 | Lily Neil |  |
101
VIII.
Eben.A song to-night, my bird?
Alice.
A song to-night?
I cannot sing sad songs.
Eben.
Then sing, my bird,
A blithesome lilt.
Alice.
And why a blithesome lilt,
When all you read of Lily is so sad?
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Even so, my bird, because the tale is sad:
I would not have you sighing all the night.
Alice.
If you would only say that at the last
Her joy-time came.
Eben.
Oh yes, it came at last!
Now smile, my bird, and sing the blackbird's song,
And be as happy as the bird itself.
Alice
(sings).
Oh, listen to me, lady, listen to me,
And heed not the raven
That croaks on yon tree.
He'll tell you of sorrow as black as may be:—
My song is all gladness,
Then listen to me.
Of pleasures, heart-treasures,
And gay greenwood glee,
Sweet dreamings, joy-gleamings,—
Then listen to me.
And heed not the raven
That croaks on yon tree.
He'll tell you of sorrow as black as may be:—
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Then listen to me.
Of pleasures, heart-treasures,
And gay greenwood glee,
Sweet dreamings, joy-gleamings,—
Then listen to me.
Oh, listen to me, lady, listen to me,
My song hath awakened
The far-wandering bee;
And thoughts that are dark as a storm-troubled sea
Turn bright as hope's dawning
When listening to me.
No sighing, no crying
O'er ills we may dree,
But laughing and daffing,—
Then listen to me.
My song hath awakened
The far-wandering bee;
And thoughts that are dark as a storm-troubled sea
Turn bright as hope's dawning
When listening to me.
No sighing, no crying
O'er ills we may dree,
But laughing and daffing,—
Then listen to me.
104
(reads).
Most lonely was the life that Lily led!
Save Walter and his sister, no one came;
And no one else a welcome would have had
Within her father's house. They only came
At evening when the daily task was o'er.
So all the day with bolted doors she sat,
And fretted at the thought that she should be
The village wonder. Little did she say,
But much she dreamed; nay, ever on the sea
Of speculation, like a little ship
That with its rudder sideway fixed is set
To dance upon the ripple of a pond,
Imagination floated purposeless,
And to the old thought-circle drifted oft.
At times, 'tis true, her fancy she set free,
As if it were a falcon, and would sit
And watch its tireless and far-distant flight,
While it some pleasant possibility
Pursued and struck, then carried to her feet.
Each day was like another. Rarely she
Of wooings or of coming weddings heard,
Nor where there was a birth; nor where in death
Some weary traveller had a refuge found.
For to her friends it seemed impossible
Such gossip to avoid, as might awake
The lightly slumbering memory of her wrongs.
Save Walter and his sister, no one came;
And no one else a welcome would have had
Within her father's house. They only came
At evening when the daily task was o'er.
So all the day with bolted doors she sat,
And fretted at the thought that she should be
The village wonder. Little did she say,
But much she dreamed; nay, ever on the sea
Of speculation, like a little ship
That with its rudder sideway fixed is set
To dance upon the ripple of a pond,
Imagination floated purposeless,
And to the old thought-circle drifted oft.
At times, 'tis true, her fancy she set free,
As if it were a falcon, and would sit
And watch its tireless and far-distant flight,
While it some pleasant possibility
Pursued and struck, then carried to her feet.
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Of wooings or of coming weddings heard,
Nor where there was a birth; nor where in death
Some weary traveller had a refuge found.
For to her friends it seemed impossible
Such gossip to avoid, as might awake
The lightly slumbering memory of her wrongs.
She never knew what work she did, nor e'er
Said to herself, this will I do, or that,
But wrought instinctively, and could not rest.
Yet the monotony that might have killed
In happier times seemed now a medicine,
Divine alike for body and for soul.
Her thoughts were but a chain of dreams. By day
She peopled space with visionary life;
At night she seldom had a dreamless hour,
And there was one most lifelike dream that, oft
Recurring, from her sleeping eyes drew tears.
It seemed her father from his home and her
In anger fled, and that she followed him
Where'er he travelled, but he never seemed
To see her, though before his face she stood;
Nor hear her, though her voice was at his ear;
Nor when she touched him seemed to feel her touch;
And to be ever thus had been, she thought,
Pronounced for Doom. What wonder if she wept?
Said to herself, this will I do, or that,
But wrought instinctively, and could not rest.
Yet the monotony that might have killed
In happier times seemed now a medicine,
Divine alike for body and for soul.
Her thoughts were but a chain of dreams. By day
She peopled space with visionary life;
At night she seldom had a dreamless hour,
And there was one most lifelike dream that, oft
Recurring, from her sleeping eyes drew tears.
