Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander Edited, with a preface, by William Alexander |
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POEMS, NARRATIVE AND IMAGINATIVE. |
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 | Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander |  |
130
III
POEMS, NARRATIVE AND IMAGINATIVE.
THE YELLOW DAMASK 
CHAIR 
.
Oh ye of generous soul, and gentle blood,
Who love the annals of the great and good;
Who love to trace their memory on earth,
Who trod their destined course in silent worth;
Who, in this age of direful innovation,
Hold fast the principles of conservation;
Who reverence ancient customs, and revere
The usages your ancestors held dear:
To such, I fondly hope, not all in vain,
I dedicate my brief memorial strain.
131
The memoirs of a yellow damask
chair .
But to you levelling miscreants, who hold
That nought is good and worthy that is old;
Who, in the spirit of this modern time,
Reform even virtue, till ye make it crime.
Who 'stead of flowered satin, would relax
On vile cane
chairs , with small indented backs;
You who would scorn my antique form, and hear
My retrospections with unhallowed sneer;
Read not one line, away, away, and spare
The harrowed feelings of a high-backed
chair .
Alas! 'tis many a year ago,
And days of joy, and hours of woe
Have flitted by, since I was new;
Since I was fresh in form, and hue,
Unsullied with a stain;
Then Bourbon filled his lineal throne,
And that loved Monarch was our own,
Whose like we ne'er shall see again.
Like shadows on the mystic glass,
Dawns on my mind each bygone scene,
Successively they rise, and pass
Away, as tho' they ne'er had been;
Since I was placed, all reverently,
Within a chamber long, and high,
And gladly felt approving eyes,
And heard the voice of pleased surprise.
Methinks even now I hear him talk,
That dear old Earl with gartered knee,
How stately he was wont to walk,
How gently to sit down on me;
With velvet coat of violet hue,
And ponderous buckles in his shoe.
Ah! Nobles looked like Nobles then,
That now look just like other men.
He passed away, and all was changed,
Thro' his wide hall another ranged,
And time sped on: but memory stays
With rapture on my happiest days;
How gladly glided hours along
To that unconscious, jovial throng:
How courteous was our noble Lord,
How blithe in drawing-room, gay at board:
With what complacence would he eye
The mouldings of my drapery,
When Noble Lady, richly drest,
My satin couch all lightly prest!
Another change—they went, all, all,
That wont to seek that festive hall,
I wist not where, but they were gone;
And I was left, for years alone.
For years I watched my splendours fade,
I marked the sunbeams, as they played
Day after day, I've seen them fall
On that old picture on the wall,
With powdered hair, and broidered fan
The picture of my Lady Anne:
Alone, save some old woman came,
Who took my cover off and then
Would wipe the white dust from my frame,
And reverently put it on again.
At length they oped my living tomb,
And once again the daylight shone,
And lighted up the quiet room,
Where I had stood so long alone.
And I heard whispers thro' the dome,
And deep surmise, and echoed fears,
Which told me they were coming home
Who had not seen that hall for years.
They came. Where were ye visions sweet
Of forms that I was wont to see?
And fondly hoped again to greet,
Deceitful, vain, expectancy!
Where were the hoops, and ruffles rare,
The buckled shoes, and powdered hair,
The unbending dignity of air,
Where were the shapes I pictured, where?
Yet in the faultless form, and face,
Of her, the Lady of our hall,
That needed not one added grace
I looked, and had forgotten all.
And I had just begun to trace
Within my young Lord's glancing eye,
And in his stature, and his mien,
A memory of days gone by;
A glance of what his sires had been:
When, 'stead of smiling eyes, like those
That wont well pleased to light on me,
The laugh of loud derision rose
In merry peals of mocking glee.
Methinks, I could, that hour, have borne
If he had laid me on the fire;
But thus to load, with cruel scorn,
The firm supporter of his sire:
To laugh at me, who aye upheld
The Lords of his most noble name,
Better that he at once had felled,
Or laid, me on the crackling flame.
But 'tis not all,—for by my side,
Where soft his sires have prest the ground,
He oft has past with hasty stride,
And sometimes cleared me at a bound.
Nay once (could yellow damask blush,
I sure should deeply blush to say
The shame of that disgraceful day,)
He past me with a sudden rush,
And, desecration! dared to touch
With varnished shoe, my satin couch.
But 'tis enough :—I will not say
Each change from splendour to decay.
I will not pause on each light word
Of careless scorn, that I have heard.
I will not tell how I've been slighted,
Nor dwell on that degenerate race
Of rosewood slight, with cane united,
Who hold, but do not fill, my place:
Things better fit to grace the state
And bear the form, of Fairy Queen,
Than solid men of worth, and weight,
Men, such as I have seen.
Men, that I ween as soon had sate
On that thin web the spider flings,
As trust their forms revered and great,
To such fantastic fragile things.
I will not say how even then
A gleam of former pride arose,
When Lord or Lady deigned again
On my old cushion to repose.
How I have blessed auspicious fate,
When she the gentle, and the fair,
Has graced the tarnished yellow chair .
Or when, perchance at evening late,
A graceful form was on me thrown,
Ah, how unlike the rigid gait,
With back unbending as my own,
Of him!—But wherefore turn again
To cherished scenes beloved in vain?
It may not be, I've caught the last,
Last look of that long gallery,
And every form I loved to see,
Like setting star away has past;
But not to rise again to me.
Yet 'tis some solace in distress,
Some soothing to my loneliness,
The seat where nobles loved to rest
By ruder form shall ne'er be prest.
For I have borne the bold, the bright
And high-born Maid, and belted Knight,
And statesman worn with toilsome thought,
The comforts of my couch have sought:
And days of joy, and hours of woe
Have flitted by, since I was new;
Since I was fresh in form, and hue,
Unsullied with a stain;
Then Bourbon filled his lineal throne,
And that loved Monarch was our own,
Whose like we ne'er shall see again.
Like shadows on the mystic glass,
Dawns on my mind each bygone scene,
Successively they rise, and pass
Away, as tho' they ne'er had been;
Since I was placed, all reverently,
Within a chamber long, and high,
And gladly felt approving eyes,
And heard the voice of pleased surprise.
132
That dear old Earl with gartered knee,
How stately he was wont to walk,
How gently to sit down on me;
With velvet coat of violet hue,
And ponderous buckles in his shoe.
Ah! Nobles looked like Nobles then,
That now look just like other men.
He passed away, and all was changed,
Thro' his wide hall another ranged,
And time sped on: but memory stays
With rapture on my happiest days;
How gladly glided hours along
To that unconscious, jovial throng:
How courteous was our noble Lord,
How blithe in drawing-room, gay at board:
With what complacence would he eye
The mouldings of my drapery,
When Noble Lady, richly drest,
My satin couch all lightly prest!
Another change—they went, all, all,
That wont to seek that festive hall,
I wist not where, but they were gone;
And I was left, for years alone.
