Anne Evans: Poems and Music :: :: University of Virginia Library

I walked through my garden to cull me fresh posies,
Well I remember, on Midsummer's day:
I bound the sweet bay
With pansies rich and gay,
And with red, red roses!

O, garlands will wither, and seasons will vary:
To-night I have plucked me a garland anew;
Of cypress, and yew,
And the bitter, bitter rue,
And the pale rosemary!

TWO RED ROSES ON A TREE.

Two red roses on a tree:
Wind along, cold river!
One for him, and one for me:
Shiver, willow, shiver!
Not a word of love we said:
Wind along, cold river!
Roses told the truth instead:
Shiver, willow, shiver!
Other roses bud and blow:
Wind along, cold river!
Other summers come and go:
Shiver, willow, shiver!
Summer days to me are dim:
Wind along, cold river!
Never comes a word from him:
Shiver, willow, shiver!
Roses tell the truth instead:
Wind along, cold river!
Others bloom, but mine is dead:
Shiver, willow, shiver!

A DIRGE.

Close the eyes which were so bright:
Fold the hands above the heart:
Eyes and hands have done their part:
O'er the noon hath dropped the night.

Gently lay the sleeping form,
In that shelter calm and meet;
There to rest while weary feet
Walk above in sun and storm.

Faith and hope, all grief above,
Guide us on till grief be past:
Guide us thither where at last
Faith and hope are lost in love!

SUMMER GIFTS.

So early on a May morning
I heard the cuckoo call—
“I bring again the blithe summer,
With gifts for one and all.”

O what do you bring my tall schoolboy,
My schoolboy bold and bright?—
“I bring the schoolboy a sword and a flag,
To carry amid the fight.”

And what do you bring my sweet maiden,
My maiden mild and fair?—
“I bring the maiden a sonnet to read,
And a wedding-ring to wear.”

But what do you bring my dear baby,
Hath seen no summer yet?—
“I bring the baby a little white shroud,
And a daisy coverlet!”

NANCY.

I

Why do you smile, Nancy, Nancy?
Why do smile, Nancy?
Why do you smile so readily
At a quick-passing fancy?
Look in your heart, Nancy, Nancy;
Look down deep:
Look in your heart, poor Nancy—
And weep!

II

What is the hope, Nancy, Nancy?
What is the hope, Nancy?
What is the hope that comes and goes
With a quick-passing fancy?
Look in your heart, Nancy, Nancy;
Look down deep:
Look in your heart, poor Nancy—
And weep!

APART.

You this day may quite forget
That which all days I remember:
—O the damp leaves of November
Falling round me!—You may yet
Live your life with joy; but I
Slowly die.

You may willingly forget
That which weeping I remember,
In the stillness of November
Walking lonely. You may yet
Laugh and love again; but I
Slowly die.

THE DEADLY ARBOUR.

There stood an arbour in the spring,
Flowers above and flints below;
“Pretty maid, come in and sing”—
Flow, tears, flow.

“The flowers above are spicy sweet,”
Flowers above and flints below;
“The flints below they cut my feet,”
Flow, tears, flow.

“I would I were at home again,”
Flowers above and flints below;
“My mother calls to me in vain,”
Flow, tears, flow.

“I cannot sing, I cannot stand,”
Flowers above and flints below;
“Make me a grave here out of hand,”
Flow, tears, flow.

OVER!

A knight came prancing on his way,
And across the path a lady lay:
“Stoop a little and hear me speak!”
Then, “You are strong, and I am weak:
Ride over me now, and kill me.”

He opened wide his gay blue eyes,
Like one o'ermastered by surprise;
His cheek and brow grew burning red,
“Long looked-for, come at last,” she said,
“Ride over me now, and kill me.”

Then softly spoke the knight, and smiled:
“Fair maiden, whence this mood so wild?”
“Smile on,” said she, “my reign is o'er,
But do my bidding yet once more:
Ride over me now, and kill me.”

He smote his steed of dapple-gray,
And lightly cleared her where she lay;
But still, as he sped on amain,
She murmured ever, “Turn again:
Ride over me now, and kill me.”

TIRLYWIRLY.

Tirlywirly, all alone,
Spinning under a yew;
Something came with no noise,
But Tirlywirly knew.

Tirlywirly state spinning,
Never looked around;
Something made a black shadow
Creep on the ground.

Tirlywirly sate spinning,
Spinning fast for fear;
Something spoke a dark word
Close at her ear.

Tirlywirly sang a song,
Loud, and clear, and gay;
Then, when Tirlywirly sang,
Something fled away.

RED AND WHITE ROSES.

O, roses red and roses white,
You are my garden's rare delight!
I'll reap my roses, dewy sweet,
And lay them at my lady's feet,
In a wide, rich harvest.

Sing loud, blithe birds, among the trees,
For there's a death-bell on the breeze;
And how shall I go to and fro,
To pluck my roses where they blow,
With a death-bell tolling?

Last night, my lady sang to me,
Her soul elate with melody;
And tuning so the tranquil air,
Methought she grew more lovely fair
In the pale still moonshine.

But in the moonshine pale and still,
Her beauty struck me with a chill:
Her voice went soaring crystal-clear,
And yet my heart went fast for fear,
Where the shade fell round me.

Now welcome shines the light of day,
To chase the shadows all away;
For who would fold his hands and grieve
O'er phantasies of yestereve,
On a gay June morning?

I come to greet my lady bright,
With new-blown roses, red and white.
“Bring in the white, but leave the red:
Your lady lies here cold and dead,
In a death-deep silence.

THE EARLY SUMMER WEATHER.

He loved her; ay, and she loved him,
Or I am far mistaken:
I little thought, a while ago,
To hear he was forsaken.
I saw them very often then,
They used to stray together,
Below the woods on yonder hill,
In the early summer weather.

She gave him up, as they tell me,
To please her lady mother:
They say she's to be married soon
To some rich lord or other.
And now the poor lad strays alone,
Where once they strayed together;
O, but a fair dream passed away,
With the early summer weather!

THE CHERRY-TREE.

O, Willy, if thou needs must roam,
How many thoughts wilt send me home?
“As many,” gaily answers he,
“As green leaves hang on the cherry-tree!”
Dance in the sun,
Dance every one,
Ye green leaves on the cherry-tree!

'Twas summer then: 'tis autumn now:
O, Willy, Willy, where art thou?
I wander here alone, and see
The light leaves fall from the cherry-tree!
Sigh in the blast,
For fair days past,
Of thine and mine, old cherry-tree!

MAY MARJORY.

Beautiful May Marjory,
Walking sadly in the sun,
Passing the ripe roses by,
Plucking ne'er a one;
What should ail her so to sigh,
Wild and wilful Marjory?

Here it was May Marjory
Met young Allan yestermorn;
Here she gave her heart the lie,
With her words of scorn.
Many a morrow may she sigh,
Weary-wandering Marjory.

FRAIL FLOWERS.

Pluck not the eglantine,
But leave it there to bloom through sun and shade.
Wilt call it thine?
Poor eglantine!
Then look to see it fade!

Ah, grasp not earth's delight,
But only take its fragrance, passing by.
Our paths are bright,
Through earth's delight,
Which in our grasp would die!

SIR FAITHFUL.

Sir Faithful was a noble knight,
Who fought for love of truth:
He rode a-tilt against the world,
And perished in his youth.

He rode a-tilt against the world,
That proud and stubborn foe;
Struck down one feather from his crest,
Then got a deadly blow.

He waved the feather in his hand,
While men around 'gan weep:
“Methinks,” quoth he, right cheerily,
“My life hath bought it cheap!”

Then some cried, “Would that he had known,
To let the strong world be!”
But I cry, “Would that we had more
Of such bold knights as he!”

THE HARD RIDER.

Taveller of mien so high,
Tell me who thou art, and why
Toward the mountain's cloudy brow
Spurring up the rocky steep?
Very brilliant is thine eye;
Yet methinks to view it now
That proud eye would never weep,
Never warm with kindly glee—
And thou lookest fixedly,
As one a-moving in his sleep:
Thou hast ridden many a mile:
Turn and rest thee here awhile!

“I am Mind! I cannot stay!
I have far to ride to-day!
I have much to mark and measure,
Scorning pain and slighting pleasure
If I linger, death may find me!
Dost not hear the cry behind me?
Time is at my heels—away!
I am Mind: I cannot stay!”

What is that thou ridest on,
All so ghastly, worn and wan,
Piteously faint and lame?

“'Tis the lazy Mortal Frame!
Let it be! Whate'er betide,
I am master: I must ride!”

Tarry yet: I fain would see
What that hidden weight may be.
Is thy cloak so gaily spread
Over something cold and dead?

“Nay, it is a living Heart!
Now and then I feel it start;
But through fasting on the way
Droop it doth, and droop it may!
'Tis a weak and idle thing:
In the morning it would sing:
Ere the noon it fell to weeping:
Let it be: 'tis better sleeping!”

