THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET.Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl:"I tell thee sooth, I am belted earl;Fly with me from this garden smallAnd thou shalt sit in my castle's hall;"Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and pleasure,Joys beyond thy fancy's measure;Here with my sword and horse I stand,To bear thee away to my distant land."Take, thou fairest! this full-blown rose,A token of love that as ripely blows."With his glove of steel he plucked the token,But it fell from his gauntlet crushed and broken.The maiden exclaimed, "Thou seest, sir knight,Thy fingers of iron can only smite;And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered,I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered."She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell;But she turned from the knight, and said, "Farewell!""Not so," he cried, "will I lose my prize;I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes."He lifted her up in his grasp of steel,And he mounted and spurred with furious heel;But her cry drew forth her hoary sire,Who snatched his bow from above the fire.Swift from the valley the warrior fled,Swifter the bolt of the crossbow sped;And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horseWas the living man, and the woman's corse.That morning the rose was bright of hue;That morning the maiden was fair to view;But the evening sun its beauty shedOn the withered leaves, and the maiden dead.JOHN STERLING.
THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET.
Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl:"I tell thee sooth, I am belted earl;Fly with me from this garden smallAnd thou shalt sit in my castle's hall;
"Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and pleasure,Joys beyond thy fancy's measure;Here with my sword and horse I stand,To bear thee away to my distant land.
"Take, thou fairest! this full-blown rose,A token of love that as ripely blows."With his glove of steel he plucked the token,But it fell from his gauntlet crushed and broken.
The maiden exclaimed, "Thou seest, sir knight,Thy fingers of iron can only smite;And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered,I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered."
She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell;But she turned from the knight, and said, "Farewell!""Not so," he cried, "will I lose my prize;I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes."
He lifted her up in his grasp of steel,And he mounted and spurred with furious heel;But her cry drew forth her hoary sire,Who snatched his bow from above the fire.
Swift from the valley the warrior fled,Swifter the bolt of the crossbow sped;And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horseWas the living man, and the woman's corse.
That morning the rose was bright of hue;That morning the maiden was fair to view;But the evening sun its beauty shedOn the withered leaves, and the maiden dead.
JOHN STERLING.
THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.Grief hath been known to turn the young head gray,—To silver over in a single dayThe bright locks of the beautiful, their primeScarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful timeOf Gallia's madness, that discrownèd headSerene, that on the accursèd altar bledMiscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen!What must the sufferings of that night have been—That one—that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'erWith time's untimely snow! But now no more,Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee—I have to tell a humbler history;A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth(If any), will be sad and simple truth."Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame,—So oft our peasant's use his wife to name,"Father" and "Master" to himself applied,As life's grave duties matronize the bride,—"Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the northWith hard-set teeth, before he issued forthTo his day labor, from the cottage door,—"I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before,There 'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton[1]roar?It's brewing up, down westward; and look there,One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair;And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on,As threats, the waters will be out anon.That path by the ford 's a nasty bit of way,—Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.""Do, mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried;Two little lasses to the father's sideClose clinging, as they looked from him, to spyThe answering language of the mother's eye.Therewas denial, and she shook her head:"Nay, nay,—no harm will come to them," she said,"The mistress lets them off these short dark daysAn hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says,May quite be trusted—and I know 't is true—To take care of herself and Jenny too.And so she ought,—she's seven come first of May,—Two years the oldest; and they give awayThe Christmas bounty at the school to-day."The mother's will was law (alas, for herThat hapless day, poor soul!)—shecould not err,Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane(Her namesake) to his heart he hugged again.When each had had her turn; she clinging soAs if that day she could not let him go.But Labor's sons must snatch a hasty blissIn nature's tenderest mood. One last fond kiss,"God bless my little maids!" the father said,And cheerily went his way to win their bread.Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone,What looks demure the sister pair put on,—Not of the mother as afraid, or shy,Or questioning the love that could deny;But simply, as their simple training taught,In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought(Submissively resigned the hope of play)Towards the serious business of the day.To me there 's something touching, I confess,In the grave look of early thoughtfulness,Seen often in some little childish faceAmong the poor. Not that wherein we trace(Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!)The unnatural sufferings of the factory child.But a staid quietness, reflective, mild,Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes,Sense of life's cares, without its miseries.So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow,The docile Lizzy stood attentive now.Proud of her years and of the imputed sense,And prudence justifying confidence,—And little Jenny, more demurely still,Beside her waited the maternal will.So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twainGainsborough ne'er painted: no—nor he of Spain,Glorious Murillo!