Flower Pieces and other poems By William Allingham: With two designs by Dante Gabriel Rossetti |
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| BALLADS, Etc.
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 | Flower Pieces and other poems |  |
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BALLADS, Etc.
121
LADY ALICE.
I.
Now what doth Lady Alice so late on the turret stair,
Without a lamp to light her, but the diamond in her hair,
When every arching passage overflows with shallow gloom,
And dreams float through the castle, into every silent room?
Without a lamp to light her, but the diamond in her hair,
When every arching passage overflows with shallow gloom,
And dreams float through the castle, into every silent room?
She trembles at her footsteps, altho' they fall so light;
Through the turret loopholes she sees the wild midnight;
Broken vapours streaming across the stormy sky;
Down the empty corridors the blast doth moan and cry.
Through the turret loopholes she sees the wild midnight;
Broken vapours streaming across the stormy sky;
Down the empty corridors the blast doth moan and cry.
She steals along a gallery; she pauses by a door;
And fast her tears are dropping down upon the oaken floor;
And thrice she seems returning—but thrice she turns again:—
How heavy lies the cloud of sleep on that old father's brain!
And fast her tears are dropping down upon the oaken floor;
And thrice she seems returning—but thrice she turns again:—
How heavy lies the cloud of sleep on that old father's brain!
122
Oh, well it were that never shouldst thou waken from thy sleep!
For wherefore should they waken, who waken but to weep?
No more, no more beside thy bed doth Peace a vigil keep,
But Woe,—a lion that awaits thy rousing for its leap.
For wherefore should they waken, who waken but to weep?
No more, no more beside thy bed doth Peace a vigil keep,
But Woe,—a lion that awaits thy rousing for its leap.
II.
An afternoon of April, no sun appears on high,
But a moist and yellow lustre fills the deepness of the sky:
And through the castle-gateway, left empty and forlorn,
Along the leafless avenue an honour'd bier is borne.
But a moist and yellow lustre fills the deepness of the sky:
And through the castle-gateway, left empty and forlorn,
Along the leafless avenue an honour'd bier is borne.
They stop. The long line closes up like some gigantic worm;
A Shape is standing in the path, a wan and ghost-like form,
Which gazes fixedly; nor moves, nor utters any sound;
Then, like a statue built of snow, sinks noiseless to the ground.
A Shape is standing in the path, a wan and ghost-like form,
Which gazes fixedly; nor moves, nor utters any sound;
Then, like a statue built of snow, sinks noiseless to the ground.
And tho' her clothes are ragged, and tho' her feet are bare,
And tho' all wild and tangled falls her heavy silk-brown hair;
Tho' from her eyes the brightness, from her cheeks the bloom is fled,
They know their Lady Alice, the darling of the dead.
And tho' all wild and tangled falls her heavy silk-brown hair;
Tho' from her eyes the brightness, from her cheeks the bloom is fled,
They know their Lady Alice, the darling of the dead.
123
With silence in her own old room the fainting form they lay,
Where all things stand unalter'd since the night she fled away:
But who—but who—shall bring to life her father from the clay?
But who shall give her back again her heart of a former day?
Where all things stand unalter'd since the night she fled away:
But who—but who—shall bring to life her father from the clay?
But who shall give her back again her heart of a former day?
124
KING HENRY'S HUNT.
Waltham was, in the time of Henry VIII., a woody district, which included the present Epping Forest. The tradition of this particular hunt is traceable up to the time of Elizabeth. It has been sometimes claimed for Richmond Park, but, so far as I know, against both evidence and probability.
King Henry stood in Waltham Wood,
One morn in merry May-time;
Years fifteen hundred thirty-six,
From Christ, had roll'd away time.
One morn in merry May-time;
Years fifteen hundred thirty-six,
From Christ, had roll'd away time.
King Henry stood in Waltham Wood,
All young green, sunny-shady.
He would not mount his pawing horse,
Tho' men and dogs were ready.
All young green, sunny-shady.
He would not mount his pawing horse,
Tho' men and dogs were ready.
‘What ails his Highness? Up and down
In moody sort he paceth;
He is not wont to be so slack,
Whatever game he chaseth.’
In moody sort he paceth;
He is not wont to be so slack,
Whatever game he chaseth.’
He paced and stopp'd; he paced and turn'd;
At times he inly mutter'd;
He pull'd his girdle, twitch'd his beard;
But not one word he utter'd.
At times he inly mutter'd;
He pull'd his girdle, twitch'd his beard;
But not one word he utter'd.
The hounds in couples nosed about,
Or on the sward lay idle;
The huntsmen stole a fearful glance,
While fingering girth or bridle.
Or on the sward lay idle;
The huntsmen stole a fearful glance,
While fingering girth or bridle.
Among themselves, but not too loud,
The young lords laugh'd and chatter'd
Or broke a branch of hawthorn-bloom,
As tho' it nothing matter'd.
The young lords laugh'd and chatter'd
Or broke a branch of hawthorn-bloom,
As tho' it nothing matter'd.
125
King Henry sat on a fell'd oak,
With gloomier eyes and stranger;
His brows were knit, his lip he bit;
To look that way was danger.
With gloomier eyes and stranger;
His brows were knit, his lip he bit;
To look that way was danger.
Mused he on Pope and Emperor?
Denied them and defied them?
Or traitors in his very realm
Complotting?—woe betide them!
Denied them and defied them?
Or traitors in his very realm
Complotting?—woe betide them!
Suddenly on the southern breeze,
Distinct though distant, sounded
A cannon shot,—and to his feet
The King of England bounded.
Distinct though distant, sounded
A cannon shot,—and to his feet
The King of England bounded.
‘My horse!’ he shouts,—‘Uncouple now!’
And all were quickly mounted.
A hind was found; man, horse, and hound
Like furious demons hunted.
And all were quickly mounted.
A hind was found; man, horse, and hound
Like furious demons hunted.
Fast fled the deer by grove and glade,
The chase did faster follow;
And every wild-wood alley rang
With hunter's horn and hollo.
The chase did faster follow;
And every wild-wood alley rang
With hunter's horn and hollo.
Away together stream'd the hounds;
Forward press'd every rider.
You're free to slay a hind in May,
If there's no fawn beside her.
Forward press'd every rider.
You're free to slay a hind in May,
If there's no fawn beside her.
King Harry rode a mighty horse,
His Grace being broad and heavy,
And like a stormy wind he crash'd
Through copse and thicket leavy.
His Grace being broad and heavy,
And like a stormy wind he crash'd
Through copse and thicket leavy.
He rode so hard, and roar'd so loud,
All men his course avoided;
The fiery steed, long held on fret,
With many a snort enjoy'd it.
All men his course avoided;
The fiery steed, long held on fret,
With many a snort enjoy'd it.
126
The hind was kill'd, and down they sat
To tankard and to pasty.
‘Ha, by Saint George, a noble Prince!
Tho' hot, by times, and hasty.’
To tankard and to pasty.
‘Ha, by Saint George, a noble Prince!
Tho' hot, by times, and hasty.’
Lord Norfolk knew, and other few,
Wherefore that chase began on
The signal of a gun far off,
One growl of distant cannon,—
Wherefore that chase began on
The signal of a gun far off,
One growl of distant cannon,—
And why so jovial grew his Grace,
That erst was sad and sullen.
With that boom from the Tower, had fall'n
The head of fair Anne Bullen.
That erst was sad and sullen.
With that boom from the Tower, had fall'n
The head of fair Anne Bullen.
Her neck, which Henry used to kiss,
The bloody axe did sever;
Their little child, Elizabeth,
She'll see no more for ever.
The bloody axe did sever;
Their little child, Elizabeth,
She'll see no more for ever.
Gaily the King rides west away;
Each moment makes his glee more;
To-morrow brings his wedding-day
With beautiful Jane Seymour.
Each moment makes his glee more;
To-morrow brings his wedding-day
With beautiful Jane Seymour.
The sunshine falls, the wild-bird calls,
Across the slopes of Epping;
From grove to glade, through light and shade,
The troops of deer are stepping.
Across the slopes of Epping;
From grove to glade, through light and shade,
The troops of deer are stepping.
127
THE TOUCHSTONE.
