Theyhad long met o’ Zundays—her true love and she—And at junketings, maypoles, and flings;But she bode wi’ a thirtover uncle, and heSwore by noon and by night that her goodman should beNaibour Sweatley—a gaffer oft weak at the kneeFrom taking o’ sommat more cheerful than tea—Who tranted, and moved people’s things.
She cried, “O pray pity me!” Nought would he hear;Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed.She chid when her Love was for clinking off wi’ her.The pa’son was told, as the season drew nearTo throw over pu’pit the names of the peäirAs fitting one flesh to be made.
The wedding-day dawned and the morning drew on;The couple stood bridegroom and bride;The evening was passed, and when midnight had goneThe folks horned out, “God save the King,” and anonThe two home-along gloomily hied.
The lover Tim Tankens mourned heart-sick and drearTo be thus of his darling deprived:He roamed in the dark ath’art field, mound, and mere,And, a’most without knowing it, found himself nearThe house of the tranter, and now of his Dear,Where the lantern-light showed ’em arrived.
The bride sought her cham’er so calm and so paleThat a Northern had thought her resigned;But to eyes that had seen her in tide-times of weal,Like the white cloud o’ smoke, the red battle-field’s vail,That look spak’ of havoc behind.
The bridegroom yet laitered a beaker to drain,Then reeled to the linhay for more,When the candle-snoff kindled some chaff from his grain—Flames spread, and red vlankers, wi’ might and wi’ main,And round beams, thatch, and chimley-tun roar.
Young Tim away yond, rafted up by the light,Through brimble and underwood tears,Till he comes to the orchet, when crooping thererightIn the lewth of a codlin-tree, bivering wi’ fright,Wi’ on’y her night-rail to screen her from sight,His lonesome young Barbree appears.
Her cwold little figure half-naked he viewsPlayed about by the frolicsome breeze,Her light-tripping totties, her ten little tooes,All bare and besprinkled wi’ Fall’s chilly dews,While her great gallied eyes, through her hair hanging loose,Sheened as stars through a tardle o’ trees.
She eyed en; and, as when a weir-hatch is drawn,Her tears, penned by terror afore,With a rushing of sobs in a shower were strawn,Till her power to pour ’em seemed wasted and goneFrom the heft o’ misfortune she bore.
“O Tim, myownTim I must call ’ee—I will!All the world ha’ turned round on me so!Can you help her who loved ’ee, though acting so ill?Can you pity her misery—feel for her still?When worse than her body so quivering and chillIs her heart in its winter o’ woe!
“I think I mid almost ha’ borne it,” she said,“Had my griefs one by one come to hand;But O, to be slave to thik husbird for bread,And then, upon top o’ that, driven to wed,And then, upon top o’ that, burnt out o’ bed,Is more than my nater can stand!”
Tim’s soul like a lion ’ithin en outsprung—(Tim had a great soul when his feelings were wrung)—“Feel for ’ee, dear Barbree?” he cried;And his warm working-jacket about her he flung,Made a back, horsed her up, till behind him she clungLike a chiel on a gipsy, her figure uphungBy the sleeves that around her he tied.
Over piggeries, and mixens, and apples, and hay,They lumpered straight into the night;And finding bylong where a halter-path lay,At dawn reached Tim’s house, on’y seen on their wayBy a naibour or two who were up wi’ the day;But they gathered no clue to the sight.
Then tender Tim Tankens he searched here and thereFor some garment to clothe her fair skin;But though he had breeches and waistcoats to spare,He had nothing quite seemly for Barbree to wear,Who, half shrammed to death, stood and cried on a chairAt the caddle she found herself in.
There was one thing to do, and that one thing he did,He lent her some clouts of his own,And she took ’em perforce; and while in ’em she slid,Tim turned to the winder, as modesty bid,Thinking, “O that the picter my duty keeps hidTo the sight o’ my eyes mid be shown!”