Sleeping, dying, who can tell?
Wake it up, thou tyrant fell!
Simple food the heart will nourish,
Fruits which by the roadside flourish:
Cruel! couldst thou never stay
These to pluck upon thy way?

Wake it up, or naught avail thee
All the riches thou canst earn:
If the heart's alliance fail thee,
Into clay thy gold will turn!
Spare the spur! Thy wretched steed,
Once so comely, strong, and brave,
Madly urged beyond his speed,
Doth but drag thee to the grave!

“CON ESPRESSIONE.”

Melodious lady, still be singing!
With notes impassioned ringing
Wild changes on the deep according tones
The tranced spirit owns,—
Unheard harmonics, fraught with rare delight;
Sing on to-night!
If e'er the time should come when thou
Dost feel those moods thou feignest now,
Wilt thou sing on?
Ah, trust me, lady, never try
The art and the reality
Blent in that overwhelming unison!

Nay, cease even now!
For even now methinks I see
Within thy song too much of thee!
O, woman of the mantling brow,
Cease even now!
The piercing diction
Of all thine eloquent fiction
Let echo rock to death,
With every breath

Of that so little nourishing applause
The artist from the undiscerning draws;
Ay, and the dear thanks of the finer few
Who base the beautiful upon the true!

Wilt thou put on, thou lady gay,
Like any other festival-array,
The living treasures of the soul itself?
Wilt thou, for praise or pelf,
Withdraw them from their inner shade
And flaunt withal in broad factitious glare?
Beware,
Lest even so they fade!

BLACKBIRD.

Singing loud and singing gay,
'Mid the dewy dawning,
Blackbird welcomes in the day
Under his green awning:
Welcomes in the rising day,
While the shadows haste away,
Singing loud and singing gay
'Mid the dewy dawning.

Singing sweet and singing clear
While the day is waning,
Blackbird spreads a pensive cheer
Through the light remaining:
Spreads a calm and pensive cheer
Through the stillness far and near,
Singing sweet and singing clear
While the day is waning.

FRAGMENTS.

I. [Up sprang the merry grasshoppers]

Up sprang the merry grasshoppers
Around her very feet;
A charm of many little wings
O'erspread the herbage sweet.

And from their city in the earth
To sunny thyme and heather.
The little conies in their mirth
Were come to play together.

The cuckoo's note came floating by,
To greet the sad new-comer;
But she stood frozen through and through,
Against the glee of summer.

“I have not happiness enow
To keep me warm,” said she;
“What should I do with all the days
That may remain to me?”

II. [Alone along the garden walk]

Alone along the garden walk
The lady paces to and fro:
Beside her in their lovely prime
Rich-hearted summer roses blow.

Sweet songs above her swell and blend,
Far floating in the joyous blue:
Around her all is festival
Of sound, and scent, and form, and hue.

She hears the songs without a smile:
She greets the roses with a tear:
Her soul aches with a golden weight,
In this high lifetime of the year.

Within her all is one dumb cry:
“Let me too live, before I die!”

III. [The rains came down so heavily]

The rains came down so heavily
They swept the very earth away,
Whereon the little flowers grew
That made her poor home gay.

They swept away the earth, and left
The rock below all bare and cold:
She fell down weeping thereupon,
And saw it bright with gold!

IV. [The summer sward is somewhat hard]

The summer sward is somewhat hard
Methinks as here I lie;
Yet here I stay, because I love
To look into the sky,
To place behind me for a while
The world and all its ill,
And gaze into the space of space,
How pure, and O, how still!

V. [You'll say, perhaps, that a cup of hot tea]

You'll say, perhaps, that a cup of hot tea
Taken, sans souci,
In a cheerful, curtained room,
With chattering friends around,
Is pleasanter far
Than blackberries are,
Devoured in the gloom
Of a hermit's cell,
Without any carpet, but only the ground.
Ah, well!
You mayn't like his lodging and diet,
But think of his quiet!

VI. [In broidered cloak he passes to and fro]

In broidered cloak he passes to and fro:
He hears the people say,
“'Tis well to go so gay:
This bravery above doth only show
How festal-rich the doublet is below!”

Upon a stormy day
The cloak is blown away,
And there he stands in threadbare weeds of woe!

VII. [Lose not the hopeful moments, thou whose eye]

Lose not the hopeful moments, thou whose eye,
By love and thought through many a grief refined,
Can trace disquiet in the trifler's mind,
Even through the looks that pity would defy;

But touch thou tenderly the little store
Of mean and frail to which his spirit clings:
So may'st thou win him to accept the more
From thine own treasury of better things.

OUTCRY.

Away with loving! Let it all go by;
For losing is too grievous,
And our beloved successively
Turn cold and leave us!
What matter whence the cold may come
Which makes them deaf to us, and blind, and dumb—
Whether from dark thoughts clouding old regard,
Or from their lodging out in the churchyard?
Friends? We may lose our best
Through some poor jest,
And all our after-days lament the losing!
Besides, there is no choosing
One of them all on whom to reckon
If death should beckon.
O miserable men!
O dreary doom!
Our love's delight is hollow—
Hollow as treachery, hollow as the tomb!
Away, away with loving then,
With hoping and believing;
For what should follow,
But grieving, grieving?

A DESERTED HALL.

The jasmine bloomed unsought-for
Against the garden wall:
The morning-glory tangled
The poppies, great and small.

The moss crept unmolested
Across the basin's brink:
The marble dolphin thirsted,
With none to give him drink.

The birds among the branches
Were singing far and near,
Through groves and winding woodwalks,
With nobody to hear.

Along the southern terrace
The grass grew bold and rank:
No step was on the threshold,
The windows all were blank.

The dial above the doorway
(His face was hoary gray),
As in a dream did measure
The sultry summer day.

And ever, “Tempus fugit:
Hoc age,” said the stone.
But who should mind the warning?
The preacher preached alone.

LETTER TO JOHN ELLA, ESQ.,

Musical Union.

Bassi, violini, violoncelli!
Where is Corelli?
Let grateful acknowledgments greet
Mr. Ella: how few for a musical treat
So willing and able to cater!
He brings to us Beethoven, greater
Than mortal admirer can measure,
Mozart with a treasure
Of pleasure—
Ah! well!—
Beyond what our speaking can tell:
Blythe Haydn, who so playfully reigns
O'er flowery Arcadian domains;
And the amiable Spohr,
Who charms us the more
By blending the pure gold of joy
With subtle discordant alloy.
We've these and we've others,
Their generous brothers:

Each from the wealth of his mind
Gives in his kind.
But amid the profusion,
Wherefore Corelli's exclusion?
What, will the passion
For music be subject to fashion?
Nay, might it not now be improving
To show as a fact
That a work of art can be compact,
Yet dignified, elegant, moving?
Might nobody thence
Discover the value of form,
As opposed to the prevalent storm
Of musical sound without sense?
And is it not really a duty
To recognise all kinds of beauty?
Bassi, violini, violoncelli!
Forget not Corelli!

WORDS TO A “LIED OHNE WORTE.”

Mendelssohn.

[_]

(Allegro non troppo, in C minor, Book III. 14, Ed. Pauer.)

I'm a song that sing to myself,
Although I have no name;
And having lost one leg out of four
I do go rather lame.
Mister Mendelssohn-Bartholdy,
A remarkable man is he,
To drive a coach with one wheel off
So very pleasantly.
For there's something that jerks or jars—
You may hear it in all the bars;—
And perhaps it is he wrote me out,
Not minding what he was about,
At some old piano where certain keys were dumb,
And left out the notes he meant to put in,
Because they would not come.
(A fine idea, to leave out the notes,
Because the keys were dumb!)
Mister Mendelssohn-Bartholdy

Might be proud of a song like me;
And the reason why I have no words
I really do not see.
But I fancy, if the truth were known,
'Tis quite as well to go alone,
Escaping foreign words high-flown,
To speak the language all my own—
To speak the language fine and free
That is all composed of melody and harmony—

Like beating with one hand and rubbing with the other while you're beating—so!
Ha! ha!

PERADVENTURE!

I

My love he's gone to London town;
Hey, ho, and who should say him nay?
Wait a year, and he'll come down
Twice as rich as he went away,—
With a peradventure, hey, with a peradventure...

II

My love he's gone to London town;
Hey, ho, I'll bear it as I may!
Wait a year, and he'll come down
All as true as he went away,—
With a peradventure, hey, with a peradventure...

COLIN.

I

Take thy crook and go, Colin,
Bitter winds do blow, Colin,
Drifting fast the snow, Colin,
Down the Deep Holm Lane.
If the night be wild and dreary,
If the way do make thee weary,
Think we parted with a cheery
Hope to meet again.
Take thy crook and go, Colin, &c.

