksBecause the little dog at number sixDisturbed my rest. And then, how crossI gotWhen Jane seemed discontented with herlot.Until poor John in desperation saidHe wearied of the theme—and went tobed!And how I vexed myself that day, when heBrought people unexpectedly for tea,Because the table-cloth was old andstained,And not a single piece of cake remained.And how my poor head ached! Because,well there!It uses lots of strength to beat the air!"I am a boxer!" Here and now I prayFor grace to hit the self-life every day.And when the old annoyance comes oncemoreAnd the old temper rises sharp and sore,I shall hit hard and straight, O Tender-Wise,And read approval in Thy loving eyes.
"In my father's house!" The wordsBring sweet cadence to my ears.Wandering thoughts, like homing birds,Fly all swiftly down the years,To that wide casement, where I always seeBright love-lamps leaning out to welcomeme.Sweet it was, how sweet to goTo the worn, familiar door.No need to stand a while, and wait,Outside the well-remembered gate;No need to knock;The easy lockTurned almost of itself, and soMy spirit was "at home" once more.And then, within, how good to findThe same cool atmosphere of peace,Where I, a tired child, might ceaseTo grieve, or dread,Or toil for bread.I could forgetThe dreary fret.The strivings after hopes too high,I let them every one go by.The ills of life, the blows unkind,These fearsome things were left behind.ENVOY.O trembling soul of mine,See how God's mercies shine!When thou shalt rise,And, stripped of earth, shall standWithin an Unknown Land;Alone, where no familiar thingMay bring familiar comforting;Look up! 'Tis but thy Father'sHouse! And, seeHis love-lamps leaning out to welcomethee!
Now from the dust of half-forgottenthings,You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring-cleaning,And bring to memory dim imaginingsOf mystic meaning.No old-time potter handled you, I ween,Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten;No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can beseen,Nor Royal Doulton.You never stood to grace the princelyboardOf monarchs in some Oriental palace.Your lid is chipped, your chubby side isscoredAs if in malice.I hesitate to say it, but your spoutIs with unhandsome rivets held together—Mute witnesses of treatment meted outIn regions nether.O patient sufferer of many bumps!I ask it gently—shall the dustbin holdyou?And will the dust-heap, with its cabbagestumps,At last enfold you?It ought. And yet with gentle hands IplaceYou with my priceless Delft and Dresdenchina,For sake of one who loved your homelyfaceIn days diviner.
To a RebelliousDaughterYou call authority "a grievous thing."With careless hands you snap theleading string,And, for a frolic (so it seems to you),Put off the old love, and put on the new.For "What does Mother know of love?"you say."Did her soul ever thrill?Did little tendernesses ever creepInto her dreams, and over-ride her will?Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leapAs my heart leaps to-day?I, who am young; who long to try mywings!How should she understand,She, with her calm cool hand?She never felt such yearnings? And,beside,It's clear I can't be tiedFor ever to my mother's apron strings."There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear.And there are mysteries, not yet madeclearTo you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's bookIs open, yes; but you may only lookAt its first section. YouthIs part, not all, the truth.It is impossible that you should seeThe end from the beginning perfectly.You answer: "Even so.But how can Mother know,Who meditates upon the price of bacon?On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken,And on the laundry's last atrocities?She knows her cookery book,And how a joint of English meat shouldlook.But all such things as theseMake up her life. She dwells in tents,but IIn a vast temple open to the sky."Yet, time was, when that Mother stoopedto learnThe language written in your infant face.For years she walked your pace,And none but she interpreted your chatter.Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter?Or, weary, joined in all your games withzest,And managed with a minimum of rest?Now, is it not your turnTo bridge the gulf, to span the gap be-tween you?To-day, before Death's angel over-leanyou,Before your chance is gone?This is worth thinking on."Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay,dearie, nay.Nor even tactful, always. Yet there mayCome some grey dawning in the byand by,When, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong,you'll cryAloud to God, for that despised thing,The old dear comfort—Mother's apronstring.