Mr. Emerson conferred a dignity on this poem by reciting it in his oration on John Brown's execution. It was printed as his in a great number of American newspapers.
A man there came, whence none could tell,
Bearing a Touchstone in his hand;
And tested all things in the land
By its unerring spell.
Bearing a Touchstone in his hand;
And tested all things in the land
By its unerring spell.
Quick birth of transmutation smote
The fair to foul, the foul to fair;
Purple nor ermine did he spare,
Nor scorn the dusty coat.
The fair to foul, the foul to fair;
Purple nor ermine did he spare,
Nor scorn the dusty coat.
Of heirloom jewels, prized so much,
Were many changed to chips and clods,
And even statues of the Gods
Crumbled beneath its touch.
Were many changed to chips and clods,
And even statues of the Gods
Crumbled beneath its touch.
Then angrily the people cried,
‘The loss outweighs the profit far;
Our goods suffice us as they are;
We will not have them tried.’
‘The loss outweighs the profit far;
Our goods suffice us as they are;
We will not have them tried.’
And since they could not so prevail
To check his unrelenting quest,
They seized him, saying—‘Let him test
How real it is, our jail!’
To check his unrelenting quest,
They seized him, saying—‘Let him test
How real it is, our jail!’
But, tho' they slew him with the sword,
And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd,
Its doings could not be o'erturn'd,
Its undoings restored.
And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd,
Its doings could not be o'erturn'd,
Its undoings restored.
128
And when, to stop all future harm,
They strew'd its ashes on the breeze;
They little guess'd each grain of these
Convey'd the perfect charm.
They strew'd its ashes on the breeze;
They little guess'd each grain of these
Convey'd the perfect charm.
North, south, in rings and amulets,
Throughout the crowded world 'tis borne;
Which, as a fashion long outworn,
Its ancient mind forgets.
Throughout the crowded world 'tis borne;
Which, as a fashion long outworn,
Its ancient mind forgets.
129
THREE FLOWERS.
I
A pilgrim light for travel boundTrips through a gay parterre,
The cool fresh dewdrops on the ground
The lark's song in the air.
One Bud, where free of cloud or mist
Heav'n's colour doth unfold,
He claims with joy, hath fondly kiss'd,
And next his heart will hold,—
How happy! might the tender thing,
The blue delightful blossom,
But keep the sweetness of its Spring,
Nor wither in his bosom.
II
He strides along through cultured fieldsBy manly contest won,
Enjoys the sylvan bow'r that shields
From rage of noontide sun;
But see the rich red Bloom!—for this,
Come good or evil hap,
He climbs the slippery precipice,
To set it in his cap;
Then forward, forward, proudly flies,
Too swift and proud for heeding
How leaf by leaf his vaunted prize
Is scatter'd in the speeding.
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III
On moorland now he wends his way,The heather far and near
Steep'd in the solemn sinking day
And the sad waning year.
His bent regard descries a Flow'r,
White as a hill of snow,
Whose subtle fragrancy hath pow'r
To bring him kneeling low.
He takes the Flow'r. He drops asleep,
The dropping sun to face him.
Roll on above, thou starry deep!
Night-shadow doth embrace him.
131
THE WONDROUS WELL.
From north and south and east and west,
Four Pilgrims gain'd a mountain crest,
Each vow'd to search the wide world round,
Until the Wondrous Well be found;
For in this place, as old songs tell,
Shine sun and moon on that pure Well;
And now, the lonely crag their seat,
The water rises at their feet.
Four Pilgrims gain'd a mountain crest,
Each vow'd to search the wide world round,
Until the Wondrous Well be found;
For in this place, as old songs tell,
Shine sun and moon on that pure Well;
And now, the lonely crag their seat,
The water rises at their feet.
Said One, ‘This Well is small and mean,
Too petty for a village-green.’
Another said, ‘So smooth and dumb—
From earth's deep centre can it come?’
The Third, ‘This water's nothing rare,
Hueless and savourless as air.’
The Fourth, ‘A Fane I look'd to see:
Where the true Well is, that must be.’
Too petty for a village-green.’
Another said, ‘So smooth and dumb—
From earth's deep centre can it come?’
The Third, ‘This water's nothing rare,
Hueless and savourless as air.’
The Fourth, ‘A Fane I look'd to see:
Where the true Well is, that must be.’
They rose and left the lofty crest,
Went north, and south, and east, and west;
Through many seas and deserts wide
They wander'd, thirsting, till they died;
Because no other water can
Assuage the deepest thirst of man.
—Shepherds who by the mountain dwell,
Dip their pitchers in that Well.
Went north, and south, and east, and west;
Through many seas and deserts wide
They wander'd, thirsting, till they died;
Because no other water can
Assuage the deepest thirst of man.
—Shepherds who by the mountain dwell,
Dip their pitchers in that Well.
132
BLACK NIGHT.
A wayfarer on the wold,
Black the air and the ground;
On he goes through the dark,
Over marsh and mound.
Like death-bell, his heart has toll'd
One groan, no other sound:
He has fall'n from a verge,—he lies . . . stark!
And a creeping wind on the wold
Whistles through pitch-black air
For Will o' the Wisp to hold
His flickering lantern there,
Where the moveless Face lies bare,
With sightless eyes a-stare.
But the wind is not so bold
As to touch the blood-wet hair.
Black the air and the ground;
On he goes through the dark,
Over marsh and mound.
Like death-bell, his heart has toll'd
One groan, no other sound:
He has fall'n from a verge,—he lies . . . stark!
And a creeping wind on the wold
Whistles through pitch-black air
For Will o' the Wisp to hold
His flickering lantern there,
Where the moveless Face lies bare,
With sightless eyes a-stare.
But the wind is not so bold
As to touch the blood-wet hair.
Merely a fireside fancy?—No,
A thing that happen'd, years ago,
On this very moor,
Nigh this very door.
Draw the window curtains close,
Blackest night is round the house;
The cat purrs loud, the crickets sing;
Shadowy sweet our tranquil ring.
The wind's in the chimney, and below
The whispering fire sheds dusky glow.
Hush!—a knock. Open and see.
Who's there? ‘A Wayfarer.’ Welcome is he!
A thing that happen'd, years ago,
On this very moor,
Nigh this very door.
Draw the window curtains close,
Blackest night is round the house;
The cat purrs loud, the crickets sing;
Shadowy sweet our tranquil ring.
The wind's in the chimney, and below
The whispering fire sheds dusky glow.
Hush!—a knock. Open and see.
Who's there? ‘A Wayfarer.’ Welcome is he!
133
THE POOR LITTLE MAIDEN.
I.
A gentle face and clear blue eyesThe little maiden hath, who plies
Her needle at her cottage door,
Or, with a comrade girl or more,
At times upon the hedgerow-grass.
I love to find her as I pass,—
Humbly contented, simply gay,
And singing sweetly; many a day
I've carried far along my way
From that fair infant's look and voice
A strength that made my soul rejoice.
II.
O sad! her father died last week;Her mother knows not where to seek
Five children's food; the little maid
Is far too young for others' aid.
Willingly would she do her best
To slave at strangers' rude behest;
But she is young and weak. Her thread,
From dawn till blinding rushlight sped,
Could never win her single bread.
134
III.
And must the Workhouse save aliveThis Mother and her helpless five,
Where Guardians, no Angelic band,
With callous eye and pinching hand,
Receive the wretched of their kin,
Cursing the law that lets them in?
I see her growing pale and thin,
Poor Child; (the little needle-song
Is ended)—and perhaps ere long
Her coffin jolting in their cart
To where the paupers lie apart.
IV.
Just from that cottage-step one seesA Mansion with its lawn and trees,
Where man and wife are wearing old
In a wilderness of gold,
Amidst all luxuries and graces,
But the light of children's faces.
Ah, had the little Maid forlorn
In that fine house been only born,
How she were tended, night and morn!
A long-tail'd pony then were hers,
And winter mantles edged with furs,
And servants at her least command,
And wealthy suitors for her hand.
135
SAINT MARGARET'S EVE.
I built my castle upon the sea-side,
The waves roll so gaily O,
Half on the land and half in the tide,
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
Half on the land and half in the tide,
Love me true!
Within was silk, without was stone,
The waves roll so gaily O,
It lacks a queen, and that alone,
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
It lacks a queen, and that alone,
Love me true!