II

Haply next in May, Colin,
Some long sunny day, Colin,
Thou may'st take thy way, Colin,
Down the Deep Holm Lane.
When the new green leaves are growing,
When the frozen brook is flowing,
Primrose tufts and daisies blowing
O'er the bank again.
Haply next in May, Colin, &c.

THE BLEW-EY'D LADIE.

My Ladie's Eyes are blew and brighte,
iff these of mine doe see arighte;
My Ladie's Hand doth seeme to me
soe white as whyter scarce could bee.
Yet naught recke I of azure Blew
in Eies that speake and speake so trew;
To me those Wordes the Hande hath writ
show fairer far than itt.

The Spring may decke in braver Dye
eche short-lived Budd and Butterflie;
My Ladie's worth I can not tell
by fleeting Hews which these excell.
Who hath the Witte a Booke to read
its costlie Guise doth slightly heede,
When he in everie Leafe can finde
wherewith to charm the Minde!

Lucid Intervals.

Some fragment of the Beautiful, some ray
Refracted from the Truth he fails to find,
Care's very slave may hoard within his mind:
Some prison-plant, wan for the want of day.
And there are times when he would thrust away
His vaunted lore of base and narrow kind,
His crampèd fancy piteously inclined
In wider and in loftier paths to stray:
When he, the strong adept in worldly art,
Would court the simpler man he shunned before,
To him disclose a long-forgotten heart,
Through mere neglect grown timid, and deplore,
As in a trance from all his life apart,
Those earthly bonds which bind him more and more!

SONNET.

[Still journeying onward in this “vale of tears,”]

Still journeying onward in this “vale of tears,”
Where shades of cypress ever overspread,
The wayworn traveller turns his weary head,
And muses on the uneven track of years.
Far in the hazy distance there appears
A little path bright as a golden thread;
But here o'er rugged stones and flowers dead
His way must lie; while uncouth phantom fears,
Risen from behind him, ever glide before.
Faint is he now; yet would he all retrace
To pass unhurt the slippery footing o'er
Whereon he lamed himself; and in his face
The keen regret comes deepening, till once more
His wistful eyes are toward the resting-place.

SONNET.

[The world shut out, as here I sit and sigh]

The world shut out, as here I sit and sigh
By fading midnight embers, o'er its cold
Caprice and colder craft, my heart, grown bold
In solitude, cries loudly, “Why, O why
Must earth-grown tangles intercept the sky?
Why must one live and labour and wax old
Beneath this hateful league of vulgar gold,
Oppressive pride, and empty vanity?”
Thou poor fond heart, on present rest and bliss
So strongly bent—and O, how much in vain!—
Look farther on; remembering that this
Brief stage for trial is, of toil and pain,
Wherein no single lot is cast amiss
Which human choice may turn to loss or gain.

SONNET.

[Poor lonely heart, aching with passionate woe!]

Poor lonely heart, aching with passionate woe!
If that keen fire must needs burn down and die
Beyond the reach of mortal ear and eye,
Turn pain to patience: prove its virtue so.
Didst thou then hope thy fellow-hearts could know
What riches there within thy dark ward lie?
O hope forlorn! The many passing by
Dream not of ores the common dust below.
Of shallow streams the herd are fain to drink,
Which dry and leave them at their utmost need;
Yet spy they not the spring within its cave,
Whose deeper waters ever touch the brink;
While day by day, through screening rock and weed,
Blind echoes idly move them in their grave!

SONNET.

[Blind to all bars, the Artist fain would try]

Blind to all bars, the Artist fain would try
To shadow forth the Rainbow; and in vain!
Earth hath not wherewithal to give again
Those heavenliest hues of the ethereal sky.
Far less the Poet finds a fitting dye
To sketch the airy castles of the brain;
His pencil mars them with rude touch mundane,
Bright though they gleam on his enchanted eye.
Yet will he toil to make his lone world free
To alien minds. Alas! the fond endeavour!
E'en through his glass that realm they dimly see
Which, from their own, unmeasured spaces sever:
For ages on his words may echoed be,
The while his thought remains unread for ever!

SONNET.

A mighty voice once echoed o'er the sad
And sinful world, for evermore to be
Re-echoed on; bidding the slave be free,
The guilty reconciled, the wretched glad;
Preaching a conquest over all things bad,
Revealing Truth and Life: so blest are we.
Yet says the man of facts, “'Tis ours to see:
What need of hearing?” Miserably mad,
He leaves his place, too narrow as he thinks,
To wander in strange deserts, far and wide;
And grasping as a clue some curious links
Whereof the last falls earthward at his side,
Confronts the blank face of a heathen sphinx,
And cries, “We have no better hope, nor guide!”

SONNET.

[Midnight! I love thee for thine own true sake]

Midnight! I love thee for thine own true sake
Not as they love thee who thy grand array
Bid thee relinquish for disguises gay,
Till thy dim reign of noontide blaze partake:
Not as the toil-worn, for the needful break
Thou bringest to their life-consuming day:
I, following leisurely my quiet way,
Earn not, nor prize, their interval opaque.
For through thy darkness gleams unearthly light;
Whether in dreams the unresting spirit, free
From weight of Reason, climb the wildest height
Of Wonder, and strange Beauty, Power, and Glee;
Or whether, wakeful, lost to sound and sight,
Dead to the world, we face Eternity!

Pevensey and Hurstmonceaux.

A sonnet

I looked upon two corpses in one day,
Two noble corpses, lying by the shore:
First, one who on his large proportions bore
The stamp of heathen warrior; where he lay,
Harmless and helpless in his disarray,
The mild autumnal cheer was clouded o'er
By uncouth shades which haunt him evermore,
Dark horrors of his harsh rule past away.
Then a fair lady, barbarously slain:
O stately pleasantness, untimely cold!
There might one grieve till sad night should enfold
The appealing form; and gaze, and gaze again,
As though through longing one might yet behold
The vanished life. Ah, longing all in vain!

SONNET.

[If I and mine were all below the grass]

If I and mine were all below the grass
Beside that old and solemn Church you know,
Would you forget us? Nay! in fitful show
Fair early friendships through lone memory pass,
Like sunny glimpses caught in a cold glass.
And there, serenely sheltered, come and go
The undying dead; ay, better sheltered so
Than under sepulchres of stone and brass.
But for the rest, whose mortal hands to-day
Might clasp your own as warmly as before,
To whom your voice, your looks, might now convey
The joy Time crowns with pathos, and restore
The strength of trust in absence worn away,—
Let these, through memory, mutely plead for more.

MAURICE CLIFTON.

I. PART I.

Scene, Clifton Park. Time, Evening. Speaker, Maurice. Hearer, Dick, his Friend.
Hi! hi! come along, Dick, and see the West Gate;
I'm going there now, and I don't mean to wait.
My uncle, is that? If it is, I shall bolt.
It's not. Well, then, look to your right. That's the Holt.
Her aunt took the place about two months ago—
In June. It belongs to my uncle, you know.
You see it? those chimneys behind the Scotch firs;
And one little window—I fancy that hers.
O, Dick, I've no words to describe her! And she
Mewed up there, and snubbed, and tormented for me!
Break off our engagement we certainly shan't;
My uncle's mistaken, and likewise her aunt.
Why should we break off our engagement? Look here:
I've got rather over four hundred a-year,
Which most younger brothers would think pretty well;
Besides my profession, which doesn't much tell
At present, I own; but it may by and bye.
The law's not my passion; but never say die!

And Helen has something, though not very much;
Enough for a lady to live on as such.
Together we surely might manage with ease.
Oh, no. Not at all. She must wait, if you please,
For somebody else with a proper estate,
And get a grand house, and a service of plate,
And make herself wretched thereby, and me too.
Yes. That they consider a fine thing to do.
Oh, young people's fancies, of course, are absurd!
But, I say, Dick, how about keeping your word?
My uncle's tyrannical—horribly so;
He's upright, and downright, and generous, though;
But as for her aunt, she's so sneaking and spiteful,
Poor Helen's position must be something frightful!
That aunt—well, I won't call her names. Take the facts,
And guess what she is, when you hear how she acts.
She had an old butler, who's just gone away,
A real honest, capital fellow, named Gray;
A servant, now, such as you don't often find;
A worse may be more to her ladyship's mind!
I told you of yesterday's row. After that,
By way of reaction, I put on my hat
And trudged round the country some ten miles or more;
It's fine for the temper: I've tried it before.
And on my way homeward, out there by the Holt,
I fall in with Gray, in a state of revolt,
And gratified highly at lighting on me.
“It's you, Mr. Maurice, I wanted to see!
A nice piece of work, sir, we've had with your letter!
And I'm to be off; and the sooner the better!
To-morrow per eight o'clock train I'm to start!
I've now been across there to speak for the cart.”

