The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

Clown.
What hast here? Ballads?

Mop.
Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.

Aut.
Here's one to a very doleful tune. . . . This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one.

The Winter's Tale.

DEDICATION To Harriett.

Here at the Half-way House of Life I linger,
Worn with the way, a weary-hearted Singer,
Resting a little space;
And lo! the good God sends me, as a token
Of peace and blessing (else my heart were broken),
The sunbeam of thy face.

My fear falls from me like a garment; slowly
New strength returns upon me, calm and holy;
I kneel, and I atone. . .
Thy hand is clasped in mine—we lean together. .
Henceforward, through the sad or shining weather,
I shall not walk alone.

THE STRANGE COUNTRY.

I have come from a mystical Land of Light
To a Strange Country;
The Land I have left is forgotten quite
In the Land I see.

The round Earth rolls beneath my feet,
And the still Stars glow,
The murmuring Waters rise and retreat,
The Winds come and go.

Sure as a heart-beat all things seem
In this Strange Country;
So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream,
All things flow free.

'Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain,
In the Field and the Flood,
In the beating Heart, in the burning Brain,
In the Flesh and the Blood.

Deep as Death is the daily strife
Of this Strange Country:
All things thrill up till they blossom in Life,
And flutter and flee.

Nothing is stranger than the rest,
From the pole to the pole,
The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest,
The Flesh and the Soul.

Look in mine eyes, O Man I meet
In this Strange Country!
Lie in mine arms, O Maiden sweet,
With thy mouth kiss me!

Go by, O King, with thy crownèd brow
And thy sceptred hand—
Thou art a straggler too, I vow,
From the same strange Land.

O wondrous Faces that upstart
In this Strange Country!
O Souls, O Shades, that become a part
Of my Soul and me!

What are ye working so fast and fleet,
O Humankind?
‘We are building Cities for those whose feet
Are coming behind;

‘Our stay is short, we must fly again
From this Strange Country;
But others are growing, women and men,
Eternally!’

Child, what art thou? and what am I?
But a breaking wave!
Rising and rolling on, we hie
To the shore of the grave.

I have come from a mystical Land of Light
To this Strange Country;
This dawn I came, I shall go to-night,
Ay me! ay me!

I hold my hand to my head and stand
'Neath the air's blue arc,

494

I try to remember the mystical Land,
But all is dark.

And all around me swim Shapes like mine
In this Strange Country;—
They break in the glamour of gleams divine,
And they moan ‘Ay me!’

Like waves in the cold Moon's silvern breath
They gather and roll,
Each crest of white is a birth or a death,
Each sound is a Soul.

Oh, whose is the Eye that gleams so bright
O'er this Strange Country?
It draws us along with a chain of light,
As the Moon the Sea!

THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT.

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay in the Field of Blood;
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Beside the body stood.

Black was the earth by night,
And black was the sky;
Black, black were the broken clouds,
Tho' the red Moon went by.

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Strangled and dead lay there;
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Look'd on it in despair.

The breath of the World came and went
Like a sick man's in rest;
Drop by drop on the World's eyes
The dews fell cool and blest.

Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did make a gentle moan—
‘I will bury underneath the ground
My flesh and blood and bone.

‘I will bury deep beneath the soil,
Lest mortals look thereon,
And when the wolf and raven come
The body will be gone!

‘The stones of the field are sharp as steel,
And hard and cold, God wot;
And I must bear my body hence
Until I find a spot!’

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
So grim, and gaunt, and gray,
Raised the body of Judas Iscariot,
And carried it away.

And as he bare it from the field
Its touch was cold as ice,
And the ivory teeth within the jaw
Rattled aloud, like dice.

As the soul of Judas Iscariot
Carried its load with pain,
The Eye of Heaven, like a lanthorn's eye,
Open'd and shut again.

Half he walk'd, and half he seemed
Lifted on the cold wind;
He did not turn, for chilly hands
Were pushing from behind.

The first place that he came unto
It was the open wold,
And underneath were prickly whins,
And a wind that blew so cold.

The next place that he came unto
It was a stagnant pool,
And when he threw the body in
It floated light as wool.

He drew the body on his back,
And it was dripping chill,
And the next place he came unto
Was a Cross upon a hill.

A Cross upon the windy hill,
And a Cross on either side,
Three skeletons that swing thereon,
Who had been crucified.

And on the middle cross-bar sat
A white Dove slumbering;
Dim it sat in the dim light,
With its head beneath its wing.

And underneath the middle Cross
A grave yawn'd wide and vast,
But the soul of Judas Iscariot
Shiver'd, and glided past.

The fourth place that he came unto
It was the Brig of Dread,
And the great torrents rushing down
Were deep, and swift, and red.

He dared not fling the body in
For fear of faces dim

495

And arms were waved in the wild water
To thrust it back to him.

Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Turned from the Brig of Dread,
And the dreadful foam of the wild water
Had splashed the body red.

For days and nights he wandered on
Upon an open plain,
And the days went by like blinding mist,
And the nights like rushing rain.

For days and nights he wandered on,
All thro' the Wood of Woe;
And the nights went by like moaning wind,
And the days like drifting snow.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Came with a weary face—
Alone, alone, and all alone,
Alone in a lonely place!

He wandered east, he wandered west,
And heard no human sound;
For months and years, in grief and tears,
He wandered round and round.

For months and years, in grief and tears,
He walked the silent night;
Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Perceived a far-off light.

A far-off light across the waste,
As dim as dim might be,
That came and went like the lighthouse gleam
On a black night at sea.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Crawl'd to the distant gleam;
And the rain came down, and the rain was blown
Against him with a scream.

For days and nights he wandered on,
Push'd on by hands behind;
And the days went by like black, black rain,
And the nights like rushing wind.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
Strange, and sad, and tall,
Stood all alone at dead of night
Before a lighted hall.

And the wold was white with snow,
And his foot-marks black and damp,
And the ghost of the silvern Moon arose,
Holding her yellow lamp.

And the icicles were on the eaves,
And the walls were deep with white,
And the shadows of the guests within
Pass'd on the window light.

The shadows of the wedding guests
Did strangely come and go,
And the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretch'd along the snow.

The body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretched along the snow;
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Ran swiftly to and fro.

To and fro, and up and down,
He ran so swiftly there,
As round and round the frozen Pole
Glideth the lean white bear.

'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head,
And the lights burnt bright and clear—
‘Oh, who is that,’ the Bridegroom said,
‘Whose weary feet I hear?’

'Twas one look'd from the lighted hall,
And answered soft and slow,
‘It is a wolf runs up and down
With a black track in the snow.’

The Bridegroom in his robe of white
Sat at the table-head—
‘Oh, who is that who moans without?’
The blessed Bridegroom said.

'Twas one looked from the lighted hall,
And answered fierce and low,
‘'Tis the soul of Judas Iscariot
Gliding to and fro.’

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did hush itself and stand,
And saw the Bridegroom at the door
With a light in his hand.

The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he was clad in white,
And far within the Lord's Supper
Was spread so broad and bright.

The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and look'd,
And his face was bright to see—
‘What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper
With thy body's sins?’ said he.

496

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stood black, and sad, and bare—
‘I have wandered many nights and days;
There is no light elsewhere.’

'Twas the wedding guests cried out within,
And their eyes were fierce and bright—
‘Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot
Away into the night!’

The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he waved hands still and slow,
And the third time that he waved his hands
The air was thick with snow.

And of every flake of falling snow,
Before it touched the ground,
There came a dove, and a thousand doves
Made sweet sound.

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Floated away full fleet,
And the wings of the doves that bare it off
Were like its winding-sheet.

'Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door,
And beckon'd, smiling sweet;
'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stole in, and fell at his feet.

‘The Holy Supper is spread within,
And the many candles shine,
And I have waited long for thee
Before I poured the wine!’

The supper wine is poured at last,
The lights burn bright and fair,
Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet,
And dries them with his hair.

THE LIGHTS OF LEITH.

I.

‘The lights o' Leith! the lights o' Leith!’
The skipper cried aloud—
While the wintry gale with snow and hail
Blew snell thro' sail and shroud.

‘The lights o' Leith! the lights o' Leith!’
As he paced the deck cried he—
‘How merrily bright they burn this night
Thro' the reek o' the stormy sea!’

As the ship ran in thro' the surging spray
Afire seemed all the town;
They saw the glare from far away,
And, safely steer'd to the land-lock'd bay,
They cast their anchor down.

‘'Tis sure a feast in the town o' Leith
(To his mate the skipper spoke),
‘And yonder shadows that come and go,
Across the quay where the bonfires glow,
Are the merry-making folk.

‘In right good time we are home once more
From the wild seas and rough weather—
Come, launch a boat, and we'll run ashore,
And see the sport together.’

But the mate replied, while he shoreward gazed
With sad and gentle eyes,
While the lights of Leith beyond him blazed
And he heard the landward cries:

‘'Tis twenty lang year since I first left here,
In the time o' frost and snaw—
I was only a lad, and my heart was mad
To be up, and free, and awa’!

‘My mither she prayed me no' to gang,
For she had nae bairn but me—
My father was droon'd, and sleeping amang
The weeds o' the northern sea.

‘I stole awa’ in the mirk o' night
And left my mither asleep,
And ere she waken'd, at morning light,
I was oot on the roaring deep.

‘Aye, twenty lang year hae past sin' syne,
And my heart has aft been sair
To think o' that puir auld mither o' mine,
Alane, in a warld o' care.

‘When back I cam’ frae the salt sea faem
I was a bearded man,
Ae simmer I dwelt in the hoose at hame,
Then awa' to the sea I ran.

‘And twice sin’ syne hae I left the sea
To seek the hameward track,
And eye my mither had had for me—
Tho' ne'er a gift had my hands to gie—
A tender welcome back.

‘Then, cast awa’ in a soothern land,
And taen to slaverie,
I lang'd for the touch o' a mither's hand
And the glint o' a mither's e'e.

497

‘But noo that my wandering days are done,
I hae dree'd a penance sad,
I am coming hame, like the Prodigal Son,
But wi' siller to mak' her glad!

‘I hae gowden rings for my mither's hand,
Bonnie and braw past dream,
And, fit for a leddy o' the land,
A shawl o' the Indian seam.

‘And I lang, and lang, to seek ance mair
The cot by the side o' the sea,
And to find my gray old mither there,
Waiting and watching for me;

‘To dress her oot like a leddy grand,
While the tears o' gladness drap,
To put the rings on her wrinkled hand,
The siller intil her lap!

‘And to say “O mither, I'm hame, I'm hame!
Forgie me, O forgie!
And never mair shall ye ken a care
Until the day you dee!” ’

O bright and red shone the lights of Leith
In the snowy winter-tide—
Down the cheeks of the man the salt tears ran,
As he stood by the skipper's side.

‘But noo I look on the lights o' hame
My heart sinks sick and cauld—
Lest I come owre late for her love or blame,
For oh! my mither was auld!

‘For her een were dim when I sail'd awa’,
And snaw was on her heid,
And I fear—I fear—after mony a year,
To find my mither—deid!

‘Sae I daurna enter the toon o' Leith,
Where the merry yule-fires flame,
Lest I hear the tidings o' dule and death,
Ere I enter the door o' hame.

‘But ye'll let them row me to yonner shore
Beyond the lights o' the quay,
And I'll climb the brae to the cottage door,
A hunnerd yards frae the sea.

‘If I see a light thro' the mirk o' night,
I'll ken my mither is there;
I'll keek, maybe, through the pane, and see
Her face in its snawy hair!

‘The face sae dear that for mony a year
I hae prayed to see again,—
O a mither's face has a holy grace
'Bune a' the faces o' men!

‘Then I'll enter in wi’ silent feet,
And saftly cry her name—
And I'll see the dim auld een grow sweet
Wi' a heavenly welcome hame!

‘And I'll cry, “O mither, I'm here, I'm here!
Forgie me, O forgie!
And never mair shall ye ken a care!
Your son shall lea' thee never mair
To sail on the stormy sea!” ’

II.

They row'd him to the lonely shore
Beyond the lights of the quay,
And he climb'd the brae to the cottage door
A hundred yards from the sea.

He saw no light thro' the mirk of night,
And his heart sank down with dread,
‘But 'tis late,’ thought he, ‘and she lies, maybe,
Soond sleeping in her bed!’

Half-way he paused, for the blast blew keen,
And the sea roar'd loud below,
And he turn'd his face to the town-lights, seen
Thro' the white and whirling snow.

The lights of Leith! the lights of Leith!
How they flash'd on the night-black bay,
White with sullen roar on the rocky shore
The waters splash'd their spray!

When close he came to the lonely cot,
He paused in deeper dread,—
For the gleam that came from the far-off flame
Just touch'd the walls with red;

Thro' the doorway dark did the bleak wind blow,
The windows were black and bare,
And the house was floor'd with the cruel snow,
And roof'd with the empty air!

‘O mither, mither!’ he moan'd aloud,
‘And are ye deid and gane?

498

Hae I waited in tears thro' the weary years,
And a' in vain, in vain?’

He stood on the hearth, while the snow swam drear
Between the roofless walls—
‘O mither! mither! come here, come here,—
'Tis your ain son, Robin, calls!’

On his eager ears, as he stood in tears,
There came a faint foot-tread—
Then out of the storm crept a woman's form
With hooded face and head.

Like a black, black ghost the shape came near
Till he heard its heavy breath—
‘What man,’ it sighed, ‘stands sabbing here,
In the wearifu’ hoose o' death?’

‘Come hither, come hither, whae'er ye be,’
He answer'd loud and clear—
‘I am Robin Sampson, come hame frae the sea,
And I seek my mither dear!’

‘O Robin, Robin,’ a voice cried sobbing,
‘O Robin, and is it yersel'?
I'm Janet Wylie, lame Janet Wylie,
Your kissen, frae Marywell!’

‘O Robin, Robin,’ again she cried,
‘O Robin, and can it be?
Ah, better far had the wind and the tide
Ne'er brought ye across the sea!’

Wailing she sank on the snow-heap'd hearth,
And rocked her body in pain—
‘O Robin, Robin,’ she cried to him sobbing,
Your mither—your mither—is gane!’

The lights of Leith! the lights of Leith!
How brightly still they glow!
The faint flame falls on the ruined walls,
On the hearthstone heap'd in snow!

‘O Janet, Janet, kind cousin Janet,
If ever ye cared for me,
Noo let me hear o' my mither dear,
And hoo she cam' to dee!’

Wailing she lifted her weeping face,
And answer'd in soul's despair—
‘O Robin, awa' frae the wicked place—
Awa'—and ask nae mair!’

But he grasp'd her arm with a grip of steel
And cried ‘O Janet, speak!’
‘O Robin dear, dinna seek to hear,
For oh! your heart must breik!’