—and by contrast shownMore beautiful. The younger little one,With large blue eyes and silken ringlets fair,By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair,Sable and glossy as the raven's wing,And lustrous eyes as dark."Now, mind and bringJenny safe home," the mother said,—"don't stayTo pull a bough or berry by the way:And when you come to cross the ford, hold fastYour little sister's hand, till you 're quite past,—That plank's so crazy, and so slippery(If not o'erflowed) the stepping-stones will be.But you're good children—steady as old folk—I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak,A good gray duffle, lovingly she tied,And ample little Jenny's lack suppliedWith her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she,"To wrap it round and knot it carefully(Like this), when you come home, just leaving freeOne hand to hold by. Now, make haste away—Good will to school, and then good right to play."Was there no sinking at the mother's heartWhen, all equipt, they turned them to depart?When down the lane she watched them as they wentTill out of sight, was no forefeeling sentOf coming ill? In truth I cannot tell:Such warningshave beensent, we know full wellAnd must believe—believing that they are—In mercy then—to rouse, restrain, prepare.And now I mind me, something of the kindDid surely haunt that day the mother's mind,Making it irksome to bide all aloneBy her own quiet hearth. Though never knownFor idle gossipry was Jenny Gray,Yet so it was, that morn she could not stayAt home with her own thoughts, but took her wayTo her next neighbor's, half a loaf to borrow,—Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow,—And with the loan obtained, she lingered still.Said she, "My master, if he 'd had his will,Would have kept back our little ones from schoolThis dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool,Since they 've been gone, I 've wished them back.But thenIt won't do in such things to humor men,—Our Ambrose specially. If let aloneHe 'd spoil those wenches. But it 's coming on,That storm he said was brewing, sure enough,—Well! what of that? To think what idle stuffWill come into one's head! And here with youI stop, as if I 'd nothing else to do—And they 'll come home, drowned rats. I must be goneTo get dry things, and set the kettle on."His day's work done, three mortal miles and more,Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door.A weary way, God wot, for weary wight!But yet far off the curling smoke in sightFrom his own chimney, and his heart felt light.How pleasantly the humble homestead stood,Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood!How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze,In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees,Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July,From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry,How grateful the cool covert to regainOf his own avenue,—that shady lane,With the white cottage, in the slanting glowOf sunset glory, gleaming bright below,And Jasmine porch, his rustic portico!With what a thankful gladness in his face,(Silent heart-homage,—plant of special grace!)At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace,Would Ambrose send a loving look before,Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door;The very blackbird strained its little throat,In welcome, with a more rejoicing note;And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed,All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need,"Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear;But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear,The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells,Of his two little ones. How fondly swellsThe father's heart, as, dancing up the lane,Each clasps a hand in her small hand again,And each must tell her tale and "say her say,"Impeding as she leads with sweet delay(Childhood's blest thoughtlessness!) his onward way.And when the winter day closed in so fast;Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last;And in all weathers—driving sleet and snow—Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go,Darkling and lonely. O, the blessèd sight(His polestar) of that little twinkling lightFrom one small window, through the leafless trees,—Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but hisHad spied it so far off. And sure was he,Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see,Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour,Streaming to meet him from the open door.Then, though the blackbird's welcome was unheard,—Silenced by winter,—note of summer birdStill hailed him from no mortal fowl alive,But from the cuckoo clock just striking five.And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen,—Off started he, and then a form was seenDarkening the doorway: and a smaller sprite,And then another, peered into the night,Ready to follow free on Tinker's track,But for the mother's hand that held her back:And yet a moment—a few steps—and there,Pulled o'er the threshold by that eager pair,He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair;Tinker takes post beside with eyes that say,"Master, we've done our business for the day."The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs,The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs;The door's made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn;How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on!How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he?Safe housed and warm beneath his own roof-tree,With a wee lassie prattling on each knee.Such was the hour—hour sacred and apart—Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart.Summer and winter, as his toil he plied,To him and his the literal doom applied,Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweetSo earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet,Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way;So specially it fared with Ambrose GrayThat time I tell of. He had worked all dayAt a great clearing; vigorous stroke on strokeStriking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke,And the strong arms dropt nerveless. What of that?There was a treasure hidden in his hat,—A plaything for the young ones. He had foundA dormouse nest; the living ball coiled roundFor its long winter sleep; and all his thought,As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naughtBut the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayerHard won, the frozen captive to their care.'T was a wild evening,—wild and rough. "I knew,"Thought Ambrose, "those unlucky gulls spoke true,—And Gaffer Chewton never growls for naught,—I should be mortal 'mazed now if I thoughtMy little maids were not safe housed beforeThat blinding hail-storm,—ay, this hour and more,—Unless by that old crazy bit of board,They 've not passed dry-foot over Shallow ford,That I 'll be bound for,—swollen as it must be—Well! if my mistress had been ruled by me—"But, checking the half-thought as heresy,He looked out for the Home Star. There it shone,And with a gladdened heart he hastened on.He 's in the lane again,—and there below,Streams from the open doorway that red glow,Which warms him but to look at. For his prizeCautious he feels,—all safe and snug it lies,—"Down, Tinker! down, old boy!—not quite so free,—The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.—But what 's the meaning? no lookout to-night!No living soul astir! Pray God, all 's right!Who 's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather?Mother!" you might have felled him with a feather,When the short answer to his loud "Hillo!"And hurried question, "Are they come?" was "No."To throw his tools down, hastily unhookThe old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word,That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,Was but a moment's act, and he was goneTo where a fearful foresight led him on.Passing a neighbor's cottage in his way,—Mark Fenton's,—him he took with short delayTo bear him company,—for who could sayWhat need might be? They struck into the trackThe children should have taken coming backFrom school that day; and many a call and shoutInto the pitchy darkness they sent out,And, by the lantern light, peered all about,In every roadside thicket, hole, nook,Till suddenly—as nearing now the brook—Something brushed past them. That was Tinker's bark,—Unheeded, he had followed in the dark,Close at his master's heels; but, swift as light,Darted before them now. "Be sure he 's right,—He 's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the lightLow down,—he 's making for the water. Hark!I know that whine,—the old dog 's found them, Mark."So speaking, breathlessly he hurried onToward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!And all his dull contracted light could showWas the black void and dark swollen stream below."Yet there 's life somewhere,—more than Tinker's whine,—That 's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shineDown yonder. There's the dog,—and, hark!" "O dear!"And a low sob came faintly on the ear,Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caughtFast hold of something,—a dark huddled heap,—Half in the water, where 't was scarce knee-deepFor a tall man, and half above it, proppedBy some old ragged side-piles, that had stoptEndways the broken plank, when it gave wayWith the two little ones that luckless day!"My babes!