Poor Gray! in the midst of his fuming and fuss
I really believe that he cared more for us—
For Helen, that is—than he did for himself;
Although it's no joke to be laid on the shelf,
At his time of life. Why, he cried like a child
In speaking of Helen. It made me so wild,
I wanted to thrust myself in then and there,
And carry her off once for all. Only, where?
And so we two walked up and down in the lane:
I can't give the whole of it over again,
But here's just the substance of what Gray told me.
That morning, as Helen was pouring out tea,
He took in the postbag, and saw, well enough,
There were but two letters, and one was a puff,
With printing outside, and the other my own
To Helen. My writing was very well known
To Gray, I may tell you; my sentiments, too,
For that matter. Well, he had no more to do
Just then in the room, and he therefore came out
And spent some few moments in looking about
For one of her ladyship's gloves, which she thought
She'd left in the hall, when a message was brought
Which made him go back to the breakfast-room. Dick,
That woman—
(I thought so. I've broken my stick.
No matter!)
Well, there she sat up in her place,
A sort of detestable smirk on her face,
Perusing my letter! Yes. That! And what's more,
Gray says from the time he was gone he feels sure
That Helen could never have read it half through,
If even she opened it! What could she do,

Shut up with that—ruffianly woman? But wait;
Oh, that isn't all. It appears that of late
The aunt has adopted a notable plan
For stuffing her cushions without any—bran,
Or wool, or whatever they use. This is all:
You tear up old papers uncommonly small,
And stuff in instead. And her ladyship keeps
A basket in which she accumulates heaps
Of this sort of stuffing. Well, what does she do,
But first read my letter composedly through,
Then pick up her basket, and coolly begin
To mince the said letter, and stir the bits in!
Poor Helen stood up, and turned round towards the door,
And fainted away—Yes! fell down on the floor!
Then Gray's indignation burst out on the spot;
And rather plain language her ladyship got;
And very superbly her ladyship stared,
For that demonstration she was not prepared,
Apparently. Still, she was pretty collected,
And straightway gave warning to Gray, as expected.
Well, Gray rang the bell, and had down Helen's maid,
And did what was wanted, without the least aid
From Helen's own aunt, who got bonnet and shawl,
And called for her ponies, and drove to the Hall,
And rated my uncle, who then rated me.
I told you this morning. And then—let me see:
I went, as I say, for a jolly long walk,
And stumbled on Gray, and came in for this talk.
The gist of the talk, though, you haven't heard yet.
Of course the main question was, how could I get
More letters to Helen? I heard with disgust
That Gray knew of nobody there he could trust.

“Keep clear of the lot, sir,” said he, looking glum;
“They're all of 'em under her ladyship's thumb.”
At last, though, I hit on a capital dodge,
I've set up a post-office here at the lodge.
The aunt of the woman who opens the gate,
Was Tom's and my nurse, and she sits there in state
And knits in the little front parlour; and so
I rushed off and found her: a word and a blow.
Said I, “Mrs. Chapman, perhaps you've not heard,
They're wishing to make me go back from my word,
And treat a young lady exceedingly ill.”
Said she, “Mr. Maurice, I don't think you will.”
“I don't think I shall, Mrs. Chapman,” said I;
“But now will you help me?” Said she, “Sir, I'll try.”
Of course I sent Helen a message by Gray,
To ask her to call for a letter to-day
(The fun was to fancy how neatly she could,
Because the Holt shrubbery joins this West wood).
Of course, too, I wrote it and took it last night,
And hope to hear now that she got it all right.
Look out by that haystack, beyond the two carts:
You just get a glimpse of the paling which parts
The Holt from the lane where we met, Gray and I;
And where I had rather a fright, by the bye.
Within that same paling I certainly heard
A something which rustled; and not like a bird,
Nor yet like a beast, as it sounded to me;
And close at my elbow. Now, what might that be?
Gray said it was nothing. To me, I confess,
It sounded remarkably like a silk dress.
One could not see over at all from the ground;
And, when I took hold of the paling, I found

The wood in so shaky and rotten a state,
The question arose, would it carry my weight?
Which question Gray answered with, “Well, if you do,
And bring it all down, sir, I wouldn't be you.”
—I wish though I'd cleared up the point while I might.
H'm. Gray called it nonsense. Let's hope he was right.—
I say, here we are, so we part, I suppose.
Now just cut across to that footpath. It goes
Right through the old chestnuts you wanted to see,
And into the avenue. Don't wait for me.

II. PART II.

Scene, the Front Parlour at the Lodge. Time, Five Minutes later. Speaker, Mrs. Chapman. Hearer, Maurice.
Come, come, Mr. Maurice, now don't ye look so;
I meant ye no harm, sir, but how should I know?
She walks in straight-forrard, and asks for your letter;
I puts on my glasses to see her the better:
The room's rayther dark, for they boughs be so shady;
Thinks I to myself though, “You looks like a lady!”
She didn't speak pleasant; I can't say she did.
(Let them as belongs to her do as they're bid!)
I gives her the letter, and curcheys, ye know:
She takes it like this now; and looks at it so:
No “thankee,” no nothing; not even “Good day”;
But picks up her flounces, and marches away!
I felt myself quite colour up, I declare!
Thinks I, “If they marry, they won't be no pair!
And what shall I do if the match turns out bad?
I doubt it's no kindness to screen him, poor lad!”
A great mind I had to set off to the Hall,
And ask for the Squire, and confess to it all!
Well, then I bethought me—I hadn't afore,
“He said she wa'n't twenty. She ain't, for she's more.

Not twenty? She's that, and the rest, if she's ten!
I'm out if she'll see five-and-thirty agen!
Why, what will she make that poor boy believe next?
Not twenty, indeed!” I was properly vexed.
She'd got a smart hat on, like I don't know what,
They now-a-days dresses so young, when they're not;
As if you could put back your age with a hat!
I goes by the face, and they can't put back that!
I watcht her a bit; and she hadn't got fur,
When all of a sudden says I, “It aint her”—
That's Roger goes there, lookee, out by the deer;
I'd give him a call, but I don't think he'd hear.
The wind sets this way, and he's deafer than me;
He's out in all weathers, is Roger, ye see.
We've let off the Holt, but that don't touch the game;
Our squire kep' the shootin', ye know, all the same;
So Roger he just takes and goes his old rounds,
And he's seen them ladies, odd times, in the grounds.
And so I was thinking he maybe could say
Which lady it was as come in here to-day.
Go you now and ask him. I think, sir, you'd better.
It runs in my head that the aunt got that letter.

III. PART III.

Scene, the Park. Time, Ten Minutes later. Speaker, Maurice. Hearer, Dick.
O, why have you waited? Don't speak to me, Dick!
Don't speak to me yet! Here's another vile trick!
That noise in the bushes—why, what should it be
Except that—that woman! And so, there were we
Parading, like dolts, in the lane, to and fro,
And telling her just what she wanted to know!
And chuckling, moreover: the thing seemed so pat!
Imagine her nice counter-chuckling at that!
I heard her, I tell you, again and again,
Though Gray would not have it. I heard her quite plain,
And might have confronted her there on the spot:
I'd rather have brought down the paling than not!
I gave into Gray with that stupid submission
Through shame, I believe, for the very suspicion!
And so, we talk on, and the spy wins the day!
I had one resource, and I've thrown it away!

IV. PART IV.

Scene, the Library at the Holt. Time, a Week later. Letter-writer, the Aunt.

My dearest Augusta, my preface might be,
“Congratulate Helen: commiserate me,
Deserted so soon!” But I will not complain.
On such an occasion as this one is fain
To silence one's poor selfish feelings. If only
Her lot be so bright, then be mine dull and lonely!
Dear Helen engaged herself ten days ago
To young Maurice Clifton. You possibly know
At least who he is, for his family hold
An ancient position down here. I am told
Of certain old records from which it appears
The land has been theirs nearly five hundred years.
An uncle reigns now, who behaves like a bear;
But Maurice's own elder brother's the heir.
Not Maurice himself; which perhaps you'll regret.
For my part, however, I don't mean to fret.
We cannot have everything: nobody can!
And what are the acres, compared with the man?
My Helen considers all that such a trifle,
If Maurice had nothing on earth but his rifle

I think she would marry him first, and then say
“Suppose you shoot something for dinner to-day!”
And Maurice, indeed, is so great as a shot,
They might have a dinner where others would not.
He rides, too, superbly. And get him indoors,
Where other young riders and shots are such bores,
You find him quite charming—so bright, so well-bred,
With very fine brains in a very fine head.
And then—my dear Helen's peculiar ambition—
Besides all the rest, a delightful musician!
I fancied it merely from hearing him speak.
But stay—I've not mentioned that Maurice, last week,
Came into a fortune which, somehow or other,
Was always expected to go to his brother;
A property worth full six thousand a year,
(While this does not quite bring in five—so I hear).
And now the clock warns me this gossip must end,
Believe me your truly affectionate friend,

Oh, Helen confesses she teased you one day
About a late servant of mine, William Gray.
She now sends her love, and says Maurice and she
Intend to engage him. They don't consult me.