The gray old harper sung to me,
The waves roll so gaily O,
Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!
Love me true!
Saint Margaret's Eve it did befall,
The waves roll so gaily O,
The tide came creeping up the wall,
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
The tide came creeping up the wall,
Love me true!
I open'd my gate; who there should stand—
The waves roll so gaily O,
But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand,
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand,
Love me true!
The cup was gold, and full of wine,
The waves roll so gaily O,
‘Drink,’ said the lady, ‘and I will be thine,’
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
‘Drink,’ said the lady, ‘and I will be thine,’
Love me true!
136
‘Enter my castle, lady fair,’
The waves roll so gaily O,
‘You shall be queen of all that's there,’
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
‘You shall be queen of all that's there,’
Love me true!
‘A gray old harper sung to me,
The waves roll so gaily O,
“Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!”
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
“Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!”
Love me true!
‘In hall he harpeth many a year,
The waves roll so gaily O,
‘And we will sit his song to hear,
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
‘And we will sit his song to hear,
Love me true!
‘I love thee deep, I love thee true,’
The waves roll so gaily O,
‘But ah! I know not how to woo,’
Love me true!’
The waves roll so gaily O,
‘But ah! I know not how to woo,’
Love me true!’
Down dash'd the cup, with a sudden shock,
The waves roll so gaily O,
The wine like blood ran over the rock,
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
The wine like blood ran over the rock,
Love me true!
She said no word, but shriek'd aloud,
The waves roll so gaily O,
And vanish'd away from where she stood,
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
And vanish'd away from where she stood,
Love me true!
I lock'd and barr'd my castle door,
The waves roll so gaily O,
Three summer days I grieved sore,
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
Three summer days I grieved sore,
Love me true!
For myself a day and night,
The waves roll so gaily O,
And two to moan that lady bright,
Love me true!
The waves roll so gaily O,
And two to moan that lady bright,
Love me true!
137
THISTLEDOWN.
(An English Rural Custom.)
I was told of this as a still-existing custom in some parts of England. A friend objected that thistledown could not be thus used; but Mr. Richard Jefferies in his ‘Wild Life in a Southern County,’ p. 206, says, ‘Thistledown is sometimes gathered to fill pillow-cases, and a pillow so filled is exquisitely soft.’
Long ago,—a little girl,
Smooth of cheek and dark of curl,
Like my daughter's nearly,—
I gather'd for my bridal bed
Many a hoary thistle-head
Before the flying tufts were shed,
And saved them up so dearly.
Smooth of cheek and dark of curl,
Like my daughter's nearly,—
I gather'd for my bridal bed
Many a hoary thistle-head
Before the flying tufts were shed,
And saved them up so dearly.
O the happy days and dreams!
Endless Present,—lit with gleams
Of a wondrous Future!
Day, and week, and month, and year,
Glide,—and what know you, my dear?
And what know I? O little sphere
Of every mortal creature!
Endless Present,—lit with gleams
Of a wondrous Future!
Day, and week, and month, and year,
Glide,—and what know you, my dear?
And what know I? O little sphere
Of every mortal creature!
Life has pleasure, life has pain,
Passing, not to come again,
Blackest hours and brightest.
Time takes all things, all must go;
Byegones vanish—is it so?
Gone and lost for ever?—No!
Not the least and lightest.
Passing, not to come again,
Blackest hours and brightest.
Time takes all things, all must go;
Byegones vanish—is it so?
Gone and lost for ever?—No!
Not the least and lightest.
138
In Age, we laugh at dreams of Youth.
Are Age's dreams more like the truth?
And what is life but feeling?
The world is something, none can doubt,
But no one finds its secret out;
To childhood, and to souls devout,
Comes the best revealing.
Are Age's dreams more like the truth?
And what is life but feeling?
The world is something, none can doubt,
But no one finds its secret out;
To childhood, and to souls devout,
Comes the best revealing.
Gay at heart are you, my child,
Gathering downy thistles wild;
Cares nor fears oppress thee;
Gathering up, for joy, for moan,
When all these autumns, too, are flown,
The bed that you must lie upon.
—God protect and bless thee!
Gathering downy thistles wild;
Cares nor fears oppress thee;
Gathering up, for joy, for moan,
When all these autumns, too, are flown,
The bed that you must lie upon.
—God protect and bless thee!
139
THE BUBBLE.
See, the pretty Planet!
Floating sphere!
Faintest breeze will fan it
Far or near;
Floating sphere!
Faintest breeze will fan it
Far or near;
World as light as feather;
Moonshine rays,
Rainbow tints together,
As it plays;
Moonshine rays,
Rainbow tints together,
As it plays;
Drooping, sinking, failing,
Nigh to earth,
Mounting, whirling, sailing,
Full of mirth;
Nigh to earth,
Mounting, whirling, sailing,
Full of mirth;
Life there, welling, flowing,
Waving round;
Pictures coming, going,
Without sound.
Waving round;
Pictures coming, going,
Without sound.
Quick now, be this airy
Globe repell'd!
Never can the fairy
Star be held.
Globe repell'd!
Never can the fairy
Star be held.
Touch'd—it in a twinkle
Disappears!
Leaving but a sprinkle,
As of tears.
Disappears!
Leaving but a sprinkle,
As of tears.
140
THE DIRTY OLD MAN.
A LAY OF LEADENHALL.
A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best known as ‘Dirty Dick’ (Dick for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of business as ‘The Dirty Warehouse.’ He died about the year 1809. The verses accord with the accounts given of himself and his house. Some twenty-five years ago I saw a placard in the window of a coffee-house in Leadenhall Street, ‘Formerly the residence of the celebrated Dirty Dick;’ but the original house had then been made into two. I possess a good copperplate engraving of it, in Dick's time—‘A Remarkable Old House in Leadenhall Street,’ ‘Drawn and engrav'd by S. Rawle.’ The large shop-front, which retains an aspect of stateliness, has many broken panes. At the door stands a stoutish figure, ‘Dick’ himself no doubt, in knee-breeches and half-ragged coat, with something of a Charles James Fox countenance. A gentleman passing by with a lady on his arm directs her attention to the house.
‘The Dirty Old Man’ was first published in Mr. Dickens's Household Words, having received a warm welcome from the editor. Perhaps it had the honour, some time later, of suggesting Miss Havisham's wedding-feast in ‘Great Expectations.’
In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man;
Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan.
For forty long years, as the neighbours declared,
His house never once had been clean'd or repair'd.
Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan.
For forty long years, as the neighbours declared,
His house never once had been clean'd or repair'd.
'Twas a scandal and shame to the business-like street,
One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:
The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,
And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.
One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:
The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,
And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.
Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain,
Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain;
The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,
And the panes from being broken were known to be glass.
Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain;
The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,
And the panes from being broken were known to be glass.
On a rickety signboard no learning could spell
The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell;
But for house and for man a new title took growth,
Like a fungus,—the Dirt gave a name to them both.
The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell;
But for house and for man a new title took growth,
Like a fungus,—the Dirt gave a name to them both.
Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,
The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust,
Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;
'Twas a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof.
The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust,
Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;
'Twas a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof.
141
There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.
From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,
His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding—
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding.
His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding—
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding.
Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,
Have enter'd his shop—less to buy than to stare;
And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,
The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful.
Have enter'd his shop—less to buy than to stare;
And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,
The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful.
Upstairs they don't venture, in dirt and in gloom,—
Mayn't peep at the door of the wonderful room
Such stories are told of, not half of them true;
Its keyhole no mortal has ever seen through.
Mayn't peep at the door of the wonderful room
Such stories are told of, not half of them true;
Its keyhole no mortal has ever seen through.
That room—forty years since, folk settled and deck'd it.
The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected.
The handsome young Host he is gallant and gay,
For his Love and her friends will be with him to-day.
The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected.
The handsome young Host he is gallant and gay,
For his Love and her friends will be with him to-day.
With solid and dainty the table is drest,
The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;
Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear,
For his Sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.
The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;
Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear,
For his Sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.
Full forty years since, turn'd the key in that door.
'Tis a room deaf and dumb 'mid the city's uproar.
The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,
May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead.
'Tis a room deaf and dumb 'mid the city's uproar.