—my lambkins!" was the father's cry.One little voicemade answer, "Here am I!"'T was Lizzy's. There she crouched with face as white,More ghastly by the flickering lantern-lightThan sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight,Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,And eyes on some dark object underneath,Washed by the turbid water, fixed as stone,—One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown,Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock.There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock,The doting father? Where 's the unriven rockCan bide such blasting in its flintiest partAs that soft sentient thing,—the human heart?They lifted her from out her watery bed,—Its covering gone, the lovely little headHung like a broken snowdrop all aside;And one small hand,—the mother's shawl was tied,Leavingthatfree, about the child's small form,As was her last injunction—"fastand warm"—Too well obeyed,—too fast! A fatal holdAffording to the scrag by a thick foldThat caught and pinned her in the river's bed,While through the reckless water overheadHer life-breath bubbled up."She might have lived,Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rivedThe wretched mother's heart, when she knew all,"But for my foolishness about that shawl!And Master would have kept them back the day;But I was wilful,—driving them awayIn such wild weather!"Thus the tortured heartUnnaturally against itself takes part,Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woeToo deep already. They had raised her now,And parting the wet ringlets from her brow,To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold,The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolledOnce more the fatal shawl—her winding-sheet—About the precious clay. One heart still beat,Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only childHe turned him, but her piteous moaning mildPierced him afresh,—and now she knew him not."Mother!" she murmured, "who says I forgot?Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold,And tied the shawl quite close—she can't be cold—But she won't move—we slipt—I don't know how—But I held on—and I'm so weary now—And it's so dark and cold! O dear! O dear!—And she won't move;—if daddy was but here!"————
THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.
Grief hath been known to turn the young head gray,—To silver over in a single dayThe bright locks of the beautiful, their primeScarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful timeOf Gallia's madness, that discrownèd headSerene, that on the accursèd altar bledMiscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen!What must the sufferings of that night have been—That one—that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'erWith time's untimely snow! But now no more,Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee—I have to tell a humbler history;A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth(If any), will be sad and simple truth.
"Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame,—So oft our peasant's use his wife to name,"Father" and "Master" to himself applied,As life's grave duties matronize the bride,—"Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the northWith hard-set teeth, before he issued forthTo his day labor, from the cottage door,—"I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before,There 'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton[1]roar?It's brewing up, down westward; and look there,One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair;And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on,As threats, the waters will be out anon.That path by the ford 's a nasty bit of way,—Best let the young ones bide from school to-day."
"Do, mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried;Two little lasses to the father's sideClose clinging, as they looked from him, to spyThe answering language of the mother's eye.Therewas denial, and she shook her head:"Nay, nay,—no harm will come to them," she said,"The mistress lets them off these short dark daysAn hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says,May quite be trusted—and I know 't is true—To take care of herself and Jenny too.And so she ought,—she's seven come first of May,—Two years the oldest; and they give awayThe Christmas bounty at the school to-day."
The mother's will was law (alas, for herThat hapless day, poor soul!)—shecould not err,Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane(Her namesake) to his heart he hugged again.When each had had her turn; she clinging soAs if that day she could not let him go.But Labor's sons must snatch a hasty blissIn nature's tenderest mood. One last fond kiss,"God bless my little maids!" the father said,And cheerily went his way to win their bread.Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone,What looks demure the sister pair put on,—Not of the mother as afraid, or shy,Or questioning the love that could deny;But simply, as their simple training taught,In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought(Submissively resigned the hope of play)Towards the serious business of the day.
To me there 's something touching, I confess,In the grave look of early thoughtfulness,Seen often in some little childish faceAmong the poor. Not that wherein we trace(Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!)The unnatural sufferings of the factory child.But a staid quietness, reflective, mild,Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes,Sense of life's cares, without its miseries.So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow,The docile Lizzy stood attentive now.Proud of her years and of the imputed sense,And prudence justifying confidence,—And little Jenny, more demurely still,Beside her waited the maternal will.So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twainGainsborough ne'er painted: no—nor he of Spain,Glorious Murillo!—and by contrast shownMore beautiful. The younger little one,With large blue eyes and silken ringlets fair,By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair,Sable and glossy as the raven's wing,And lustrous eyes as dark."Now, mind and bringJenny safe home," the mother said,—"don't stayTo pull a bough or berry by the way:And when you come to cross the ford, hold fastYour little sister's hand, till you 're quite past,—That plank's so crazy, and so slippery(If not o'erflowed) the stepping-stones will be.But you're good children—steady as old folk—I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak,A good gray duffle, lovingly she tied,And ample little Jenny's lack suppliedWith her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she,"To wrap it round and knot it carefully(Like this), when you come home, just leaving freeOne hand to hold by. Now, make haste away—Good will to school, and then good right to play."