SIR RALPH DUGUAY.

A Ballad in Two Parts.

I. PART I.

It fell upon a merry day,
When hawthorn boughs were white,
Two brothers met in green Broadwood,
Betwixt the noon and night.

The one was called Sir Ralph Duguay,
A stately knight and tall:
The other was the young Walter,
Beloved of great and small.

They state them down beneath an oak,
All on the grassy ground,
Young Walter with his gay viol,
Sir Ralph with his great hound.

Young Walter took his viol up,
And tunéd every string,
Then gaily 'gan he play thereon,
And gaily 'gan he sing.

He sang a song of chivalry,
Made long ago in France,
Which set Sir Ralph his heart astir,
With deeds of sword and lance.

“A brave old song is that, Walter,
And bravely sung to boot:
The bird on the tree may fly for me,
So thou sing at the root.”

Young Walter took his viol up,
And tunéd it again;
And again he sang till Broadwood rang,
But in another strain.

A roundel of a sweet lady,
That witty was and fair,
The daughter of a puissant prince,
His only child and heir.

Sir Ralph uprose before the close,
And loudly laughed he:
“Now be she fair as the fair moon,
May'st have her thyself, for me.

“She may be witty as thou wilt,
Right royal of degree:
She may have castles, and counties eke,
And thou may'st have all, for me.

“Let him who will go seek for care,
And carry home a wife:
If she have wealth, he payeth for that
Full dearly in his life.

“If she be great, his scutcheon therefor
May all the braver be;
But the higher name, the higher dame,
And the lower falleth he.

“If she be fair, her beauty fleeth
Like any summer's day;
But the monstrous vain conceit of it
No time will do away.

“If she have wit, she turneth it
To mischief every hour:
Her spouse may scarce abide in peace,
Nor he never will in power.

“Be what she may, let him give her straight
(Or he shall fare the worse)
A jangling pack of mincing maids,
And gold to stuff her purse.

“She must have trinkets quaint and rare,
And gowns both rich and trim:
Of such, I wot, she wearieth not,
But she wearieth soon of him.”

“Now nay, now nay,” quoth his young brother:
“Now put these gibes away:
His heart is cold which weddeth for gold,
And rue it well he may.

“For gold were vain, and also wit,
Nobility, and beauty,
To him who therewithal should lack
His lady's loving duty.

“But a hard life, with a loving wife,
Were pleasanter to me
Than the King his throne, and I thereon
A lonely man to be.”

“O hold thy peace, thou simple Walter!
Hold thou thy peace, and list:
The bachelor he hath trouble enow,
But much more hath he missed.

“Thou hast read in thy brave books, Walter,
Of things which never were:
May'st look till thou art blind, Walter,
For damsels limnéd there.

“This thing I credit not a whit,
For all the minstrels say,
That ever a lady held one mind
For twelve months and a day.

“On such if I should ever light
(As never I look to do),
Methinks I will cry mercy then
All womankind unto.

“Fast heart were better than fair face,
Wit, wealth, or high degree:
Till such I find, it is my mind
A bachelor to be.

“And for that he who doth not seek,
The slower is to gain,
Therefore I think until my death
A bachelor to remain.”

He has taken to him his strong cross-bow,
He has whistled to him his hound;
And away again through green Broadwood
Sir Ralph Duguay is bound.

Of all the paths in green Broadwood
The nighest taketh he;
And that is a path doth lead him out
Over against the sea.

“I'll thread the woods no more to-day,
But on the Heights I'll go;
For I fain would see what ship doth ride
At anchor there below.”

The ship lay moored without the bay
The rocky reef beside:
A royal ship all outward bound,
A waiting for the tide.

“Now hie thee home, hound Forester,
Now hie thee home, I say!
Bid them be ware of a hungry man,
Would sup with small delay.”

The hound leapt up with one short note,
Then bounded off amain,
Around the skirts of fair Broadwood,
Nor ever turned again.

Sir Ralph looked out along the cliff
To see what might be seen,
And so he saw Earl Peregrine
Come riding over the green,

Who had been thorough two shires
All on the King's behests,
And now rode homeward merrily,
With a score of gallant guests.

And ever as he ambled on
He looked across the bay,
Where stood so strong his castle walls—
The walls of Warenstay.

The walls rise up above the rock,
The rock from out of the sea,
From the water's edge to the postern-gate
Full fourscore steps there be.

And looking o'er to Warenstay,
He spied upon the stair
His daughter, Lady Margaret,
That was so young and fair.

She waved her white scarf o'er her head,
But stepping forward so,
Down from the stair that lady fell,
Into the waves below.

Then sprang the Earl upon the ground
Like one of wit bereft:
And “If ye leave my child to drown
I have never another left!

“O I have never another child
Save her in the surging sea,
And I'll give him a king's ransom
Who bringeth her safe to me!

“Across the bay is a little way,
A bowshot and no more,
And I'll give him a king's ransom
Who bringeth her ashore!”

Across the bay is a little way,
Though it runneth far inland;
But fearful high above the sea
The Heights of Whindon stand.

On Whindon Heights the old shepherd
Hath sat full many a day;
But never swimmer saw he yet
Leap down into the bay.

And all the Earl's brave company,
So sound of neck and limb,
Deemed he who that great leap should try
Might never live to swim.

Then loud and louder cried the Earl,
“Will any save her life,
So he be come of gentle kin,
My daughter is his wife!”

Sir Ralph could hear no word of that:
A furlong off was he,
But presently he turned and spied
A woman in the sea.

He dropped his cross-bow then and there
With never a but nor if,
Stripped off his coat of Lincoln green,
And flung him from the cliff.

He flung him down into the waves,
And the waves went over his head,
But lightly rose he up again,
And lightly forth he sped.

Right forward steering swift and true
He stoutly cleft his way
Up to the goal he started for,
Beneath dark Warenstay.

He caught her by the silken sleeve,
And by the long, long hair,
And safe and sound he landed her
Upon the castle stair.

“I marvel,” quoth Earl Peregrine,
“What stranger this may be
Hath won, without the knowing it,
Mine only child from me?”

Out and spoke a saucy squire,
As they to ride began:
“And what if this same gentle wight
Do prove a married man?”

“Nay,” said the Earl, “I give him then
This jewel in my hat:
The King himself were fain I trow
To bid broad lands for that.”

They found the coat of Lincoln green,
And eke the rare cross-bow:
“Ho,” quoth the Earl, “methinks no churl
Such gear as this doth owe.”

They rode round by the head of the bay,
And up to the castle gate:
The gray-haired porter at his post
Their coming doth await.

“Now hither, hither, Hilary,
And say who this may be
Hath saved the Lady Margaret
From drowning in the sea?”

“Fair fall him ay by sea and land!”
Replied the porter old:
“Sir Ralph Duguay it was, my lord,
That knight renowned and bold.”

“A bold knight!” cried the company:
“Long live he with his bride!”
“A bold knight!” said Earl Peregrine,
And nought said he beside.

The saucy squire he laughed apart:
“The stone may stick by the hat;
For Ralph Duguay is a bachelor,
And there's an end of that.

“But yet, I doubt, an he were asked
Herein to choose his own,
The bauble he were fain to take,
The bride to leave alone:

“Because of all blythe bachelors
I wot of east or west,
Methinks this very Ralph Duguay
Doth love his freedom best.”

So rode they all into the court,
And lighted by the door:
The Earl he walked into his hall
With gallant guests a score.

In there came the gay Countess,
Arrayed in scarlet pall:
“Now welcome home, mine own dear lord,
And welcome, gentles all!”

And in there came sweet Margaret,
All freshly clad and fair;
But still the damp of the salt sea waves
Lay on her yellow hair.

“O Elinor, my dear lady,
Great news there be to-day:
How to a knight of high renown
I have given our child away.”

“Great news are these indeed, my lord,”
The Countess said, and smiled:
“Now where is the knight hath won the right
To marry our only child?”

“An if thou ask me where, Madame,
I cannot surely say:
But here or there or anywhere
His name is Ralph Duguay.”

The smile went off that lady's face
Then when she heard the name:
The smile went off her face thereat,
And the colour went and came.

Up and spoke a prattling page,
The youngest and the least:
“Were't not well done to seek this knight,
And bid him to the feast?

“For yonder in the Hollow Way,
As I came through but now,
I saw one sleeping on the bank,
And he it was, I trow.”

“It were well done,” replied the Earl,
“And best methinks by me.”
With that he turned him on his heel,
And went forth suddenly.