But he pressed her more, and he pleaded sore,
Till at last the tale was told,
And he listened on, till the tale was done,
Like a man death-struck and cold.

III.

‘O Robin dear, when ye sail'd awa',
That last time, on the sea,
We knew her heart was breiking in twa,
And we thought that she wad dee.

‘But after a while she forced a smile—
“I'll greet nae mair,” said she,
“But I'll wait and pray that the Lord, aeday,
May bring him again to me!

‘“The Lord is guid, and Robin my son
As kind as a bairn can be—
Aye true as steel, and he loes me weel,
Tho' he's gane across the sea.”

‘O Robin, Robin, baith late and air'
She prayed and prayed for thee,
But evermair when the blast blew sair,
She was langest on her knee!’

The lights of Leith! the lights of Leith!
That flame o'er sea and skies!
How bright they glow!—while the salt tears flow
From that bearded mariner's eyes.

‘But, Robin, your mither was auld and pair,
And the season's cauld and keen;
The white, white snaw was on her hair,
The frost film ower her een.

‘And here in the hut beside the sea,
The pair auld wife did dwell—
Her only kin were my mither and me,
And we were as pair's hersel'.

‘She leeved on a handfu’ o' barley meal,
A drink frae the spring sae cauld—
O Robin, Robin, a heart o' steel
Might bleed for the weak and auld!

‘In twa she was bent, on a staff she leant,
Wi' ragged duds for claise,
And wearifu' up and doon she went,
Gath'ring her sticks and straes.

499

‘And the weans wad thrang as she creepit alang,
And point, and cry sae shrill—
“There's Grannie Sampson,” was ever their sang,
“The wicked witch o' the hill!”

‘Ah, mony's the time up the hill she'd climb,
While the imps wad scream and craw—
At the door she'd stand, wi' her staff in hand,
And angrily screech them awa'!

‘Then wi' feeble feet creeping ben, she'd greet
That the warld misca'd her sae,
And wi' face as white as the winding-sheet,
She'd kneel by the bed, and pray.

‘O Robin, Robin, she prayed for him
Wha sail'd in the wild sea-rack,
And the tears wad drap frae her een sae dim,
As she prayed for her bairn to come back!

‘Then whiles . . . when she thought nae folk were near . . .
(O Robin, she thought nae harm!
But stoop your heid, lest they hear, lest they hear!)
She tried . . . an auld-farrant charm.

‘A charm aft tried in the ingleside
When bairns are blythesome and free,
A charm (come near, lest they hear, lest they hear!)
To bring her boy hame from the sea!

‘And the auld black cat at her elbow sat,
(The cat you gied her yersel')
And the folk, keeking in thro' the pane, saw a sin,
And thought she was weaving a spell!’

The lights of Leith! the lights of Leith!
They flame on the wintry gale!
With sore drawn breath, and a face like death,
He hearks to the gruesome tale!

‘O Robin, Robin, I kenna hoo
The lee was faither'd first,
But (whisper again, lest they ken, lest they ken!)
They thought the puir body accurst!

‘They thought the spell had been wrought in Hell,
To kill and curse and blight,
They thought she flew, when naebody knew,
To a Sabbath o' fiends, ilk night!

‘Then ane whose corn had wither'd ae morn,
And ane whose kye sicken'd doon,
Crept, scared and pale, wi' the leein' tale,
To the meenisters, up the toon.

‘Noo, Robin, jest then, King Jamie the King
Was oot at sea in his bark,
And the bark nigh sank unner, wi' fire-flaught and thunner,
And they thought—the Deil was at wark!

‘The King cam' to land, and loup'd on the strand,
Pale as a ghaist and afraid,
Wi' courtiers and clergy, a wild fearfu' band,
He ran to the kirk, and prayed.

‘Then the clergy made oot 'twas witchcraft, nae doot,
And searchit up and doon,
And . . . foond your auld mither (wae's me!) and twa ither,
And dragg'd them up to the toon!

‘O Robin, dear Robin, hearken nae mair!’
‘Speak on, I'll heark to the en'!’
‘O Robin, Robin, the sea oot there
Is kinder than cruel men!

‘They took her before King Jamie the King,
Whaur he sat wi' sceptre and croon,
And the cooard courtiers stood in a ring,
And the meenisters gather'd roon'.

‘They bade her tell she had wrought the spell
That made the tempest blaw;
They strippit her bare as a naked bairn,
They tried her wi' pincers and heated airn,
Till she shriek'd and swoon'd awa'!

‘O Robin, Robin, the King sat there,
While the cruel deed was done,
And the clergy o' Christ ne'er bade him spare
For the sake o' God's ain Son!. . . .

The lights of Leith! the lights of Leith!
Like Hell's own lights they glow
While the sailor stands, with his trembling hands
Prest hard on his heart in woe!

500

‘O Robin, Robin . . . they doom'd her to burn . . .
Doon yonner upon the quay . . .
This night was the night . . . see the light! see the light!
How it burns by the side o' the sea!’

. . . She paused with a moan. . . . He had left her alone,
And rushing through drift and snow,
Down the side of the wintry hill he had flown,
His eyes on the lights below!

IV.

The lights of Leith! the lights of Leith!
They flame on the eyes of the crowd,
Around, up and down, move the folk of the town,
While the bells of the kirk peal aloud!

High up on the quay, blaze the balefires, and see!
Three stakes are deep set in the ground,
To each stake smear'd with pitch clings the corpse of a witch,
With the fire flaming redly around!

What madman is he who leaps in where they gleam,
Close, close, to the centremost form?
‘O mither, O mither!’ he cries, with a scream,
That rings thro' the heart of the storm!

He can see the white hair snowing down thro' the glare,
The white face upraised to the skies—
Then the cruel red blaze blots the thing from his gaze,
And he falls on his face,—and dies.

V.

The lights of Leith! the lights of Leith!
See, see! they are flaming still!
Thro' the clouds of the past their flame is cast,
While the Sabbath bells ring shrill!

The lights of Leith! the lights of Leith!
They'll burn till the Judgment Day!
Till the Church's curse and the monarch's shame,
And the sin that slew in the Blessed Name,
Are burned and purg'd away!

Note.—The foundation of this ballad is historical, more particularly the part taken by the enlightened pedant, James VI. of Scotland, who, on his accession to the English throne, procured the infamous statute against witchcraft, which actually remained unrepealed till 1736, and even then was repealed under strong protest from the Scottish clergy! One traveller, as late as 1664, casually notices the fact of having seen nine witches burning together at Leith, and in 1678, nine others were condemned in a single day.— R. B.

THE WEDDING OF SHON MACLEAN.

A BAGPIPE MELODY.

To the wedding of Shon Maclean,
Twenty Pipers together
Came in the wind and the rain
Playing across the heather;
Backward their ribbons flew,
Blast upon blast they blew,
Each clad in tartan new,
Bonnet, and blackcock feather:
And every Piper was fou,
Twenty Pipers together! . . .

He's but a Sassenach blind and vain
Who never heard of Shon Maclean—
The Duke's own Piper, called ‘Shon the Fair,’
From his freckled skin and his fiery hair.
Father and son, since the world's creation,
The Macleans had followed this occupation,
And played the pibroch to fire the Clan
Since the first Duke came and the Earth began.
Like the whistling of birds, like the humming of bees,
Like the sough of the south-wind in the trees,
Like the singing of angels, the playing of shawms,
Like Ocean itself with its storms and its calms,
Were the strains of Shon, when with cheeks aflame
He blew a blast thro' the pipes of fame.
At last, in the prime of his playing life,
The spirit moved him to take a wife—
A lassie with eyes of Highland blue,
Who loved the pipes and the Piper too,
And danced to the sound, with a foot and a leg
White as a lily and smooth as an egg.
So, twenty Pipers were coming together

501

O'er the moor and across the heather,
All in the wind and the rain:
Twenty Pipers so brawly dressed
Were flocking in from the east and west,
To bless the bedding and blow their best
At the wedding of Shon Maclean.

At the wedding of Shon Maclean
'Twas wet and windy weather!
Yet, thro' the wind and the rain
Came twenty Pipers together!
Earach and Dougal Dhu,
Sandy of Isla too,
Each with the bonnet o' blue,
Tartan, and blackcock feather:
And every Piper was fou,
Twenty Pipers together!

The knot was tied, the blessing said,
Shon was married, the feast was spread.
At the head of the table sat, huge and hoar,
Strong Sandy of Isla, age fourscore,
Whisker'd, grey as a Haskeir seal,
And clad in crimson from head to heel.
Beneath and round him in their degree
Gathered the men of minstrelsie,
With keepers, gillies, and lads and lasses,
Mingling voices, and jingling glasses.
At soup and haggis, at roast and boil'd,
Awhile the happy gathering toil'd,—
While Shon and Jean at the table ends
Shook hands with a hundred of their friends.—
Then came a hush. Thro' the open door
A wee bright form flash'd on the floor,—
The Duke himself, in the kilt and plaid,
With slim soft knees, like the knees of a maid.
And he took a glass, and he cried out plain
‘I drink to the health of Shon Maclean!
To Shon the Piper and Jean his wife,
A clean fireside and a merry life!’
Then out he slipt, and each man sprang
To his feet, and with ‘hooch’ the chamber rang!
‘Clear the tables!’ shriek'd out one—
A leap, a scramble,—and it was done!
And then the Pipers all in a row
Tuned their pipes and began to blow,
While all to dance stood fain:
Sandy of Isla and Earach More,
Dougal Dhu from Kinflannan shore,
Played up the company on the floor
At the wedding of Shon Maclean.

At the wedding of Shon Maclean,
Twenty Pipers together
Stood up, while all their train
Ceased to clatter and blether.
Full of the mountain-dew,
First in their pipes they blew,
Mighty of bone and thew,
Red-cheek'd, with lungs of leather:
And every Piper was fou,
Twenty Pipers together!

Who led the dance? In pomp and pride
The Duke himself led out the Bride!
Great was the joy of each beholder,
For the wee Duke only reach'd her shoulder;
And they danced, and turned, when the reel began,
Like a giantess and a fairie man!
But like an earthquake was the din
When Shon himself led the Duchess in!
And she took her place before him there,
Like a white mouse dancing with a bear!
So trim and tiny, so slim and sweet,
Her blue eyes watching Shon's great feet,
With a smile that could not be resisted,
She jigged, and jumped, and twirl'd, and twisted!
Sandy of Isla led off the reel,
The Duke began it with toe and heel,
Then all join'd in amain;
Twenty Pipers ranged in a row,
From squinting Shamus to lame Kilcroe,
Their cheeks like crimson, began to blow,
At the wedding of Shon Maclean.

At the wedding of Shon Maclean
They blew with lungs of leather,
And blithesome was the strain
Those Pipers played together!
Moist with the mountain-dew,
Mighty of bone and thew,
Each with the bonnet o' blue,
Tartan, and blackcock feather:
And every Piper was fou,
Twenty Pipers together!

Oh for a wizard's tongue to tell
Of all the wonders that befell!
Of how the Duke, when the first stave died,
Reached up on tiptoe to kiss the Bride,
While Sandy's pipes, as their mouths were meeting,
Skirl'd, and set every heart a-beating!

502

Then Shon took the pipes! and all was still,
As silently he the bags did fill,
With flaming cheeks and round bright eyes,
Till the first faint music began to rise.
Like a thousand laverocks singing in tune,
Like countless corn-craiks under the moon,
Like the smack of kisses, like sweet bells ringing,
Like a mermaid's harp, or a kelpie singing,
Blew the pipes of Shon; and the witching strain
Was the gathering song of the Clan Maclean!
Then slowly, softly, at his side,
All the Pipers around replied,
And swelled the solemn strain:
The hearts of all were proud and light,
To hear the music, to see the sight,
And the Duke's own eyes were dim that night,
At the wedding of Shon Maclean.

So to honour the Clan Maclean
Straight they began to gather,
Blowing the wild refrain,
‘Blue bonnets across the heather!’
They stamp'd, they strutted, they blew;
They shriek'd; like cocks they crew;
Blowing the notes out true,
With wonderful lungs of leather:
And every Piper was fou,
Twenty Pipers together!

When the Duke and Duchess went away
The dance grew mad and the guests grew gay;
Man and maiden, face to face,
Leapt and footed and scream'd apace!
Round and round the dancers whirl'd,
Shriller, louder, the Pipers skirl'd,
Till the soul seem'd swooning into sound,
And all creation was whirling round!
Then, in a pause of the dance and glee,
The Pipers, ceasing their minstrelsie,
Draining the glass in groups did stand,
And passed the sneesh-box from hand to hand.
Sandy of Isla, with locks of snow,
Squinting Shamus, blind Kilmahoe,
Finlay Beg, and Earach More,
Dougal Dhu of Kilflannan shore—
All the Pipers, black, yellow, and green,
All the colours that ever were seen,
All the Pipers of all the Macs,
Gather'd together and took their cracks.
Then (no man knows how the thing befell,
For none was sober enough to tell)
These heavenly Pipers from twenty places
Began disputing with crimson faces;
Each asserting, like one demented,
The claims of the Clan he represented.
In vain grey Sandy of Isla strove
To soothe their struggle with words of love,
Asserting there, like a gentleman,
The superior claims of his own great Clan;
Then, finding to reason is despair,
He seizes his pipes and he plays an air—
The gathering tune of his Clan—and tries
To drown in music the shrieks and cries!
Heavens! Every Piper, grown mad with ire,
Seizes his pipes with a fierce desire,
And blowing madly, with skirl and squeak,
Begins his particular tune to shciek!
Up and down the gamut they go,
Twenty Pipers, all in a row,
Each with a different strain!
Each tries hard to drown the first,
Each blows louder till like to burst.
Thus were the tunes of the Clans rehearst
At the wedding of Shon Maclean!

At the wedding of Shon Maclean,
Twenty Pipers together,
Blowing with might and main,
Thro' wonderful lungs of leather!
Wild was the hullabaloo!
They stamp'd, they scream'd, they crew!
Twenty strong blasts they blew,
Holding the heart in tether:
And every Piper was fou,
Twenty Pipers together!

A storm of music! Like wild sleuth-hounds
Contending together, were the sounds!
At last a bevy of Eve's bright daughters
Pour'd oil—that's whisky—upon the waters;
And after another dram wen, down
The Pipers chuckled and ceased to frown,
Embraced like brothers and kindred spirits,
And fully admitted each other's merits.
All bliss must end! For now the Bride
Was looking weary and heavy-eyed,
And soon she stole from the drinking chorus,
While the company settled to deoch-andorus.
One hour—another—took its flight—
The clock struck twelve—the dead of night—

503

And still the Bride like a rose so red
Lay lonely up in the bridal bed.
At half-past two the Bridegroom, Shon,
Dropt on the table as heavy as stone,
But four strong Pipers across the floor
Carried him up to the bridal door,
Push'd him in at the open portal,
And left him snoring, serene and mortal!
The small stars twinkled over the heather,
As the Pipers wandered away together,
But one by one on the journey dropt,
Clutching his pipes, and there he stopt!
One by one on the dark hillside
Each faint blast of the bagpipes died,
Amid the wind and the rain!
And the twenty Pipers at break of day
In twenty different bogholes lay,
Serenely sleeping upon their way
From the wedding of Shon Maclean!