The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,
May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead.
142
Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go;
The seats are in order, the dishes a-row;
But the banquet was wealth to the rat and the mouse
Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House.
The seats are in order, the dishes a-row;
But the banquet was wealth to the rat and the mouse
Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House.
Cup and platter are mask'd in thick layers of dust;
The flow'rs fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust;
A nosegay was laid before one special chair,
And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there.
The flow'rs fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust;
A nosegay was laid before one special chair,
And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there.
The old man has played out his parts in the scene.
Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean.
Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban
To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.
Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean.
Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban
To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.
143
VENUS OF THE NEEDLE.
O Maryanne, you pretty girl,
Intent on silky labour,
Of semstresses the pink and pearl,
Excuse a peeping neighbour!
Intent on silky labour,
Of semstresses the pink and pearl,
Excuse a peeping neighbour!
Those eyes, for ever drooping, give
The long brown lashes rarely;
But violets in the shadows live,—
For once unveil them fairly.
The long brown lashes rarely;
But violets in the shadows live,—
For once unveil them fairly.
Hast thou not lent that flounce enough
Of looks so long and earnest?
Lo, here's more ‘penetrable stuff,’
To which thou never turnest.
Of looks so long and earnest?
Lo, here's more ‘penetrable stuff,’
To which thou never turnest.
Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped!
How slender, and how nimble!
O might I wind their skeins of thread,
Or but pick up their thimble!
How slender, and how nimble!
O might I wind their skeins of thread,
Or but pick up their thimble!
How blest the youth whom love shall bring,
And happy stars embolden,
To change the dome into a ring,
The silver into golden!
And happy stars embolden,
To change the dome into a ring,
The silver into golden!
Who'll steal some morning to her side
To take her finger's measure,
While Maryanne pretends to chide,
And blushes deep with pleasure.
To take her finger's measure,
While Maryanne pretends to chide,
And blushes deep with pleasure.
144
Who'll watch her sew her wedding-gown,
Well conscious that it is hers;
Who'll glean a tress, without a frown,
With those so ready scissors?
Well conscious that it is hers;
Who'll glean a tress, without a frown,
With those so ready scissors?
Who'll taste those ripenings of the south,
The fragrant and delicious—
Don't put the pins into your mouth,
O Maryanne, my precious!
The fragrant and delicious—
Don't put the pins into your mouth,
O Maryanne, my precious!
I almost wish it were my trust
To teach how shocking that is;
I wish I had not, as I must,
To quit this tempting lattice.
To teach how shocking that is;
I wish I had not, as I must,
To quit this tempting lattice.
Sure aim takes Cupid, fluttering foe,
Across a street so narrow;
A silken thread to string his bow,
A needle for his arrow!
Across a street so narrow;
A silken thread to string his bow,
A needle for his arrow!
145
THE WITCH-BRIDE.
A fair witch crept to a young man's side,
And he kiss'd her and took her for his bride.
And he kiss'd her and took her for his bride.
But a Shape came in at the dead of night,
And fill'd the room with snowy light.
And fill'd the room with snowy light.
And he saw how in his arms there lay
A thing more frightful than mouth may say.
A thing more frightful than mouth may say.
And he rose in haste, and follow'd the Shape
Till morning crown'd an eastern cape.
Till morning crown'd an eastern cape.
And he girded himself, and follow'd still
When sunset sainted the western hill.
When sunset sainted the western hill.
But, mocking and thwarting, clung to his side,
Weary day!—the foul Witch-Bride.
Weary day!—the foul Witch-Bride.
146
THE LULLABY.
I see two children hush'd to death,
In lap of One with silver wings,
Holding a lute, whose latest breath
Low lingers on the trembling strings.
In lap of One with silver wings,
Holding a lute, whose latest breath
Low lingers on the trembling strings.
Her face is very pale and fair,
Her hooded eyelids darkly shed
Celestial love, and all her hair
Is like a crown around her head.
Her hooded eyelids darkly shed
Celestial love, and all her hair
Is like a crown around her head.
Each ripple sinking in its place,
Along the lute's faint-ebbing strain,
Seems echo'd slowlier from her face,
And echo'd back from theirs again.
Along the lute's faint-ebbing strain,
Seems echo'd slowlier from her face,
And echo'd back from theirs again.
Yes, now is silence. Do not weep.
Her eyes are fix'd: observe them long;
And spell, if thou canst pierce so deep,
The purpose of a nobler song.
Her eyes are fix'd: observe them long;
And spell, if thou canst pierce so deep,
The purpose of a nobler song.
147
FORGET ME NOT.
It is a Lover and his Bride,
Slowly walking side by side,
Through the golden eventide,
By a swift river.
Slowly walking side by side,
Through the golden eventide,
By a swift river.
Deep as love the water flows,
Fresh as joy the bramble grows,
Sweet as hope the west-wind blows,
By the swift river.
Fresh as joy the bramble grows,
Sweet as hope the west-wind blows,
By the swift river.
Now a blossom's eye of blue,
Laughing in the Lady's view,
Praiseth she its tender hue,
By the swift river.
Laughing in the Lady's view,
Praiseth she its tender hue,
By the swift river.
Down the Young Man springeth gay,—
Fatal blossom! heavy day!
All at once the bank gives way,
By the swift river.
Fatal blossom! heavy day!
All at once the bank gives way,
By the swift river.
Throwing her the prize he sought
With these words—‘Forget me not!’
He falls and out of reach is caught
By the swift river.
With these words—‘Forget me not!’
He falls and out of reach is caught
By the swift river.
148
Evermore the Flow'r for name
Bears three mournful words, the same
With his last fond look that came,
By that swift river.
Bears three mournful words, the same
With his last fond look that came,
By that swift river.
Many doleful partings be;
Joy is fled, and what have we?
A little flow'r for memory
By Time's swift river.
Joy is fled, and what have we?
A little flow'r for memory
By Time's swift river.
149
THE OLD SEXTON.
(INSCRIBED TO ALFRED RETHEL.)
'Twas nigh the hour of evening pray'r;
The Sexton climb'd his turret-stair,
Wearily, being very old.
The wind of Spring blew fresh and cold,
Wakening there Æolian thrills,
And carrying fragrance from the hills.
The Sexton climb'd his turret-stair,
Wearily, being very old.
The wind of Spring blew fresh and cold,
Wakening there Æolian thrills,
And carrying fragrance from the hills.
Through a carven cleft he lean'd,
Eyeing the landscape newly green'd;
The large sun, slowly moving down,
Flush'd the chimneys of the town,—
The same where he was first alive
Eighty years ago and five.
Eyeing the landscape newly green'd;
The large sun, slowly moving down,
Flush'd the chimneys of the town,—
The same where he was first alive
Eighty years ago and five.
Babe he sees himself, and boy;
Youth, astir with hope and joy;
Wife and wedded love he sees;
Children's children round his knees;
Friends departing one by one;
The graveyard in the setting sun.
Youth, astir with hope and joy;
Wife and wedded love he sees;
Children's children round his knees;
Friends departing one by one;
The graveyard in the setting sun.
He seats him in a stony niche;
The bell-rope sways within his reach;
High in the rafters of the roof
The metal warder hangs aloof;
All the townsfolk wait to hear
That voice they know this many a year.
The bell-rope sways within his reach;
High in the rafters of the roof
The metal warder hangs aloof;
All the townsfolk wait to hear
That voice they know this many a year.
150
It is past the ringing hour;
There is silence in the tower;
Save that on a pinnacle
A robin sits, and sings full well.
Hush—at length for prayer they toll
God receive the parted soul!
There is silence in the tower;
Save that on a pinnacle
A robin sits, and sings full well.
Hush—at length for prayer they toll
God receive the parted soul!
151
SQUIRE CURTIS.
Squire Curtis had a cruel mouth,
Tho' honey was on his tongue;
Squire Curtis woo'd and wedded a wife,
And she was fair and young.
Tho' honey was on his tongue;
Squire Curtis woo'd and wedded a wife,
And she was fair and young.
But he said, ‘She cannot love me;
She watches me early and late;
She's meek and good and cold of mood.’—
His liking turn'd to hate.
She watches me early and late;
She's meek and good and cold of mood.’—
His liking turn'd to hate.