For years I watched my splendours fade,
I marked the sunbeams, as they played
Day after day, I've seen them fall
On that old picture on the wall,
With powdered hair, and broidered fan
The picture of my Lady Anne:
133
Who took my cover off and then
Would wipe the white dust from my frame,
And reverently put it on again.
At length they oped my living tomb,
And once again the daylight shone,
And lighted up the quiet room,
Where I had stood so long alone.
And I heard whispers thro' the dome,
And deep surmise, and echoed fears,
Which told me they were coming home
Who had not seen that hall for years.
They came. Where were ye visions sweet
Of forms that I was wont to see?
And fondly hoped again to greet,
Deceitful, vain, expectancy!
Where were the hoops, and ruffles rare,
The buckled shoes, and powdered hair,
The unbending dignity of air,
Where were the shapes I pictured, where?
Yet in the faultless form, and face,
Of her, the Lady of our hall,
That needed not one added grace
I looked, and had forgotten all.
And I had just begun to trace
Within my young Lord's glancing eye,
And in his stature, and his mien,
A memory of days gone by;
A glance of what his sires had been:
When, 'stead of smiling eyes, like those
134
The laugh of loud derision rose
In merry peals of mocking glee.
Methinks, I could, that hour, have borne
If he had laid me on the fire;
But thus to load, with cruel scorn,
The firm supporter of his sire:
To laugh at me, who aye upheld
The Lords of his most noble name,
Better that he at once had felled,
Or laid, me on the crackling flame.
But 'tis not all,—for by my side,
Where soft his sires have prest the ground,
He oft has past with hasty stride,
And sometimes cleared me at a bound.
Nay once (could yellow damask blush,
I sure should deeply blush to say
The shame of that disgraceful day,)
He past me with a sudden rush,
And, desecration! dared to touch
With varnished shoe, my satin couch.
But 'tis enough :—I will not say
Each change from splendour to decay.
I will not pause on each light word
Of careless scorn, that I have heard.
I will not tell how I've been slighted,
Nor dwell on that degenerate race
Of rosewood slight, with cane united,
Who hold, but do not fill, my place:
Things better fit to grace the state
135
Than solid men of worth, and weight,
Men, such as I have seen.
Men, that I ween as soon had sate
On that thin web the spider flings,
As trust their forms revered and great,
To such fantastic fragile things.
I will not say how even then
A gleam of former pride arose,
When Lord or Lady deigned again
On my old cushion to repose.
How I have blessed auspicious fate,
When she the gentle, and the fair,
Has graced the tarnished yellow
chair .
Or when, perchance at evening late,
A graceful form was on me thrown,
Ah, how unlike the rigid gait,
With back unbending as my own,
Of him!—But wherefore turn again
To cherished scenes beloved in vain?
It may not be, I've caught the last,
Last look of that long gallery,
And every form I loved to see,
Like setting star away has past;
But not to rise again to me.
Yet 'tis some solace in distress,
Some soothing to my loneliness,
The seat where nobles loved to rest
By ruder form shall ne'er be prest.
For I have borne the bold, the bright
136
And statesman worn with toilsome thought,
The comforts of my couch have sought:
And no Plebeian shall recline
Within these honoured arms of mine.
Past are my splendours, vanished all,
Borne down on time's resistless surge,
While I am left to weep their fall,
And sing my former glory's dirge.
Still blithe, from yonder hall I hear
The voice of mirth, and joy, and song,
And there the noble, and the dear,
Still blest and blessing glide along.
While I disabled, and forgot,
Fast moulder in this desert spot.
No eye to weep, no heart to share
The sorrows of a faded damask chair .
Within these honoured arms of mine.
Past are my splendours, vanished all,
Borne down on time's resistless surge,
While I am left to weep their fall,
And sing my former glory's dirge.
Still blithe, from yonder hall I hear
The voice of mirth, and joy, and song,
And there the noble, and the dear,
Still blest and blessing glide along.
While I disabled, and forgot,
Fast moulder in this desert spot.
No eye to weep, no heart to share
The sorrows of a faded damask
chair .The complaint of the yellow chair was heard to proceed
from a lumber room in a remote part of a nobleman's mansion
in the North of Ireland, where its venerable author was condemned,
amidst dust and rubbish, to languish out an old age of
uselessness and neglect.
THE EVE OF BATTLE.
Twas midnight, on St. Andrew's eve,
The stars were shining chilly down
On Narva's old beleaguered town,
Where, glittering in their wintry ray,
The mighty Russian's army lay.
Long, long, at tale of that fell fray
The haughty Muscovite shall grieve;
Long, long, the Russian maid shall tear
The ringlets of her flaxen hair;
And Russian matron weep their fall,
Who sleep by Narva's gory wall.
To-night upon that frozen plain
Their thousand banners gaily fly,
And sword and buckler give again
The lustre of that starry sky;
To-morrow, and their blood shall dew
The white snow with a crimson hue,
While the boy Swede triumphant waves
His flag o'er thrice ten thousand graves.
The stars were shining chilly down
On Narva's old beleaguered town,
Where, glittering in their wintry ray,
The mighty Russian's army lay.
Long, long, at tale of that fell fray
The haughty Muscovite shall grieve;
Long, long, the Russian maid shall tear
137
And Russian matron weep their fall,
Who sleep by Narva's gory wall.
To-night upon that frozen plain
Their thousand banners gaily fly,
And sword and buckler give again
The lustre of that starry sky;
To-morrow, and their blood shall dew
The white snow with a crimson hue,
While the boy Swede triumphant waves
His flag o'er thrice ten thousand graves.
The Czar's pavilion stands alone,
Some twenty paces from the camp;
No light within of torch or lamp,
Only the flickering embers lent
A twilight radiance to the tent;
On helm, and spear, and buckler shone,
And there, an ancient Cossack sate,
And there, a Councillor of State;
And there, the wondrous Chief, who planned
To civilise a barbarous land;
The high of soul, yet wild of heart,
Who bade the generous light of art
Throughout his mighty realm be known,
And tamed all natures but his own.
In musing mood he silent sits,
And quaffs the half-drained cup by fits,
Or marks the firewood wane and die.
Sudden, before the Monarch's eye,
The lofty tent grew dark and dim,
And, 'twixt the entrance way and him,
There rose a savage form and grim,
With swarthy brow, and scattered hair:
His body wrapt in Swedish vest,
And a Turkish sabre at his breast;
With foot unshod, and ankle bare;
And the glance of his eye was stony and chill,
As the beams that play on a frozen rill.
The red blood left the Monarch's cheek,
And thrice he rose, and strove to speak,
And thrice did the falt'ring accents die
Beneath the spectre's glassy eye.
If all the snow on Russia's plains
Melted in one ice draught had been,
And poured that instant through his veins,
He had not felt so cold, I ween,
As when that form, or man, or sprite,
Lifted a finger, long and white,
And silent beckoned him away;
He would have given his throne to stay,
But such a spell was in that glance,
He dared not pause but must advance.