Down from the wold into the vale
There runs the Hollow Way,
Wherein he looked to find Sir Ralph;
As, certes, there he lay.

But him a-sleeping on the bank
The Earl had scarce espied,
When he was ware of his own lady
A stepping at his side.

Out and spoke the Countess then,
And roundly speaketh she:
“For all that's come and gone, my lord,
This match shall never be.

“I had liefer this same bold swimmer
Lay a fathom under water:
His father was my father's foe:
He never shall wed my daughter.”

The Earl he stood and knit his brow,
As one perplexéd sore:
“O, Elinor, their hearts which beat
In anger, beat no more.

“No challenge from the chantry comes,
No answer from the nave:
Leave them alone: their swords, Madame,
Are sheathéd in the grave.

“What boots it now to stir again
The reliques of their strife?
I have given herein my knightly word,
To keep it with my life.”

Lightly laughed the lady then,
Took up the Earl his hand:
“Stout fist was here, upon a time,
For battle-axe or brand.

“To break a lance with any man
Earl Peregrine would dare;
And is he now afeared to break
A rash word made of air?”

“For honour I would break a lance,”
He sadly made reply;
“But if I break my plighted word,
I honour lose thereby.”

“Ah, mockery!” then the Countess cried,
“For as stout as stout men be,
Will honour bind them hand and foot,
In bonds one cannot see!

“Hey, go thy ways, my lord,” she said:
“Leave me to work alone;
And trust thou ay to woman's wit
What things do pass thine own.

“Go home to thy brave company,
That loiter by the gate;
And bid them in to meat and drink,
For idle tongues will prate.

“Put off these dumpish looks, and say,
In merry speech and free,
‘Thou art ever best with the old friends,
And the new are best with me.’

“But send me four men secretly,
And a rope to every man;
And warn them that they make no noise
But all the speed they can.”

“A parlous dame thou art, truly,
And ready of thy wit!
But mark me, if he come to harm,
'Tis thou must answer it.

“The case is so, that friend or foe,
His debtors much are we.”
“O for his safety never fear!
I'll care for that,” quoth she.

The Earl he gnawed his nether lip,
Like one who boded ill;
Then turned him homeward grudgingly
To work his lady's will.

The Countess stood and watched Sir Ralph:
No mischief boded he:
In sooth he was a wearied man,
And so slept heavily.

O, comely was that lady's face,
But crafty was her thought;
And dainty fair her fingers were,
But a sorry deed they wrought.

She crept beside him where he lay,
With his arm thrown over a stone:
She drew the ring from off his hand,
And slipped it on her own.

Sir Ralph he dreamed a troublous dream,
There lying on the ground:
He thought that he was set upon
At unawares, and bound.

He tossed and muttered in his sleep,
But waking up ere long,
He found himself made fast in sooth
With cords both new and strong.

“How now, how now, ye false varlets!
Speak out, ye knaves, for shame!
Where learnt ye this new-fangled trick?
How call ye yonder dame?”

She turned upon him suddenly,
With rancour in her face:
“Thou hast known me ere to-day,” she said,
“My name, and eke my race.”

“I've known you ere to-day, Madame,
And I should know you still;
And I would the most I knew of you
Were good, as it is ill.”

“Take up, take up this bold fardel,”
Cry'd she, “this valiant load!
An he will needs discourse to us,
E'en be it on the road.”

They carried him to a high tower,
And the Countess went before:
She drew a key from her gay girdle,
And so unmade the door.

They passed in at the narrow doorway,
And up by the narrow stair:
Then when his shoulder struck the wall,
She never said “Have a care!”

They carried him into a little chamber,
With roof and floor of stone:
For hempen bands they did on iron,
And left him there alone.

Then laughed the Countess to herself,
And to herself said she,
“Now I have laid him by the heels,
I'll do what liketh me!”

The purse hung heavy at her side
With pieces broad and bright;
But ere she parted from those men,
The purse hung very light.

She bribed them all to hold them dumb
And her intent fulfil;
And if her gold was strong enow
Her threats were stronger still.

So hied she to the banquet-hall
Where all the folk were set;
But never spoke until she came
Beside fair Margaret.

Then drew she off Sir Ralph his ring:
“A token, child, for thee!
The knight who gave it me in charge
Sails yonder on the sea.

“No word of mine would bring him back,
Nor he never will claim his wife,
Till he have won a wider name,
At peril of his life.

“‘I'm not my lady's peer,’ said he,
‘In having, nor in birth:
The more 's the need that every man
Should hold me so in worth:

“‘And therefore I'll to France, Madame,
To seek what fame I may!’
Look out, for yonder goes the ship
Wherein he sails away!”

Then rushed forth all that company,
And mounted on the wall:
The Countess, laughing to herself,
Was foremost of them all.

They watched the ship which sailed away,
And shouted o'er and o'er
Farewell to bold Sir Ralph Duguay,
Who yet remained ashore.

II. PART II.

O'er Whindon Heights and Broadwood glades
The summer waned away,
But thorough wood or over wold
Went never Ralph Duguay.

O'er Whindon Heights and Broadwood glades
A year went round and still
Sir Ralph Duguay at Warenstay
Was lodged against his will.

The Countess to her daughter spoke
(And that high tower in sight),
“Sweet heart, no tidings come to us
Of yonder errant knight.

“Gay ladies plenty dwell in France:
Men are a fickle kind;
And truly she that's out of sight
Will soon be out of mind.

“Reck nought of him recks nought of thee:
'Twere shame to stoop so low:
Hey, never mope for a false traitor,
But laugh and let him go!

“Why here's the Duke, the king's cousin,
Will wed thee if he may:
Go to,” said she, “be ruled by me,
And never say him nay.”

Fair Margaret's face waxed red apace:
“Sir Ralph Duguay his name
I have heard it spoken with little love,
But never, methinks, with blame.

“Never before, nor never more,
Dear mother, let it be;
But as you find me true to him,
Ay think him true to me.”

The Countess talked no more with her,
But on that self-same day,
Unto the Duke she writ boldly,
And promised her away.

Within a se'nnight from that time,
All at the twilight hour,
Came she again to her young daughter,
A spinning in her bower.

“O here be news enow from France!
A battle late hath been,
And a woful price the winning on't
Hath cost our King, I ween!

“For many a stout heart lieth cold,
Which never to none would yield;
And among the rest Sir Ralph Duguay
Was slain upon the field.

“'Tis pity, yet he died the death
A soldier ay loves best:
Who falls in fight falls like a knight:
So let his memory rest!

“But other knights are left on live,
Whereof the Duke is one:
Now art thou free as bird on tree,
And naysay shall he none.”

“O what is this device, mother,”
Sad Margaret replied,
“To take a woful fresh widow,
And make of her a bride?”

Little thought fair Margaret,
A-mourning in her bower,
How safe and sound Sir Ralph was lodged
Anigh her in the tower.

Little thought Sir Ralph the while,
Within his prison dim,
How Margaret in her gay bower
Wept all alone for him.

Sir Ralph looked forth at the narrow loophole,
And saw the jackdaws fly:
“Ay, tarry,” quoth he, “by the old tower:
You love it better than I.”

O strong, strong is the thick freestone
And strong is the iron gray;
But stronger still is the steadfast will,
And wears them both away.

He wrought by day, he wrought by night,
He wrought with might and main:
When he had wrought a year and a week
He went at large again.

Abroad amid the gay morning
The daws flew to and fro;
And Ralph Duguay as well as they
Was free to come and go.

He wandered down upon the shore:
“My limbs are something stiff,
Else would I fain go swim again,
And double Whindon Cliff.”

Anon he looked across the land,
A-doubting of his way;
And a voice came by with a heavy sigh,
“Farewell, Sir Ralph Duguay!”

Then he was ware of a sad lady
Sate weeping by the sea.
“Now of all the knights that ever wore spurs,
What makes her light on me?

“Of all the knights in broad England,
Fair lady, tell me true,
Why call you on this Ralph Duguay,
Who calleth not on you?”

She never rose, nor turned her head,
But her voice came like a moan:
“It is no blame to speak that name
Which should have been mine own.

“When he was living, as now he is dead,
I looked to be his wife:
He won me on my father's word,
By saving of my life.”

Quoth he, “There be more bars than one
This marriage well may let;
But certes Ralph his death is none,
For that he liveth yet.”

She rose and looked him in the face:
O wan she was that day!—
“In very sooth, do you know aught
Of this Sir Ralph Duguay?”

Said he, “In very sooth I do:
I've known him many's the year,
And every word I listen to,
I warrant he shall hear.”

She drew a ring from her fair finger:
“If this be so,” said she,
“As you would help one in distress,
Give him this ring from me.

“And tell him here at Warenstay
They count him to be dead;
And they would marry me forthwith
Unto the Duke instead.”

He took the ring of wreathen gold:
He knew it well enow;
And still he shook the tangled hair
The thicker o'er his brow.