Pronounce foo—i.e. ‘half seas over,’ intoxicated.

Snuff-box.

Conversed sociably.

The parting glass; lit. the cup at the door

HANS VOGEL.

AN EPISODE OF THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR.

‘Ein ächter Deutscher Mann mag keinen
Franzen leiden!’—
Brander in Faust.

The fight is o'er, the day is done,
And thro' the clouds o'erhead
The fingers of the setting sun
Are pointing down blood-red,—
Beneath, on the white battlefield,
Lie strewn the drifts of dead.

No breath, no stir; but everywhere
The cold Frost crawleth slow,
And Frank and Teuton side by side
Lie stiffening in the snow,—
While piteously each marble face
Gleams in the ruby glow.

No sound; but yonder midst the dead
There stands one steed snow-white,
And clinging to its chilly mane,
Half swooning, yet upright,
Its rider totters, breathing hard,
Bareheaded in the light!

Hans Vogel. Spectacles on nose,
He gasps and gazes round—
He shivers as his eyes survey
That wintry battle-ground—
Then, parch'd with thirst and chill with cold,
He sinks, without a sound.

Before his vision as he lies
There gleams a quaint old Town,
He sees the students in the street
Swaggering up and down,
While at a casement sits a Maid
In clean white cap and gown.

Hans Vogel thinks, ‘My time hath come!
Ne'er shall these eyes of mine
Behold poor Ännchen, or the trees
Of dear old Ehbrenstein!’
He smacks his lips, ‘Mein Gott! for one
Deep draught of Rhenish wine!’

Then swift as thought his wild eyes gleam
On something at his side—
He stirs—he glares—he sits erect—
He grips it, eager-eyed:
A Flask it is, some friend or foe
Hath dropt there ere he died!

To God he mutters now a prayer,
Quaking in every limb;
Trembling he holds it to the light!—
'Tis full unto the brim!
A flask, a brimming flask of wine!
And God hath sent it him!

Hans Vogel's heart leaps up in joy,
‘Dem Himmel sei Dank!’ he cries—
Then pursing out his thirsty lips
Prepares to quaff his prize,—
When lo! a sound—he starts—and meets
A pair of burning eyes!

Propt on a bed of comrades dead,
His faint breath swiftly flying,
His breast torn open by a shell,
A Grenadier is lying:—
Grim as a wolf, with gleaming fangs,
The Frenchman glareth, dying!

White is his hair, his features worn
With many a wild campaign,
He rocks his head from side to side
Like to a beast in pain—
He groans athirst, with open mouth,
Again and yet again.

Hans Vogel, in the act to drink
And render God due praise,
Drops down his fever'd hand in doubt
And pauses in amaze,
For on the flask that Grenadier
Fixeth his thirsty gaze!

504

Hans Vogel smiles, ‘Here lieth one
Whose need is more than mine!’
Then, crawling over to his foe,
‘Look, Frenchman, here is wine!
And by the God that made us both
Shall every drop be thine!’

Hast thou beheld a dying boar,
Struck bleeding to the ground,
Spring with a last expiring throe
To rip the foremost hound?
Terrible, fatal, pitiless,
It slays with one swift bound.

Ev'n so that grizzly wolf of war,
With eyes of hate and ire,
Stirs as he lies, and on the ground
Gropes with a dark desire,—
Then lifts a loaded carbine up,
And lo! one flash of fire!

A flash—a crash! Hans Vogel still
Is kneeling on his knee,
His heart is beating quick, his face
Is pale as man's can be;
The ball just grazed his bleeding brow,—
‘Potstausend!’ murmureth he.

Hans frowns; and raising to his lips
The flask, begins to quaff;
Then holds it to the fading light
With sly and cynic laugh.
Deep is his drought—sweet is the wine—
And he hath drunk the half!

But now he glanceth once again
Where that grim Frenchman lies—
Gasping still waits that wolf of war
Like to a beast that dies—
He groans athirst, with open mouth,
And slowly glazing eyes.

Hans Vogel smiles; unto his foe
Again now totters he—
So spent now is that wolf of war
He scarce can hear or see.
Hans Vogel holds his hand, and takes
His head upon his knee!

Then down the dying Frenchman's throat
He sends the liquor fine:
‘Half yet remains, old boy,’ he cries,
While pouring down the wine—
‘Hadst thou not play'd me such a trick,
It might have all been thine!’

Hans Vogel speaketh in the tongue
Of his good Fatherland—
The Frenchman hears an alien sound
And cannot understand,
But he can taste the warm red wine
And feel the kindly hand.

See! looking in Hans Vogel's face
He stirs his grizzly head—
Up, smiling, goes the grim moustache
O'er cheeks as grey as lead—
With one last glimmer of the eyes,
He smiles,—and he is dead.

PHIL BLOOD'S LEAP.

A TALE OF THE GOLD-SEEKERS.

‘There's some think Injins pison . . .’ [It was Parson Pete who spoke,
As we sat there, in the camp-fire glare, like shadows among the smoke.
'Twas the dead of night, and in the light our faces burn'd bright red,
And the wind all round made a screeching sound, and the pines roared overhead.

Ay, Parson Pete was talking; we called him Parson Pete,
For you must learn he'd a talking turn, and handled things so neat;
He'd a preaching style, and a winning smile, and, when all talk was spent,
Six-shooter had he, and a sharp bowie, to p'int his argyment.

Some one had spoke of the Injin folk, and we had a guess, you bet,
They might be creeping, while we were sleeping, to catch us in the net;
And half were asleep and snoring deep, while the others vigil kept,
But devil a one let go his gun, whether he woke or slept.]

‘There's some think Injins pison, and others count 'em scum,
And night and day they are melting away, clean into Kingdom Come;
But don't you go and make mistakes, like many dern'd fools I've known,
For dirt is dirt, and snakes is snakes, but an Injin's flesh and bone!

505

We were seeking gold in the Texan hold, and we'd had a blaze of luck,
More rich and rare the stuff ran there at every foot we struck;
Like men gone wild we t'iled and t'iled, and never seemed to tire,
The hot sun beamed, and our faces streamed with the sweat of a mad desire.

I was Captain then of the mining men, and I had a precious life,
For a wilder set I never met at derringer and knife;
Nigh every day there was some new fray, a bullet in some one's brain,
And the viciousest brute to stab and to shoot, was an Imp of Hell from Maine.

Phil Blood. Well, he was six foot three, with a squint to make you skeer'd,
His face all scabb'd, and twisted and stabb'd, with carroty hair and beard;
Sour as the drink in Bitter Chink, sharp as a grizzly's squeal,
Limp in one leg, for a leaden egg had nick'd him in the heel.

No beauty was he, but a sight to see, all stript to the waist and bare,
With his grim-set jaws, and his panther paws, and his hawk's eye all aglare;
With pick and spade in sun and shade he labour'd like darnation,
But when his spell was over,—well! he was fond of his recreation!

And being a crusty kind of cuss, the only sport he had,
When work was over, seemed to us a bit too rough and bad;
For to put some lead in a comrade's head was the greatest fun in life,
And the sharpest joke he was known to poke was the p'int of his precious knife.

But game to the bone was Phil, I'll own, and he always fought most fair,
With as good a will to be killed as kill, true grit as any there:
Of honour too, like me or you, he'd a scent, though not so keen,
Would rather be riddled thro' and thro', than do what he thought mean.

But his eddication to his ruination had not been over nice,
And his stupid skull was choking full of vulgar prejudice;
With anything white he'd drink, or he'd fight in fair and open fray;
But to murder and kill was his wicked will, if an Injin came his way!

‘A sarpent's hide has pison inside, and an Injin's heart's the same,
If he seems your friend for to gain his end, look out for the sarpent's game;
Of the snakes that crawl, the worst of all is the snake in a skin of red,
A spotted Snake, and no mistake!’ that's what he always said.

Well, we'd jest struck our bit of luck, and were wild as raving men,
When who should stray to our camp one day, but Black Panther, the Cheyenne;
Drest like a Christian, all a-grin, the old one joins our band,
And tho' the rest look'd black as sin, he shakes me by the hand.

Now, the poor old cuss had been good to us, and I knew that he was true,—
I'd have trusted him with life and limb as soon as I'd trust you;
For tho' his wit was gone a bit, and he drank like any fish,
His heart was kind, he was well-inclined, as even a white could wish.

Food had got low, for we didn't know the run of the hunting-ground,
And our hunters were sick, when, jest in the nick, the friend in need was found;
For he knew the place like his mother's face (or better, a heap, you'd say,
Since she was a squaw of the roaming race, and himself a cast-away).

Well, I took the Panther into camp. and the critter was well content,
And off with him, on the hunting tramp, next day our hunters went,
And I reckon that day and the next we didn't want for food,
And only one in the camp looked vext—that Imp of Hell, Phil Blood.

506

Nothing would please his contrairy idees! an Injin made him rile!
He didn't speak, but I saw on his cheek a kind of an ugly smile;
And I knew his skin was hatching sin, and I kept the Panther apart,
For the Injin he was too blind to see the dirt in a white man's heart!

Well, one fine day, we a-resting lay at noon-time by the creek,
The red sun blazed, and we felt half-dazed, too beat to stir or speak;
'Neath the alder trees we stretched at ease, and we couldn't see the sky,
For the lian-flowers in bright blue showers hung through the branches high.

It was like the gleam of a fairy-dream, and I felt like earth's first Man,
In an Eden bower with the yellow flower of a cactus for a fan;
Oranges, peaches, grapes, and figs, cluster'd, ripen'd, and fell,
And the cedar scent was pleasant, blent with the soothing 'cacia smell.

The squirrels red ran overhead, and I saw the lizards creep,
And the woodpecker bright with the chest so white tapt like a sound in sleep;
I dreamed and dozed with eyes half-closed, and felt like a three-year child,
And, a plantain blade on his brow for a shade, even Phil Blood look'd mild.

Well, back, jest then, came our hunting men, with the Panther at their head,
Full of his fun was every one, and the Panther's eyes were red,
And he skipt about with grin and shout, for he'd had a drop that day,
And he twisted and twirled, and squeal'd and skirl'd, in the foolish Injin way.

To the waist all bare Phil Blood lay there, with only his knife in his belt,
And I saw his bloodshot eyeballs stare, and I knew how fierce he felt,—
When the Injin dances with grinning glances around him as he lies,
With his painted skin and his monkey grin,—and leers into his eyes!

Then before I knew what I should do Phil Blood was on his feet,
And the Injin could trace the hate in his face, and his heart began to beat;
And, ‘Git out o' the way,’ he heard them say, ‘for he means to hev your life!’
But before he could fly at the warning cry, he saw the flash of the knife.

‘Run, Panther run!’ cried each mother's son, and the Panther took the track;
With a wicked glare, like a wounded bear, Phil Blood sprang at his back.
Up the side so steep of the cañon deep the poor old critter sped,
And the devil's limb ran after him, till they faded overhead.

Now, the spot of ground where our luck was found was a queerish place, you'll mark,
Jest under the jags of the mountain crags and the precipices dark;
Far up on high, close to the sky, the two crags leant together,
Leaving a gap, like an open trap, with a gleam of golden weather.

A pathway led from the beck's dark bed up to the crags on high,
And along that path the Injin fled, fast as a man could fly.
Some shots were fired, for I desired to keep the white beast back;
But I missed my man, and away he ran on the flying Injin's track.

Now all below is thick, you know, with 'cacia, alder, and pine,
And the bright shrubs deck the side of the beck, and the lian flowers so fine.
For the forest creeps all under the steeps, and feathers the feet of the crags
With boughs so thick that your path you pick, like a steamer among the snags.

But right above you, the crags, Lord love you! are bare as this here hand,
And your eyes you wink at the bright blue chink, as looking up you stand.
If a man should pop in that trap at the top, he'd never rest arm or leg,
Till neck and crop to the bottom he'd drop—and smash on the stones like an egg!

507

‘Come back, you cuss! come back to us! and let the critter be!’
I screamed out loud, while the men in a crowd stood grinning at them and me . . .
But up they went, and my shots were spent, and at last they disappeared,—
One minute more, and we gave a roar, for the Injin had leapt, and cleared!

A leap for a deer, not a man, to clear,—and the bloodiest grave below!
But the critter was smart and mad with fear, and he went like a bolt from a bow!
Close after him came the devil's limb, with his eyes as dark as death,
But when he came to the gulch's brim, I reckon he paused for breath!

For breath at the brink! but—a white man shrink, when a red had passed so neat?
I knew Phil Blood too well to think he'd turn his back dead beat!
He takes one run, leaps up in the sun, and bounds from the slippery ledge,
And he clears the hole, but—God help his soul! just touches the tother edge!

One scrambling fall, one shriek, one call, from the men that stand and stare,—
Black in the blue where the sky looks thro', he staggers, dwarf'd up there;
The edge he touches, then sinks, and clutches the rock—our eyes grow dim—
I turn away—what's that they say?—he's ahanging on to the brim!

. . . On the very brink of the fatal chink a ragged shrub there grew,
And to that he clung, and in silence swung betwixt us and the blue,
And as soon as a man could run I ran the way I'd seen them flee,
And I came mad-eyed to the chasm's side, and—what do you think I see?

All up? Not quite. Still hanging? Right! But he'd torn away the shrub;
With lolling tongue he clutch'd and swung—to what? ay, that's the rub!
I saw him glare and dangle in air,—for the empty hole he trode,—
Help'd by a pair of hands up there!—The Injin's? Yes, by God!

Now, boys, look here! for many a year I've roam'd in this here land—
And many a sight both day and night I've seen that I think grand;
Over the whole wide world I've been, and I know both things and men,
But the biggest sight I've ever seen was the sight I saw jest then.

I held my breath—so nigh to death Phil Blood swung hand and limb,
And it seem'd to us all that down he'd fall, with the Panther after him,
But the Injin at length put out his strength—and another minute past,—
—Then safe and sound to the solid ground he drew Phil Blood, at last!!

Saved? True for you! By an Injin too!—and the man he meant to kill!
There all alone, on the brink of stone, I see them standing still;
Phil Blood gone white, with the struggle and fright, like a great mad bull at bay,
And the Injin meanwhile, with a half-skeer'd smile, ready to spring away.