Was there no sinking at the mother's heartWhen, all equipt, they turned them to depart?When down the lane she watched them as they wentTill out of sight, was no forefeeling sentOf coming ill? In truth I cannot tell:Such warningshave beensent, we know full wellAnd must believe—believing that they are—In mercy then—to rouse, restrain, prepare.
And now I mind me, something of the kindDid surely haunt that day the mother's mind,Making it irksome to bide all aloneBy her own quiet hearth. Though never knownFor idle gossipry was Jenny Gray,Yet so it was, that morn she could not stayAt home with her own thoughts, but took her wayTo her next neighbor's, half a loaf to borrow,—Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow,—And with the loan obtained, she lingered still.Said she, "My master, if he 'd had his will,Would have kept back our little ones from schoolThis dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool,Since they 've been gone, I 've wished them back.But thenIt won't do in such things to humor men,—Our Ambrose specially. If let aloneHe 'd spoil those wenches. But it 's coming on,That storm he said was brewing, sure enough,—Well! what of that? To think what idle stuffWill come into one's head! And here with youI stop, as if I 'd nothing else to do—And they 'll come home, drowned rats. I must be goneTo get dry things, and set the kettle on."
His day's work done, three mortal miles and more,Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door.A weary way, God wot, for weary wight!But yet far off the curling smoke in sightFrom his own chimney, and his heart felt light.How pleasantly the humble homestead stood,Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood!How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze,In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees,Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July,From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry,How grateful the cool covert to regainOf his own avenue,—that shady lane,With the white cottage, in the slanting glowOf sunset glory, gleaming bright below,And Jasmine porch, his rustic portico!
With what a thankful gladness in his face,(Silent heart-homage,—plant of special grace!)At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace,Would Ambrose send a loving look before,Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door;The very blackbird strained its little throat,In welcome, with a more rejoicing note;And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed,All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need,"Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear;But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear,The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells,Of his two little ones. How fondly swellsThe father's heart, as, dancing up the lane,Each clasps a hand in her small hand again,And each must tell her tale and "say her say,"Impeding as she leads with sweet delay(Childhood's blest thoughtlessness!) his onward way.And when the winter day closed in so fast;Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last;And in all weathers—driving sleet and snow—Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go,Darkling and lonely. O, the blessèd sight(His polestar) of that little twinkling lightFrom one small window, through the leafless trees,—Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but hisHad spied it so far off. And sure was he,Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see,Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour,Streaming to meet him from the open door.Then, though the blackbird's welcome was unheard,—Silenced by winter,—note of summer birdStill hailed him from no mortal fowl alive,But from the cuckoo clock just striking five.And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen,—Off started he, and then a form was seenDarkening the doorway: and a smaller sprite,And then another, peered into the night,Ready to follow free on Tinker's track,But for the mother's hand that held her back:And yet a moment—a few steps—and there,Pulled o'er the threshold by that eager pair,He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair;Tinker takes post beside with eyes that say,"Master, we've done our business for the day."The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs,The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs;The door's made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn;How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on!How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he?Safe housed and warm beneath his own roof-tree,With a wee lassie prattling on each knee.
Such was the hour—hour sacred and apart—Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart.Summer and winter, as his toil he plied,To him and his the literal doom applied,Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweetSo earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet,Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way;So specially it fared with Ambrose GrayThat time I tell of. He had worked all dayAt a great clearing; vigorous stroke on strokeStriking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke,And the strong arms dropt nerveless. What of that?There was a treasure hidden in his hat,—A plaything for the young ones. He had foundA dormouse nest; the living ball coiled roundFor its long winter sleep; and all his thought,As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naughtBut the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayerHard won, the frozen captive to their care.
'T was a wild evening,—wild and rough. "I knew,"Thought Ambrose, "those unlucky gulls spoke true,—And Gaffer Chewton never growls for naught,—I should be mortal 'mazed now if I thoughtMy little maids were not safe housed beforeThat blinding hail-storm,—ay, this hour and more,—Unless by that old crazy bit of board,They 've not passed dry-foot over Shallow ford,That I 'll be bound for,—swollen as it must be—Well! if my mistress had been ruled by me—"But, checking the half-thought as heresy,He looked out for the Home Star. There it shone,And with a gladdened heart he hastened on.
He 's in the lane again,—and there below,Streams from the open doorway that red glow,Which warms him but to look at. For his prizeCautious he feels,—all safe and snug it lies,—"Down, Tinker! down, old boy!—not quite so free,—The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.—But what 's the meaning? no lookout to-night!No living soul astir! Pray God, all 's right!Who 's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather?Mother!" you might have felled him with a feather,When the short answer to his loud "Hillo!"And hurried question, "Are they come?" was "No."