Some twenty paces from the camp;
No light within of torch or lamp,
Only the flickering embers lent
A twilight radiance to the tent;
On helm, and spear, and buckler shone,
And there, an ancient Cossack sate,
And there, a Councillor of State;
And there, the wondrous Chief, who planned
To civilise a barbarous land;
The high of soul, yet wild of heart,
Who bade the generous light of art
Throughout his mighty realm be known,
And tamed all natures but his own.
In musing mood he silent sits,
And quaffs the half-drained cup by fits,
Or marks the firewood wane and die.
138
The lofty tent grew dark and dim,
And, 'twixt the entrance way and him,
There rose a savage form and grim,
With swarthy brow, and scattered hair:
His body wrapt in Swedish vest,
And a Turkish sabre at his breast;
With foot unshod, and ankle bare;
And the glance of his eye was stony and chill,
As the beams that play on a frozen rill.
The red blood left the Monarch's cheek,
And thrice he rose, and strove to speak,
And thrice did the falt'ring accents die
Beneath the spectre's glassy eye.
If all the snow on Russia's plains
Melted in one ice draught had been,
And poured that instant through his veins,
He had not felt so cold, I ween,
As when that form, or man, or sprite,
Lifted a finger, long and white,
And silent beckoned him away;
He would have given his throne to stay,
But such a spell was in that glance,
He dared not pause but must advance.
Forth from the Imperial tent they hied,
The Monarch, and his ghostly guide,
Behind the Czar, before the ghost,
There's not a sentry at his post,
There's not a sign, or sound of war,
Only the banners drowsily wave;
Inly muttered the furious Czar,
And he ground his teeth for very spite,
“Beshrew the heart of each sleeping knave,
I'll chop off their heads with the morning light.”
Still on, and on, the spectre speeds,
The Monarch following where he leads,
Thro' the silent camp they go,
And he leaves no footprint on the snow,
But onward he goes and no word lets fall,
Straight to the city's hostile wall.
He made no sign, and he breathed no name,
But the drawbridge fell as he onward came,
And in the unwilling Monarch went.
He's far from all that fear or love him,
Within a hostile battlement,
And Sweden's banner waves above him.
Still rapidly on doth the spectre glide,
There's not a soul in the silent streets,
Save the guards that stand on either side,
As still as ghosts in their winding sheets:
Thus on they sped for one weary hour,
Till they paused by an ancient chapel tower,
And there there rose on the Monarch's ear,
Mingled voices of mirth and fear,
For there came a voice from each hollow grave,
Like the far-off roar of the Baltic wave,
And each grey pillar, and antique rafter,
Rang with wild shouts of savage laughter.
The trembling Emperor felt for his sword,
But he had forgotten to buckle it on,
And he strove to speak his 'larum word,
But his tongue was as stiff as a ridge of stone,
The hairs were bristling on his head,
When the pavement yawned beneath his tread.
And a gleam of lurid light came forth,
Like the meteor fires that dance in the north.
Into the gulf stepped the spectral elf,
And the Emperor followed, in spite of himself.
The Monarch, and his ghostly guide,
Behind the Czar, before the ghost,
There's not a sentry at his post,
139
Only the banners drowsily wave;
Inly muttered the furious Czar,
And he ground his teeth for very spite,
“Beshrew the heart of each sleeping knave,
I'll chop off their heads with the morning light.”
Still on, and on, the spectre speeds,
The Monarch following where he leads,
Thro' the silent camp they go,
And he leaves no footprint on the snow,
But onward he goes and no word lets fall,
Straight to the city's hostile wall.
He made no sign, and he breathed no name,
But the drawbridge fell as he onward came,
And in the unwilling Monarch went.
He's far from all that fear or love him,
Within a hostile battlement,
And Sweden's banner waves above him.
Still rapidly on doth the spectre glide,
There's not a soul in the silent streets,
Save the guards that stand on either side,
As still as ghosts in their winding sheets:
Thus on they sped for one weary hour,
Till they paused by an ancient chapel tower,
And there there rose on the Monarch's ear,
Mingled voices of mirth and fear,
For there came a voice from each hollow grave,
Like the far-off roar of the Baltic wave,
And each grey pillar, and antique rafter,
Rang with wild shouts of savage laughter.
140
But he had forgotten to buckle it on,
And he strove to speak his 'larum word,
But his tongue was as stiff as a ridge of stone,
The hairs were bristling on his head,
When the pavement yawned beneath his tread.
And a gleam of lurid light came forth,
Like the meteor fires that dance in the north.
Into the gulf stepped the spectral elf,
And the Emperor followed, in spite of himself.
Loud, and more loud, grew the frantic din,
And wondrous the scene he saw within,
By the firelight red, by the torches' glare,
There were thirty figures standing there,
Each was clad like his ghostly guide,
In garments rough of the wild wolf's hide,
Savage of mien, and ghastly all,
And they seemed to the Czar to be playing at ball.
Thirty figures, and all the same,
With terrible voice, and with noiseless tread,
They hurried on with their wondrous game,
And each ball that they played was a Sovereign's head.
There was William of England, with princely glance
And they played with him against Louis of France,
They gave the Emperor's head a fling,
And bowled it right at the Spanish King,
They dashed the Saxon against the Pole,
They bade the Dane with the Dutchman roll,
They flung the Pope and the Prussian down,
With many a lubberly German clown,
The Grand Signior rolled here and there,
And the warrior Charles with his martial air:
Quoth one of the mummers, “Much we need,
A ball to play against Charles the Swede.”
Said another spectre, “We only wait,
For the head of the Emperor, Peter the Great.”
The silent guide with a ghastly grin,
Raised his finger, long and thin,
He raised his hand and pointed right
At the Imperial Muscovite.
Instantly, with a wild halloo,
The thirty drew each a scimitar,
Aside their reeking balls they threw,
And furiously rushed at the trembling Czar.
It's ill to deal with a desperate man,
Hotly the Muscovite's high blood ran,
Strongly he seized, and down he threw
The first that sprang of that savage crew,
Another came on, and to earth is rolled:—
When loudly cried that Cossack old,
“Awaken, awaken, Imperial Sire,
Your Highness has tumbled me into the fire.”
Louder yet the minister said,
“Awaken, your Majesty's broken my head.”
Up starts the Czar, right well content,
To find him in his own good tent,
His own broad banner waving o'er him,
And Cossack and Councillor lying before him.
And wondrous the scene he saw within,
By the firelight red, by the torches' glare,
There were thirty figures standing there,
Each was clad like his ghostly guide,
In garments rough of the wild wolf's hide,
Savage of mien, and ghastly all,
And they seemed to the Czar to be playing at ball.
Thirty figures, and all the same,
With terrible voice, and with noiseless tread,
They hurried on with their wondrous game,
And each ball that they played was a Sovereign's head.
There was William of England, with princely glance
And they played with him against Louis of France,
They gave the Emperor's head a fling,
And bowled it right at the Spanish King,
They dashed the Saxon against the Pole,
They bade the Dane with the Dutchman roll,
141
With many a lubberly German clown,
The Grand Signior rolled here and there,
And the warrior Charles with his martial air:
Quoth one of the mummers, “Much we need,
A ball to play against Charles the Swede.”