What did Phil do? Well, I watched the two, and I saw Phil Blood turn back,
Bend over the brink and take a blink right down the chasm black,
Then stooping low for a moment or so, he sheath'd his bowie bright,
Spat slowly down, and watch'd with a frown, as the spittle sank from sight!

Hands in his pockets, eyes downcast, silent, thoughtful, and grim,
While the Panther, grinning as he passed, still kept his eyes on him,
Phil Blood strolled slow to his mates below, down by the mountain track,
With his lips set tight and his face all white, and the Panther at his back.

I reckon they stared when the two appeared! but never a word Phil spoke,
Some of them laughed and others jeered,—but he let them have their joke;
He seemed amazed, like a man gone dazed, the sun in his eyes too bright,
And for many a week, in spite of their cheek, he never offered to fight.

508

And after that day he changed his play, and kept a civiller tongue,
And whenever an Injin came that way, his contrairy head he hung;
But whenever he heard the lying word, ‘It's a Lie!’ Phil Blood would groan;
‘A Snake is a Snake, make no mistake! but an Injin's flesh and bone!’

THE FAËRY REAPER.

IRELAND.

'Tis on Eilanowen,
There's laughter nightly!
For the Fays are sowing
Their golden grain:
It springs by moonlight
So stilly and brightly,
And it drinks no sunlight,
Or silver rain;—
Tho' the shoots upcreeping
No man may see,
When men are reaping
It reapt must be;
But to reap it rightly,
With sickle keen,
They must lead there nightly
A pure colleen!

Yes, pure completely
Must be that maiden,
Just feeling sweetly
Her love's first dream.
Should one steal thither
With evil laden,
The crop would wither
In the pale moon's beam!
For midnights seven,
While all men sleep,
'Neath the silent heaven
The maid must reap;
And the sweeter and whiter
Of soul is she,
The better and brighter
Will that harvest be!

. . . In Lough Bawn's bosom
The isle is lying,
Like a bright green blossom
On a maiden's breast—
There the water-eagle
O'erhead is flying,
And beneath the sea-gull
Doth build its nest.
And across the water
A farm gleams fair,
And the farmer's daughter
Dwelt lonely there:—
And on Eilanowen
She'd sit and sing,
When the Fays were sowing
Their seeds in spring,

She could not hear them,
Nor see them peeping;
Tho' she wandered near them
The spring-tide thro',
When the grouse was crowing,
The trout was leaping,
And with hare-bells blowing
The banks were blue.
But not by moonlight
She dared to stay,
Only by sunlight
She went that way.
And on Eilanowen
They walked each night,
Her footprints sowing
With lilies white!

When the sun above her
Was brightly blazing,
She'd bare (God love her!)
Each round white limb.
Unseen, unnoted,
Save fay-folk gazing,
Dark hair'd, white throated,
She'd strip to swim!
Out yonder blushing
A space she'd stand,
Then falter flushing
Across the strand,—
Till the bright still water
Would sparkle sweet,
As it kissed and caught her
From neck to feet!

There, sparkling round her
With fond caresses,
It clasp'd her, crowned her,
My maiden fair!
Then, brighter glowing
From its crystal kisses,
The bright drops flowing
From her dripping hair,

509

Outleaping, running
Beneath the sky,
The bright light sunning
Her limbs, she'd fly,—
And 'mid tinkling laughter
Of elfin bowers,
The Fays ran after
With leaves and flowers!

Could the Fays behold her,
Nor long to gain her?
From foot to shoulder
None pure as she!
They cried ‘God keep her,
No sorrow stain her!
The Faëry Reaper
In troth she'll be!’ . . .
With stalks of amber
And silvern ears,
From earth's dark chamber
The grain appears.
'Tis harvest weather!
The moon swims high!
And they flock together
With elfin cry!

Now, long and truly
I'd loved that maiden;
And served her duly
With kiss and sign;
And that same season
My soul love-laden
Had found new reason
To wish her mine.
For her cheek grew paler,
Her laughter less,
And what might ail her
I could not guess.
Each harvest morrow
We kissing met,
And with weary sorrow
Her eyes seem'd wet.

‘Oh, speak, Mavourneen,
What ails ye nightly?
For sure each morning
'Tis sad ye seem!’
Her eyes not weeping
Looked on me brightly:—
‘Each night when sleeping
I dream a Dream.
'Tis on Eilanowen
I seem to be
And bright grain growing
I surely see;
A golden sickle
My fingers keep,
And my slow tears trickle
On what I reap!

‘The moon is gleaming,
The faëries gather,
Like glow-worms gleaming,
Their eyes flash quick;
I try while reaping
To name “Our Father!”
But round me leaping
They pinch and prick—
On the stalks of amber,
On the silvern ears,
They cling, they clamber,
Till day appears!
And here I'm waking
In bed, once more,
My bones all aching,
My heart full sore!’

I kissed her, crying
‘God bless your reaping!
For sure no sighing
Can set you free.
They'll bless your wedding
Who vex your sleeping;
So do their bidding,
Ma cushla chree!
But oh, remember!
Your fate is cast,
And ere December
Hath fairly past,
The Faëry Reaper
Must be a Bride,
Or a sad cold sleepe.
On the green hill-side!’

‘Sure wedding's better
Than dying sadly!’
She smiled, and set her
Soft hand in mine.
For three nights after
She labour'd gladly,
'Mid fairy laughter,
And did not pine;
And when the seven
Long nights were run,
Full well 'neath Heaven
That work was done:

510

Their sheaves were slanted,
Their harvest made,
And no more they wanted
A mortal's aid.

'Tis on Eilanowen
There's laughter nightly,
When the Fays are sowing
Their golden grain!
God bless that laughter;
That grain blow brightly!
For luck came after
My Mary's pain.
And when sweet Mary
Was wed to me,
Sure the folk of faëry
Were there to see:—
The white board spreading,
Unheard, unseen,
They blest the wedding
Of a pure colleen!

The osprey (Pandion).

THE ‘MIDIAN-MARA.’

I

There's a sad sea-maiden
Sighs day and night;
For lack of Eden
Her eyes weep sore;
If you come upon her
By pale moonlight,—
Farewell to honour
For evermore!
Tho' her hair is redder
Than blood fresh spilt,
'Tis you must wed her
And share her guilt;
'Tis you, more pity!
Must buried be
In her shining City
Beneath the Sea.

II

But shouldest thou view her
When shines the sun,
And softly unto her
On tiptoe creep,
You'll find her dozing
As I have done,
Naked reposing
In a sunny sleep;
Then be quickly ready
To seize her hair,
And to name Our Lady
As she wakens there;
And tho' clouds may thunder
O'er the waters wide,
To the walls of wonder
She'll be your guide.

III

In the year of hunger,
That's long gone by,
When I was younger
Who now am old,
By the Ocean dreary
Like a taisch went I,
Thin, weak and weary,
With want and cold.
O sweetly gleaming
Was the Sea that hour,
And the sun was streaming
Thro' a golden shower;
As I wandered sighing
For the famished Land,
I beheld her lying
On the yellow strand!

IV

Like the silver shining
Was the Maiden's skin,
The red locks twining
To the breasts of white,
Her cheeks were hueless
And chill and thin,
Her lips were dewless,
But her eyes were bright.
Behind her creeping
I held her hair,—
As she scream'd upleaping
I said the prayer;—
‘O Midian-Mara!
I hold thee mine:
Thy help I borrow,
By the Cross's sign!’

V

Hast thou ever noted
A wounded seal,
As it bleats shrill-throated
Before it dies?
As a seal's eyes turning
On them that kill,

511

With a dying yearning,
Were the maiden's eyes.
With those orbs of azure
She gazed on me:—
‘O what's thy pleasure,
Gilli ma chree?’
And her tears fell brightly
Upon the sands,
As she trembled whitely
With wringing hands.

VI

‘O take me straightway,’
To her said I,
‘To the City's gateway
That well ye know—
'Tis the hunger kills me,
And that's no lie,
And a longing fills me
From earth to go.’
She ceased her crying,
And sadly said,
With the white gulls flying
Above her head,
‘Is it there, mavourneen,
Ye'd wish to stand,
That were bred and born in
A Christian land?’

VII

I knew her nature
Was sly and deep,
Tho' the wicked creature
Had a heavenly face;
And I looked below me
At the waves asleep,
As I answered, ‘Show me
That very place!
'Tis You must charm me
To take the track,
And no hand shall harm me
Till I come back.’
As I spake, deep thunder
Was heard that day,
And I saw, far under,
Where the City lay!

VIII

'Neath the green still ocean,
Far, far, below,
With a mystic motion
That can't be told,
I saw it gleaming
On a strand of snow,
Its bright towers beaming,
All glass and gold!
And a sound thrilled thro' me
Like the sound of bells,
Upwafted to me
On the ocean swells;
And I saw far under,
Within those same,
White shapes of wonder
That went and came!

IX

‘O Mary, mother,
That savest me,
'Tis the place, no other,
Where I would go;
For 'tis sweet and pleasant,
Set 'neath the Sea
In the bright white crescent
Of the strand below.
'Tis the hunger in me
That works its will,
Lest the devil win me
To steal or kill.’
I held her tighter,
And prayed anew:—
As I spoke, still brighter
That vision grew.

X

Still glassy and shining
Those walls of flame,
With the sea-weeds twining
Around their feet;
More large the place's
Great towers became,
Till I saw the faces
In the golden street.
I saw and knew them
(The Lord's my guide!)
As the water drew them
From side to side;
I saw the creatures,
And I knew them then—
The wool—white features
Of drownëd men!

XI

Upright they drifted,
All wet and cold,
By the sea-wash lifted
Like the red sea-tang,

512

While in wild sad cadence,
From the towers of gold,
The pale sea-maidens
Struck harps and sang
‘O shule, shule,
O shule, aroon!’
I tell thee truly,
I heard them croon;
Then I heard that thunder
Roll deep once more,
And I swooned for wonder
On the yellow shore!

XII

When I raised in sorrow
My fearful face,
The Midian-Mara
Was fled from me;
Without repining
I left the place,
As the Moon rose shining
Beyond the sea.
And my feet went faster
To see her light,
For I feared disaster
If I stayed that night . . .
When God took pity,
And brought me bread,
I forgot that City
Of the drownëd dead.

Anglicè, ‘The Mermaid.’

The year of Irish famine.

Ghost or spirit.

‘Come, come, my darling, come!’

O'CONNOR'S WAKE.

AN IRISH FIDDLE TUNE.

To the wake of O'Connor
What boy wouldn't go?
To do him that honour
Went lofty and low.
Two nights was the waking,
Till day began breaking,
And frolics past spaking,
To please him, were done;
For himself in the middle,
With stick and with fiddle,
Stretch'd out at his ease, was the King of the Fun.

With a dimity curtain overhead,
And the corpse-lights shining round his bed,
Holding his fiddle and stick, and drest
Top to toe in his Sunday best,
For all the world he seem'd to be
Playing on his back to the companie.
On each of his sides was the candle-light;
On his legs the tobacco-pipes were piled;
Cleanly wash'd, in a shirt of white,
His grey hair brush'd, his beard trimm'd right,
He lay in the midst of his friends, and smiled.
At birth and bedding, at fair and feast,
Welcome as light or the smile of the priest,
Ninety winters up and down
O'Connor had fiddled in country and town.
Never a fiddler was clever as he
At dance or jig or pater-o'-pee;
The sound of his fiddle no word could paint—
'Twould fright the devil or please a saint,
Or bring the heart, with a single skirl,
To the very mouth of a boy or girl.
He played—and his elbow was never done;
He drank—and his lips were never dry;
Ninety winters his life had run,
But God's above, and we all must die.
As she stretch'd him out, quoth Judy O'Roon—
‘Sure life's like his music, and ended soon—
There's dancing and crying,
There's kissing, there's sighing,
There's smiling and sporting,
There's wedding and courting,—
But the skirl of the wake is the end of the tune!’

‘Shin suas, O'Connor,’
Cried Kitty O'Bride—
Her best gown upon her,
Tim Bourke by her side—
All laughed out to hear her,
While Tim he crept near her,
To kiss her and cheer her
At the back o' the door;
But the corpse in the middle,
With stick and with fiddle,
All done with diversion, would never play more!

On the threshold, as each man entered there,
He knelt on his knee and said a prayer,
But first before he took his seat
Among the company there that night,
He lifted a pipe from O'Connor's feet,
And lit it up by the bright corpse-light.

513

Chattering there in the cloud of smoke,
They waked him well with song and joke;
The gray old men and the cauliaghs told
Of all his doings in days of old;
The boys and girls till night was done,
Played their frolics and took their fun,
And many a kiss was stolen sure
Under the window and behind the door.
Andy Hagan and Kitty Delane
Hid in a corner and courted there,
‘Monamondioul!’ cried old Tim Blane,
Pointing them out, ‘they're a purty pair!’
But when they blushed and hung the head,
‘Troth, never be shamed!’ the old man said;
‘Sure love's as short as the flowers in June,
And life's like music, and ended soon—
There's wooing and wedding,
There's birth and there's bedding,
There's grief and there's pleasure
To fill up the measure,—
But the skirl of the wake is the end of the tune!’

At the wake of O'Connor
Great matches were made,
To do him more honour
We joked and we played—
Two nights was the waking,
Till day began breaking,
The cabin was shaking
Before we were done,
And himself in the middle,
With stick and with fiddle,
As large as in life, was the King of the Fun!

‘Well, I remember,’ said Tony Carduff,
Drawing the pipe from his lips with a puff,
‘Well, I remember at Ballyslo’,—
And troth and it's thirty years ago,—
In the midst of the fair there fell a fight,
And who but O'Connor was in the middle?
Striking and crying with all his might,
And with what for weapon? the ould black fiddle!
That day would have ended its music straight
If it hadn't been strong as an iron pot;
Tho' the blood was on it from many a pate,
Troth, divil a bit of harm it got!’
Cried Michael na Chauliuy, ‘And troth that's true—
Himself and the fiddle were matched by few.
They went together thro' every weather,
Full of diversion and tough as leather,—
I thought he'd never think of dying,
But Jesus keep us!—there's he's lying.’
Then the cauliaghs squatting round on the floor
Began to keenagh . and sob full sore;
‘God be good to the ould gossoon!
Sure life's like music, and ended soon.
There's playing and plighting,
There's frolic and fighting,
There's singing and sighing,
There's laughing and crying,—
But the skirl of the wake is the end of the tune!’

At the wake of O'Connor,
The merry old man,
To wail in his honour
The cauliaghs began;
And Rose, Donnell's daughter
From over the water,
Began (sure saints taught her!)
The sweet drimindhu;
All was still;—in the middle,
With stick and with fiddle,
O'Connor, stretched silent, seem'd hearkening too!