Up to the Hall, my lady there'll wearher satin gown,For little Miss and Master'll be comingdown from town.Oh ay, the childern's coming! TheCHILDERN did I say?Of course, they're man and woman grown,this many and many a day.But still, my lady's mouth do smile, andsquire looks fit to sing,As Master John and Miss Elaine is comingMothering.Then down to Farmer Westacott's, there'sdoings fine and grand,Because young Jake is coming home fromsea, you understand.Put into port but yesternight, and whenhe steps ashore,'Tis coming home the laddie is, to Somer-set once more.And so her's baking spicy cakes, and stir-ring raisins in,To welcome of her only chick, who'scoming Mothering.And what of we? And ain't we got nochildern for to come?Well, yes! There's Sam and Henery,and they'll be coming home.And Ned is very nigh six foot, and Joe issix foot three!But childern still to my good man, andchildern still to me!And all the vi'lets seem to know, and allthe thrushes sing,As how our Kate, and Bess and Flo iscoming Mothering.
When little Fanny came to town, Ifelt as I could sing!She were the sprackest little maid, thesharpest, pertest thing.Her mother were as proud as punch, andas for I—well, there!I never see sich gert blue eyes, I neversee sich hair!"If all the weans in Somerset," says I,"was standin' here,Not one could hold a candle light, 'long-side our little dear."Now FANNY'S little Fan have come! She'sclingin' round my knees,She's asking me for sups of tea, and bitesof bread and cheese.She's climbing into grandma's bed, she'sstroking grandma's face.She's tore my paper into bits and strawedit round the place."If all the weans in all the world," saysI, "was standin' here,Not one could hold a farthin' dip toFanny's little dear!"For Fanny's little Fanny—oh, she's tookthe heart of me!'Tis childern's childern is the CROWN ofhumble folk like we!
I've had a naughty day to-day.I scrunched a biscuit in my hair,And dipped my feeder in the milk,And spread my rusk upon a chair.When mother put me in my bath,I tossed the water all about,And popped the soap upon my head,And threw the sponge and flannel out.I wouldn't let her put my handInside the arm-hole of my vest;I held the sleeve until she saidI really never SHOULD be dressed.And while she made the beds, I foundHer tidy, and took out the hairs;And then I got the water-canAnd tipped it headlong down the stairs.I crawled along the kitchen floor,And got some coal out of the box,And drew black pictures on the walls,And wiped my fingers on my socks.Oh, this HAS been a naughty day!That's why they've put me off to bed."He CAN'T get into mischief there,Perhaps we'll have some peace," theysaid.They put the net across my cot,Or else downstairs again I'd creep.But, see, I'll suck the counterpaneTo PULP before I go to sleep!
Into the world you came, and I wasdumb,Because "God did it," so the wise onessaid;I wonder sometimes "Did you reallycome?"And "Are you truly . . . DEAD?"Thus you went out—alone and uncaressed;O sweet, soft thing, in all your infantgrace,I never held you in my arms, nor pressedWarm kisses on your face!But, in the Garden of the Undefiled,My soul will claim you . . . you, andnot another;I shall hold out my arms, and say "MYCHILD!"And you will call me "MOTHER!"
(PSALM CXVI.)Because He heard my voice, andanswered me,Because He listened, ah, so patiently,In those dark days, when sorrowful, alone,I knelt with tears, and prayed Him for astone;Because He said me "Nay," and then in-stead,Oh, wonderful sweet truth! He gave mebread,Set my heart singing all in sweet accord;Because of this, I love—I love the Lord!
"When He comes!My sweetest 'When'!"C. ROSSETTI.Thus may it be (I thought) at someday's close,Some lilac-haunted eve, when every roseBreathes forth its incense. May He findme there,In holy leisure, lifting hands of prayer,In some sweet garden place,To catch the first dear wonder of His Face!Or, in my room above,In silent meditation of His love,My soul illumined with a rapture rare.It would be sweet, if even then, these eyesMight glimpse Him coming in the East-ern skies,And be caught up to meet Him in theair.But now! Ah, now, the daysRush by their hurrying ways!No longer know I vague imaginings,For every hour has wings.Yet my heart watches . . . as I work Isay,All simply, to Him: "Come! And if to-day,Then wilt Thou find me thus: just as Iam—Tending my household; stirring goose-berry jam;Or swiftly rinsing tiny vests and hose,With puzzled forehead patching some one'sclothes;Guiding small footsteps, swift to hear, andrun,From early dawn till setting of the sun."And whensoe'er He comes, I'll rise and go,Yes, all the gladlier that He found me so.