Said another spectre, “We only wait,
For the head of the Emperor, Peter the Great.”
The silent guide with a ghastly grin,
Raised his finger, long and thin,
He raised his hand and pointed right
At the Imperial Muscovite.
Instantly, with a wild halloo,
The thirty drew each a scimitar,
Aside their reeking balls they threw,
And furiously rushed at the trembling Czar.
It's ill to deal with a desperate man,
Hotly the Muscovite's high blood ran,
Strongly he seized, and down he threw
The first that sprang of that savage crew,
Another came on, and to earth is rolled:—
When loudly cried that Cossack old,
“Awaken, awaken, Imperial Sire,
Your Highness has tumbled me into the fire.”
Louder yet the minister said,
“Awaken, your Majesty's broken my head.”
Up starts the Czar, right well content,
To find him in his own good tent,
His own broad banner waving o'er him,
And Cossack and Councillor lying before him.
142
THE RISING AT AIX.
The dead-cart rolleth up and down,
Through the old town of Aix,
The death-bell tolleth fearfully,
And the Priest at the altar prays.
Through the old town of Aix,
The death-bell tolleth fearfully,
And the Priest at the altar prays.
And the few men that tread her streets,
Like frighted phantoms stare
Each in the other's face, to see
If the plague-mark be there.
Like frighted phantoms stare
Each in the other's face, to see
If the plague-mark be there.
She lieth at the Loosberg's foot,
A silence-stricken town,
Save when the bell tolls fearfully,
And the cart rolls up and down.
A silence-stricken town,
Save when the bell tolls fearfully,
And the cart rolls up and down.
“Ah me! that death should be so grim,
That life should be so sweet!”
He looks from his house in the Neu-Market,
Down on the silent street;
That life should be so sweet!”
He looks from his house in the Neu-Market,
Down on the silent street;
He sees the grass through the pavement grow,
He hears the death-bell ring:
“O death, grim death is terrible,”
Quoth the good knight shuddering.
He hears the death-bell ring:
“O death, grim death is terrible,”
Quoth the good knight shuddering.
The lady sat beside her lord,
His boy was on her knee;
“Good father, Christ can raise the dead
Art thou afraid?” quoth he.
His boy was on her knee;
“Good father, Christ can raise the dead
Art thou afraid?” quoth he.
143
She was the fairest, noblest dame,
In all the Rhenish plain,
Who looked down on the Neu-Market,
And heard her lord complain.
In all the Rhenish plain,
Who looked down on the Neu-Market,
And heard her lord complain.
The Priests are praying at the shrine,
The death-bell tolleth on;
Why is the lady's eye so strange?
Why grows her cheek so wan?
The death-bell tolleth on;
Why is the lady's eye so strange?
Why grows her cheek so wan?
He tore away the golden clasp,
Aside the silken vest;
Ah me! ah me! the red plague-spot
Is on the lady's breast.
Aside the silken vest;
Ah me! ah me! the red plague-spot
Is on the lady's breast.
The Lady Joscelind is dead,—
“Go delve the church's nave,
She shall not lie with the common herd,
All in one common grave.
“Go delve the church's nave,
She shall not lie with the common herd,
All in one common grave.
“The gold ring on her left hand finger
Let none presume to stir;
Therewith I plighted her my troth,
And I was true to her.
Let none presume to stir;
Therewith I plighted her my troth,
And I was true to her.
“And bring me hither my diamond ring,
The ring with diamonds three,
And leave it on her right hand finger,
For she was true to me.
The ring with diamonds three,
And leave it on her right hand finger,
For she was true to me.
144
“And bear her to the Apostles’ Church,
If one be found to delve,
And leave her deep down in the nave,
In care of the Holy Twelve.”
If one be found to delve,
And leave her deep down in the nave,
In care of the Holy Twelve.”
The good knight mourneth hopelessly,
“O death, grim death is dread.”
The child is whispering in his play,
“Christ raiseth up the dead.”
“O death, grim death is dread.”
The child is whispering in his play,
“Christ raiseth up the dead.”
The clocks had stricken twelve at night,
Out of the church's spire;
The wax lights shone from the altar high,
Dim through the solemn choir.
Out of the church's spire;
The wax lights shone from the altar high,
Dim through the solemn choir.
There were many hearts awake that night,
Some by the dying bed,
Some all alone in burning pain,
Some wailing for the dead.
Some by the dying bed,
Some all alone in burning pain,
Some wailing for the dead.
And some that trod those stricken streets
For deeds of shame and crime:
O, strange that human hearts should be
So hard at such a time!
For deeds of shame and crime:
O, strange that human hearts should be
So hard at such a time!
They came to the church of the Holy Twelve,
They paused, and spoke aside,
“She has gems of cost on her dead fingers,
Might grace a living bride.”
They paused, and spoke aside,
“She has gems of cost on her dead fingers,
Might grace a living bride.”
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They brought the shovel and the torch,
Into the cold dark nave,
Where the stone was stirred, and the earth was loose,
On Lady Joscelind's grave,
Into the cold dark nave,
Where the stone was stirred, and the earth was loose,
On Lady Joscelind's grave,
They lifted up the coffin lid,
The pall of satin white;
And the diamonds three on her fair right hand,
Shone out like stars at night.
The pall of satin white;
And the diamonds three on her fair right hand,
Shone out like stars at night.
And they saw the lady's cold pale face,
Shrouded and swathed within:
Was it the damp church air that moved
The band beneath her chin?
Shrouded and swathed within:
Was it the damp church air that moved
The band beneath her chin?
The boldest man in the company
Has touched that jewel rare;
The corpse sat up in her shroud, and looked
Around with a ghastly stare.
Has touched that jewel rare;
The corpse sat up in her shroud, and looked
Around with a ghastly stare.
The bells had chimed in the Neu-Market,
The clocks had stricken four;
The knight hath heard a hasty knock,
Down at the outer door.
The clocks had stricken four;
The knight hath heard a hasty knock,
Down at the outer door.
He heard it from his lonely couch,
Where all night long he tossed,
And muttered, “None hath power to give
Again what I have lost.”
Where all night long he tossed,
And muttered, “None hath power to give
Again what I have lost.”
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The child has wakened with the noise,
He rose in his little bed;
“O father, I have dreamt all night,
Of the rising of the dead.”
He rose in his little bed;
“O father, I have dreamt all night,
Of the rising of the dead.”
“Lie still, lie still. My servitor,
Go to the outer gate:
Who cometh to the house of woe,
And dares to call so late?
Go to the outer gate:
Who cometh to the house of woe,
And dares to call so late?
“There are no dying here to shrive,
There are no dead to shroud;
Unbar, unbar in haste, I say,
And see who knocks so loud.”
There are no dead to shroud;
Unbar, unbar in haste, I say,
And see who knocks so loud.”
“O, master, as I hastened down,
I looked forth on the street,
The lady standeth at the door,
Wrapped in her winding sheet.”
I looked forth on the street,
The lady standeth at the door,
Wrapped in her winding sheet.”