Oh, 'twas sweet as the crooning of fairies by night,
Oh, 'twas sad,—as you listened, you smiled in delight,
With the tears in your eyes; it was like a shower falling,
When the rainbow shines thro' and the cuckoo is calling;
You might feel through it all, as the sweet notes were given,
The peace of the Earth and the promise of Heaven!
In the midst of it all the sweet singer did stand,
With a light on her hair, like the gleam of a hand;
She seem'd like an angel to each girl and boy,
But most to Tim Cregan, who watch'd her in joy,

514

And when she had ended he led her away,
And whisper'd his love till the dawning of day.
After that, cried Pat Rooney, the rogue of a lad,
‘I'll sing something merry—the last was too sad!’
And he struck up the song of the Piper of Clare.
How the bags of his pipes were beginning to tear,
And how, when the cracks threaten'd fairly to end them,
He cut up his own leather breeches to mend them!
How we laugh'd, young and old! ‘Well, beat that if you can,’
Cried fat Tony Bourke, the potheen-making man—
‘Who sings next?’ Tony cried, and at that who came in,
Dancing this way and that way in midst of the din,
But poor Shamus the Fool? and he gave a great spring—
‘By the cross, merry boys, 'tis mysilf that can sing!’
Then he stood by the corpse, and he folded his hands,
And he sang of the sea and the foam on the sands,
Of the shining skiddawn as It flies to and fro,
Of the birds of the waves and their wings like the snow.
Then he sank his voice lower and sang with strange sound
Of the caves down beneath and the beds of the drown'd,
Till we wept for the boys who lie where the wave rolls,
With no kinsmen to stretch them and wake their poor souls.
When he ceased. Shamus looked at the corpse, and he said,
‘Sure a dacenter man never died in his bed!’
And at that the old cauliaghs began to croon:
‘Sure life's like his music, and ended as soon—
There's dancing and sporting,
There's kissing and courting,
There's grief and there's pleasure
To fill up the measure,—
But the skirl of the wake is the end of the tune.’

‘A health to O'Connor!’
Fat Anthony said:
‘We'll drink in the honour
Of him that is dead.’
A two-gallon cag, then,
Did Anthony drag then
From out his old bag then,
While all there grew keen.
'Twas sweet, strong, and filling—
His own best distilling!
Oh, well had the dead man loved Tony's potheen!

Then the fun brightened up; but of all that befell
It would take me a long day in summer to tell—
Of the dancing and singing, the leaping and sporting,
And sweetest of all, the sly kissing and courting!
Two nights was the waking; two long winter nights
O'Connor lay smiling in mídst of the lights.
In the cloud of the smoke like a cloud of the skies,
The blessing upon him, to close his old eyes.
Oh, when the time comes for myself to depart,
May I die full of days like the merry old man!
I'll be willing to go with the peace on my heart,
Contented and happy, since life's but a span;
And O may I have, when my lips cease to spake,
To help my poor soul, such an elegant wake!
The country all there, friends and kinsmen and all,
And myself in the middle, with candle and pall! . . .
Came the dawn, and we put old O'Connor to rest,
In his coffin of wood, with his hands on his breast,
And we followed him all by the hundred and more,—

515

The boys all in black, and his friends sighing sore.
We left him in peace, the poor sleeping gossoon,
Thinking, ‘Life's like his music, and ended too soon.
There's laughing and sporting,
There's kissing and courting,
There's grief and there's pleasure
To fill up the measure,—
But the wake and the grave are the end of the tune!’

‘Good-bye to O'Connor,’
Cried Barnaby Blake,
‘May the saints do him honour
For the ould fiddle's sake!
If the saints love sweet playing—
It's the thruth that I'm saying—
His sowl will be straying
And fiddling an air!
He'll pass through their middle,
With stick and with fiddle,
And they'll give him the cead mile fealta up there!’

[_]

Note.—The preceding Poem is a literal description of a wake in the wildest and loneliest part of Connaught. Several of the characters—e.g. Shamus the Fool—are well known to the mountaineers and fishermen of that untrodden district, where the old Celtic tongue is still spoken in its purity and the old Celtic customs are still practised, and where the author, in almost complete seclusion, passed four happy years.

‘Play up, O'Connor!’

Old women.

‘Michael the Ferryman;’ lit. ‘belonging to the ferry.’

To cry, as during the coronach at a funeral

A melancholy ditty.

Herring.

Whisky, illicitly distilled

‘Hundred thousand welcomes.’

HIGHLAND LAMENT.

‘O mar tha mi! 'tis the wind that's blowing,
O mar tha mi! 'tis the sea that's white!
'Tis my own brave boatman was up and going,
From Uist to Barra at dead of night;
Body of black and wings of red
His boat went out on the stormy sea.
O mar tha mi! can I sleep in my bed?
O gillie dubh! come back to me!

‘O mar tha mi! is it weed out yonder?
Is it drifting weed or a tangled sail?
On the shore I wait and watch and wander.
It's calm this day, after last night's gale.
O this is the skiff with wings so red,
And it floats upturned on the glassy sea
O mar tha mi! is my boatman dead?
O gillie dubh! come back to me!

‘O mar tha mi! 'tis a corpse that's sleeping,
Floating there on the slippery sands;
His face is drawn and his locks are dreeping,
His arms are stiff and he's clench'd his hands.
Turn him up on his slimy bed,
Clean his face from the weed o' the sea.
O mar tha mi! 'tis my boatman dead!
O gillie dubh! won't you look at me?

‘O mar tha mi! 'tis my love that's taken!
O mar tha mi! I am left forlorn!
He'll never kiss and he'll never waken,
He'll never look on the babe unborn.
His blood is water, his heart is lead,
He's dead and slain by the cruel sea.
O mar tha mi! I am lone in my bed,
My gillie dubh is lost to me!’

JAMES AVERY.

At Portsmouth, in a tavern dark,
One day of windy weather,
A crew of reckless sailors sat,
And drank their grog together.

Loud was the talk, and rude the joke,
So deep the jovial din
They did not mark a lean, wild shape
Who shivering enter'd in:

A beggar wight, who hugg'd his rags,
And chatter'd with the cold;
Lean was his shape, his eyeballs dim,
Wrinkled his cheek, and old.

In a dark corner of the room
He sat with sorry cheer,
Not list'ning, till a word, a name,
Fell on his frozen ear.

‘James Avery!’ and as he spake
One pointed thro' the pane
At a great playbill on the wall
Of the damp and oozy lane.

On the dead wall the letters great
Made tempting bright display:

516

James Avery, the Pirate King,
Was posted that night's play.

‘Ay!’ cried a tar, reading aloud,
‘Well might they call him so!
The Pirate King—I grudge his luck!’
Then, with an oath, ‘I'll go.’

Another cried, ‘Ah, that's the life
To suit a sailor's style!
Ben Conway saw his palace, mates,
On Madagascar Isle;

‘And on a throne, in red and gold,
Jem sat like any king,
With dark-eyed donnas all around,
As fresh as flowers in spring!

‘They brought him wine in cups of gold,
And each knelt on her knee—
Each mother-naked, smooth as silk—
Ah, that's the life for me!’

Then spake a third, ‘I sailed with Jem
On board the “Hurricane”;
When he deserted I ne'er thought
To hear of him again.

‘And now it's long since last I heard
His name, and p'raps he's dead.’
‘Not so; he only takes a nap!’
A grizzly war's-man said.

‘He has a fleet of fighting ships,
Swifter than ours tenfold;
Last spring he took six Indiamen,
Laden with gems and gold.

‘There's not a corner of the main
But knows the skull and bones—
Up goes the flag! and down comes Jem,
As sure as Davy Jones.

‘But let him have his fling; some day
We'll catch him at his trade—
Short shrift! a rope! and up he goes,
And all his pranks are played.’

All laughed; ‘But not so fast,’ cried one;
‘It's not too late, I vow;
His Majesty would pardon him,
If he'd surrender now.

‘The pardon's in the newspapers,
In black and white it's there;
If pirate Jem will cease his games,
They'll spare his life, they swear

All laugh'd again—‘Jem's wide awake—
You don't catch birds with chaff—
Come back to biscuit and salt junk?
He is too 'cute by half.

‘Leave all his gold and precious stones,
His kingdom, and all that,
Bid all them dark-eyed girls farewell
For labour,—and the cat?’

Ev'n as they speak, a wretched form
Springs up before their eyes.
‘Give me the paper! let me read!’
The famished creature cries.

They thrust him back with jeer and laugh,
So wild and strange is he. . . .
‘Why, who's this skeleton?’ . . . A voice
Answers, ‘James Avery!’

Louder they laugh—‘He's mad! he's mad!’
They round him in a ring.
‘Jem here in rags! no, he's in luck,
As grand as any king!’

But soon he proves his story true
With eager words and tones;
Then, as he ends, ‘Bread, give me bread!
I'm starving, mates!’ he moans.

‘Nay, drink!’ they cry; and his lean hands
Clutch at the fiery cup.
‘Here's to the King who pardons me!’
He cries, and drinks it up.

He tells them of his weary days
Since that dark hour he fled,
A hunted thing, without a home
Wherein to lay his head.

Through some mysterious freak of fate,
His name abroad was spread,
And not a wondrous deed was done
But that wild name was said;

And all the time James Avery dwelt
An outcast, gaunt and grim,
Till creeping home that day he heard
His King had pardoned him.

The wild drink mounted to his brain,
He revell'd maniac-eyed,
‘Come to the playhouse—'twill be sport
To see thyself!’ they cried.

Between them, down the narrow street
They led his scarecrow form—

517

The wind blew chill from off the sea,
Before the rising storm.

They sat and saw the mimic play,
Till late into the night:—
The happy Pirate, crown'd with gold,
And clad in raiment bright.

The actor swagger'd on the stage
And drank of glorious cheer, . . .
James Avery gazed! his hungry laugh
Was pitiful to hear!

They parted. . . . As the chill white dawn
Struck down a lonely lane,
It flashed upon the rainy wall
And made the play-bill plain.

James Avery, the Pirate King!
The mocking record said—
Beneath, James Avery's famish'd form
Lay ragged, cold, and dead!

THE DEVIL'S PEEPSHOW.

OLD STYLE.

As thro' the Town of Vanity I trod,
I heard one calling in the name of God,
And turning I beheld a wan-eyed wight,
Clad in a garment that had once been bright,
Who, while a few pale children gathered round,
Did plant his faded Peepshow on the ground.
Trembling the children|peep'd; and lingering nigh,
E'en thus I heard the ragged Showman cry:—

I.

Now first your eye will here descry
How all the world begun:
The earth green-dight, the ocean bright,
The moon, the stars, the sun.
All yet is dark; but you will mark,
While round this sphere is spun,
A Hand so bare moves here and there,
Whence rays of ruby run.
I pull a string, and everything
Is finish'd bright and new,
Tho' dim as dream all yet doth seem;
And this, God wot, is true.

II.

Now this, you see, is Eden Tree,
In Eden's soil set deep;
Beneath it lies with closëd eyes
Strong Adam, fast asleep.
All round, the scene is gold and green,
And silver rivers creep;
Him on the grass the wild beasts pass,
As mild and tame as sheep.
My bell I ring; I pull a string;
And on the self-same spot,
From Adam's side God takes his Bride;
And this is true, God wot.

III.

There still doth shine the Tree Divine,
Flush'd with a purple flame,
And hand in hand our parents stand,
Naked, but have no shame.
Now Adam goes to take repose
While musing sits his Dame;
When, over her, the blest boughs stir,
To show how Satan came.
A Snake so bright, with horns of light,
Green leaves he rustles thro',
Fair Eve descries with wondering eyes;
And this, God wot, is true.

IV.

Now pray perceive, how over Eve
The fruits forbidden grow.
With hissing sound the Snake twines round,
His eyes like rubies glow.
‘Fair Eve,’ he says (in those old days
Snakes spoke) and louteth low,
‘This fruit you see upon the Tree
Shall make you see and know. . . .’
My bell I ring; I pull a string;
And on the self-same spot
Fair Eve doth eat the Fruit so sweet;
And this is true, God wot.

V.

A CHILD.
Please, why did He who made the Tree,
Our Father in the sky,
Let it grow there, so sweet and fair,
To tempt our Parents' eye?

SHOWMAN.
My pretty dear, it is most clear
He wish'd their strength to try;
And therefore sent, with wise intent,
The Serpent swift and sly.
I pull a string, and there (poor thing!)
Stands Adam eating too!
And now, you mark, all groweth dark;
And this, God wot, is true.

518

VI.

Now, you discern, a voice so stern
Cries ‘Adam, where art thou?’
Tis God the Lord, by all adored,
Walks there; and all things bow.
But with his Bride doth Adam hide
His guilty, burning brow;
And of fig-leaves each sinner weaves
A guilty apron now.
My bell I ring; I pull a string;
And from that pleasant spot
A Sword of Flame drives man and dame;
And this is true, God wot.

VII.

Now wipe the glass. And we will pass
To quite another scene:
In a strange land two Altars stand,
One red, the other green;
The one of blood right sweet and good,
The other weeds, I ween!
And there, full plain, stands frowning Cain,
And Abel spruce and clean.
I pull a string; and every thing
Grows dark and sad anew,—
There Abel lies with dying eyes!
And this, God wot, is true.

VIII.

The wicked Cain has Abel slain
All with a burning brand;
And now, sad sight, an Angel bright
Doth mark him with his hand.

A CHILD.
What specks so red are those that spread
Behind them as they stand?

SHOWMAN.
The sparks you see the wild eyes be,
Countless as grains of sand,
Of all those men who have, since then.
Shed blood in any land!
In grief and pain they look at Cain,
Aghast on that sad spot;
And all around blood soaks the ground;
And this is true, God wot.

IX.

My bell I ring; I pull a string:
Now, Father Noah you mark—
Sleeping he lies, with heavy eyes,
All full of wine, and stark.
But now, behold! that good man old
A Voice in dream doth hark;
And the Voice cries, ‘O Noah, arise!
And build thyself an Ark.’
Again I ring; and pull a string;
And all is water blue,
Where, floating free, the Ark you see;
And this, God wot, is true.

X.

Thus God the Lord, with his great Word,
Did bid the waters rise,
To drown and kill all things of ill
He made beneath the skies.
The Lord saved none, but Noah alone,
His kith and kin likewise;
Two of each beast, both great and least;
Two of each bird that flies.
My bell I ring; I pull a string;
And on the self-same spot,
The water sinks, the bright Bow blinks;
And this is true, God wot.

XI.