One autumn eve they rode through the woods,
Far and far away;
‘The dusk is drawing round,’ she said,
‘I fear we have gone astray.’
Far and far away;
‘The dusk is drawing round,’ she said,
‘I fear we have gone astray.’
He spake no word, but lighted down,
And tied his horse to a tree;
Out of the pillion he lifted her;
‘'Tis a lonely place,’ said she.
And tied his horse to a tree;
Out of the pillion he lifted her;
‘'Tis a lonely place,’ said she.
Down a forest-alley he walk'd,
And she walk'd by his side;
‘Would Heav'n we were at home!’ she said,
‘These woods are dark and wide!’
And she walk'd by his side;
‘Would Heav'n we were at home!’ she said,
‘These woods are dark and wide!’
He spake no word, but still walk'd on;
The branches shut out the sky;
In the darkest place he turn'd him round—
‘'Tis here that you must die.’
The branches shut out the sky;
In the darkest place he turn'd him round—
‘'Tis here that you must die.’
152
Once she shriek'd and never again;
He stabb'd her with his knife;
Once, twice, thrice, and every blow
Enough to take a life.
He stabb'd her with his knife;
Once, twice, thrice, and every blow
Enough to take a life.
A grave was ready; he laid her in;
He fill'd it up with care;
Under the brambles and fallen leaves
Small sign of a grave was there.
He fill'd it up with care;
Under the brambles and fallen leaves
Small sign of a grave was there.
He rode for an hour at a steady pace,
Till back to his house came he;
On face or clothing, on foot or hand,
No stain that eye could see.
Till back to his house came he;
On face or clothing, on foot or hand,
No stain that eye could see.
He boldly call'd to his serving-man,
As he lighted at the door:
‘Your Mistress is gone on a sudden journey,—
May stay for a month or more.
As he lighted at the door:
‘Your Mistress is gone on a sudden journey,—
May stay for a month or more.
‘In two days I shall follow her;
Let her waiting-woman know.’
‘Sir,’ said the serving-man, ‘My Lady
Came in an hour ago.’
Let her waiting-woman know.’
‘Sir,’ said the serving-man, ‘My Lady
Came in an hour ago.’
Squire Curtis sat him down in a chair,
And moved neither hand nor head.
In there came the waiting-woman,
‘Alas the day!’ she said.
And moved neither hand nor head.
In there came the waiting-woman,
‘Alas the day!’ she said.
‘Alas! good Sir,’ says the waiting-woman,
‘What aileth my Mistress dear,
That she sits alone without sign or word?
There is something wrong, I fear!
‘What aileth my Mistress dear,
That she sits alone without sign or word?
There is something wrong, I fear!
‘Her face was white as any corpse
As up the stair she pass'd;
She never turn'd, she never spoke;
And the chamber-door is fast.
As up the stair she pass'd;
She never turn'd, she never spoke;
And the chamber-door is fast.
153
‘She's waiting for you.’ ‘A lie!’ he shouts,
And up to his feet doth start;
‘My wife is buried in Brimley Holt,
With three wounds in her heart.’
And up to his feet doth start;
‘My wife is buried in Brimley Holt,
With three wounds in her heart.’
They search'd the forest by lantern light,
They search'd by dawn of day;
At noon they found the bramble-brake
And the pit where her body lay.
They search'd by dawn of day;
At noon they found the bramble-brake
And the pit where her body lay.
They carried the murder'd woman home,
Slow walking side by side.
Squire Curtis he swung upon gallows-tree,
But confess'd before he died.
Slow walking side by side.
Squire Curtis he swung upon gallows-tree,
But confess'd before he died.
A venerable trusty Man
With hair like drifted snow,
Told me this tale, as from his wife
He learn'd it long ago.
With hair like drifted snow,
Told me this tale, as from his wife
He learn'd it long ago.
‘Her father, Sir, in early days,
Lived close by Curtis Hall;
Many's the time he heard folk tell
Of what did there befall.
Lived close by Curtis Hall;
Many's the time he heard folk tell
Of what did there befall.
‘The story's true from first to last;
His name was Henry Dabb;
Died Christmas Eve at eighty-four,—
You'll read it on the slab.’
His name was Henry Dabb;
Died Christmas Eve at eighty-four,—
You'll read it on the slab.’
154
EMILY.
‘Good evening. Why, of course it's you!
You “half imagined,”—O I knew!
There, there, don't make a fuss, my dear,
Come in and let's have supper here.
You “half imagined,”—O I knew!
There, there, don't make a fuss, my dear,
Come in and let's have supper here.
‘You're married now, Frank; yes, I heard;
And looking bright, upon my word.
And I?—a little thin or so?—
You can't make cottage-roses grow
In London, can you?—O dear me!
But never mind; it's life, you see.
And looking bright, upon my word.
And I?—a little thin or so?—
You can't make cottage-roses grow
In London, can you?—O dear me!
But never mind; it's life, you see.
‘Her name—don't tell me; I don't care.
Of course you make a loving pair.
Your jolly healths! Why, there you sit,
And never eat or drink a bit.
“How well I'm drest”—you think so, eh?
You like my hair done up this way?
Of course you make a loving pair.
Your jolly healths! Why, there you sit,
And never eat or drink a bit.
“How well I'm drest”—you think so, eh?
You like my hair done up this way?
‘Oh don't go yet, Frank! stay, do stay
Five minutes longer! please don't go!
I'm not fit company, I know—
But just this one time—just this last!
Five minutes longer! please don't go!
I'm not fit company, I know—
But just this one time—just this last!
‘D'ye ever think of days gone past,
When you and I a-courting went,
So loving, and so innocent?
Our walks, our little messages,
Our notes, our quarrels; after these,
Our makings-up—O were we not
Rare fools? Then, of a sudden, came
The desperate quarrel, and for what?
For nothing! I was most to blame.
When you and I a-courting went,
So loving, and so innocent?
Our walks, our little messages,
Our notes, our quarrels; after these,
155
Rare fools? Then, of a sudden, came
The desperate quarrel, and for what?
For nothing! I was most to blame.
‘What use in crying? Ain't it funny?
Nay, my good sir, I don't want money.
I don't, Frank; no, I don't indeed.
Why, I can lend you if you need.
Stop, I'll take this; I'll tell you why;
A little locket I shall buy,
(Now mayn't I?) big enough to hold
A lock of hair, that you forgot,
And so I kept it back.
Nay, my good sir, I don't want money.
I don't, Frank; no, I don't indeed.
Why, I can lend you if you need.
Stop, I'll take this; I'll tell you why;
A little locket I shall buy,
(Now mayn't I?) big enough to hold
A lock of hair, that you forgot,
And so I kept it back.
‘How cold
The night-air strikes when one's so hot!
Ah, you won't kiss me now. All right,
Ta, ta, Frank; off you go; good-night!’
The night-air strikes when one's so hot!
Ah, you won't kiss me now. All right,
Ta, ta, Frank; off you go; good-night!’
156
THE BULL.
It's true, a beast is but a beast:
Man! be thou no less, at least.
Man! be thou no less, at least.
Plaudits shake the Circus round,
No sluggard hath this Bull been found,
Three horses furiously he gores,
Pushes hard the Picadors,
In one mad sweep the Chulos drives
Over the barrier for their lives,
And, tail outstretch'd, black head low-bow'd,
Nucleus of a dusty cloud,
Flies round the orbit free of check,
Stung by the javelins in his neck.
No sluggard hath this Bull been found,
Three horses furiously he gores,
Pushes hard the Picadors,
In one mad sweep the Chulos drives
Over the barrier for their lives,
And, tail outstretch'd, black head low-bow'd,
Nucleus of a dusty cloud,
Flies round the orbit free of check,
Stung by the javelins in his neck.
What strikes the throng with such amaze?
Why start they from their seats to gaze?
One long low whistle hath the force
To curb the monster in his course;
From the seats a rustic Stranger
Vaults into the ring of danger,
Mildly calls the Bull by name,
‘Soberbio!’—and never came
A lamb more meekly to a child
Than comes to him the Strong and Wild.
Why start they from their seats to gaze?
One long low whistle hath the force
To curb the monster in his course;
From the seats a rustic Stranger
Vaults into the ring of danger,
Mildly calls the Bull by name,
‘Soberbio!’—and never came
A lamb more meekly to a child
Than comes to him the Strong and Wild.