To throw his tools down, hastily unhookThe old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word,That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,Was but a moment's act, and he was goneTo where a fearful foresight led him on.Passing a neighbor's cottage in his way,—Mark Fenton's,—him he took with short delayTo bear him company,—for who could sayWhat need might be? They struck into the trackThe children should have taken coming backFrom school that day; and many a call and shoutInto the pitchy darkness they sent out,And, by the lantern light, peered all about,In every roadside thicket, hole, nook,Till suddenly—as nearing now the brook—Something brushed past them. That was Tinker's bark,—Unheeded, he had followed in the dark,Close at his master's heels; but, swift as light,Darted before them now. "Be sure he 's right,—He 's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the lightLow down,—he 's making for the water. Hark!I know that whine,—the old dog 's found them, Mark."So speaking, breathlessly he hurried onToward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!And all his dull contracted light could showWas the black void and dark swollen stream below."Yet there 's life somewhere,—more than Tinker's whine,—That 's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shineDown yonder. There's the dog,—and, hark!" "O dear!"And a low sob came faintly on the ear,Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caughtFast hold of something,—a dark huddled heap,—Half in the water, where 't was scarce knee-deepFor a tall man, and half above it, proppedBy some old ragged side-piles, that had stoptEndways the broken plank, when it gave wayWith the two little ones that luckless day!"My babes!—my lambkins!" was the father's cry.One little voicemade answer, "Here am I!"'T was Lizzy's. There she crouched with face as white,More ghastly by the flickering lantern-lightThan sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight,Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,And eyes on some dark object underneath,Washed by the turbid water, fixed as stone,—One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown,Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock.There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock,The doting father? Where 's the unriven rockCan bide such blasting in its flintiest partAs that soft sentient thing,—the human heart?
They lifted her from out her watery bed,—Its covering gone, the lovely little headHung like a broken snowdrop all aside;And one small hand,—the mother's shawl was tied,Leavingthatfree, about the child's small form,As was her last injunction—"fastand warm"—Too well obeyed,—too fast! A fatal holdAffording to the scrag by a thick foldThat caught and pinned her in the river's bed,While through the reckless water overheadHer life-breath bubbled up."She might have lived,Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rivedThe wretched mother's heart, when she knew all,"But for my foolishness about that shawl!And Master would have kept them back the day;But I was wilful,—driving them awayIn such wild weather!"Thus the tortured heartUnnaturally against itself takes part,Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woeToo deep already. They had raised her now,And parting the wet ringlets from her brow,To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold,The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolledOnce more the fatal shawl—her winding-sheet—About the precious clay. One heart still beat,Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only childHe turned him, but her piteous moaning mildPierced him afresh,—and now she knew him not."Mother!" she murmured, "who says I forgot?Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold,And tied the shawl quite close—she can't be cold—But she won't move—we slipt—I don't know how—But I held on—and I'm so weary now—And it's so dark and cold! O dear! O dear!—And she won't move;—if daddy was but here!"————
Poor lamb! she wandered in her mind, 't was clear;But soon the piteous murmur died away,And quiet in her father's arms she lay,—They their dead burden had resigned, to takeThe living, so near lost. For her dear sake,And one at home, he armed himself to bearHis misery like a man,—with tender careDoffing his coat her shivering form to fold(His neighbor bearing that which felt no cold),He clasped her close, and so, with little said,Homeward they bore the living and the dead.From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage all that nightShone fitfully a little shifting light,Above, below,—for all were watchers there,Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care,Parental watchfulness, availed not now.But in the young survivor's throbbing brow,And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned;And all night long from side to side she turned,Piteously plaining like a wounded dove,With now and then the murmur, "She won't move."And lo! when morning, as in mockery, brightShone on that pillow, passing strange the sight,—That young head's raven hair was streaked with white!No idle fiction this. Such things have been,We know. And nowI tell what I have seen.Life struggled long with death in that small frame,But it was strong, and conquered. All becameAs it had been with the poor family,—All, saving that which nevermore might be:There was an empty place,—they were but three.CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.
Poor lamb! she wandered in her mind, 't was clear;But soon the piteous murmur died away,And quiet in her father's arms she lay,—They their dead burden had resigned, to takeThe living, so near lost. For her dear sake,And one at home, he armed himself to bearHis misery like a man,—with tender careDoffing his coat her shivering form to fold(His neighbor bearing that which felt no cold),He clasped her close, and so, with little said,Homeward they bore the living and the dead.
From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage all that nightShone fitfully a little shifting light,Above, below,—for all were watchers there,Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care,Parental watchfulness, availed not now.But in the young survivor's throbbing brow,And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned;And all night long from side to side she turned,Piteously plaining like a wounded dove,With now and then the murmur, "She won't move."And lo! when morning, as in mockery, brightShone on that pillow, passing strange the sight,—That young head's raven hair was streaked with white!
No idle fiction this. Such things have been,We know. And nowI tell what I have seen.
Life struggled long with death in that small frame,But it was strong, and conquered. All becameAs it had been with the poor family,—All, saving that which nevermore might be:There was an empty place,—they were but three.
CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.
THE FATAL COAST-TIDE.
"The old sea-wall (he cryed) is downe!The rising tide comes on apace."—Jean Ingelow.—From a photogravure byBraun, Clement & Co.,after painting byG. Haquette.
"The old sea-wall (he cryed) is downe!The rising tide comes on apace."—Jean Ingelow.—From a photogravure byBraun, Clement & Co.,after painting byG. Haquette.
HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OFLINCOLNSHIRE. [TIME, 1571.]THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower,The ringers rang by two, by three;"Pull! if ye never pulled before;Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he."Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!Ply all your changes, all your swells!Play uppeThe Brides of Enderby!"Men say it was a "stolen tyde,"—The Lord that sent it, he knows all,But in myne ears doth still abideThe message that the bells let fall;And there was naught of strange, besideThe flights of mews and peewits pied,By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.I sat and spun within the doore;My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes:The level sun, like ruddy ore,Lay sinking in the barren skies;And dark against day's golden deathShe moved where Lindis wandereth,—My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth."Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,Ere the early dews were falling,Farre away I heard her song."Cusha! Cusha!" all along;Where the reedy Lindis floweth,Floweth, floweth,From the meads where melick groweth,Faintly came her milking-song."Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,"For the dews will soone be falling;Leave your meadow grasses mellow,Mellow, mellow!Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow!Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,Hollow, hollow!Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow;From the clovers lift your head!Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow,Jetty, to the milking-shed."If it be long—ay, long ago—When I beginne to think howe long,Againe I hear the Lindis flow,Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong;And all the aire, it seemeth mee,Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),That ring the tune ofEnderby.Alle fresh the level pasture lay,And not a shadowe mote be seene,Save where, full fyve good miles away,The steeple towered from out the greene.And lo! the great bell farre and wideWas heard in all the country sideThat Saturday at eventide.The swannerds, where their sedges are,Moved on in sunset's golden breath;The shepherde lads I heard afarre,And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;Till, floating o'er the grassy sea,Came downe that kyndly message free,The Brides of Mavis Enderby.Then some looked uppe into the sky,And all along where Lindis flowsTo where the goodly vessels lie,And where the lordly steeple shows.They sayde, "And why should this thing be,What danger lowers by land or sea?They ring the tune ofEnderby."For evil news from Mablethorpe,Of pyrate galleys, warping down,—For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,They have not spared to wake the towne;But while the west bin red to see,And storms be none, and pyrates flee,Why ringThe Brides of Enderby?"I looked without, and lo! my sonneCame riding downe with might and main;He raised a shout as he drew on,Till all the welkin rang again:"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)"The olde sea-wall (he cryed) is downe!The rising tide comes on apace;And boats adrift in yonder towneGo sailing uppe the market-place!"He shook as one that looks on death:"God save you, mother!" straight he sayth;"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?""Good sonne, where Lindis winds awayWith her two bairns I marked her long;And ere yon tells beganne to play,Afar I heard her milking-song."He looked across the grassy sea,To right, to left,Ho, Enderby!They rangThe Brides of Enderby.With that he cried and beat his breast;For lo! along the river's bedA mighty eygre reared his crest,And uppe the Lindis raging sped.It swept with thunderous noises loud,—Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,Or like a demon in a shroud.And rearing Lindis, backward pressed,Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;Then madly at the eygre's breastFlung uppe her weltering walls again.Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout,—Then beaten foam flew round about,—Then all the mighty floods were out.So farre, so fast, the eygre drave,The heart had hardly time to beatBefore a shallow seething waveSobbed in the grasses at oure feet:The feet had hardly time to fleeBefore it brake against the knee,—And all the world was in the sea.Upon the roofe we sate that night;The noise of bells went sweeping by;I marked the lofty beacon lightStream from the church-tower, red and high,—A lurid mark, and dread to see;And awsome bells they were to mee,That in the dark rangEnderby.They rang the sailor lads to guide,From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;And I,—my sonne was at my side,And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;And yet he moaned beneath his breath,"O, come in life, or come in death!O lost! my love, Elizabeth!"And didst thou visit him no more?Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare?The waters laid thee at his dooreEre yet the early dawn was clear:Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,The lifted sun shone on thy face,Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea,—fatal ebbe and flow, alas!To manye more than myne and mee;But each will mourne his own (she sayth)And sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.I shall never hear her moreBy the reedy Lindis shore,"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,Ere the early dews be falling;I shall never hear her song,"Cusha! Cusha!" all along,Where the sunny Lindis floweth,Goeth, floweth,From the meads where melick groweth,Where the water, winding down,Onward floweth to the town.I shall never see her more,Where the reeds and rushes quiver,Shiver, quiver,Stand beside the sobbing river,—Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,To the sandy, lonesome shore;I shall never hear her calling,"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,Mellow, mellow!Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow!Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,Hollow, hollow!Come uppe, Lightfoot! rise and follow;Lightfoot! Whitefoot!From your clovers lift the head;Come uppe, Jetty! follow, follow,Jetty, to the milking-shed!"JEAN INGELOW.
HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OFLINCOLNSHIRE. [TIME, 1571.]
THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower,The ringers rang by two, by three;"Pull! if ye never pulled before;Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he."Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!Ply all your changes, all your swells!Play uppeThe Brides of Enderby!"
Men say it was a "stolen tyde,"—The Lord that sent it, he knows all,But in myne ears doth still abideThe message that the bells let fall;And there was naught of strange, besideThe flights of mews and peewits pied,By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.
I sat and spun within the doore;My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes:The level sun, like ruddy ore,Lay sinking in the barren skies;And dark against day's golden deathShe moved where Lindis wandereth,—My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,Ere the early dews were falling,Farre away I heard her song."Cusha! Cusha!" all along;Where the reedy Lindis floweth,Floweth, floweth,From the meads where melick groweth,Faintly came her milking-song.
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,"For the dews will soone be falling;Leave your meadow grasses mellow,Mellow, mellow!Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow!Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,Hollow, hollow!Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow;From the clovers lift your head!Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow,Jetty, to the milking-shed."
If it be long—ay, long ago—When I beginne to think howe long,Againe I hear the Lindis flow,Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong;And all the aire, it seemeth mee,Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),That ring the tune ofEnderby.Alle fresh the level pasture lay,And not a shadowe mote be seene,Save where, full fyve good miles away,The steeple towered from out the greene.And lo! the great bell farre and wideWas heard in all the country sideThat Saturday at eventide.