It seemed her father from his home and her
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Where'er he travelled, but he never seemed
To see her, though before his face she stood;
Nor hear her, though her voice was at his ear;
Nor when she touched him seemed to feel her touch;
And to be ever thus had been, she thought,
Pronounced for Doom. What wonder if she wept?
But she had others sweeter—one most sweet;
For oft she saw beyond the stars that Throne
Of which the wondering soul for ever longs
To hear a fuller story—nay, e'en dares
At times to paint the Eternal Occupant.
Then to her ears the hallelujah swell
Of seraphim and praising spirits came
Divinely faint, as if for her alone
The music earthward rippled. 'Twas thus far
The prelude only to the dream she loved.
Among the praising spirits there was one—
She knew it was her mother—and she kneeled,
And seemed a special boon to crave and win,
And then upon her spirit-wings would soar,
And earthward fly, and hang above her bed
Forgiveness smiling. 'Twas a wondrous joy
To watch her mother's coming, and to see
The sun-stars growing pale as she drew near,
Or see them altogether, as she passed,
Their brightness losing in the greater light
Of a commissioned messenger of Heaven;
As if they could but gather in their rays,
And veil themselves when one so honoured came.
Oh, 'twas a joy unspeakable to feel
Her mother's presence and her pitying love,
Or with her to the spirit-land to soar,
And nothing hear but songs of welcoming.
For oft she saw beyond the stars that Throne
Of which the wondering soul for ever longs
To hear a fuller story—nay, e'en dares
At times to paint the Eternal Occupant.
Then to her ears the hallelujah swell
Of seraphim and praising spirits came
Divinely faint, as if for her alone
The music earthward rippled. 'Twas thus far
The prelude only to the dream she loved.
Among the praising spirits there was one—
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And seemed a special boon to crave and win,
And then upon her spirit-wings would soar,
And earthward fly, and hang above her bed
Forgiveness smiling. 'Twas a wondrous joy
To watch her mother's coming, and to see
The sun-stars growing pale as she drew near,
Or see them altogether, as she passed,
Their brightness losing in the greater light
Of a commissioned messenger of Heaven;
As if they could but gather in their rays,
And veil themselves when one so honoured came.
Oh, 'twas a joy unspeakable to feel
Her mother's presence and her pitying love,
Or with her to the spirit-land to soar,
And nothing hear but songs of welcoming.
So passed two years: she ne'er had been at church,
And only once at market—only once,
Because a foolish fellow as she passed
Had stared at her, and to another said,
“That's Lily Neil.” No more she heard, for, faint
With shame, she tottered empty-handed home,
Resolved the eyes of all men to avoid.
And only once at market—only once,
Because a foolish fellow as she passed
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“That's Lily Neil.” No more she heard, for, faint
With shame, she tottered empty-handed home,
Resolved the eyes of all men to avoid.
The parish pastor called, and gently urged
Unanswerable reasons why her foot
The threshold of God's house should weekly cross.
She had been greatly wronged, the good man said,
But surely it was worse a thousand times
Thus to avenge herself upon herself,
And her eternal welfare jeopardise.
Him she avoided too, because she said,
“I am unworthy of his holy care.”
Unanswerable reasons why her foot
The threshold of God's house should weekly cross.
She had been greatly wronged, the good man said,
But surely it was worse a thousand times
Thus to avenge herself upon herself,
And her eternal welfare jeopardise.
Him she avoided too, because she said,
“I am unworthy of his holy care.”
One man above all men she feared, and he
Was one to whom the Inscrutable had given
The gift of prayer. But he was little-souled
And envious—a man whom no one loved,
And many feared, because he used his gift
On all occasions as a wasp its sting.
One night he came and spent a tedious hour
Condoling, then before he rose to go
Said softly, “Let us go to God in prayer;”
Then wrung her heart by calling on the Lord
To keep her from the honeyed path of Vice,
And make her pure if it were possible,
And to provide for her a home in heaven
In spite of all her errors, and so use
His holy chastening rod, that at the last
Even those about her might with joy exclaim,
“Behold, she once was lost, and now is found!”
She ne'er would listen to his prayer again.
Was one to whom the Inscrutable had given
The gift of prayer. But he was little-souled
And envious—a man whom no one loved,
109
On all occasions as a wasp its sting.
One night he came and spent a tedious hour
Condoling, then before he rose to go
Said softly, “Let us go to God in prayer;”
Then wrung her heart by calling on the Lord
To keep her from the honeyed path of Vice,
And make her pure if it were possible,
And to provide for her a home in heaven
In spite of all her errors, and so use
His holy chastening rod, that at the last
Even those about her might with joy exclaim,
“Behold, she once was lost, and now is found!”
She ne'er would listen to his prayer again.
Sometimes at morn, while yet the village slept,
She in their little garden strolled about,
Much grieved to see that Desolation there
For her sake reigned. The simple flowers that once
In sheltering woods or in the sunny glades
Had bloomed untrimmed, now seemed to pine and die,
Because there was no one to speak of them.