In the tallet he stowed her; there huddied she lay,Shortening sleeves, legs, and tails to her limbs;But most o’ the time in a mortal bad way,Well knowing that there’d be the divel to payIf ’twere found that, instead o’ the elements’ prey,She was living in lodgings at Tim’s.
“Where’s the tranter?” said men and boys; “where can er be?”“Where’s the tranter?” said Barbree alone.“Where on e’th is the tranter?” said everybod-y:They sifted the dust of his perished roof-tree,And all they could find was a bone.
Then the uncle cried, “Lord, pray have mercy on me!”And in terror began to repent.But before ’twas complete, and till sure she was free,Barbree drew up her loft-ladder, tight turned her key—Tim bringing up breakfast and dinner and tea—Till the news of her hiding got vent.
Then followed the custom-kept rout, shout, and flareOf a skimmington-ride through the naibourhood, ereFolk had proof o’ wold Sweatley’s decay.Whereupon decent people all stood in a stare,Saying Tim and his lodger should risk it, and pair:So he took her to church. An’ some laughing lads thereCried to Tim, “After Sweatley!” She said, “I declareI stand as a maiden to-day!”
Written1866;printed1875.
Shesought the Studios, beckoning to her sideAn arch-designer, for she planned to build.He was of wise contrivance, deeply skilledIn every intervolve of high and wide—Well fit to be her guide.
“Whatever it be,”Responded he,With cold, clear voice, and cold, clear view,“In true accord with prudent fashioningsFor such vicissitudes as living brings,And thwarting not the law of stable things,That will I do.”
“Shape me,” she said, “high halls with traceryAnd open ogive-work, that scent and hueOf buds, and travelling bees, may come in through,The note of birds, and singings of the sea,For these are much to me.”
“An idle whim!”Broke forth from himWhom nought could warm to gallantries:“Cede all these buds and birds, the zephyr’s call,And scents, and hues, and things that falter all,And choose as best the close and surly wall,For winters freeze.”
Sketch of people carrying a large object up stairs
“Then frame,” she cried, “wide fronts of crystal glass,That I may show my laughter and my light—Light like the sun’s by day, the stars’ by night—Till rival heart-queens, envying, wail, ‘Alas,Her glory!’ as they pass.”
“O maid misled!”He sternly said,Whose facile foresight pierced her dire;“Where shall abide the soul when, sick of glee,It shrinks, and hides, and prays no eye may see?Those house them best who house for secrecy,For you will tire.”
“A little chamber, then, with swan and doveRanged thickly, and engrailed with rare deviceOf reds and purples, for a ParadiseWherein my Love may greet me, I my Love,When he shall know thereof?”
“This, too, is ill,”He answered still,The man who swayed her like a shade.“An hour will come when sight of such sweet nookWould bring a bitterness too sharp to brook,When brighter eyes have won away his look;For you will fade.”
Then said she faintly: “O, contrive some way—Some narrow winding turret, quite mine own,To reach a loft where I may grieve alone!It is a slight thing; hence do not, I pray,This last dear fancy slay!”
“Such winding waysFit not your days,”Said he, the man of measuring eye;“I must even fashion as my rule declares,To wit: Give space (since life ends unawares)To hale a coffined corpse adown the stairs;For you will die.”
1867.
Therewere two youths of equal age,Wit, station, strength, and parentage;They studied at the selfsame schools,And shaped their thoughts by common rules.
One pondered on the life of man,His hopes, his ending, and beganTo rate the Market’s sordid warAs something scarce worth living for.
“I’ll brace to higher aims,” said he,“I’ll further Truth and Purity;Thereby to mend the mortal lotAnd sweeten sorrow. Thrive I not,
“Winning their hearts, my kind will giveEnough that I may lowly live,And house my Love in some dim dell,For pleasing them and theirs so well.”
Idly attired, with features wan,In secret swift he laboured on:Such press of power had brought much goldApplied to things of meaner mould.
Sometimes he wished his aims had beenTo gather gains like other men;Then thanked his God he’d traced his trackToo far for wish to drag him back.