“Yet ponder well, fair damosel,
And make this choice aright:
Is not the one a princely duke,
And the other only a knight?”

“Were the knight a simple squire,” she said,
“And the Duke a crownéd King,
The heart were due to the promise true,
And the hand unto the ring.”

“Take back the ring, thou rare lady!
Take back the ring, I say!
And take therewith my love and troth,
For I'm that Ralph Duguay.

“I thought whilere of ladies fair
Things bitter and untrue;
But from my very heart this day
Those ill thoughts do I rue.”

Fair Margaret stepped two paces back:
She scanned him o'er and o'er:
“O sorely art thou changed, my knight!
I had known thee else before.”

He swept aside the tangled hair
From off his cheek and brow:
“O sorely art thou changed, my knight
But well I know thee now.”

Earl Peregrine was set in state
Within his hall that day,
And around him all, both great and small,
In festival array.

And next beside him sate the Duke:
As richly dight was he
As it had been his wedding day:
He thought it so to be.

In there walked Sir Ralph Duguay,
Unshorn, unkempt, unclean;
A-leading lovely Margaret,
Apparelled like a queen.

Uprose the Duke in stark amaze:
“I fain would understand
How dares yon strange unsightly man
To touch my lady's hand?”

Straight replied fair Margaret:
Her voice was low and clear:
“No lady am I of yours, Lord Duke,
But his which standeth here.”

O, then the Duke laid hand on sword
“My lord, I fain would know,
Is this some mime to pass the time,
Or may the truth be so?”

The Earl sate silent whilst he spoke,
And eke when he had done:
He gazed upon him dolefully,
But answer made he none.

Then laughed Sir Ralph a little laugh:
Said, “Lords and ladies gay,
And all the rest, hear now a geste
Upon this merry day.”

So presently before them all
He told his own true tale:
The Earl did quake whereas he sate
Beside his Countess pale.

The Duke stood still and heard him through,
Then laughed so loud and free,
Stepped forth and shook him by the hand,
And spoke out heartily.

“Gramercy for this merry geste,
This rare new geste of thine,
And I wish thee joy of thy wedding-day,
Though I thought it had been mine.

“For I would not part a lady's hand
From her own true love his ring,
For all the breadth of the broad acres
That lady ever should bring.

“I wish you joy of your wedding-day,
Sir Ralph Duguay,” he cried:
“Have you for me the mother-in-law,
And the father-in-law beside.

“For I would not call them mine,” said he,
“As they sit there this day,
For the bravest bride in all England
Was ever given away.

“To horse, to horse, and home again!
Mine errand here is done.”
With that he flung him forth straightway,
And his following every one.

Then, like a hunted hind at bay,
Uprose that Countess bold:
“Is this our thanks, to be defied,
In our own house and hold?”

Outspoke Sir Ralph: “Of thanks, Madame
You have earned you double meed:
His friend that's gone you were in will,
And mine you were in deed.

“For had you asked my mind herein
That day I won your daughter,
I had given her up as readily
As another might have sought her.

“And had you not this trial shaped,
And done my doubts away,
I might have lived a bachelor
Up to my dying day.

“My heart is full of gay joyance:
Let anger go!” said he;
“And here's my hand for all present
Will give their hands to me.”

Forthwith uprose Earl Peregrine,
In answer to that call:
Stepped lightly past his proud Countess:
“Now hear me, one and all!

“I have given way this many a day
To wicked woman-craft;
But I'll be master henceforward.”
The saucy squire he laughed.

“The tide is turned,” quoth the proud Countess,
“And all the work undone:
I had liefer sewn my daughter's shroud
Than call Duguay my son.

“But yet, if better may not be,
Why battle any more?
Have here my hand, Sir Ralph,” she said,
“And let our strife be o'er.”

Then rose a shout amid the hall,
And rang from side to side:
“Now happy live the true bridegroom,
And happy live the bride!”

“An uncouth bridegroom,” quoth Sir Ralph:
I'll mend him if I can:
Let me go seek a coat to wear,
And bid mine own best man.”

They set him on a swift courser,
And home he rode full fain:
A joyful wight was young Walter
To look on him again.

And “Dearly welcome home, brother,
And welcome home to me;
But O thou comest home at last
In sorry plight,” said he.

“No coat upon thy back, brother,
No hat upon thy head:
I doubt it hath gone hard with thee
In France, dear Ralph,” he said.

“I have not been in France, Walter,
Nor I have not been in Spain;
But on English ground, where I have found
Small choice but to remain.”

“If I speak wide now, brother Ralph,
I speak but after thee,
And after that same fair letter
Which thou didst write to me.”

“O fair may yet be false, Walter,
And well methinks I wot
Who writ this fair and false letter,
Which I myself writ not.”

Then 'gan he shout, “Ho, Forester,
To greet me in time past
Wast wont to be the foremost ay,
Art now, my hound, the last?”

“Nay cease thy calling, brother Ralph,
Or call some other hound;
For Forester is dead and gone:
His bones lie under ground.

“He sought thee far and wide, brother,
And so he pined away:
We found his carcase on the Heights:
We buried it where it lay.”

Sir Ralph thereto made answer none;
But only from his eye
A tear dropped down on the broad hearthstone
Where the hound had used to lie.

“Now, Walter, put thy sad suit off,
And lightly don thy best;
For a wedding is to do this day,
And thou must be a guest.”

Right speedily they clad them both
In seemly rich array,
And so they rode forth side by side,
And up to Warenstay.

As they two rode amid the throng,
Quoth one, “Whoe'er they be,
These are the comeliest gentlemen
Of all the company.”

When they two stepped into the hall,
Young Walter spoke aside:
“I see no groom save one, brother,
To match with yonder bride:

“No king but one for yonder queen
Throughout the banquet-hall;
And he's the King of the Bachelors,
Will crown no Queen at all.”

“Hey, live and learn, my boy Walter:
I have lived and learned herein;
For yonder bride is mine, Walter,
And let them laugh who win.”

“O am I waking, brother Ralph,
Or dreaming where I stand?
If yon fair Queen my sister is,
Then let me kiss her hand.

So into chapel presently
They passed in order due;
And there Sir Ralph Duguay espoused
That lady tried and true.

“A heart that's fast I have won at last,
Even in mine own despite:
With wit, and wealth, and high degree,
And beauty passing bright!”

When Ralph Duguay rode home again,
His courser carried double,
And home rode he right merrily,
Forgetting care and trouble.

O earthly joy doth come and go,
But nowhere may abide:
Grief o'er his shoulder ever peers,
And thrusts him soon aside.

Sir Ralph unto his lady spoke,
Upon a summer's day;
“What is it ails our young brother,
To fade and fall away?”

Young Walter stood in green Broadwood,
With his back against a tree:
He took his viol in his hand,
And sweetly carolled he:

“Upon a time, methought that I,
Of all birds in the air,
Would fainest be the Ger-falcon
On lady's fist so fair.

“Methought there flew no bird so blest
As he, by wold or wood;
But now I'm in another mind:
I'll none of jess nor hood.

“I had liefer be the little Lark,
Which soareth up so high:
The Falcon he is well at home,
But the Lark more free doth fly.

“O happy, happy little Lark
Which soarest up so high!
The earth shows wondrous beautiful,
But brighter is the sky!”

Young Walter he grew very sick
Ere harvesting began;
But when All-hallowmas came round
He lay a dying man.

At dawn of that All-hallowmas
He sang surpassing well:
At noon of that All-hallowmas
They tolled young Walter's knell.

ORINDA.

A Ballad.

At sundown of a summer's day,
When the world was growing still,
Came sad Orinda forth alone
And climbed the stony hill.

She sought the wide and dreary moor,
Where tracks were few and small;
But where Orinda set her foot
Was never a track at all.

Nor man nor beast she met abroad
Amid the gorse and ling,
Only the little flittermouse
Was chirping on the wing.

The moor lay bleak on either hand,
But as far as one might see,
Right on before Orinda's face,
There stood a single tree.

And on that tree, as on a mark,
Her two blue eyes were set:
She held her course through ling and gorse,
Nor turned for any let.

What time she rose above the hill
The sky was glowing red;
But ay on the way the twilight gray
Came thickening overhead.

And when she drew anigh the tree,
The moon shone broad and bright:
A sighing silvery tree it stood
Alone there in the night.

Across the shadow of the tree
There flowed a glittering brook:
Orinda turned and followed it,
With never a backwood look.

The brook flowed on from East to West,
Flowed on from North to South;
Flowed on below a rugged rock,
And past a cavern's mouth.

And when she saw that same cavern
She balanced never a whit,
But waded through the chill water
And entered into it.

All in the low and black cavern
She reckoned slowly o'er
Twenty paces at the side;
Twenty, and no more.