Join'd in a gentle group they stand;
The hot Bull licks the Herdsman's hand,
Whose other strokes his shivering ear
And soothes away the rage and fear;
Till—see!—with a contented moan
He lays his tortured body down,
And of his mountain pasture dreams,
Amid the cool Sierra streams.
The hot Bull licks the Herdsman's hand,
157
And soothes away the rage and fear;
Till—see!—with a contented moan
He lays his tortured body down,
And of his mountain pasture dreams,
Amid the cool Sierra streams.
The Crowd a general pity share.
That simple Herdsman could not bear
His favourite's pangs, and thus hath sought
His old friend's side, distrusting nought,
Trusting the faithful Beast aright,
Whose rankling pain, tumultuous fright,
Mock'd despair, revengeful rage,
One voice can with a word assuage.
That simple Herdsman could not bear
His favourite's pangs, and thus hath sought
His old friend's side, distrusting nought,
Trusting the faithful Beast aright,
Whose rankling pain, tumultuous fright,
Mock'd despair, revengeful rage,
One voice can with a word assuage.
Is it not so?—Nay, fool, not so!
This is a portion of our show;
Contrived a novel zest to bring
To the arena's bloody ring,
For even bull-fights pall at length;
And with his courage and his strength
The Brute's affection, duly paid for,
Helps our pastime,—what else made for?
This is a portion of our show;
Contrived a novel zest to bring
To the arena's bloody ring,
For even bull-fights pall at length;
And with his courage and his strength
The Brute's affection, duly paid for,
Helps our pastime,—what else made for?
Plaudits roar the Circus round.
The black Bull, startled by the sound,
Remembering all the wrong and pain,
Plunges to his feet again
And whirls the Herdsman over his head,—
‘Madre Santa! he is dead!’
A purse out of the wretch's breast
Drops before him to the dust,
And there with twisted neck he lies
Motionless upon his prize.
Din springs up and mad commotion,
As on glossy tropic ocean
Fierce tornado's flail may strike;
Brilliant Chulos, leopardlike,
Bound in to the Herdsman's aid.
Too late. He now is both ways paid.
May all that true affection sell
Find it profit them as well!
The black Bull, startled by the sound,
Remembering all the wrong and pain,
Plunges to his feet again
And whirls the Herdsman over his head,—
‘Madre Santa! he is dead!’
A purse out of the wretch's breast
Drops before him to the dust,
And there with twisted neck he lies
Motionless upon his prize.
158
As on glossy tropic ocean
Fierce tornado's flail may strike;
Brilliant Chulos, leopardlike,
Bound in to the Herdsman's aid.
Too late. He now is both ways paid.
May all that true affection sell
Find it profit them as well!
159
THE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE.
The story, like that of ‘Forget me not,’ is doubtless of German origin; I cannot recall where I found it. My verses first appeared in 1855, with a design by Rossetti, far out-valuing the poem which, in more senses than one, it illustrated. To his extreme fastidiousness it seemed inadequately engraved (it was drawn direct on the wood, after the custom of those days), but in the opinion of good judges, some of whom saw the original drawing, it remains a very characteristic and beautiful work. I possess a copy touched by the artist's own hand, which has some lines darkened and others softened, but is not materially altered in effect. The woodcut has long been unattainable by the general public. The limited number of copies now published are in no respect inferior to those which appeared in the first edition.
When the spinning-room was here,
Came Three Damsels, clothed in white,
With their spindles every night;
One and two and three fair Maidens,
Spinning to a pulsing cadence,
Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;
Till the eleventh hour was toll'd,
Then departed through the wold.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
Came Three Damsels, clothed in white,
With their spindles every night;
One and two and three fair Maidens,
Spinning to a pulsing cadence,
Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;
Till the eleventh hour was toll'd,
Then departed through the wold.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
Three white Lilies, calm and clear,
And they were loved by every one;
Most of all, the Pastor's Son,
Listening to their gentle singing,
Felt his heart go from him, clinging
To these Maids of Elfin-Mere;
Sued each night to make them stay,
Sadden'd when they went away.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
And they were loved by every one;
Most of all, the Pastor's Son,
Listening to their gentle singing,
Felt his heart go from him, clinging
To these Maids of Elfin-Mere;
Sued each night to make them stay,
Sadden'd when they went away.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
Hands that shook with love and fear
Dared put back the village clock,—
Flew the spindle, turn'd the rock,
Flow'd the song with subtle rounding,
Till the false ‘eleven’ was sounding;
Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere
Swiftly, softly left the room,
Like three doves on snowy plume.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
Dared put back the village clock,—
Flew the spindle, turn'd the rock,
Flow'd the song with subtle rounding,
Till the false ‘eleven’ was sounding;
160
Swiftly, softly left the room,
Like three doves on snowy plume.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
One that night who wander'd near
Heard lamentings by the shore,
Saw at dawn three stains of gore
In the waters fade and dwindle.
Never more with song and spindle
Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere.
The Pastor's Son did pine and die;
Because true love should never lie.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
Heard lamentings by the shore,
Saw at dawn three stains of gore
In the waters fade and dwindle.
Never more with song and spindle
Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere.
The Pastor's Son did pine and die;
Because true love should never lie.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
161
MARY.
Mary's but a lowly maid,
Very wise and gentle;
Proud Lucinda's rich brocade
Proves her father's rental.
Where the lamps and jewels glow,
Doth Lucinda bask it;
Cottage roof where roses blow,
You're my Mary's casket!
Very wise and gentle;
Proud Lucinda's rich brocade
Proves her father's rental.
Where the lamps and jewels glow,
Doth Lucinda bask it;
Cottage roof where roses blow,
You're my Mary's casket!
See, in whim, Lucinda bright
Flings her glances my way,
As a travelling duchess might
Wander down a bye-way,
Love the brook, the village inn,—
‘Here to live and die now!
Ah, new horses—off we spin:
Little place, goodbye now!’
Flings her glances my way,
As a travelling duchess might
Wander down a bye-way,
Love the brook, the village inn,—
‘Here to live and die now!
Ah, new horses—off we spin:
Little place, goodbye now!’
Nay, my lady, by your leave,
Wasted fall those glances;
You yourself alone deceive,
Dangling toyish fancies.
There, in all your charms array'd,
Calm I look you over;
Mary's but a simple maid,
I am Mary's lover.
Wasted fall those glances;
You yourself alone deceive,
Dangling toyish fancies.
There, in all your charms array'd,
Calm I look you over;
Mary's but a simple maid,
I am Mary's lover.
162
Sweeter far my Mary's smile,
Tender, truthful, gracious,
Than the lady's honey'd wile,
Delicately mendacious.
Give me Mary's finger-tips,
Robb'd of half their whiteness,
Rather than Lucinda's lips,
Wreath'd in languid brightness!
Tender, truthful, gracious,
Than the lady's honey'd wile,
Delicately mendacious.
Give me Mary's finger-tips,
Robb'd of half their whiteness,
Rather than Lucinda's lips,
Wreath'd in languid brightness!
A thousand beauties, fair and brown,
I've seen, of every station:
Like my Mary, never one;
She's new as Eve's creation.
And hid was this delightful girl
Where no man could discover,
Till I, most happy, found the pearl,—
I am Mary's lover.
I've seen, of every station:
Like my Mary, never one;
She's new as Eve's creation.
And hid was this delightful girl
Where no man could discover,
Till I, most happy, found the pearl,—
I am Mary's lover.
Fresher far than flowery wood
When the spring awakes it,
Brighter far than morning cloud
When the sunshine takes it,
Mary's love—and pure as Heav'n:
O thou best and dearest!
All thy love to me is given,
All my soul thou cheerest.
When the spring awakes it,
Brighter far than morning cloud
When the sunshine takes it,
Mary's love—and pure as Heav'n:
O thou best and dearest!
All thy love to me is given,
All my soul thou cheerest.
163
TOWER AND FIELD.
A Hermit sat in a lonely tower,
Heaping knowledge hour by hour;
Searching through all lives, all forces,
All beginnings, and all courses;
Tracing on, from old to new,
How rounded worlds from chaos grew;
Sifting all matter's form and plan,
Within the utmost reach of man;
All dependence, all relation,
Through the system of Creation.