The knight has laughed a bitter laugh,
In his hopeless misery,
“Death hath her in his iron grasp,
She may not loosened be.
In his hopeless misery,
“Death hath her in his iron grasp,
She may not loosened be.
“When did he ever give again
The prey that he had won?”
“Christ has conquered death, father,”
Whispered his little son.
The prey that he had won?”
“Christ has conquered death, father,”
Whispered his little son.
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And mournfully, and urgently,
The voice below doth cry,
“Unbar the door, my dearest lord,
It is none else but I.”
The voice below doth cry,
“Unbar the door, my dearest lord,
It is none else but I.”
“When my good steed shall leave his stall,
And mount my chamber stair,
I will believe that Joscelind
In flesh and blood is there.
And mount my chamber stair,
I will believe that Joscelind
In flesh and blood is there.
“I will believe my buried love
Unsepulchred has been,
When he shall stand, where now I stand,
Then will I let thee in.”
Unsepulchred has been,
When he shall stand, where now I stand,
Then will I let thee in.”
The whole house shaketh wondrously,
From cellar unto roof,
There is a sound on the winding stair
Like the tramp of a charger's hoof.
From cellar unto roof,
There is a sound on the winding stair
Like the tramp of a charger's hoof.
And up each narrow landing place,
The good steed safely trod,
Straight to the sinner's side, who dared
To doubt the power of God.
The good steed safely trod,
Straight to the sinner's side, who dared
To doubt the power of God.
“Unbar, unbar the door in haste,
She is given me back,” he saith,
“I have wronged the mercy of the Lord,
I had neither hope, nor faith.”
She is given me back,” he saith,
“I have wronged the mercy of the Lord,
I had neither hope, nor faith.”
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There was a costly altar-cloth
The richest e'er was seen,
It hung in the Apostles' Church,
Behind the altar screen.
The richest e'er was seen,
It hung in the Apostles' Church,
Behind the altar screen.
There were four figures carved in stone,
O'er the western portal proud,
A knight, and a child, and a steed unyoked,
And a lady in her shroud.
O'er the western portal proud,
A knight, and a child, and a steed unyoked,
And a lady in her shroud.
The lady wrought the altar cover
The knight the marble gave,
In memory of her who rose
Out of that church's nave.
The knight the marble gave,
In memory of her who rose
Out of that church's nave.
The house stands still in the Neu-Market,
Where their calm age flowed on;
A summer twilight, when the sun
From the grey sky is gone;
Where their calm age flowed on;
A summer twilight, when the sun
From the grey sky is gone;
When pure and soft, a chastened light
Is shed o'er all the earth,
A beauty that is perfect peace,
But hath no touch of mirth.
Is shed o'er all the earth,
A beauty that is perfect peace,
But hath no touch of mirth.
For never smile was seen to play
On that sweet face again,
That had been tired in a shroud,
And in the grave had lain.
On that sweet face again,
That had been tired in a shroud,
And in the grave had lain.
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They laid them in the Apostles' Church,
The noble and the dame;
Death was not terrible at last,
When to the knight he came.
The noble and the dame;
Death was not terrible at last,
When to the knight he came.
A brave young warrior laid the stone
Over each honoured head,
And graved with pious hand thereon,
“Christ raiseth up the dead.”
Over each honoured head,
And graved with pious hand thereon,
“Christ raiseth up the dead.”
THE SIEGE OF DERRY.
“O my daughter! lead me forth to the bastion on the north,
Let me see the water running from the green hills of Tyrone,
Where the woods of Mountjoy quiver above the changeful river,
And the silver trout lie hidden in the pools that I have known.
Let me see the water running from the green hills of Tyrone,
Where the woods of Mountjoy quiver above the changeful river,
And the silver trout lie hidden in the pools that I have known.
“There I wooed your mother, Dear! in the days that are so near
To the old man who lie dying in this sore beleaguered place;
For time's long years may sever, but love that liveth ever,
Calls back the early rapture—lights again the angel face.
To the old man who lie dying in this sore beleaguered place;
For time's long years may sever, but love that liveth ever,
Calls back the early rapture—lights again the angel face.
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“Ah, well! she lieth still on our wall-engirdled hill,
Our own Cathedral holds her till God shall call His dead;
And the psalter's swell and wailing, and the cannon's loud assailing,
And the Preacher's voice and blessing, pass unheeded o'er her head.
Our own Cathedral holds her till God shall call His dead;
And the psalter's swell and wailing, and the cannon's loud assailing,
And the Preacher's voice and blessing, pass unheeded o'er her head.
“’Twas the Lord who gave the word when His people drew the sword
For the freedom of the present, for the future that awaits.
O Child! thou must remember that bleak day in December
When the ’Prentice-Boys of Derry rose up and shut the Gates.
For the freedom of the present, for the future that awaits.
O Child! thou must remember that bleak day in December
When the ’Prentice-Boys of Derry rose up and shut the Gates.
“There was tumult in the street, and a rush of many feet—
There was discord in the Council, and Lundy turned to fly
For the man had no assurance of Ulstermen's endurance,
Nor the strength of him who trusteth in the arm of God Most High.
There was discord in the Council, and Lundy turned to fly
For the man had no assurance of Ulstermen's endurance,
Nor the strength of him who trusteth in the arm of God Most High.
“These limbs, that now are weak, were strong then, and thy cheek
Held roses that were red as any rose in June—
That now are wan, my daughter! as the light on the Foyle water,
When all the sea and all the land are white beneath the moon.
Held roses that were red as any rose in June—
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When all the sea and all the land are white beneath the moon.
“Then the foemen gather'd fast—we could see them marching past—
The Irish from his barren hills, the Frenchman from his wars,
With their banners bravely beaming, and to our eyes their seeming
Was fearful as a locust band, and countless as the stars.
The Irish from his barren hills, the Frenchman from his wars,
With their banners bravely beaming, and to our eyes their seeming
Was fearful as a locust band, and countless as the stars.
“And they bound us with a cord from the harbour to the ford,
And they raked us with their cannon, and sallying was hot;
But our trust was still unshaken, though Culmore fort was taken,
And they wrote our men a letter, and they sent it in a shot.
And they raked us with their cannon, and sallying was hot;
But our trust was still unshaken, though Culmore fort was taken,
And they wrote our men a letter, and they sent it in a shot.
“They were soft words that they spoke, how we need not fear their yoke,
And they pleaded by our homesteads, and by our children small,
And our women fair and tender; but we answer'd, ‘No Surrender!’
And we called on God Almighty, and we went to man the wall.
And they pleaded by our homesteads, and by our children small,
And our women fair and tender; but we answer'd, ‘No Surrender!’
And we called on God Almighty, and we went to man the wall.
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“There was wrath in the French camp; we could hear their Captains stamp,
And Rosen, with his hand on his cross'd hilt, swore
That little town of Derry, not a league from Culmore ferry,
Should lie a heap of ashes on the Foyle's green shore.
And Rosen, with his hand on his cross'd hilt, swore
That little town of Derry, not a league from Culmore ferry,
Should lie a heap of ashes on the Foyle's green shore.