Thereby a hidden opening was,
The trick whereof she knew,
Which groping in the damp darkness
She found, and so passed through.

Thence mounted she a winding stair
Up to a narrow door:
The key which should that door undo
On a silken string she wore.

She kissed the faded silken string,
She kissed the little key:
“O mother dear! O mother dead!
Thy lost love rescues me!”

So entered she a dim chapel,
By veinéd vaulting spanned,
On many clustered marble shafts
Upreared on either hand;

Wherein, through mazy masonry,
Deep-set in arches old,
Fell window-slants of stained moonshine
Across the pavement cold.

And as Orinda lightly trod
Adown that chapel fair,
The lustres rose up one by one,
And glided over her hair.

Into an ancient rich cloister
She from the chapel passed,
And where the shadow shrouded her,
Made she her halt at last.

All black and white, in the clear moonlight,
Stood up the chapel wall:
Right to the tip of the pinnacles
You might scan the tracery small;

And eke the grim and starkthroat crew
Of gurgoyles gaping wide,
Which, weather-scarred, with eyeballs hard,
Into the cloister pried.

So quiet was all, that high on the wall,
In a little whiff of wind,
You might hear the edge of an ivy-leaf
Grate on the stone behind.

Also the beat of the old clock
At work within his tower:
Orinda hearkened wistfully
What time he told the hour.

And “Dost thou count to me,” she said,
“These hours which come and go;
Or count them to the waiting Dead,
Whose bodies lie below?”

But when the last of the midnight strokes
Came shivered in its fall,
A sound of rustling raiment rose,
And pattering feet withal.

And straight there swept a darksome train
The lofty cloister through,
Of nuns who toward the chapel went
In silence, two and two.

And last of all walked slowly by
The abbess old and frail,
Who led a little blooming maid
With never a hood nor veil.

So passed they into chapel all,
And soon upon the air
Came echoes of low orisons
Across the cloister-square.

Then suddenly there burst abroad
Strong harmony of praise:—
Orinda stood and wept aloud:
So would she end her days!

The service o'er, those nuns once more,
With dull and muffled sound,
Swept all before Orinda's face,
To lowly pallets bound.

“Henceforth,” she thought, “O tranquil souls,
Be your calm rest my own!
But yet this night I would be free
To watch here all alone.”

The last again of the darksome train
Came by that abbess mild;
And still beside her, hand in hand,
There walked the blooming child.

“A solemn masque,” Orinda said:
“These two play Life and Death:”
Anon the child began to speak
To the abbess, under her breath,

“I love to stand by the North window;
But I would I could look through;
For my father he dwells in the North,
And my little brother too.”

“O North and South,” the abbess replied,
“'Tis a world of sorrow and sin:
Without yon wall it is perilous all:
Rest thankful, child, within.”

The child looked out upon the sky,
And musing spoke again:
“One's heart may cry for its liberty
Most when the most in vain.”

No further answer uttered then
That abbess grave and old;
But softly on the child's red lip
She laid a finger cold;

And softly down the long cloister,
And by a little door,
The unequal footsteps passed away:
Orinda heard no more.

She lingered in the lone cloister,
Nor marked how time sped by,
But the clock went on in his old tower
And the moon went over the sky.

The light came gliding to her foot,
Came gleaming in her face:
Then with a sigh departed she
From that cold lurking-place.

She came into a great garden,
Beside a granite wall:
Bright casements there enframéd were
In niches old and small.

100

She stood before a little window,
The midmost of the row;
With a blowing eglantine above,
And lily-buds below.

“Ah, fair white flowers,” Orinda said,
“'Tis meet ye thrive so well,
Where sprights in saintly innocence
And peace unbroken dwell!”

There rose a face in that window:
Looked right out on her own;
All in a woful staring trance,
And with a shuddering groan.

“They took me ere my life was done,
And laid me here in the pit!
I am pent up quick in the close darkness!
I am mad, I am mad of it!”

So ghastly glared the unblinking eyes,
The fixéd eyes of gray,
So fierce and frantic was the voice,
Orinda shrank away.

And that child's words came back to her,
With a sharp sudden pain:
“One's heart may cry for its liberty,
Most when the most in vain.”

101

She wandered in the still garden,
All fresh with summer dew,
Through hedges of sweet lavender,
And rosemary, and rue;

By old thick-flowering elder-trees
Low-branching overhead,
She wandered with a mind perturbed,
And with a faltering tread;

Till straying down a broad alley,
When the moon was low in the West,
She found a little hazel-bower
Wherein she sank to rest.

At length the day began to dawn
Up in the silent sky;
But she amid the waxing light
Slept on right heavily.

The stare looked out from the walnut-tree,
And piped so sweet and clear:
The lark and the throstle 'gan merrily whistle,
And blithe birds far and near.

The lightfoot squirrel was astir:
The bee flew humming by;
But she amid the wakening all
Slept on right heavily.

102

At the convent gate, ere the morn grew late,
A minstrel took his stand;
With a ragged cloak upon his back
And a cithern in his hand.

The nuns' confessor paced the court
With measured steps and slow,
A-reading in a little book
As he went to and fro.

“No good cometh of light music,”
Said he, when he drew near:
“Go on thy way; or if thou wilt stay
And taste of the traveller's cheer,

“Yet will we none of that thy craft
Fantastical and vain:
Here is no leisure for such-like pleasure
We sing in another strain.”

With that he turned him into the house,
And the minstrel hung his head;
But the portress pale brought a draught of ale,
And a crust of the wheaten bread.

Full dearly loved this pale portress
The airs of her youth gone by:
She sent him away, but she bade him play
By the garden wall so high.

103

There was a broad and smooth alley
Lay close within the wall;
Screenéd from view by the rows of yew,
Which stood so trim and tall.

Of threescore years, and five to that,
This portress lacked not much:
She had been lame for many a day,
And went ay with a crutch.

Yet swiftly stole she from the gate
To win that alley near:
And over the wall came the gay music
She had a mind to hear.

She fell a-dancing then and there,
Her crutch she flung away:
Down fell her hood, and down it hung,
Down fell her locks of gray.

And eke she prattled while she danced:
“I doubt, I doubt,” quoth she,
“There's never a one i' the old house yon
Could step so jauntily!”

When sad Orinda, sleeping on,
Heard that same minstrel play,
She dreamed a dream of a noble knight,
And a castle far away.

104

She never minded in her sleep,
Though waking well she knew,
How far away that castle lay,
Beyond the waters blue.

She never minded in her dream
How that brave knight was dead;
Though her own hands had garlanded
The stone above his head.

Time past arose on that old air,
And closed her lightly round;
And she lay still in the green arbour,
With gentle fancies crowned.

But when the minstrel changed his tune,
Her mood was overthrown:
A trouble came across her face,
And from her lips a moan.

Then opening slow bewildered eyes,
She marvelled much to spy
That silly portress, bent and lame,
A-frolicking hard by.

And in a while those very words
Came back to her again:
“One's heart may cry for its liberty
Most when the most in vain.”

105

The portress was a scared woman
When next she turned her round,
To light upon that strange lady
Within the garden ground.

And “If you be the portress here,
As so you seem to be,
And that the key of the outer gate,
Come open it now for me.”

The portress was a scared woman,
A-panting where she stood:
She pounced upon her crutch anon,
And shuffled on her hood.

She tarried for no parley then,
But up the alley hied,
Betook her to the outer gate,
And flung it open wide.

And thus Orinda, once for all,
The convent bounds forsook;
Back toward the moor she went her way,
Beside the winding brook.

107

FLORA'S LESSON.

[_]

(WRITTEN IN 1832, WHEN A. E. WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD.)

Flora once invited
The Senses to her bower,
Where, in perfection rare,
Was every lovely flower.

But Hearing did not come
To see these lovely flowers;
In Music's cave was she,
Where she often spent her hours.

And Taste, too, stayed away,
To dine and sup with Fame;
And so, instead of five,
Three senses only came.

Venus in her car
Came on that very day,
To ask a perfect flower
For her to take away.

108

Said she, “You sister ladies
Must choose a flower for me;
I'll take it not unless
'Tis liked by all the three.”

Said Flora, “There's a flower,
I know you'll like it, when
I tell you which I mean:
The Tulip of the Fen.”

Said Sight, “It pleases me,
'Tis a lovely little bell;”
But her sister liked it not,
For it had a horrid smell.

“But say,” said she, “What plant
With the Spice-flower rich can vie?”
“I like it not,” said Sight,
“For it pleases not the eye.”

Said Smell, “The Rose will do,
It covers Flora's lands;”
But Touch directly said,
“Thorns always hurt my hands!”

So not a single flower
Had suited all the three;
And Flora, smiling, said,
“Let this a lesson be.

109

“From things not perfect quite,
Turn not away in scorn;
For where was ever found
The Rose without a thorn?”