Of man's mind too, and its modes,
Disentangling all the nodes,
To that limit where extremes
Interpenetrate like dreams,
Where the eager wings in pain
Struggle madly to sustain
The soul in void,—where rises ever
A wall of blank to man's endeavour.
Heaping knowledge hour by hour;
Searching through all lives, all forces,
All beginnings, and all courses;
Tracing on, from old to new,
How rounded worlds from chaos grew;
Sifting all matter's form and plan,
Within the utmost reach of man;
All dependence, all relation,
Through the system of Creation.
Of man's mind too, and its modes,
Disentangling all the nodes,
To that limit where extremes
Interpenetrate like dreams,
Where the eager wings in pain
Struggle madly to sustain
The soul in void,—where rises ever
A wall of blank to man's endeavour.
One day came a Shepherd Lad
To where the Hermit plied his task:
The Hermit raised his head to ask
What knowledge was the best he had.
‘A crowded, various earth is spread
Around my footsteps,’ said the Youth;
‘A great Heaven is above my head.
To love and hope in simple truth,
To reverence God, whate'er befall,—
This is best, this is all.’
To where the Hermit plied his task:
The Hermit raised his head to ask
What knowledge was the best he had.
‘A crowded, various earth is spread
Around my footsteps,’ said the Youth;
‘A great Heaven is above my head.
To love and hope in simple truth,
To reverence God, whate'er befall,—
This is best, this is all.’
164
Then did this Hermit take the Boy,
And teach him all that he could teach;
And, after many years, he said,
‘All knowledge in the human reach
Is thine, to use and to enjoy.
What count'st thou best?’ He answer made,
‘Increase of knowledge is good and sweet,
That the soul may shun deceit;
And the best is this in sooth—
To love and hope in simple truth,
To reverence God, whate'er befall.
This is best, this is all.’
And teach him all that he could teach;
And, after many years, he said,
‘All knowledge in the human reach
Is thine, to use and to enjoy.
What count'st thou best?’ He answer made,
‘Increase of knowledge is good and sweet,
That the soul may shun deceit;
And the best is this in sooth—
To love and hope in simple truth,
To reverence God, whate'er befall.
This is best, this is all.’
165
THE FAITHLESS KNIGHT.
I
It is a careless pretty may, down by yon river-side;Her face, the whole world's pleasure, she gladly hath espied;
And tossing back her golden hair, her singing echoes wide;
When gaily to the grassy shore a youthful knight doth ride.
II
And vaulting from his courser, that stoops the head to drink,And greeting well this Maiden fair, by running water's brink,
He throws about her slender neck a chain of costly link:
Too courteous he for glamourie, as any may might think.
III
All through the flowery meadows, in the summer evening warm,The rippling river murmurs low, the dancing midges swarm;
But far away the pretty may, nor makes the least alarm,
Sits firm on lofty saddle-bow, within the young knight's arm.
166
IV
Now months are come, and months are gone, with sunshine, breeze, and rain;The song on grassy river-shore you shall not hear again;
The proud knight spurs at tournament, in Germany or Spain,
Or sues in silken bow'r to melt some lady's high disdain.
V
And thus in idle hour he dreams—‘I've wander'd east and west;I've whispered love in many an ear, in earnest or in jest;
That summer day—that pretty may—perhaps she loved me best?
I recollect her face, methinks, more often than the rest.’
167
SIR HUGH DE LA POLE.
I
Sir Hugh de la Pole was a sturdy old knight,Who in war and in peace had done every man right;
Had lived with his neighbours in loving accord,
Save the Abbot and Monks, whom he fiercely abhorr'd,
And to their feet alone refused oak-floor and sward.
II
With guests round his table, good servants at call,His laughter made echo the wide castle-hall;
He whoop'd to the falcon, he hunted the deer;
If down by the Abbey, his comrades could hear—
‘A plague on these mummers, who mime all the year!’
III
And now see him stretch'd on his leave-taking bed.Five minutes ago with a calm smile he said,
‘I can trust my poor soul to the Lord God of Heaven,
‘Tho' living unpriested and dying unshriven.
‘Say all of you, friends, “May his sins be forgiven!”’
168
IV
But some who are near to him sorely repineHe thus should decease like an ox or a swine;
So a message in haste to the Abbey they send,
When the voice cannot ring, and the arm cannot bend;
For this reign, as all reigns do, approaches an end.
V
Says my lady, ‘Too long I have yielded my mind.’Son Richard ‘to go with the world’ is inclined.
‘Sweet Mother of Mercy!’ sobs Jane, his young spouse,
‘O Saviour, forget not my tears and my vows!’
In pray'r for the dying her spirit she bows.
VI
At once the good Abbot forgets every wrong,And speeds to the gate which repell'd him so long;
The stair (‘Pax vobiscum!’) is strange to his tread;
He puts everyone forth. Not a sound from that bed;
And the spark from beneath the white eyebrow is fled.
VII
Again the door opens, all enter the place,Where pallid and stern lies the well-beloved face.
‘The Church, through God's help and Saint Simon's, hath won
To her bosom of pity a penitent son.’
See the cross on his breast; hark, the knell is begun.
169
VIII
Who feasts with young Richard? who shrives the fair Jane?Whose mule to the Castle jogs right, without rein?
Our Abbey has moorland and meadowland wide,
Where Hugh for his hunting and hawking would ride,
Full of priest-hating whimsies and paganish pride.
IX
In the chancel the tomb is of Hugh de la Pole.Ten thousand fine masses were said for his soul,
With praying, and tinkling, and incense, and flame;
In the centre whereof, without start or exclaim,
His bones fell to dust. You may still read the name,
'Twixt an abbot's and bishop's who once were of fame.
170
DOWN ON THE SHORE.
I
Down on the shore, on the sunny shore!Where the salt smell cheers the land;
Where the tide moves bright under boundless light,
And the surge on the glittering strand;
Where the children wade in the shallow pools,
Or run from the froth in play;
Where the swift little boats with milk-white wings
Are crossing the sapphire bay,
And the ship in full sail, with a fortunate gale,
Holds proudly on her way;
Where the nets are spread on the grass to dry,
And asleep, hard by, the fishermen lie,
Under the tent of the warm blue sky,
With the hushing wave on its golden floor
To sing their lullaby.
II
Down on the shore, on the stormy shore!Beset by a growling sea,
Whose mad waves leap on the rocky steep
Like wolves up a traveller's tree;
Where the foam flies wide, and an angry blast
Blows the curlew off, with a screech;
Where the brown sea-wrack, torn up by the roots,
Is flung out of fishes' reach;
And the tall ship rolls on the hidden shoals,
And scatters her planks on the beach;
Where slate and straw through the village spin,
And a cottage fronts the fiercest din
With a sailor's wife sitting sad within,
Hearkening the wind and the water's roar,
Till at last her tears begin.
171
OUTWARD BOUND.
I
Clink-clink-clink goes our windlass.‘Ahoy!’—‘Haul in!’—‘Let go!’
Yards braced and sails set,—
Flags uncurl and flow.
Some eyes that watch from shore are wet,
(How bright their welcome shone!)
While, bending softly to the breeze,
And rushing through the parted seas,
Our gallant ship glides on.
II
Tho' one has left a sweetheart,And one has left a wife,
What use, my lads, to mope and fret?
We live a sailor's life.
See, far away they signal yet—
They dwindle—fade—they're gone!
For dashing outwards, bold and brave,
And springing light from wave to wave,
Our merry ship flies on.
III
Gay spreads the sparkling ocean;But many a gloomy night
And stormy morrow must be met
Ere next we heave in sight.
The parting look we'll ne'er forget,
The kiss, the benison,
As round the rolling world we go.
God bless you all!—blow, breezes, blow!
Sail on, good ship, sail on!
172
HOMEWARD BOUND.
I
Head the ship for England!Shake out every sail!
Blithe leap the billows,
Merry sings the gale.
Captain, work the reck'ning;
How many knots a day?—
Round the world and home again,
That's the sailor's way!
II
We've traded with the Yankees,Brazilians, and Chinese;
We've laugh'd with dusky beauties
In shade of tall palm-trees;
Across the Line and Gulf-Stream—
Round by Table Bay—
Everywhere and home again,
That's the sailor's way!