“Like a falcon on her perch, our fair Cathedral Church
Above the tide-vext river looks eastward from the bay—
Dear namesake of St. Columb, and each morning, sweet and solemn,
The bells, through all the tumult, have call'd us in to pray.
Above the tide-vext river looks eastward from the bay—
Dear namesake of St. Columb, and each morning, sweet and solemn,
The bells, through all the tumult, have call'd us in to pray.
“Our leader speaks the prayer—the Captains all are there—
His deep voice never falters, though his look be sad and grave,
On the women's pallid faces, and the soldiers in their places,
And the stones above our brothers that lie buried in the nave.
His deep voice never falters, though his look be sad and grave,
On the women's pallid faces, and the soldiers in their places,
And the stones above our brothers that lie buried in the nave.
“They are closing round us still by the river; on the hill
You can see the white pavilions round the standard of their chief;
But the Lord is up in Heaven, though the chances are uneven,
Though the boom is in the river whence we look'd for our relief.
You can see the white pavilions round the standard of their chief;
153
Though the boom is in the river whence we look'd for our relief.
“And the faint hope dies away at the close of each long day,
As we see the eyes grow lustreless, the pulses beating low;
As we see our children languish—Was ever martyr's anguish,
At the stake or in the dungeon, like this anguish that we know?
As we see the eyes grow lustreless, the pulses beating low;
As we see our children languish—Was ever martyr's anguish,
At the stake or in the dungeon, like this anguish that we know?
“With the foemen's closing line, while the English make no sign,
And the daily lessening ration, and the fall of staggering feet,
And the wailing low and fearful, and the women stern and tearful
Speaking bravely to their husbands and their lovers in the street.
And the daily lessening ration, and the fall of staggering feet,
And the wailing low and fearful, and the women stern and tearful
Speaking bravely to their husbands and their lovers in the street.
“There was trouble in the air when we met this day for prayer,
And the joyous July morning was heavy in our eyes;
Our arms were by the altar as we sang aloud the Psalter,
And listen'd in the pauses for the enemy's surprise.
And the joyous July morning was heavy in our eyes;
Our arms were by the altar as we sang aloud the Psalter,
And listen'd in the pauses for the enemy's surprise.
154
“‘Praise the Lord God in the height, for the glory of His might!’
It ran along the arches and it went out to the town:
‘In His strength He hath arisen, He hath loos'd the souls in prison,
The wrong'd one He hath righted, and raised the fallen down.’
It ran along the arches and it went out to the town:
‘In His strength He hath arisen, He hath loos'd the souls in prison,
The wrong'd one He hath righted, and raised the fallen down.’
“And the Preacher's voice was bold, as he rose up then, and told
Of the triumph of the righteous, of the patience of the saints,
And the hope of God's assistance, and the greatness of resistance,
Of the trust that never wearies and the heart that never faints.
Of the triumph of the righteous, of the patience of the saints,
And the hope of God's assistance, and the greatness of resistance,
Of the trust that never wearies and the heart that never faints.
“Where the river joins the brine, canst thou see the ships in line?
And the plenty of our craving just beyond the cruel boom?
Through the dark mist of the firing canst thou see the masts aspiring
Dost thou think of one who loves thee on that ship amidst the gloom?”
And the plenty of our craving just beyond the cruel boom?
Through the dark mist of the firing canst thou see the masts aspiring
Dost thou think of one who loves thee on that ship amidst the gloom?”
She was weary, she was wan, but she climb'd the rampart on,
And she look'd along the water where the good ships lay afar—
“Oh! I see on either border their cannon ranged in order,
And the boom across the river, and the waiting men-of-war.
And she look'd along the water where the good ships lay afar—
155
And the boom across the river, and the waiting men-of-war.
“There's death in every hand that holds a lighted brand,
But the gallant little Mountjoy comes bravely to the front.
Now, God of Battles, hear us! let that good ship draw near us.
Ah! the brands are at the touch holes—will she bear the cannon's brunt?
But the gallant little Mountjoy comes bravely to the front.
Now, God of Battles, hear us! let that good ship draw near us.
Ah! the brands are at the touch holes—will she bear the cannon's brunt?
“She makes a forward dash. Hark, hark! the thunder crash!
O Father, they have caught her—she is lying on the shore.
Another crash like thunder—will it tear her ribs asunder?
No, no! the shot has freed her—she is floating on once more.
O Father, they have caught her—she is lying on the shore.
Another crash like thunder—will it tear her ribs asunder?
No, no! the shot has freed her—she is floating on once more.
“She pushes her white sail through the bullet's leaden hail,
Now blessings on her Captain and on her seamen bold.
Crash! crash! the boom is broken; I can see my true love's token—
A lily in his bonnet, a lily all of gold.
Now blessings on her Captain and on her seamen bold.
Crash! crash! the boom is broken; I can see my true love's token—
A lily in his bonnet, a lily all of gold.
156
“She sails up to the town, like a Queen in a white gown;
Red golden are her lilies, true gold are all her men.
Now the Phœnix follows after—I can hear the women's laughter,
And the shouting of the soldiers, till the echoes ring again.”
Red golden are her lilies, true gold are all her men.
Now the Phœnix follows after—I can hear the women's laughter,
And the shouting of the soldiers, till the echoes ring again.”
She has glided from the wall, on her lover's breast to fall,
As the white bird of the ocean drops down into the wave;
And the bells are madly ringing, and a hundred voices singing,
And the old man on the bastion has joined the triumph stave.
As the white bird of the ocean drops down into the wave;
And the bells are madly ringing, and a hundred voices singing,
And the old man on the bastion has joined the triumph stave.
“Sing ye praises through the land: the Lord with His right hand,
With His mighty arm hath gotten Himself the victory now.
He hath scatterëd their forces, both the riders and their horses.
There is none that fighteth for us, O God! but only Thou.”
With His mighty arm hath gotten Himself the victory now.
He hath scatterëd their forces, both the riders and their horses.
There is none that fighteth for us, O God! but only Thou.”
And of these heroic times, if the tale be told in rhymes,
When the statesman of the future learns no lesson from the past;
When rude hands are upsetting, and cold hearts are forgetting,
And faction sways the Senate, and faith is overcast;
When the statesman of the future learns no lesson from the past;
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And faction sways the Senate, and faith is overcast;
Then these Derry men shall tell—who would serve his country well,
Must be strong in his conviction and valiant in his deed,
Must be patient in enduring, and determined in securing
The liberty to serve his God, the freedom of his creed.
Must be strong in his conviction and valiant in his deed,
Must be patient in enduring, and determined in securing
The liberty to serve his God, the freedom of his creed.
THE CHILD OF THE RHINE.
I.
He dwelleth where the waters shine,
Of that broad stream, the German's boast,
Where, night and day, the lordly Rhine
Goes singing by his castled coast.
Of that broad stream, the German's boast,
Where, night and day, the lordly Rhine
Goes singing by his castled coast.