She in their little garden strolled about,
Much grieved to see that Desolation there
For her sake reigned. The simple flowers that once
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Had bloomed untrimmed, now seemed to pine and die,
Because there was no one to speak of them.
Or in the little arbour, willow-roofed,
And walled with ivy, she would sit at night
And wonder if the little lights she saw
Were worlds like ours, so peopled and so vile;
Or if there was a world among them all
Which sin had not found out—where tears ne'er fell,
Nor hearts in sorrow sighed themselves away.
Oh, had her father lived in such a star!
But always when she saw—and oft she saw—
In such a star two happy lovers stray,
Hand-linked among the paradisal groves,
The limit of her waking dream was reached;
For in the woman's face she saw her own,
And in the man's the student's,—and that seen,
Back rushed the memory of her earthly wrongs
With bitterness redoubled.
And walled with ivy, she would sit at night
And wonder if the little lights she saw
Were worlds like ours, so peopled and so vile;
Or if there was a world among them all
Which sin had not found out—where tears ne'er fell,
Nor hearts in sorrow sighed themselves away.
Oh, had her father lived in such a star!
But always when she saw—and oft she saw—
In such a star two happy lovers stray,
Hand-linked among the paradisal groves,
The limit of her waking dream was reached;
For in the woman's face she saw her own,
111
Back rushed the memory of her earthly wrongs
With bitterness redoubled.
Many a time,
As 'tween her nimble fingers blossoms grew
Upon the gauze stretched o'er her tambour frame,
While the unerring needle seemed to move
Self-guided o'er the flower-forms intricate,
Out from the silken trellis-work his eyes
Would gleam, and seem to taunt her with her shame;
While sympathetic in the unfinished flower
Her needle trembling paused, the instinct fled
That lately let it through the pattern's maze.
Nay, in the pages of the Sacred Book,
Read where she would, there always was some text
Whose subtle meaning, never seen before,
Aroused the slumbering memory of her wrongs.
But from her father's eyes she strove to hide
Her care, and with contentment's smiling mask,
Poor girl! imagined she disguised herself.
She seemed to hear with pleasure all the tales
He read her, and to love his blossom-spoils,
Thus thinking, “It would kill him if he knew
I care not for the flowers.” She never once
Imagined he had brought them in deceit,
Not caring for them, seeming but to care,
Lest she should grieve to find it otherwise;
Nor ever dreamed he saw beneath her mask.
She did not know that once at early morn,
When she believed him sleeping, he had heard
Her singing as a bird bereaved might sing
This wail, that of such sorrow had been born.
As 'tween her nimble fingers blossoms grew
Upon the gauze stretched o'er her tambour frame,
While the unerring needle seemed to move
Self-guided o'er the flower-forms intricate,
Out from the silken trellis-work his eyes
Would gleam, and seem to taunt her with her shame;
While sympathetic in the unfinished flower
Her needle trembling paused, the instinct fled
That lately let it through the pattern's maze.
Nay, in the pages of the Sacred Book,
Read where she would, there always was some text
Whose subtle meaning, never seen before,
Aroused the slumbering memory of her wrongs.
112
Her care, and with contentment's smiling mask,
Poor girl! imagined she disguised herself.
She seemed to hear with pleasure all the tales
He read her, and to love his blossom-spoils,
Thus thinking, “It would kill him if he knew
I care not for the flowers.” She never once
Imagined he had brought them in deceit,
Not caring for them, seeming but to care,
Lest she should grieve to find it otherwise;
Nor ever dreamed he saw beneath her mask.
She did not know that once at early morn,
When she believed him sleeping, he had heard
Her singing as a bird bereaved might sing
This wail, that of such sorrow had been born.
Oh cease, thou morning breeze,
To bear the tale,
In swelling whispers,
Over all the vale!
To bear the tale,
In swelling whispers,
Over all the vale!
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No more, ye birds,
With notes reproachful sting,
But, as ye warbled
In my 'teen-time, sing.
With notes reproachful sting,
But, as ye warbled
In my 'teen-time, sing.
Ye dew-eyed flowers,
Spring to my hand again;
My heart is breaking
With your mute disdain.
Spring to my hand again;
My heart is breaking
With your mute disdain.
It is not mine,
But lies beyond my will,
This longing for a look
That strengthens still.
But lies beyond my will,
This longing for a look
That strengthens still.
And ask me not to chide him,
When he seems,
With lingering fondness,
Present in my dreams;
When he seems,
With lingering fondness,
Present in my dreams;
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Nor to forget him:
Vainly might I try,—
The love he wakened
Was not born to die.
Vainly might I try,—
The love he wakened
Was not born to die.
| Lily Neil | |