O day and night, unto your sight
Such wonders shown might be,
But to conclude this Peepshow good,
You Heaven and Hell shall see:
The shining things, with spangled wings,
Who smile and sing so free;
The crew of shame, who in hell-flame
Complain eternallie!
My bell I ring; I pull a string;
And you them both may view—
The blest on high, the curst who cry:—
And this, Got wot, is true.

XII.

A CHILD.
How can they bear, who sit up there
In shining robes so gay,
From Heaven to peer, without a tear,
On those who scream and pray?

SHOWMAN.
Why, those who burn had, you must learn,
As fair a chance as they—
But Adam's fall doth doom them all
Upon God's judgment day.
I thus conclude with moral good,
Not soon to be forgot;
And you must own what I have shown
Is solemn sooth, Got wot.

519

XIII.

A LITTLE BOY.
O look at him, that showman grim,
A frown is on his cheek;
Come away quick, for I am sick
Whene'er I hear him speak!

A GIRL.
Along this way, last Holy Day,
In blessëd Whitsun' week,
There passed a wight, so sweet and bright
He seemed an Angel meek:
He bare, also, an old Peep-show,
But prettier far to view,
And loud cried He ‘O look and see!
For all, God wot, is true!’

XIV.

CHILDREN.
And did you peep? and did you weep
To see the pictures wild?

GIRL.
Ah nay, ah nay, I laughed, full gay,
I looked and laughed and smiled!
For I discern'd, with bright face turned
On mine, a little Child;
And round him, bright burn'd many a light,
And cakes and sweets were piled;
And scents most rare fill'd all the air
All round the heavenly spot,
While loud and wide that Showman cried—
‘This is our Lord, God wot!’

XV.

FIRST CHILD.
'Twas Jesus Child! so good and mild!
He grew on Mary's breast!

GIRL.
Sweet were his eyes, his look was wise,
And his red lips were blest;
I longed, I wis, those lips to kiss,
And by his side to rest.
This man's Peepshow is strange, I know,
But the other was the best!
Now let us go where daisies blow,
Sweet ferns, and speedwells blue,
And Posies make for Christ His sake,
For He is bright and true!

XVI.

SHOWMAN
(solus).
Folk, I'm afraid, are changed; my trade
Grows worse each day, I know.
How they did throng when I was young,
To see this very Show!
My rivals pass, and lad and lass
Follow where'er they go,
While up and down, from town to town,
I creep, most sad and slow.
I too must try some novel cry,
Lest I be quite forgot:
These pictures old that I unfold
Have ceased to please, God wot!

DAYBREAK.

FRAGMENT.

But now the first faint flickering ray
Fell from the cold east far away,
The birds awoke and twitter'd, hover'd,
The dim leaves sparkled in the dew—
Earth slowly her dark head uncover'd
And held her blind face up the blue,
Till the fresh consecration came
In yellow beams of orient flame,
Touching her, and she breathed full blest
With lilies heaving on her breast.
Seas sparkled, dark capes glimmer'd green,
As Dawn crept on from scene to scene,
Lifting each curtain of the night
With fingers flashing starry-white.

EUPHROSYNE; OR, THE PROSPECT.

‘Freed from its tenement of clay
(So the prophetic legend ran),
As pure as dew, as bright as day,
Shall rise the Soul of Man.’
I read; and in the shade by me
Sat golden-haired Euphrosyne.

Above our shaded orchard seat
The boughs stirred scented in the light.
And on the grass beneath our feet
Lay blossoms pink and white;
I held the book upon my knee,
Translating to Euphrosyne.

520

'Twas an old melancholy rune,
Writ by a Norseman long ago—
Sad with the sense of stars and moon,
Sea-wash, and frost, and snow—
A vision of futurity!
And wide-eyed heard Euphrosyne.

‘Stately and slow the heart shall beat
To the low throb of Time's soft tide,
While, shaded from the solar heat,
The Shapes walk heavenly-eyed.’
All round us burnt the starry lea,
And warmly sighed Euphrosyne.

‘All shall be innocent and fair,
Dim as a dream the days shall pass—
No weed of shame shall blossom there,
No snake crawl on the grass.’—
‘How happy such a world will be!’
Sighed beautiful Euphrosyne.

‘Flesh shall be fled, sense shall be still,
The old grey earth buried and dead;
The wicked world, with all things ill—
Stone, rock, and tree—be fled.’—
‘No earth, no world!’ softly sighed she,
The little maid, Euphrosyne.

She clasped her hands, she cast her eyes
Over the landscape bright with May—
Scented and sweet, 'neath cloudless skies,
Smiled the green world that day—
Loud sang the thrush, low hummed the bee,
And softly sighed Euphrosyne.

‘Sickness shall perish, grief and pain
Be buried with the buried life;
The aching heart, the weary brain,
At last shall cease their strife.’—
The grey tome trembled on my knee,
But happy sat Euphrosyne.

‘The luminous house wherein we dwell,
The haunted house of shame and lust,
The callow spirit's fleshly shell,
Shall crumble into dust;
The flower shall fade, the scent fly free!’—
She trembled now, Euphrosyne.

Her warm, white bosom heaved with sighs,
I felt her light breath come and go,
She drank, with glorious lips and eyes,
The summer's golden glow;
She felt her life, and sighed ‘Ay, me!’
The flower of maids, Euphrosyne.

‘And with the flower of flesh shall fade
The venom'd bloom of earthly love,
No passion-trance of man and maid
Shall taint the life above;
Flesh shall be fled, sex shall not be!’—
I paused, and watched Euphrosyne.

Her hands were folded round her knees,
Her eyes were fix'd in a half-dream;
She shared the flame of flowers and trees,
And drank the summer gleam;
‘Kiss sweet, kiss sweet!’ upon the tree
The thrush sang, to Euphrosyne.

A little maid of seventeen Mays,
A happy child with golden hair,
What should she know of Love's wild ways,
Its hope, its pain, and prayer?
‘No love in heaven?—how strange 'twill be!’
Still musing, sighed Euphrosyne.

‘No thoughts of perishable mould
Shall break the rule of heavenly rest,
But larger light, more still, more cold,
More beautiful and blest.’—
Her heart was fluttering close to me,
And quickly breathed Euphrosyne.

‘There shall be no more love!’—but here
I paused, for from my side she sprang,
And in her bird's voice, loud and clear,
Of love's young dream she sang—
‘Oh, close the foolish book!’ cried she,
The happy maid Euphrosyne.

I closed the book, and from my hold
She took it with her fingers white,
Then down the path of green and gold
She tripped with laughter light—
‘The book, not the glad world, shall be
Deep-buried,’ said Euphrosyne.

Within an elm-tree's hollow bole,
Into the darkness damp and green,
She thrust it, closing up the hole
With sprays of lilac sheen—
Then, all the radiant flush of glee
Fast faded from Euphrosyne.

Pensively in the summer shine
Her blue eyes filled with tears of bliss:
She held her little mouth to mine
In one long heavenly kiss—
‘I love the earth, and life, and thee!’
She whispered, my Euphrosyne.

521

Sleep, Book, within thy burial place,
With flowers and fruit for epitaph!
Kind Heaven, stoop down thy sunny face
To hear the Earth's glad laugh!
Smile, with your glorious eyes on me,
O child of joy! Euphrosyne!

STANLEY FARM.

Come, love, and while the landscape glows
Red in the setting sun,
Let us repair to Stanley Farm,
Where thou wast wooed and won.

The river runs through a narrow glen,
And shooting past the mill,
It lingers near the burial-ground
Where the dark dead lie still.

Then fresh and free it shooteth through
The bridge at headlong speed;
But when the village bridge is past,
It comes to marsh and mead;

And broadening out with slacken'd pace,
It fringes green flat land,
Where, blanchèd white by frequent floods,
Long lines of pollards stand.

And now within its shallow pools,
The blue-winged hern doth wade,
Still as a stone, with crooked neck
Above his floating shade.

And water-lilies fringe the brim,
And all is sedge and reed,
Save one small stream within the midst,
That winds and winds with speed.

Then down comes Thornby Beck and gains
The river with a cry,
And on the two together run,
Under the English sky.

And strong and deep the stream has grown,
As well as broad and wide,
On reaching Stanley Farm, that sits
Upon the water's side.

How still it is! how bright it is,
These happy summer weeks,
When cattle wade, in the dark blue pools
Broken to silvern streaks!

But, love, hast thou forgot the Yule,
Twenty long years ago?
The level meads around the stream
Were white with ice and snow.

The river was frozen white and blue,
In its cold weedy bed;
A deep black fog filled all the air,
And in the fog, o'erhead,

Just hovering close to earth, as small
As a school-boy's pink balloon,
The wandering sun looked strange and cold
As the red wintry moon.

The fog was dark, and darkest there
Above the river's bed,
And from the windows of the farm
All day the lights gleamed red.

But when the sun's ball rolled from sight,
The wind began to blow,
The chilly fog was cleft in twain,
And the moon lit up the snow!

A deep blue flower with a golden heart
Hung downwards, was the sky,
And white and cold in swathes of snow
Did mead and hamlet lie.

And ever and anon the wind
Blew up a cloud so pale,
And held it o'er the yellow moon,
Like a thin lawny veil.

And through its folds the bright'ning morn
Gazed, breathing soft and slow,
Till, melted with her breath, the cloud
Was shriven into snow.

Then ever in the bright'ning beam,
As each soft cloud stole by,
We saw dark figures on the stream
Gliding with merry cry.

Men and maidens, old and young,
The skaters frolicked there;
Like shapes within a dream, their forms
Stole through the mystic air.

ON A YOUNG POETESS'S GRAVE.

Under her gentle seeing,
In her delicate little hand,
They placed the Book of Being,
To read and understand.

The Book was mighty
Yea, worn and eaten with age;
Though the letters looked great and golden
She could not read a page.

522

The letters fluttered before her,
And all looked darkly wild:
Death saw her, and bent o'er her,
As she pouted her lips and smiled.

Then, weary a little with tracing
The Book, she look'd aside,
And lightly smiling, and placing
A Flower in its leaves, she died.

She died, but her sweetness fled not,
As fly the things of power,—
For the Book wherein she read not
Is the sweeter for the Flower.

LOVE IN WINTER.

A GENRE PICTURE.

I.

‘O Love is like the roses,
And every rose shall fall,
For sure as summer closes
They perish one and all.
Then love, while leaves are on the tree,
And birds sing in the bowers:
When winter comes, too late 'twill be
To pluck the happy flowers.’

It is a maiden singing,
An ancient girl, in sooth;
The dizzy room is ringing
With her shrill song of youth;
The white keys sob as fast she tries
Each shrill and shricking scale:
‘O love is like the roses!’ cries
This muslin'd nightingale. . . .

In a dark corner dozing
I close my eyes and ears,
And call up, while reposing,
A glimpse from other years;
A genre-picture, quaint and Dutch,
I see from this dark seat,—
'Tis full of human brightness, such
As makes remembrance sweet.

II.

Flat leagues of endless meadows
[In Holland lies the scene],
Where many pollard-shadows
O'er nut-brown ditches lean;
Grey clouds above that dimly break,
Mists that pale sunbeams stripe,
With groups of steaming cattle, make
A landscape ‘after Cuyp.’

A windmill, and below it
A cottage near a road,
Where some meek pastoral poet
Might make a glad abode;
A cottage with a garden, where
Prim squares of pansies grow,
And sitting on a garden-chair,
A Dame with locks of snow.

In trim black truss'd and bodiced,
With petticoat of red,
And on her bosom modest
A kerchief white bespread.
Alas! the breast that heaves below
Is shrivell'd now and thin,
Tho' vestal thoughts as white as snow
Still palpitate within.

Her hands are mitten'd nicely,
And folded on her knee;
Her lips, that meet precisely,
Are moving quietly.
She listens while the dreamy bells
O'er the dark flats intone—
Now come, now gone, in dying swells
The Sabbath sounds are blown.

Her cheek a withered rose is,
Her eye a violet dim;
Half in her chair she doses,
And hums a happy hymn.
But soft! what wonder makes her start
And lift her aged head,
While the faint flutterings of her heart
Just touch her cheek with red?

The latch clicks; thro' the gateway
An aged wight steps slow—
Then pauses, doffing straightway
His broad-brim'd gay chapeau!
Swallow-tail'd cot of blue so grand,
With buttons bright beside,
He wears, and in his trembling hand
A nosegay, ribbon-tied.

His thin old legs trip lightly
In breeches of nankeen,
His face is shining brightly,
So rosy, fresh, and clean—
Wrinkled he is and old and plain,
With locks of golden-grey,
And leaning on a tassell'd cane
He gladly comes this way.

523

Oh, skylark, singing over
The silent mill hard by,
To this so happy lover
Sing out with summer cry!
He hears thee, tho' his blood is cold,
She hears, tho' deaf and weak;
She stands to greet him, as of old,
A blush upon her cheek.

In spring-time they were parted
By some sad wind of woe;
Forlorn and broken-hearted
Each faltered, long ago;
They sunder'd,—half a century
Each took the path of pain—
He lived a bachelor, and she
Was never woo'd again!

But when the summer ended,
When autumn, too, was dead,
When every vision splendid
Of youth and hope was fled,
Again these two came face to face
As in the long ago—
They met within a sunless place
In the season of the snow.

‘O love is like the roses,
Love comes and love must flee!
Before the summer closes
Love's rapture and love's glee!’
O peace! for in the garden there
He bows in raiment gay;
Doffs hat, and with a courtly air
Presents his fond bouquet.

One day in every seven,
While church-bells softly ring,
The happy, silent Heaven
Beholds the self-same thing:
The gay old boy within the gate,
With ribbons at his knee!—
‘When winter comes, is love too late?’
O Cupid, look and see!

O, talk not of love's rapture,
When youthful lovers kiss;
What mortal sight may capture
A scene more sweet than this?
Beside her now he sits and glows,
While prim she sits and proud,—
Then, spectacles upon his nose,
Reads the week's news aloud!

Pure, with no touch of passion,
True, with no tinge of pain!
Thus, in sweet Sabbath fashion,
They live their loves again.
She sees in him a happy boy—
Swift, agile, amorous-eyed;
He sees in her his own heart's joy—
Youth, Hope, Love, vivified!

Content there he sits smoking
His long Dutch pipe of wood:
Gossiping oft and joking,
As a gay lover should.
And oft, while there in company
They smile for Love's sweet sake,
Her snuff-box black she hands, and he
A grave, deep pinch doth take!

There, gravely juvenescent,
In sober Sabbath joy,
Mingling the past and present,
They sit, a maid and boy!
‘O love is like the roses!’—No!
Thou foolish singer, cease!
Love finds the fireside 'mid the snow,
And smokes the pipe of peace!

WILL O' THE WISP.

A BALLAD WRITTEN FOR CLARI, ON A STORMY NIGHT.