Though on his ear the murmurs fall,
He cannot see the blue waves glide
By Ehrenbreitstein's storied wall
To meet the Mosel's silver tide.
He cannot see the blue waves glide
By Ehrenbreitstein's storied wall
To meet the Mosel's silver tide.
On garden green and vine-clad hill,
Round Coblentz fair the sunlight streams,
Through all his frame he feels the thrill
Of warmth and gladness in its beams.
Round Coblentz fair the sunlight streams,
Through all his frame he feels the thrill
Of warmth and gladness in its beams.
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But not for him the shadows fade,
Or deepen on the mountain grey;
He never watch'd the ripple, made
By the light oars, sink slow away.
Or deepen on the mountain grey;
He never watch'd the ripple, made
By the light oars, sink slow away.
All real things of shape and size
In his child's spirit have no place,
For never on his sealèd eyes
Hath outward object left a trace.
In his child's spirit have no place,
For never on his sealèd eyes
Hath outward object left a trace.
Still Nature wears a form and hue
By his own thoughtful soul imprest;
He walks with things he never knew,
In darkness, yet the child is blest.
By his own thoughtful soul imprest;
He walks with things he never knew,
In darkness, yet the child is blest.
The quiet soul, so gentle, frames
No wish for that great good, unknown;
He treasures up men's words and names,
And gives them colours of his own.
No wish for that great good, unknown;
He treasures up men's words and names,
And gives them colours of his own.
He laugheth loud in childish glee,
His mother singeth some old strain,
He creepeth softly to her knee,
And makes her sing it o'er again.
His mother singeth some old strain,
He creepeth softly to her knee,
And makes her sing it o'er again.
He feeleth with his little hand
O'er all the face he loves so well,
And, listening, doth not understand
The tale he wins her still to tell.
O'er all the face he loves so well,
And, listening, doth not understand
The tale he wins her still to tell.
159
'Tis sad to watch those eyes uplift
Their fair lids, fringed with golden hair,
Yet know that God's most precious gift,
Bright power of vision, dwells not there.
Their fair lids, fringed with golden hair,
Yet know that God's most precious gift,
Bright power of vision, dwells not there.
But underneath God's glorious heaven
I ween there is a sadder sight—
It is when God's good gifts are given
And men misuse the precious right.
I ween there is a sadder sight—
It is when God's good gifts are given
And men misuse the precious right.
The earth is green, the Rhine is blue,
Yet here are eyes that stream or flower
Hath never charm'd; and God is true,
Yet here are hearts that mock His power.
Yet here are eyes that stream or flower
Hath never charm'd; and God is true,
Yet here are hearts that mock His power.
The blind of soul, the blind of sense,
They dwell beneath the same roof-tree,
She darker of intelligence
Than, in his natural blindness, he.
They dwell beneath the same roof-tree,
She darker of intelligence
Than, in his natural blindness, he.
For dull and dim, as mists that fold
The Drachenfels' broad summit bare,
To her, bright Truth, the strong and bold,
Doth veils, and clouds, and shadows wear.
The Drachenfels' broad summit bare,
To her, bright Truth, the strong and bold,
Doth veils, and clouds, and shadows wear.
Poor earth's inventions—tales and dreams—
These to her blind child she has taught,
And he, cut off from sights and gleams
And pictured forms, nor knowing aught
These to her blind child she has taught,
And he, cut off from sights and gleams
And pictured forms, nor knowing aught
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Of images that minister
Unto her wandering fancy's need,
Perchance doth not so widely err,
And holds in thought a purer creed.
Unto her wandering fancy's need,
Perchance doth not so widely err,
And holds in thought a purer creed.
She leads him to the old church pile,
What time they sing the solemn mass—
He stands within the pillar'd aisle,
He feels the glowing incense pass;
What time they sing the solemn mass—
He stands within the pillar'd aisle,
He feels the glowing incense pass;
He sees no gorgeous windows dim,
No vested priests around him bend;
He only hears the chanted hymn,
The prayer he cannot comprehend.
No vested priests around him bend;
He only hears the chanted hymn,
The prayer he cannot comprehend.
To “Father, Spirit, Son,” they sung
Those strains that, lingering, swell and faint;
He cannot tell that foreign tongue,
He kneeleth to his mother's saint.
Those strains that, lingering, swell and faint;
He cannot tell that foreign tongue,
He kneeleth to his mother's saint.
Seldom he speaks to Him who erst
Himself to mortal needs drew near,
Nor sent the little children first,
To servant loved, or mother dear.
Himself to mortal needs drew near,
Nor sent the little children first,
To servant loved, or mother dear.
Yet leave the child his simple thought
Of one great Being throned above,
His sense of power that bows to nought,
His faith in all-pervading love.
Of one great Being throned above,
His sense of power that bows to nought,
His faith in all-pervading love.
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Leave him his own dream-haunted night,
His meek content, his thoughtless bliss,
Nor tell him that strange power of sight,
Unknown, unsought, may yet be his.
His meek content, his thoughtless bliss,
Nor tell him that strange power of sight,
Unknown, unsought, may yet be his.
Go, tread to-day the rose in dust,
To morrow brings a flower as fair,
But he that tramples childhood's trust
Shall find no second blossom there.
To morrow brings a flower as fair,
But he that tramples childhood's trust
Shall find no second blossom there.
II.
The vines are bending to the ground
Beneath their summer burden bright,
Through all the Rhine-land goes a sound,
The murmur of a strange delight.
Beneath their summer burden bright,
Through all the Rhine-land goes a sound,
The murmur of a strange delight.
Full fifty years the holy vest
Has lain in sacred mystery seal'd,—
Come forth, ye troubled, and find rest,
Come forth, ye sickly, and be heal'd.
Has lain in sacred mystery seal'd,—
Come forth, ye troubled, and find rest,
Come forth, ye sickly, and be heal'd.
The mother whispers of strange things,
And wonders wrought for faithful men;
In the child's soul a dream upsprings
Of the bright world beyond his ken.
And wonders wrought for faithful men;
In the child's soul a dream upsprings
Of the bright world beyond his ken.
A voice from old imperial Trèves,
Responsive thousands catch the cry;
Long pilgrim hosts, like swelling waves,
Pour on to that cathedral high.
Responsive thousands catch the cry;
Long pilgrim hosts, like swelling waves,
Pour on to that cathedral high.
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From many a vine-wreath'd hut and hall
Where Danube's troubled waters ride,
From shores that hear the murmuring fall
Of that fair sea without a tide;
Where Danube's troubled waters ride,
From shores that hear the murmuring fall
Of that fair sea without a tide;
From citron-groves where Spaniards roam,
That weary pilgrimage they take,
And Gaul's gay peasants leave their home,
And Erin's island echoes wake.
That weary pilgrimage they take,
And Gaul's gay peasants leave their home,
And Erin's island echoes wake.
The church is crowded, choir and nave;
From altar screen to open door
Fresh thousands still a blessing crave,
Fresh thousands thronging still adore.
From altar screen to open door
Fresh thousands still a blessing crave,
Fresh thousands thronging still adore.