He lookèd from his loft one dayTo where his slighted garden lay;Nettles and hemlock hid each lawn,And every flower was starved and gone.
He fainted in his heart, whereonHe rose, and sought his plighted one,Resolved to loose her bond withal,Lest she should perish in his fall.
He met her with a careless air,As though he’d ceased to find her fair,And said: “True love is dust to me;I cannot kiss: I tire of thee!”
(That she might scorn him was he fain,To put her sooner out of pain;For incensed love breathes quick and dies,When famished love a-lingering lies.)
Once done, his soul was so betossed,It found no more the force it lost:Hope was his only drink and food,And hope extinct, decay ensued.
And, living long so closely penned,He had not kept a single friend;He dwindled thin as phantoms be,And drooped to death in poverty . . .
Meantime his schoolmate had gone outTo join the fortune-finding rout;He liked the winnings of the mart,But wearied of the working part.
He turned to seek a privy lair,Neglecting note of garb and hair,And day by day reclined and thoughtHow he might live by doing nought.
“I plan a valued scheme,” he saidTo some. “But lend me of your bread,And when the vast result looms nigh,In profit you shall stand as I.”
Yet they took counsel to restrainTheir kindness till they saw the gain;And, since his substance now had run,He rose to do what might be done.
He went unto his Love by night,And said: “My Love, I faint in fight:Deserving as thou dost a crown,My cares shall never drag thee down.”
(He had descried a maid whose lineWould hand her on much corn and wine,And held her far in worth aboveOne who could only pray and love.)
But this Fair read him; whence he failedTo do the deed so blithely hailed;He saw his projects wholly marred,And gloom and want oppressed him hard;
Till, living to so mean an end,Whereby he’d lost his every friend,He perished in a pauper sty,His mate the dying pauper nigh.
And moralists, reflecting, said,As “dust to dust” in burial readWas echoed from each coffin-lid,“These men were like in all they did.”
1866.
Spoken by MissAda Rehanat the Lyceum Theatre,July23, 1890,at a performance on behalf of Lady Jeune’s Holiday Fund for City Children.
Beforewe part to alien thoughts and aims,Permit the one brief word the occasion claims:—When mumming and grave projects are allied,Perhaps an Epilogue is justified.
Our under-purpose has, in truth, to-dayCommanded most our musings; least the play:A purpose futile but for your good-willSwiftly responsive to the cry of ill:A purpose all too limited!—to aidFrail human flowerets, sicklied by the shade,In winning some short spell of upland breeze,Or strengthening sunlight on the level leas.
Who has not marked, where the full cheek should be,Incipient lines of lank flaccidity,Lymphatic pallor where the pink should glow,And where the throb of transport, pulses low?—Most tragical of shapes from Pole to Line,O wondering child, unwitting Time’s design,Why should Art add to Nature’s quandary,And worsen ill by thus immuring thee?—That races do despite unto their own,That Might supernal do indeed condoneWrongs individual for the general ease,Instance the proof in victims such as these.
Launched into thoroughfares too thronged before,Mothered by those whose protest is “No more!”Vitalized without option: who shall sayThat did Life hang on choosing—Yea or Nay—They had not scorned it with such penalty,And nothingness implored of Destiny?
And yet behind the horizon smile sereneThe down, the cornland, and the stretching green—Space—the child’s heaven: scenes which at least ensureSome palliative for ill they cannot cure.
Dear friends—now moved by this poor show of oursTo make your own long joy in buds and bowersFor one brief while the joy of infant eyes,Changing their urban murk to paradise—You have our thanks!—may your reward includeMore than our thanks, far more: their gratitude.
Ilookinto my glass,And view my wasting skin,And say, “Would God it came to passMy heart had shrunk as thin!”
For then, I, undistrestBy hearts grown cold to me,Could lonely wait my endless restWith equanimity.
But Time, to make me grieve;Part steals, lets part abide;And shakes this fragile frame at eveWith throbbings of noontide.