Quick through the gates of FairylandThe South Wind forced his way.'Twas his to make the Earth forgetHer grief of yesterday."'Tis mine," cried he, "to bring her joy!"And on his lightsome feetIn haste he slung the snowdrop bells,Pushed past the Fairy sentinels,And out with laughter sweet.Clear flames of Crocus glimmered onThe shining way he went.He whispered to the trees strange talesOf wondrous sweet intent,When, suddenly, his witching voiceWith timbre rich and rare,Rang through the woodlands till it cleftEarth's silent solitudes, and leftA Dream of Roses there!
The Master of the Garden said;"Who, now the Earth seems coldand dead,Will by his fearless witnessingHold men's hearts for the tardy spring?""Not yet. I am but half awake,"All drowsily the Primrose spake.And fast the sleeping DaffodilsHad folded up their golden frills."Indeed," the frail AnemoneSaid softly, "'tis too cold for me."Wood Hyacinths, all deeply set,Replied: "No ice has melted yet."When suddenly, with smile so bright,Up sprang a Winter Aconite,And to the Master joyfullyShe cried: "I will the witness be."
In Somerset they guide the ploughFrom early dawn till twilight now.The good red earth smells sweeter yet,Behind the plough, in Somerset.The celandines round last year's mowBlaze out . . . and with his old-time vowThe South Wind woos the Violet,In Somerset.Then, every brimming dyke and troughIs laughing wide with ripples now,And oh, 'tis easy to forgetThat wintry winds can sigh and sough,When thrushes chant on every boughIn Somerset!
Song of a WoodlandStreamSilent was I, and so still,As day followed day.Imprisoned untilKing Frost worked his will.Held fast like a vice,In his cold hand of ice,For fear kept me silent, and loHe had wrapped me around and aboutwith a mantle of snow.But sudden there spakeOne greater than he.Then my heart was awake,And my spirit ran free.At His bidding my bands fell apart, Hehad burst them asunder.I can feel the swift wind rushing by me,once more the old wonderOf quickening sap stirs my pulses—Ishout in my gladness,Forgetting the sadness,For the Voice of the Lord fills the air!And forth through the hollow I go, wherein glad April weather,The trees of the forest break out intosinging together.And here the frail windflowers will cluster,with young ferns uncurling,Where broader and deeper my waters goeddying, whirling,To meet the sweet Spring on her journey—His servant to be,Whose word set me free!
Luggage in Advance"The Fairies must have come," Isaid,"For through the moist leaves, brown anddead,The Primroses are pushing up,And here's a scarlet Fairy-cup.They must have come, because I seeA single Wood Anemone,The flower that everybody knowsThe Fairies use to scent their clothes.And hark! The South Wind blowing, fillsThe trumpets of the Daffodils.They MUST have come!"Then loud to meSang from a budding cherry tree,A cheerful Thrush . . . "I say! I say!The Fairy Folk are on their way.Look out! Look out! Beneath your feet,Are all their treasures: Sweet! Sweet!Sweet!They could not carry them, you see,Those caskets crammed with witchery,So ready for the first Spring dance,They sent their Luggage in Advance!"
There I halted. Further down thehollowStood the township, where my errand lay.Firm my purpose, till a voice cried(Follow!Come this way—I tell you—come thisway!)Silence, Thrush! You know I think ofbuyingA Spring-tide hat; my frock is worn andold.So to the shops I go. What's that you'recrying?(Here! Come here! And gather primrosegold.)Well, yes. Some day I will; but time isgoing.I haste to purchase silks and satins fair.I'm all in rags. (The Lady's Smock isshowingUp yonder, in the little coppice there.)And wood anemones spread out theirlaces;Each celandine has donned a silken gown;The violets are lifting shy sweet faces.(And there's a chiff-chaff, soft, and slim, andbrown.)But what about my hat? (The bees arehumming.)And my new frock? (The hawthorn'sbudding free!Sweet! Oh, so sweet!) Well, have yourway. I'm coming!And who's to blame for that? (Why, me!Me! Me!)