Just an inch high
With a body all yellow,
A bright crimson eye
And limbs all awry,
Wakes the queer little fellow—
Yes, awakes in the night,
Rubs his eyes in a fright,
Yawns, harks to the thunder,
While the glowworms all set
Round his cradle so wet,
Stare at him in wonder.
How it blows! how it rains!
How the thunder refrains!
While the glowworms so wan,
As they gather together,
Hear the quaint little man
Squeak faintly, ‘What weather!’
‘Who is his father?
Who is his mother?’
They cry as they gather,
And puzzle, and pother—
Such a queer little chap,
Just new-born in a nap!

524

And such antics are his
As he springs on his bed,
Such a comical phiz,
Such a red,
Shining head!
Hark again,
'Midst the rain
How the deep thunder crashes!
And the lightning
Is bright'ning
In fitful blue flashes!
‘Here's fun! here's a din!’
Cries Will with a grin—
‘I'll join in the play—
It's darker than pitch
In this hole of a ditch,
What a place to be born in—I'm off and away.’

Out on the heath
It rains with a will.
The Wind sets his teeth
And whistles right shrill
All is darkness and sound,
All is splishing and splashing;
The pools on the ground
Glimmer wet in the flashing—
Up and down, round and round,
With a leap and a bound.
Goes the little one dashing.
‘Oh what fun!’ out he screams
At the wild blue beams
As they flicker and pass.
Then he squats down and seems
With his nose's red gleams
Like a lamp in the grass;—
Then 'mid rain washing down, and the thunder still busy,
He flies spinning round, till he pauses, half dizzy.

How dark and how still,
In the arm of the hill,
Lies the hamlet asleep—
While the wind is so shrill,
And the darkness so deep!
Down the street all is dark,
And closed is each shutter;
But he pauses to mark,
His face like a spark
In the black polished gutter!
But see! what a streak
Gleams out from the inn!
Overhead with a creak,
And a groan and a squeak,
Shakes the sign; while the din
Comes harsh from within.
Hark!—the jingling of glasses,
The singers' refrain!
Will stops as he passes
And peeps through the pane,
Dripping, slippery with rain,
There they sit and they joke,
In the grey cloud of smoke,
While the jolly old host,
With his back to the fire,
Stands warm as a toast,
And doth smile and perspire.
Grave, thin, and pedantic,
The schoolmaster sits,
While, in argument frantic
With riotous wits,
The maker of boots
Still in apron of leather,
Thumps the board and disputes,
Contradicts and refutes;
And like sparrows collected, all birds of a feather,
All smoking long pipes, and all nodding together,
The Wiseacres gather, screen'd snug from the weather.

Great, broad, and brown,
Stands the jug on the board,
And the ale is poured,
And they quaff it down.
How it froths, fresh and strong,
Warm, sweet, full of spice!
Will's beginning to long
For a sip,—'tis so nice!
So he whispers the Wind,
Who runs round from the lane,
And they creep in behind,
And the Wind tries to find
An entrance in vain.
Then ‘The Chimney!’ cries Will,
While the Wind laughs out shrill,
And he leaps at one bound
To the roof up on high,
While the chimneys all round
Tremble and cry.

One moment he pauses
Up yonder, and draws his
Breath deep and strong,

525

Then dives like a snake,
While the dwelling doth quake,
To the room where they throng.
Ho, ho! with one blow
Out the lights go,
Dark and silent is all.
But the fire burns low
With its ghost on the wall.
‘What a night! Ah, here's weather!’
All murmur together
With voices sunk low,
While softly slips Will
In the jug, drinks his fill,
And is turning to go,
When a hand, while none mark,
Lifts the jug in the dark;
'Tis the cobbler so dry
Seeks to drink on the sly!
Tarala! pirouette!
Will springs at his nose,
The jug is upset,
And the liquor o'erflows.
‘What's that?’ all exclaim,
Leaping up with a shout,
While the cobbler in shame,
With nose all aflame,
Cries, ‘The Devil, no doubt!’
And as fresh lights are brought
These birds of a feather
Think it quite a new thought
To nod gravely together,
Crying hot and distraught,
‘Well, indeed! this is weather!’

Tarala! pirouette!
Out again in the wet!
Like a small dancing spark,
With his face flashing bright
In the black dripping dark,
Goes the elf of the night.
Hark! from the church-tower,
Slowly chimeth the hour!
Twelve times low and deep,
Comes the chime through the shower
On the village asleep;—
And where ivies enfold
The belfry, doth sit,
Huddled up from the cold,
The owl grey and old,
With ‘Toowhoo’ and ‘Tcowhit!’
‘Heigho!’—yawns poor Will—
‘Time for bed, by the powers!’
And he lights on a sill,
Among flower-pots and flowers,
And just as he seems
To slumber inclined,
A white hand forth-gleams
From within, and the blind
Is drawn back, and oh dear!
What a beautiful sight!
Clari's face doth appear
Looking out at the night.
And Clari doth stand,
With the lamp in her hand,
In her bedgown of white—
Her hair runs like gold on her shoulders, and fills
With gleams of gold-shadow her tucks and her frills,
And her face is as sweet as a star, and below
Her toes are like rosebuds that peep among snow.

Breathless with wonder,
Quiet and still,
He crouches under
The pots on the sill;
Then the blind closes slow,
And the vision doth fade,
But still to and fro
On the blind moves the shade—
There! out goes the light!
Will lifts up his head,
All is darker than night,
She is creeping to bed.
Oh, light be her rest!
She steals into her nest,
Without a beholder,
And the bed, soft and warm,
Swells up round her form
To receive and enfold her!

[The wind is increasing,
But the rain is ceasing,
And blown up from the west
Comes the moon wan and high,
With a cloud on her crest,
And a tear in her eye.
Distraught and opprest,
She drifts wearily by!]

‘Heigho!’ yawns poor Will—
Still crouch'd down on the sill—
‘How sleepy I feel!
There's a cranny up there
To let in the fresh air,—
Here goes! in I'll steal!’

526

So said and so done,
And he enters the room
Where the dainty-limb'd one, like a lily in bloom,
Her face a dim brightness, her breath a perfume,
Sleeps softly. With noiseless invisible tread
The wanderer steals to the side of the bed
Where she lies, oh how fair! so sweet and so warm,
While the white clothes sink round the soft mould of her form;
One hand props her cheek, and one unespied
Lies rising and falling upon her soft side.
Will floats to and fro, and the light that he throws
Just lights this or that as she lies in repose,
Leaving all the rest dark. See! he hops 'mong her hair
And shines like a jewel;—then leans down to stare
In her face,—and his ray as he trembles and spies
Just flashes against the white lids of her eyes;—
While her breath—oh her breath is so sweet and so fine,
Will drinks and turns dizzy—his joy is divine,
And his light flashing down shows the red lips apart,
To free the deep fragrance that steals from her heart

Just an inch high,
With a body all yellow,
A bright crimson eye,
And limbs all awry,
Stands the queer little fellow!
And Clari's sweet mouth
Just a little asunder,
Sweet with spice from the South,
Fills his spirit with wonder:
Such a warm little mouth!
Such a red little mouth!
The thin bud above and the plump blossom under!
‘Heigho, heart's alive!
Here's a door, here I'll rest!’
And he takes one quick dive
And slips into her breast!
And there may he thrive
Like a bird in a nest!
And Clari turns over
And flushes and sighs,
Pushes back the warm cover,
Half opens her eyes,
Then sinking again
Warm, languid, and bright,
With new bliss in her brain,
Dreams—such dreams—of delight!
She tosses and turns
In visions divine;
For within her Will burns
Like a lamp in a shrine!

. . . And now you've the reason that Clari is gay,
As a bird on the bough or a brooklet at play;
And now you've the reason why Clari is bright,
Why she smiles all the day and is glad all the night;
For the light having entered her bosom remains,
Darts fire to her glances and warmth thro her veins,
Makes her tricksy and merry, yet full of the power
Of the wind and the rain, and the storm and the shower;
Half wise in the ways of the world, and half simple,
As sly as a kiss is, as deep as a dimple,
A spirit that sings like a bird on a tree,—
‘I love my love, and my love loves me!’

GIANT DESPAIR.

I. His Death.

Sad is the plight of Giant Despair,
In Doubting Castle sick lies he!
The castle is built on a headland bare,
And looks on the wash of a whirling Sea.

With the noise in his ears and the gleam in his eyes
Of the breaking waves that beneath him beat,
Proption pillows the Giant lies,
Pillowed, too, are his gouty feet.

In and out the Leeches of Souls
Run and chatter and prate and pray—

527

But the great wind wails and the thunder rolls:
None may banish his gloom away.

With parchment cheek and lack-lustre eye
He looketh out on the stormy scene—
Cruel is he and bloody and sly,
Lustful and bad his life hath been.

O Priests who stand and whisper there,
While he groans and curses and shrinks for fear,
What can ye say to Giant Despair
To comfort him now his end is near?

Fat and oily and sweet, cries one:—
Comfort, O comfort! for heaven is sure—
There the believer shall revel in fun,
And all delight that is plump and pure.

‘Nothing delicious the Lord denies,
Rosy wine he shall drink in bliss’—
‘Add, moreover,’ another cries,
‘Waists to encircle and lips to kiss.’

With parchment cheek and lack-lustre eye
The Giant lies and makes no sign:
Women's falsehood has made him sigh,
He is sick of the very sight of wine.

‘Comfort!’ another crieth loud,
‘Full of music shall be thy breast,
Thou shalt sit full proud on a rosy cloud,
Happy and idle, amongst the blest—

‘All shall be stainless and sweet and fair;
All shall be merry from night to morn.’
Giant Despair stirred in his chair,
Scowled at the speaker and grunted scorn.

Then one said this and one said that,
And all were full of the world to be:
Yet duller and bitter the Giant sat
Scowling out at the sullen Sea.

And all the storm of the wind and rain,
And all the rage of the wrathful wave,
Flowed in and out of the Giant's brain
As the surge in and out of a dank seacave.

Forth, at last, stept a shape so grey,
Crown'd with poppy, and shrouded deep;
He touch'd the Giant with hand of clay.
And held a goblet—‘Drink this, and sleep.

Over thy grave the grass shall grow—
Roses too, the white and the red—
The generations shall come and go,
But thou shalt slumber,’ the spirit said

‘Many a year shall blossom and fade,
Many a life be given and taken,
Ere from thy sleep in the silent shade
Thou, with a thrill of new life, shalt waken.

The Giant smiled. Still loud and strong
Sounded the sob of the weary Sea.
‘My ears are sick!—may my sleep be long!
For ever and ever, if that may be.’

II. After

Who on the Giant's tomb
Sits in the twilight gloom,
With white hands folded?
Her breath comes fresh and warm;
Silent she waits, a form
Divinely moulded.

Maiden she is; with eyes
That search the dark still skies
She sits in shadow;
Strewn scented at her feet
Are rue and lilies sweet,
And flowers o' the meadow.

And in her wild black hair
Are wild weeds passing fair,
Pluck'd from dark places—
Dumb, dead, her sweet lips are,
And fixëd as a star
Her marble face is.

Under God's starless cope,
Vestured in white sits Hope,
A musing maiden,
Under a yew sits she,
Watching most silently
The gates of Eden.

Afar away they shine!
While up those depths divine
Her eyes are turning—
And one by one on high
The strange lamps of the sky
Are dimly burning.

Such sounds as fill'd with care
The dark heart of Despair
Disturb her never,—

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Tho' close to her white feet
That mighty Sea doth beat,
Moaning for ever.

She sees the foam-flash gleam,
She hears, in a half dream,
The muffled thunder.
The salt dew fills her hair;
Her thoughts are otherwhere,
Watching in wonder.

There let her sit alone,
Ev'n as a shape of stone
In twilight gleaming;
Despair's pale monument,
There let her sit, content,
Waiting and dreaming.

Ah! which were sweetest, best?
With dead Despair to rest
In sleep unbroken;
Or with that marble Maid
To watch, to sit in the shade,
Waiting a token?

THE MOUNTAIN WELL.

Here, on the sultry mountain's face,
Although the heat broods bright around,
The runlet, in a mossy place,
Drips, drop by drop, without a sound,
Into a basin cool yet bright,
Half-shaded from the golden light.

All is as still as sleep; on high
The clouds float soft and white as wool;
Fern-fringëd crags and boulders lie
Sun-parch'd around the dewy pool;
Beneath, the mountain pathway twines,
Above, peaks rise and sunlight shines.

How still it is! nought moves or stirs.
Afar below, the lake of blue,
With purple islands dark with firs,
Gleams smooth as glass and dim as dew:
And mountain, isle, and woodland rest
Within the mirror of its breast.

All motionless on yonder stone
The white grouse crouches in the light;
On high among the crags, alone,
The eagle sheathes his piercing sight,
Clutching the peak amid the heat,
His shadow black'ning at his feet.

No living thing that flies or creeps
Comes near the well this noontide hour;
The sunlight scorches crags and steeps,
The heather shrinks its purple flower;
The wild brook glisters in its bed,
Silent and faded to a thread.

But when the sun is in the west,
And sheds soft crimson o'er the place,
The grey-hen creeping from her nest,
Leaving her dull brown eggs a space,
Comes hither, pausing on the brink
With quick sharp eyes, and stoops to drink.

Or from the stones the foumart slim
Doth hither steal at eve to cool
His bloody mouth; or on the brim
The blue hare, shadow'd in the pool,
Sits up erect, and thro' the rocks
Springs, at the coming of the fox.

How many a strange and gentle thing
Hath seen its face reflected here!
How oft at gloaming hath the spring
Mirror'd the moist eyes of the deer,
While glen and corry, peak and height,
Were redd'ning in the rosy light!

Here stain'd with blood and foamy-lipt,
The stag of ten hath paused for breath,
His blood in the sad pool hath dript
Dark, drop by drop, before his death,
While he has watched, with looks of woe,
The hunter toiling from below.

How sweet it lies! how dark and cool!
Half shaded by the crag on high,
A tiny place, a shallow pool,
Yet with its own dark depth of sky—
Renewed for ever with no will
By the soft trickling of the hill.

All thro' the dim and dewy night
It gathers coolness drop by drop,
While in the moon the crags gleam white,
And on the silent mountain top
The evening star of liquid dew
Gleams like a diamond in the blue.

A never-empty hand, a dim
Dark eye for dews of love to fill,
A constant cup full to the brim,
Hast thou, O fount upon the hill.
I stoop and kiss thy lips; and so,
Refresh'd, I bless thee as I go.

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THE SONG OF THE SHEALING.