III
Nightly stands the North StarHigher on our bow;
Straight we run for England;
Our thoughts are in it now.
Jolly time with friends ashore,
When we've drawn our pay!—
All about and home again,
That's the sailor's way!
173
IV
Tom will to his parents,Jack will to his dear,
Joe to wife and children,
Bob to pipes and beer;
Dicky to the dancing-room,
To hear the fiddles play;—
Round the world and home again,
That's the sailor's way!
Round the world and home again,
That's the sailor's way!
174
THE SLAVE-SHIP.
The slave-ship was burning, the sea was aflame,
And the sunset bedimm'd with the blaze of the same.
‘These slaves,’—said the crew, ‘Let us pick two or three;
For the rest, they may burn, they may drown—what care we?’
And the sunset bedimm'd with the blaze of the same.
‘These slaves,’—said the crew, ‘Let us pick two or three;
For the rest, they may burn, they may drown—what care we?’
Then the cry of ten-score in that black vessel cramm'd
Arose like the cry of ten-score of the damn'd;
Chain'd fast whilst the growling fire fought with the sea,
Like tiger with lion, whose prey they should be.
Arose like the cry of ten-score of the damn'd;
Chain'd fast whilst the growling fire fought with the sea,
Like tiger with lion, whose prey they should be.
Some rended their bonds with the strength of despair,
And swam to the boats; but a fiercer was there
Than the sea or the fire, and more cruel than they;
For Man took Death's side in that terrible fray!
And swam to the boats; but a fiercer was there
Than the sea or the fire, and more cruel than they;
For Man took Death's side in that terrible fray!
A young negro girl in the long-boat had place.
Through the water close by rose a dark, well-known face.
When she saw it she cried out with joy like a child,
And held down her hand to her lover, and smiled.
Through the water close by rose a dark, well-known face.
When she saw it she cried out with joy like a child,
And held down her hand to her lover, and smiled.
A shot rang beside her: he sank like a stone:
The waters were bloody, and she was alone.
She has sprung from the boat: she is lost in the deep:
And their sorrows and wrongs are laid softly to sleep.
The waters were bloody, and she was alone.
She has sprung from the boat: she is lost in the deep:
And their sorrows and wrongs are laid softly to sleep.
175
NANNY'S SAILOR LAD.
Now fare-you-well! my bonny ship,
For I am for the shore.
The wave may flow, the breeze may blow,
They'll carry me no more.
For I am for the shore.
The wave may flow, the breeze may blow,
They'll carry me no more.
And all as I came walking
And singing up the sand,
I met a pretty maiden,
I took her by the hand.
And singing up the sand,
I met a pretty maiden,
I took her by the hand.
But still she would not raise her head,
A word she would not speak,
And tears were on her eyelids,
Dripping down her cheek.
A word she would not speak,
And tears were on her eyelids,
Dripping down her cheek.
Now grieve you for your father?
Or husband might it be?
Or is it for a sweetheart
That's roving on the sea?
Or husband might it be?
Or is it for a sweetheart
That's roving on the sea?
It is not for my father,
I have no husband dear,
But oh! I had a sailor lad,
And he is lost, I fear.
I have no husband dear,
But oh! I had a sailor lad,
And he is lost, I fear.
176
Three long years
I am grieving for his sake,
And when the stormy wind blows loud,
I lie all night awake.
I am grieving for his sake,
And when the stormy wind blows loud,
I lie all night awake.
I caught her in my arms,
And she lifted up her eyes,
I kiss'd her ten times over
In the midst of her surprise.
And she lifted up her eyes,
I kiss'd her ten times over
In the midst of her surprise.
Cheer up, cheer up, my Nanny!
And speak again to me;
O, dry your tears, my darling,
For I'll go no more to sea.
And speak again to me;
O, dry your tears, my darling,
For I'll go no more to sea.
I have a love, a true true love,
And I have a golden store;
The wave may flow, the breeze may blow,
They'll carry me no more!
And I have a golden store;
The wave may flow, the breeze may blow,
They'll carry me no more!
177
CAPE USHANT.
(THE LAST LOOK.)
A real incident. The day was Sunday, July the 23rd, 1815. See Captain Maitland's ‘Narrative of the Surrender of Bonaparte,’ p. 109 (London: Colburn, 1826); and ‘Memoirs of an Aristocrat and Anecdotes of Napoleon’ (London: Whittaker, 1837).
Our ship, the stout Bellerophon,
Off Rochefort Harbour lay:
We took a passenger on board,
And slowly sail'd away.
Seven days and nights, with baffling winds,
We strove to fetch Tor Bay.
Off Rochefort Harbour lay:
We took a passenger on board,
And slowly sail'd away.
Seven days and nights, with baffling winds,
We strove to fetch Tor Bay.
The eighth day, with the rising sun,
A morning in July,
French land upon our starboard bow
We plainly could descry;
A morning in July,
French land upon our starboard bow
We plainly could descry;
When I, a little middy
(Ah! sixty years ago),
Came up, to take my watch on deck,
Into the early glow.
(Ah! sixty years ago),
Came up, to take my watch on deck,
Into the early glow.
Magnificently rose the sun
Above the hills of France,
And spread his splendour on the sea,
And through the sky's expanse.
Above the hills of France,
And spread his splendour on the sea,
And through the sky's expanse.
Meanwhile, upon the poop, alone,
Our Passenger stood there,
And view'd the gently gliding land
In clearest morning air,—
The cliffs of Ushant, and the slopes
Of shadowy Finisterre.
Our Passenger stood there,
And view'd the gently gliding land
In clearest morning air,—
The cliffs of Ushant, and the slopes
Of shadowy Finisterre.
178
‘Ushant?’ he asked; and I replied,
‘Yes, sire.’ Whereon he raised
His little pocket-telescope,
And gazed, and ever gazed.
‘Yes, sire.’ Whereon he raised
His little pocket-telescope,
And gazed, and ever gazed.
For hours and hours he hardly moved;
And if his eyes grew dim,
We never saw it; there he stood,
And none went near to him.
And if his eyes grew dim,
We never saw it; there he stood,
And none went near to him.
Till with a faint and fickle wind
We drew from off the coast,
And in a noontide haze of heat
France faded, and was lost.
We drew from off the coast,
And in a noontide haze of heat
France faded, and was lost.
Napoleon's thoughts in that last look
It were in vain to seek;
He had enough to think upon
If he had gazed a week.
It were in vain to seek;
He had enough to think upon
If he had gazed a week.
And sometimes from his rock, perhaps,
He saw, amid the shine
Of lonely waves, Cape Ushant's ghost
Far on the dim sea-line.
He saw, amid the shine
Of lonely waves, Cape Ushant's ghost
Far on the dim sea-line.
179
THE PILOT BOAT.
I.
A schooner's in the bay,With a signal at her fore;
And I heard the Pilot say—
‘Tho' a squall may come to-night,
We shall get on board all right,
And the tide begins to flow at break of day.’
‘Shove her off, my lad,’ cries he,
‘We've a craft that's fit for sea!’
And the ripples on the shore
Murmur softly as they run
Through the crimson evening light,
While the father and the son
Sail away.
II.
When cliff and wave grow dark,Shines a cottage by the strand
With its feeble taper-spark,
Where the pilot's wife is sewing,
Whilst her little children sleep;
All the gloomy heav'n above no glimmer showing.
Ha!—lightning!—and a crash
Like the downfall of the skies;
Rushing rain, booming deep,
Sudden gale with fury blowing.
Out of nothing, at each flash
Leap the dreadful sea and land.
Was that wind she heard? or—hark!
Shouts and cries?
180
III.
A morn remorseful, pale,For the frenzy overpast,—
A sullen sinking gale,—
Flying clouds, torn and shatter'd,
And a dismal gleam of day through them cast
On the wilderness in motion
Of the ghastly rugged ocean
With its dull unceasing roar,
And the birds that scream and flee,
And the misty wreck-strewn shore,
And a black unmoving Boat
Flung keel upwards, bruised and batter'd,
Past the help of sail or oar.
But the Pilot, stout and steady,
And his boy, brave and ready,—
On what voyage, on what sea,
Do they float?
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