WHITE LILY OF WEARDALEHEAD.
THE ELVES.
All day the sunshine loves to dwell
Upon the pool of Weardale Well;
But when the sunbeams shine no more
The Monk stalks down the moonlit dell:
His robe is black, his hair is hoar,
He sits him down by Weardale Well;
He hears the water moan below,
He sees a face as white as snow,
His nightly penance there is done,
And he shall never see the sun.
THE MONK.
Hear them, old Anatomy!
Down the glade I see them flee—
White-robed Elfins, three times three!
THE ELVES.
Night by night, in pale moonlight,
The Monk shall tell his story o'er,
And the grinning Gnome with teeth of white
Hearkeneth laughing evermore;
His nightly penance thus is done—
And he shall never see the sun!
THE GNOME.
Ever new and ever old,
Comrade, be thy story told,
While the face as white as snow
Sighs upon the pool below.
THE MONK.
‘I love the sunshine,’ said
White Lily of Weardale-head.
And underneath the greenwood tree,
She wander' free, she wander'd bold;
The merry sun smiled bright to see,
And turn'd her yellow hair to gold:
Then the bee, and the moth, and the butterfly
Hunting for sweets in the wood-bowers fair,
Rose from the blooms as she wander'd by,
And played in the light of her shining hair.
She sat her down by Weardale Well,
And her gleaming ringlets rustled and fell,
Clothing her round with a golden glow,
And her shadow was light for the pool below;
Then the yellow adder fold in fold
Writhed from his lair in the grass and roll'd
With glittering scales in a curl o' the gold:
She stroked his head with her finger light,
And he gazed with still and glistening eye;
And she laught and clapt her hands of white,
And overhead the sun went by
Thro' the azure gulfs of a cloudless sky;
‘All things that love the sun, love me,
And O but the sun is sweet to see,
And I love to look on the sun,’ said she.
But the Abbess gray of Lintlin Brae
Hated to look on the light of day;
She mumbled prayers, she counted beads,
She whipt and whipt her shoulders bare,
She slept on a bed of straw and reeds,
And wore a serk of horse's hair.
By candle-light she sat and read,
And heard a song from far away,
She cross'd herself and raised her head—
‘Who sings so loud?’ said the Abbess gray.
I, who sat both early and late
A shadow black at the Abbey gate,
‘Mater sacra, it is one
Who wanders evermore in the sun,
A little maiden of Weardale-head,
Whose father and mother have long been dead,
But she loves to wander in greenwood bowers,
Singing and plucking the forest flowers.’
The Abbess frown'd, half quick, half dead,
‘There is a sin!’ the Abbess said.
I found her singing a ditty wild,
Her gleaming locks around her roll'd;
I seized her while she sang and smiled,
And dragged her along by the hair of gold:
The moth and butterfly, fluttering,
Follow'd me on to Lintlin Brae,
The adder leapt at my heart to sting,
But with sandall'd heel I thrust it away;
And the bee dropt down ere I was 'ware
On the hand that gript the yellow hair,
And stang me deep, and I cursed aloud,
And the sun went in behind a cloud!
THE ELVES.
Nightly be his penance done!
He shall never see the sun!
THE MONK.
The cell was deep, the cell was cold,
It quench'd the light of her hair of gold;
One little loop alone was there,
One little eye-hole letting in
A slender ray of light as thin
As a tress of yellow hair.
‘Oh for the sunshine!’ said
White Lily of Weardale-head;
And in the dark she lay,
Reaching her fingers small
To feel the little ray
That glimmer'd down the wall.
And while she linger'd white as snow
She heard a fluttering faint and low;
And stealing thro' the looplet thin
The moth and butterfly crept in—
With golden shadows as they flew
They waver'd up and down in air,
Then dropping slowly ere she knew,
Fell on her eyes and rested there:
And O she slept with balmy sighs,
Dreaming a dream of golden day,
The shining insects on her eyes,
Their shadows on her cheeks, she lay;
And while she smiled on pleasant lands,
On the happy sky and wood and stream,
I, creeping in with outstretch'd hands,
Murder'd the things that brought the dream.