Summer met me in the glade,With a host of fair princesses,Golden iris, foxgloves staid,Sunbeams flecked their gorgeous dresses.Roses followed in her train,Creamy elder-flowers beset me,Singing, down the scented lane,Summer met me!Summer met me! Harebells rang,Honeysuckle clustered near,As the royal pageant sangSongs enchanting to the ear.Rainy days may come apace,Nevermore to grieve or fret me,Since, in all her radiant grace,Summer met me!
"Owd John's got past his work," saidthey,Last week as ever was—"don't payTo send by him. He's stoopid, too,And brings things what won't never do.We'll send by post, he is that slow.And that owd hoss of his can't go."But 'smornin', well, 'twas fun to seeThe gentlefolks run after we.Squire's lady stopped I in the lane,"Oh," says she, "goin' to town again?You'll not mind calling into BingsTo fetch my cakes and buns and things?I've got a party comin' on,And nought to eat . . . so, DO 'ee, John."Then, up the street, who should I see,But old Mam Bessant hail'n' me.And Doctor's wife, and Mrs. HiggsWas wantin' vittles for their pigs,And would I bring some? (Well, whatnex'?)And Granny Dunn has broke her specs,And wants 'em mended up in town,So would John call and bring 'em downTo-night . . . ? and so the tale goes on,'Tis, "Sure you will, now DO 'ee, John."Well, 'tis a hevil wind that blowsNobody any good; it showsAs owd John haves his uses yet,Though now and then he do forget.Gee up, owd gal. When strikes is on,They're glad of pore owd stoopid John.
The Lad's Love by theGateDown in the dear West Country,there's a garden where I knowThe Spring is rioting this hour, thoughI am far away—Where all the glad flower-faces are oldloves of long ago,And each in its accustomed place isblossoming to-day.The lilac drops her amethysts upon themossy wall,While in her boughs a cheerful thrushis calling to his mate.Dear breath of mignonette and stocks!I love you, know you all.And, oh, the fragrant spices from thelad's love by the gate!Kind wind from the West Country, wetwind, but scented so,That straight from my dear gardenyou seem but lately come,Just tell me of the yellow broom, theguelder rose's snow,And of the tangled clematis wheremyriad insects hum.Oh, is there any heartsease left, or anyrosemary?And in their own green solitudes, say,do the lilies wait?I knew it! Gentle wind, but once—speak low and tenderly—How fares it—tell me truly—with thelad's love by the gate?
Across the land came a magic wordWhen the earth was bare andlonely,And I sit and sing of the joyous spring,For 'twas I who heard, I only!Then dreams came by, of the gladsomedays,Of many a wayside posy;For a crocus peeps where the wild rosesleeps,And the willow wands are rosy!Oh! the time to be! When the pathsare green,When the primrose-gold is lying'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkinssway,And the dear south wind comes sigh-ing.My mate and I, we shall build a nest,So snug and warm and cosy,When the kingcups gleam on the meadowstream,Where the willow wands are rosy!
In Dorset Dear they're making hayIn just the old West Country way.With fork and rake and old-time gearThey make the hay in Dorset Dear.From early morn till twilight greyThey toss and turn and shake the hay.And all the countryside is gayWith roses on the fallen may,For 'tis the hay-time of the yearIn Dorset Dear.The loaded waggons wend their wayAcross the pasture-lands, and stayBeside the hedge where foxgloves peer;And ricks that shall be fashioned hereWill be the sweetest stuff, they say,In Dorset Dear!