O who sits and sings the sad song of the Shealing,
Alone on the hill-side, alone in the night!
Dead still through the shadows the moonlight is stealing,
The dew's on the heather, the mist on the height.
She sitteth in silence, and singeth so slowly;
She milks the dark kine with her fingers so fair.
White woe of the lost, may her vigil be holy!
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.

Dark strewn on the grass are the stones of the Shealing,
The wild leek and nettle grow black over all;
Here morning to gloaming the black hawk is wheeling,
And foumart and stoat suckle young in the wall.
It's lonely by daylight, but nightly, ah! nightly,
She comes from her cave, with her kine, and sits there.
Oh, hearken! she sings, and her face gleams so whitely:
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.

O who would not hark to the song of the Shealing!
I stand in the shadow, I listen and sigh;
The day comes again, happy voices are pealing,
The blue smoke curls up to the sweet summer sky;
O red in the sunset the kine gather yonder,
The maidens are milking with rosy feet bare;
The sheep-dog is barking,—I hear it and ponder,—
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.

O green was the pasture, and sweet was the Shealing,
And kind were the maidens barefooted and free,
And full of enchantment was Love's tender feeling
When the moon rose so silently up from the sea.
And on the green knolls walked the loved and the lover,
Wrapt warm in one plaid, with one thought and one care:
I see them! I hear them! my heart's running over,—
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.

O spirit of whiteness, O Ghost of the Shealing!
Sing on, and sing low in the shade of the hill;
The picture has faded your voice was revealing,
The white owl looks out through the threshold so chill.
There's a star on Ben Rannoch shines softly above you,
It sparkles all night on the dew in your hair:
White Soul of the Silence, we hear you and love you,—
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.

The rude cluster of huts in the midst of the distant pasturage whither the cattle were driven in summer, and where they grazed for many weeks, attended by the women and maidens of the farm.

THE SECRET OF THE MERE.

I built a hut beside the Mere,
A lowly hut of turf and stone;
Therein I thought from year to year
To dwell in silence and alone,
Watching the lights of heaven chase
The phantoms on the water's face.

The world of men was far away;
There was no sound, no speech, no cry;
All desolate the dark Mere lay
Under the mountains and the sky—
A sullen Mere, where sadly brood
Dark shadows of the solitude.

‘It is an evil world,’ I said;
‘There is no hope, my doom is dark.’
And in despair of soul I fled
Where not another eye might mark
My silent pain, my heart's distress,
And all my spirit's weariness.

530

And when I came unto the Mere,
It lay and gleam'd through days of gloom.
The livid mountains gather'd drear
All round, like stones upon a tomb;
Around its margin rusted red
The dark earth crumbled 'neath my tread.

I said, ‘It is a godless place—
Dark, desolate, and curst, like me.
Here, through all seasons, shall my face
Behold its image silently.’
And from that hour I linger'd there
In protestation and despair.

For mark, the hills were stone and sand,
Not strewn with scented red or green—
All empty as a dead man's hand,
And empty lay the Mere between.
No flocks fed there, no shepherd's cry
Awoke the echoes of the sky.

And through a sullen mist I came,
And beast-like crept unto my lair;
And many days I crouched in shame
Out of the sunshine and sweet air.
I heard the passing wind and rain,
Like weary waves within the brain.

But when I rose and glimmer'd forth,
Ghost-wise across my threshold cold,
The clouds had lifted west and north,
And all the peaks were touch'd with gold.
I smiled in scorn; far down beneath
The waters lay as dark as death.

I said, ‘Go by, O golden light!
Thou canst not scatter darkness here.
In two sad bosoms there is night,
In mine and in the lonely Mere;
Light thou thy lamps, and go thy way.’
It went, and all the heavens grew grey.

And when the lamps of heaven were lit,
I did not raise mine eyes to see,
But watch'd the ghostly glimmers flit
On the black waters silently.
I hid my face from heaven, and kept
Dark vigil when the bright sun slept.

And ever when the daylight grew
I saw with joy the hills were high;
From dawn to dark, the live day through,
Not lighting as the sun went by;
Only at noon one finger-ray
Touch'd us, and then was drawn away.

I cried, ‘God cannot find me now;
Done now am I with praise or pain.’
Beside the Mere, with darken'd brow,
I walk'd as desolate as Cain.
I cried, ‘Not even God could rear
One seed of love or blessing here!’

'Twas Spring that day; the air was chill;
Above the heights white clouds were roll'd,
The Mere below was blue as steel,
And all the air was chill and cold,
When suddenly from air and sky
I heard a solitary cry.

Ah me! it was the same sweet sound
That I had heard afar away;
Sad echoes waken'd all around
Out of the rocks and caverns grey,
And looking upward, weary-eyed,
I saw the gentle bird that cried.

Upon a rock sat that sweet bird,
As he had sat on pale or tree,
And while the hills and waters heard,
He named his name to them and me.
I thought, ‘God sends the Spring again,
But here at least it comes in vain!’

From rock to rock I saw him fly,
Silent in flight, but loud at rest;
And ever at his summer cry
The mountains gladden'd and seem'd bless'd,
And in the hollows of them all
Faint flames of grass began to crawl!

Some secret hand I could not see
Was busy where I dwelt alone;
It touched with tender tracery,
Faint as a breath, the cliffs of stone;
Out of the earth it drew soft moss,
And lichens shapen like the Cross.

And lo! at every step I took
Some faint life lived, some sweetness stirred,
While loosen'd torrents leapt and shook
Their shining hair to hear the bird,
And white clouds ran across the blue,
And sweet sights rose, and sweet sounds grew.

I hated every sight and sound;
I hated most that happy cry.
I saw the mountains glory-crown'd,
And the bright heavens drifting by;

531

I felt the earth beneath my tread,
Now kindling quick, that late was dead!

Daily I stole unto the Mere,
And black as ever was its sleep.
Close to its margin all was drear;
I heard the weary waters creep.
I laugh'd aloud, ‘Though all grow light,
We twain keep dark, in God's despite!

‘We will not smile nor utter praise;
He made us dark, and dark we brood.
Sun-hating, desolate of days,
We dwell apart in solitude.
Let Him light lamps for all the land;
We darken and elude His hand.’

Scarce had I spoken in such wise,
When as before I heard the bird,
And lo! the Mere beneath mine eyes
Was deeply, mystically stirred:
A sunbeam broke its gloom apart,
And Heaven trembled in its heart;

There, clustering in that under-gloom,
Like rising stars that open dim,
Innumerable, leaf and bloom,
I saw the water-lilies swim,
Still 'neath the surface dark to sight,
But creeping upward to the light.

As countless as the lights above,
Stirring and glimmering below,
They gather'd; and I watched them move,
Till on the surface, white as snow,
One came, grew glad, and open'd up,
A pinch of gold in its white cup!

Then suddenly within my breast
Some life of rapture open'd too,
And I forgot my bitter quest,
Watching that glory as it grew;
For, leaf by leaf and flower by flower,
The lilies opened from that hour.

And soon the gloomy Mere was sown
With oilèd leaves and stars of white;
The trumpet of the wind was blown
Far overhead, from height to height,
And lo! the Mere, from day to day,
Grew starry as the Milky Way.

I could not bear to dwell apart
With so divine and bright a thing;
I felt the dark depths of my heart
Were stirring, trembling, wakening,
I watched the Mere, and saw it shine,
E'en as the eye of God on mine.

As one that riseth in his tomb,
I rose and wept in soul's distress;
I had not fear'd His wrath and gloom;
But now I fear'd His loveliness.
I craved for peace from God, and then
Crept back and made my peace with men!

MNEMOSYNE; OR, THE RETROSPECT.

Still were the azure fields, thick strewn
With stars, and trod by luminous feet;
In the low west the wan white Moon
Walked in her winding-sheet—
Holding her taper up, to see
Thy cold fair face, Mnemosyne.

And on that face her lustre fell,
Deepening the marble pallor there,
While by the stream, and down the dell,
Thy slow still feet did fare;
Thy maiden thoughts were far from me,
Thy lips were dumb, Mnemosyne.

I knew thee by a simpler name,
Meet for a maid of English birth,
And though thy beauty put to shame
All beauty born of earth,
Not till that night could my soul see
Thy soul's dark depths, Mnemosyne!

At last thy voice thrilled soft and low—
‘Oh, blessed be the silent night!
It brings strange life of long ago
Back to the soul's sad sight—
It trances sense, and thought is free
To tremble through eternity.

‘Oh, thinkest thou this life we live,
In this strange haunted planet nurst,
So mystical, so fugitive,
Could be the last? or first?
Nay, I remember!’—Pale stood she,
Fronting the west, Mnemosyne.

The moonlight on her cheek of snow,
The star-dew on her raven hair,
Her eyes in one divine dark glow
On heaven, she waited there—
‘Nay, I remember!’ murmured she,
The earthly maid, Mnemosyne.

532

And as she spake, it seemed I saw
Before me, in the mystic light,
That old Greek woman's-shape of awe,
Large, lustrous-eyed, and white—
The twilight goddess, fair to see,
With heavenly eyes—Mnemosyne!

The haunter of green moonlit tombs,
The reader of old midnight lore,
The glorious walker through God's glooms,
Back-looking evermore.
I shook, and almost bent the knee,
Naming the name, ‘Mnemosyne!’ . . .

‘I can remember!—all the day
Memory is dark, the past is dead,
But when the sunshine fades away,
And in the void o'erhead
Heaven's eyes flash open, I can see
That lost life!’ said Mnemosyne.

‘Before this mortal sphere I trod,
I breathed some strange and heavenly air;
Ay, wandered 'mid the glooms of God,
A living soul, up there!
The old lost life comes back to me
With starry gleams of memory!

‘I can remember!’—In a trance,
O love, thou didst upgazing stand,
Nor turned from heaven thy lustrous glance,
While soft I kissed thy hand,
Whispering that mystic name to thee,
‘Mnemosyne: Mnemosyne!’

And all the luminous eyes above
Concentred one still gaze on thine,
When warm wild words of earthly love
Poured in thine ears divine,
Till, with thy soft lips kissing me,
Thy soul saw mine, Mnemosyne!

A sense of that forgotten life
Blew on our cheeks like living breath;
Lifted beyond the world's dark strife,
Above the gates of Death,
Hand linked in hand, again lived we
That starlight life of ecstasy!

Go by, bright days of golden blooms!
She shrinks and darkens in your gleam;
Come, starry nights and mystic glooms,
And deepen that sweet dream!
Let her remember; let her be
Priestess of peace—Mnemosyne!

O child of heaven, the life we live,
In this strange haunted planet nurst,
So mystical, so fugitive,
Is not the last, or first;
That lost life was, new life shall be—
So keep thy name,—‘Mnemosyne!’

VANITY FAIR.

I.

Here's a babble
In Vanity Fair!
Here's a rabble
Of folk on the stare!
Here's a crying,
Selling and buying,
Groaning and grumbling,
Pushing and stumbling!
Tootle-te-toot!
Rum-ti-tum-tum!
They blow the flute,
And they beat the drum.
And yonder in rows
Are the painted shows,
Where zany and clown
With ‘Walk in, walk in!’
Stalk up and down,
While the people grin.
Hold me tighter, my pretty one,
We'll elbow our way and see the fun.
In we go, where they scramble and scream—
What a rabble! it's like a dream!

Trip it merrily,
Pretty one,
On we stray cheerily
Full of the fun:
Punch and Judy;
Fiddlestring;
Acrobats moody
Making a ring;
Clowns cutting capers
At every show;
Bucolic gapers
Grinning below;
Quiet conjurers quick and sly
Making the public halfpence fly;
Quacks with boluses, nostrums, and pills,
Vending cures for the flesh and its ills;
Every one bawling—(O the din!)
Every voice calling—‘Walk in, walk in.’

533

‘Stop the thief!’—how they carry the shout!
How the crowd eddies in and out!
Lean and thin with quivering lip
The rascal writhes in his captor's grip:
He looks all round with a hungry stare;
The mob groans round him and longs to tear—
Off to the gaol the scarecrow bear!
We're virtuous people in Vanity Fair!

All together,
Christian and Jew,
Birds of fine feather,
And ragged too,
Dukes and earls,
And ballet girls,
Philosophers,
And patterers;
The poor from the city,
The wild sea-rover,
The beggar witty
Half-seas over,
The gipsy pretty
Red from a romp in the clover.
Right foot, left foot, we trip it and toe it,
You the pretty girl, I your poet,
Rubbing sleeves with great and small,
Jostling along through the heart of them all.
Our hearts are leaping, our heads are dizzy,
The trade's so merry, the mirth so busy,
We sqùeeze along and we gasp for air,
In the hurry and flurry of Vanity Fair.

II.

Clari, my sweetest,
Trimmest and neatest,
Why this alarm?
Why are you sighing,
Fluttering and crying,
And gripping my arm?
‘Come away! come away!
'Tis so sad! 'Tis so loud!
My soul swoons away,
To look at the crowd!
O hark how they cry—
I am sick, let us fly!’
O Clari, sweet blending of fire and of air,
Come along, come along, out of Vanity Fair.
Out yonder are fields and the sky and the trees—
And the only sounds there are the birds and the breeze,
And the water that throbs in its green woodland nest,
Like the heart that is beating so loud in your breast.

. . . Breathless, flushing,
Faint with the crushing,
Here we are—
Night is coming,
Droning and humming
Sounds Vanity Fair afar;
And its light, as the night
Cometh down, is cast bright
On the sky far away . . .
How strange feels this stillness!
Grey and more grey
Comes the night with its chillness.
Clari, where are we? Outside the Fair,
With the great black earth and the sky and the air,
All alone—Hold me tighter! The noise of the rout
Was dreadful within, but more dreadful without
Seems the silence. O God! see the pale moon arise,
And the hills black as ink in the shade, and the eyes
Of the stars fix'd on ours from the terrible skies.

What is this looming
Against the light,
Silent and glooming
In the chilly night?
And what are these clinging,
Three in a row,
Dismally, swinging
When the wind doth blow?
Three black figures against the light,
Their faces white and their legs strapt tight,
Having a swing in the wind this night!
O hold me faster, who is she
That stands at the foot of the cross-shaped tree?
Cowl'd, barefooted, with hooded face,
What doth she in the ghostly place?
Silent she stands, a sad beholder!
Stop, let me touch her on the shoulder.

534

The moon shines cold
On the silent place—
O God, I behold
The dear dead face!
She turns unto me
Calm and white,
Her eyes thrill through me
With piteous light.
How cold yet how sweet
In the night-wind she stands!
See, the poor wounded feet!
See, the poor pleading hands!
Is it she? Kneel and pray! O my child, have no care,
She is near—Hath she fled? Did we dream? Was she there?
Ah, cold is the night, and the earth lieth bare,
And, distant and deep, a dull sound fills the air—
The wash of the waters of Vanity Fair.