She woke and stretch'd her hands and smiled,
Then gazed around with sunless eyes,
Her white face gloom'd, her heart went wild,
She sank with tears and sighs.
‘Oh for the sunshine!’ said
White Lily of Weardale-head.
And while she lay with cries and tears,
There came a humming in her ears;
And stealing through the looplet thin
The yellow honey-bee crept in,
And hover'd round with summer sound
Round and around the gloomy cell;
Then softly on her lips he fell,
And moisten'd them with sweetness found
Among the flowers by Weardale Well;
And O she smiled and sang a song,
And closed her eyelids in the shade,
And thought she singing walkt among
The lily-blooms in the greenwood glade.
I heard the song and downward crept,
And enter'd cold and black as sin,
And slew, although she raved and wept,
The bee that brought the sweetness in:
‘Oh for the sunshine!’ said
White Lily of Weardale-head.
And while she lay as white as snow
She heard a hissing sad and low;
And writhing through the looplet thin
The little yellow snake crept in:
His golden coils cast shadows dim,
With glistening eye he writhed and crept,
And while she smiled to welcome him,
Into her breast he stole, and slept;
And O his coils fell warm and sweet
Upon her heart and husht its beat,
And softest thrills of pleasure deep
Ran through her, though she could not sleep,
But lay with closëd eyes awake,
Her little hand upon the snake—
‘All things that love the sun, love me,
And O but the sun is sweet to see!
And I long to look on the sun,’ said she.
Then down, on sandall'd foot, I crept,
To kill the snake that heal'd the pang,
But up, with waving arms, she leapt,
And out across the threshold sprang,
And up the shadowy Abbey stairs,
Past the gray Abbess at her prayers,
Through the black court with leap and run,
Out at the gate, and into the sun!
There for a space she halted, blind
With joy to feel the light again,
But heard my rushing foot behind
And sped along the Abbey lane;
The sunshine made her strong and fleet,
As on she fled by field and fold,
Her shining locks fell to her feet
In ring on ring of living gold;
But the sun went in behind a cloud,
As I gript her by the shining locks,
I gript them tight, I laught aloud,
The echoes rang through woods and rocks;
Moaning she droopt, then up she sprang,
The adder leapt at my heart and stang,
And like a flash o' the light she fell
Into the depths of Weardale Well!
The adder stang with fatal fang,
Around I whirl'd and shriek'd and sprang,
Then fell and struggled, clenching teeth;
Then to the oozy grass I clang,
And gazed upon the pool beneath;
The white death-film was on mine eye,
Yet look'd I down in agony;
And as I look'd in throes of death,
In shining bubbles rose her breath
And burst in little rings of light,
And upward came a moaning sound;
But suddenly the sun shone bright,
And all the place was gold around,
And to the surface, calm and dead,
Uprose White Lily of Weardale-head:
Her golden hair around her blown
Made gentle radiance of its own;
Her face was turn'd to the summer sky
With smile that seem'd to live and speak,
The golden moth and butterfly,
With glowing shadows, on her cheek;
And lying on her lips apart
The honey-bee with wings of gold,
And sleeping softly on her heart
The yellow adder fold in fold;
And as I closed mine eyes to die,
Overhead the sun went by
Through the azure gulfs of a cloudless sky!
THE ELVES.
All day the sunshine loves to dwell
Upon the sleep of Weardale Well;
All day there is a gentle sound,
And little insects pause and sing,
The butterfly and moth float round,
The bee drops down with humming wing,
And all the pool lies clear and cold,
Yet glittering like hair of gold.
All day the Monk in hollow shell
Lies dumb among the Abbey-tombs,
While, in the grass and foxglove-blooms,
The adder basks by Weardale Well;
But the adder stings his heart by night:
His tale is told, his penance done,
His eyes are dark, they long for light,
Yet they shall never see the sun!