There's a rustle in the woodlands,and a sighing in the breeze,For the Little Folk are busy in the bushesand the trees;They are packing up their treasures, everyone with nimble hand,Ready for the coming journey back tosunny Fairyland.They have gathered up the jewels fromtheir beds of mossy green,With all the dewy diamonds that summermorns have seen;The silver from the lichen and thepowdered gold dust, too,Where the buttercups have flourished andthe dandelions grew.They packed away the birdies' songs,then, lest we should be sad,They left the Robin's carol out, to makethe winter glad;They packed the fragrance of the flowers,then, lest we should forget,Out of the pearly scented box theydropped a Violet.Then o'er a leafy carpet, by the silentwoods they came,Where the golden bracken lingered andthe maples were aflame.On the stream the starlight shimmered, o'ertheir wings the moonbeams shone,Music filtered through the forest—and theLittle Folk were gone!
The shopping had been tedious, andthe rainCame pelting down as she turned homeagain.The motor-bus swirled past with rush andwhirr,Nought but its fumes of petrol left forher.The bloaters in her basket, and the cheeseMalodorously mixed themselves withthese.And all seemed wrong. The world wasdrab and greyAs the slow minutes wept themselvesaway.And then, athwart the noises of the street,A violin flung out an Irish air."I'll take you home again, Kathleen."Ah, sweet,How tender-sweet those lilting phraseswere!They soothed away the weariness, andbroughtSuch peace to one worn woman, over-wrought,That she forgot the things which vexedher so:The too outrageous price of calico,The shop-girl's look of pitying insolenceBecause she paused to count the dwindlingpence.The player stopped. But the rapt visionstayed.That woman faced life's worries unafraid.The sugar shortage now had ceased to beAn insurmountable calamity.Her kingdom was not bacon, no, norbutter,But things more costly still, too rare toutter.And, over chimney-pots, so bare and tall,The sun set gloriously, after all.
Oh, the garden ways are lonely!Winds that bluster, winds thatshout,Battle with the strong laburnum,Toss the sad brown leaves about.In the gay herbaceous border,Now a scene of wild disorder,The last dear hollyhock has flamed hiscrimson glory out.Yet, upon this night of longing,Souls are all abroad, they say.Will they come, the dazzling blossoms,That were here but yesterday?Will the ghosts of radiant rosesAnd my sheltered lily-closesHold once more their shattered fragrancenow November's on her way?Wallflowers, surely you'll remember,Pinks, recall it, will you not?How I loved and watched and tended,Made this ground a hallowed spot:Pansies, with the soft meek faces,Harebells, with a thousand graces:Dear dead loves, I wait and listen. Tellme, have you quite forgot?HUSH! THEY COME! For down the path-waySteals a fragrance honey-sweet.Larkspurs, lilies, stocks, and roses,Hasten now my heart to greet.Stay, oh, stay! My hands would holdyou . . .But the arms that would enfold youCrush the bush of lad's love growing inthe dusk beside my feet.
In her last hour of life the treeGave up her glorious memories,Wild scent of wood anemone,The sapphire blue of April skies.With faint but ever-strength'ning flame,The dew-drenched hyacinthine spiresWere lost, as red-gold bracken came,With maple bathed in living fires.Grey smoke of ancient clematisTowards the silver birch inclined,And deep in thorny fastnessesThe coral bryony entwined.Then softly through the dusky roomThey strayed, fair ghosts of other days,With breath like early cherry bloom,With tender eyes and gentle ways.They glimmered on the sombre walls,They danced upon the oaken floor,Till through the loudly silent hallsJoy reigned majestical once more.Up blazed the fire, and, dazzling clear,One rapturous Spirit radiant stood.'Twas you at last! Yes, YOU, my dear.We two were back in Gatcombe Wood!
GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING. (ItseemsThe Church is full of bygone dreams.)LONG LIVE OUR NOBLE KING. (My own,'Tis hard to stand here all alone.)GOD SAVE THE KING. (But, sweetheart, youWere always brave to dare and do.)SEND HIM VICTORIOUS. (For then,My darling will come home again!)HAPPY AND GLORIOUS ('Twill beLike Heaven to him—and what to me?)LONG TO REIGN OVER US. (My dear!And we'd been wedded one short year!)GOD SAVE OUR KING. (And Lord, I prayKeep MY King safe this very day.)Forgive us, thou—great England's kinglyKingThat thus do women National Anthemssing.