The swannerds, where their sedges are,Moved on in sunset's golden breath;The shepherde lads I heard afarre,And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;Till, floating o'er the grassy sea,Came downe that kyndly message free,The Brides of Mavis Enderby.
Then some looked uppe into the sky,And all along where Lindis flowsTo where the goodly vessels lie,And where the lordly steeple shows.They sayde, "And why should this thing be,What danger lowers by land or sea?They ring the tune ofEnderby.
"For evil news from Mablethorpe,Of pyrate galleys, warping down,—For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,They have not spared to wake the towne;But while the west bin red to see,And storms be none, and pyrates flee,Why ringThe Brides of Enderby?"
I looked without, and lo! my sonneCame riding downe with might and main;He raised a shout as he drew on,Till all the welkin rang again:"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)
"The olde sea-wall (he cryed) is downe!The rising tide comes on apace;And boats adrift in yonder towneGo sailing uppe the market-place!"He shook as one that looks on death:"God save you, mother!" straight he sayth;"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"
"Good sonne, where Lindis winds awayWith her two bairns I marked her long;And ere yon tells beganne to play,Afar I heard her milking-song."He looked across the grassy sea,To right, to left,Ho, Enderby!They rangThe Brides of Enderby.
With that he cried and beat his breast;For lo! along the river's bedA mighty eygre reared his crest,And uppe the Lindis raging sped.It swept with thunderous noises loud,—Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis, backward pressed,Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;Then madly at the eygre's breastFlung uppe her weltering walls again.Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout,—Then beaten foam flew round about,—Then all the mighty floods were out.
So farre, so fast, the eygre drave,The heart had hardly time to beatBefore a shallow seething waveSobbed in the grasses at oure feet:The feet had hardly time to fleeBefore it brake against the knee,—And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sate that night;The noise of bells went sweeping by;I marked the lofty beacon lightStream from the church-tower, red and high,—A lurid mark, and dread to see;And awsome bells they were to mee,That in the dark rangEnderby.
They rang the sailor lads to guide,From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;And I,—my sonne was at my side,And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;And yet he moaned beneath his breath,"O, come in life, or come in death!O lost! my love, Elizabeth!"
And didst thou visit him no more?Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare?The waters laid thee at his dooreEre yet the early dawn was clear:Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,The lifted sun shone on thy face,Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea,—fatal ebbe and flow, alas!To manye more than myne and mee;But each will mourne his own (she sayth)And sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her moreBy the reedy Lindis shore,"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,Ere the early dews be falling;I shall never hear her song,"Cusha! Cusha!" all along,Where the sunny Lindis floweth,Goeth, floweth,From the meads where melick groweth,Where the water, winding down,Onward floweth to the town.
I shall never see her more,Where the reeds and rushes quiver,Shiver, quiver,Stand beside the sobbing river,—Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,To the sandy, lonesome shore;I shall never hear her calling,"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,Mellow, mellow!Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow!Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,Hollow, hollow!Come uppe, Lightfoot! rise and follow;Lightfoot! Whitefoot!From your clovers lift the head;Come uppe, Jetty! follow, follow,Jetty, to the milking-shed!"
JEAN INGELOW.
RIZPAH.17—.I.Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea—And Willy's voice in the wind, "O mother, come out to me."Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot go?For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares at the snow.II.We should be seen, my dear; they would spy us out of the town.The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the down,When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain,And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drenched with the rain.III.Anything fallen again? nay—what was there left to fall?I have taken them home, I have numbered the bones,I have hidden them all.What am I saying? and what areyou? do you come as a spy?Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so must it lie.IV.Who let her in? how long has she been? you—what have you heard?Why did you sit so quiet? you never have spoken a word.O—to pray with me—yes—a lady—none of their spies—But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken my eyes.V.Ah—you, that have lived so soft, what shouldyouknow of the night,The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost and the fright?I have done it, while you were asleep—you were only made for the day.I have gathered my baby together—and now you may go your way.VI.Nay—for it's kind of you, Madam, to sit by an old dying wife.But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour of life.I kissed my boy in the prison, before he went out to die."They dared me to do it," he said, and he never has told me a lie.I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was but a child—"The farmer dared me to do it," he said; he was always so wild—And idle—and couldn't be idle—my Willy—he never could rest.The King should have made him a soldier, he would have been one of his best.VII.But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would let him be good;They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that he would:And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was doneHe flung it among his fellows—I'll none of it, said my son.VIII.I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told them my tale,God's own truth—but they killed him, they killed him for robbing the mail.They hanged him in chains for a show—we had always borne a good name—To be hanged for a thief—and then put away—isn't that enough shame?Dust to dust—low down—let us hide! but they set him so highThat all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by.God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the air,But not the black heart of the lawyer who killed him and hanged him there.IX.And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last good-bye;They had fastened the door of his cell. "O mother!" I heard him cry.I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something further to say,And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away.X.Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy that was dead,They seized me and shut me up: they fastened me down on my bed."Mother, O mother!"—he called in the dark to me year after year—They beat me for that, they beat me—you know that I couldn't but hear;And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and stillThey let me abroad again—but the creatures had worked their will.XI.Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was left—I stole them all from the lawyers—and you, will you call it a theft?—My baby, the bones that had sucked me, the bones that had laughed and had cried—Theirs? O no! they are mine—not theirs—they had moved in my side.XII.Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kissed 'em, I buried 'em all—I can't dig deep, I am old—in the night by the churchyard wall.My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment 'ill sound,But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground.XIII.They would scratch him up—they would hang him again on the cursèd tree.Sin? O yes—we are sinners, I know—let all that be,And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good will toward men—"Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord"—let me hear it again;"Full of compassion and mercy—long-suffering." Yes, O yes!For the lawyer is born but to murder—the Saviour lives but to bless.He'll never put on the black cap except for the worst of the worst,And the first may be last—I have heard it in church—and the last may be first.Suffering—O long-suffering—yes, as the Lord must know,Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and the snow.XIV.Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never repented his sin.How do they know it? aretheyhis mother? are you of his kin?Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began,The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea that 'ill moan like a man?XV.Election, Election and Reprobation—it's all very well.But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell.For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has looked into my care,And He means me I'm sure to be happy with Willy, I know not where.XVI.And ifhebe lost—but to savemysoul, that is all your desire:Do you think that I care formysoul if my boy be gone to the fire?I have been with God in the dark—go, go, you may leave me alone—You never have borne a child—you are just as hard as a stone.XVII.Madam, I beg your pardon! I think that you mean to be kind,But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice in the wind—The snow and the sky so bright—he used but to call in the dark,And he calls to me now from the church and not from the gibbet—for hark!Nay—you can hear it yourself—it is coming—shaking the walls—Willy—the moon's in a cloud—Good night. I am going. He calls.ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
RIZPAH.17—.I.
Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea—And Willy's voice in the wind, "O mother, come out to me."Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot go?For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares at the snow.
II.We should be seen, my dear; they would spy us out of the town.The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the down,When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain,And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drenched with the rain.
III.Anything fallen again? nay—what was there left to fall?I have taken them home, I have numbered the bones,I have hidden them all.What am I saying? and what areyou? do you come as a spy?Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so must it lie.
IV.Who let her in? how long has she been? you—what have you heard?Why did you sit so quiet? you never have spoken a word.O—to pray with me—yes—a lady—none of their spies—But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken my eyes.
V.Ah—you, that have lived so soft, what shouldyouknow of the night,The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost and the fright?I have done it, while you were asleep—you were only made for the day.I have gathered my baby together—and now you may go your way.
VI.Nay—for it's kind of you, Madam, to sit by an old dying wife.But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour of life.I kissed my boy in the prison, before he went out to die."They dared me to do it," he said, and he never has told me a lie.I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was but a child—"The farmer dared me to do it," he said; he was always so wild—And idle—and couldn't be idle—my Willy—he never could rest.The King should have made him a soldier, he would have been one of his best.
VII.But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would let him be good;They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that he would:And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was doneHe flung it among his fellows—I'll none of it, said my son.
VIII.I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told them my tale,God's own truth—but they killed him, they killed him for robbing the mail.They hanged him in chains for a show—we had always borne a good name—To be hanged for a thief—and then put away—isn't that enough shame?Dust to dust—low down—let us hide! but they set him so highThat all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by.God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the air,But not the black heart of the lawyer who killed him and hanged him there.
IX.And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last good-bye;They had fastened the door of his cell. "O mother!" I heard him cry.I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something further to say,And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away.
X.Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy that was dead,They seized me and shut me up: they fastened me down on my bed."Mother, O mother!"—he called in the dark to me year after year—They beat me for that, they beat me—you know that I couldn't but hear;And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and stillThey let me abroad again—but the creatures had worked their will.
XI.Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was left—I stole them all from the lawyers—and you, will you call it a theft?—My baby, the bones that had sucked me, the bones that had laughed and had cried—Theirs? O no! they are mine—not theirs—they had moved in my side.
XII.Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kissed 'em, I buried 'em all—I can't dig deep, I am old—in the night by the churchyard wall.My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment 'ill sound,But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground.
XIII.They would scratch him up—they would hang him again on the cursèd tree.Sin? O yes—we are sinners, I know—let all that be,And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good will toward men—"Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord"—let me hear it again;"Full of compassion and mercy—long-suffering." Yes, O yes!For the lawyer is born but to murder—the Saviour lives but to bless.He'll never put on the black cap except for the worst of the worst,And the first may be last—I have heard it in church—and the last may be first.Suffering—O long-suffering—yes, as the Lord must know,Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and the snow.
XIV.Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never repented his sin.How do they know it? aretheyhis mother? are you of his kin?Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began,The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea that 'ill moan like a man?
XV.Election, Election and Reprobation—it's all very well.But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell.For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has looked into my care,And He means me I'm sure to be happy with Willy, I know not where.
XVI.And ifhebe lost—but to savemysoul, that is all your desire:Do you think that I care formysoul if my boy be gone to the fire?I have been with God in the dark—go, go, you may leave me alone—You never have borne a child—you are just as hard as a stone.
XVII.Madam, I beg your pardon! I think that you mean to be kind,But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice in the wind—The snow and the sky so bright—he used but to call in the dark,And he calls to me now from the church and not from the gibbet—for hark!Nay—you can hear it yourself—it is coming—shaking the walls—Willy—the moon's in a cloud—Good night. I am going. He calls.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.