Within the Lady Chapel fair,
Aloft the awful relic stands,
The grey old Bishop sitteth there,
And blesseth all with lifted hands.
Aloft the awful relic stands,
The grey old Bishop sitteth there,
And blesseth all with lifted hands.
Round the High Altar slow they came
To kiss that honour'd vest divine:
Where was His honour to whose name
Men rear'd of old that costly shrine?
To kiss that honour'd vest divine:
Where was His honour to whose name
Men rear'd of old that costly shrine?
Round the High Altar, two by two,
They pass'd without a word or strain,
Then, turning round in order due,
They pass'd it, silent, back again.
They pass'd without a word or strain,
Then, turning round in order due,
They pass'd it, silent, back again.
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Yet here the sick man came for health,
And here the sinner came for aid,
And here the rich man brought his wealth,
And here the earnest-minded pray'd.
And here the sinner came for aid,
And here the rich man brought his wealth,
And here the earnest-minded pray'd.
Not unto Him of old who wore
Such humble garb in Jewish land;
The prayers, the vows, the tears they pour
To mouldering work of human hand.
Such humble garb in Jewish land;
The prayers, the vows, the tears they pour
To mouldering work of human hand.
III.
She leaves behind the murmuring waves,
Fair Coblentz, round thy pleasant homes;
With lingering step to lordly Trèves
The mother and her blind child comes.
Fair Coblentz, round thy pleasant homes;
With lingering step to lordly Trèves
The mother and her blind child comes.
His little hands across his breast
The child has folded piously,
And ever cries: “O holy vest,
O vest most holy, pity me!”
The child has folded piously,
And ever cries: “O holy vest,
O vest most holy, pity me!”
A sunbeam, breaking through the trees,
Falls on his cheek so warm and bright,
The poor child almost thinks he sees
And knows the ecstasy of light.
Falls on his cheek so warm and bright,
The poor child almost thinks he sees
And knows the ecstasy of light.
“O mother, mother, linger not!”
He strains her weary hand and cries;
“I die to kneel on that blest spot,
And learn to know thee with mine eyes.
He strains her weary hand and cries;
“I die to kneel on that blest spot,
And learn to know thee with mine eyes.
164
“I yearn to see this pleasant heat,
To watch old father Rhine ride by,
I hear the trampling of his feet,
I know his hoarse and hollow cry.
To watch old father Rhine ride by,
I hear the trampling of his feet,
I know his hoarse and hollow cry.
“How could he bear our little boat,
I felt no arms encircling me?
O holy coat, most holy coat,
Make me to know what others see!”
I felt no arms encircling me?
O holy coat, most holy coat,
Make me to know what others see!”
They wander on by hill and bower,
He hears no voices whispering round,
One strange bright hope absorbs all power
Of grateful scent, or pleasant sound.
He hears no voices whispering round,
One strange bright hope absorbs all power
Of grateful scent, or pleasant sound.
And still across his little breast
His hands are folded; piteously
He crieth out: “O holy vest,
Have mercy on my misery!”
His hands are folded; piteously
He crieth out: “O holy vest,
Have mercy on my misery!”
There's many an angel carved in white
On the tall pillars' chapiters,
And blue-eyed boys as fair as light
Are singing with the choristers.
On the tall pillars' chapiters,
And blue-eyed boys as fair as light
Are singing with the choristers.
But not one form of sculptured grace,
Nor breathing boy in that fair choir,
Is beautiful as he, whose face
Pales with its own intense desire.
Nor breathing boy in that fair choir,
Is beautiful as he, whose face
Pales with its own intense desire.
165
She leads him round the altar high;
With trembling limb, with quivering throat,
And up-raised face and straining eye,
He kneeleth to the holy coat.
With trembling limb, with quivering throat,
And up-raised face and straining eye,
He kneeleth to the holy coat.
IV.
The Rhine runs gladly, as before,
By castled crag and vine-wreath'd cot,
The child beside his low-roof'd door
Sits once again, and sees him not.
By castled crag and vine-wreath'd cot,
The child beside his low-roof'd door
Sits once again, and sees him not.
The stream is broad and bright as ever,
But the child's heart is glad no more;
His short sweet laughter mingleth never,
Now with the water's sullen roar.
But the child's heart is glad no more;
His short sweet laughter mingleth never,
Now with the water's sullen roar.
The sleep that was so full of dreams,
His wakeful, joyous, tranquil night
Is clouded over, and it seems
No more its fancied forms are bright.
His wakeful, joyous, tranquil night
Is clouded over, and it seems
No more its fancied forms are bright.
One glorious gleam flash'd through his brain,
Wherein each other light wax'd dim;
'Tis vanish'd now, but ne'er again
His own old stars shall shine for him.
Wherein each other light wax'd dim;
'Tis vanish'd now, but ne'er again
His own old stars shall shine for him.
He loved so much in forest bowers
The rustle of the soft green leaves;
He loved to listen when long hours
The home-birds twitter'd in the eaves.
The rustle of the soft green leaves;
He loved to listen when long hours
The home-birds twitter'd in the eaves.
166
The music of the murmuring wave,
The wild-bee's hum, the whispering rain.
Tones that yet dearer transport gave,
Sing as of old—but sing in vain.
The wild-bee's hum, the whispering rain.
Tones that yet dearer transport gave,
Sing as of old—but sing in vain.
Then bitterer feelings wring the breast—
Whom should he love, or whom believe,
If all who said they loved caress'd
His weakness only to deceive?
Whom should he love, or whom believe,
If all who said they loved caress'd
His weakness only to deceive?
The torturing dread—the chilling doubt—
The hollow hopelessness—begin,
Worse, worse than changeless night without,
The gathering vacancy within.
The hollow hopelessness—begin,
Worse, worse than changeless night without,
The gathering vacancy within.
And that fond faith of childish years,
That meekly trusted and obey'd—
That held no doubts, that had no fears,
How is its simpleness betray'd!
That meekly trusted and obey'd—
That held no doubts, that had no fears,
How is its simpleness betray'd!
O mother, was it meet to guide
The heart thou couldst have taught to cling
Close to His own Redeemer's side,
And leave it with that powerless thing?
The heart thou couldst have taught to cling
Close to His own Redeemer's side,
And leave it with that powerless thing?
And when thy false words urged him on,
And lured him down the devious track,
Was there no deeper, dearer tone
To call the cheated wanderer back?
And lured him down the devious track,
Was there no deeper, dearer tone
To call the cheated wanderer back?
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Where was her warning, sweet and stern,
The mother of his second birth?
Ah! she has stain'd her own pure urn
With the polluted streams of earth.
The mother of his second birth?
Ah! she has stain'd her own pure urn
With the polluted streams of earth.
In many an old religious land
Her once true notes are false and vain,
And she has forged with her own hand,
And rivets still her children's chain.
Her once true notes are false and vain,
And she has forged with her own hand,
And rivets still her children's chain.
Dear Church, along our English dells,
Still pure as in thine earliest years,
Thy sweet voice, echoed by church-bells,
Comes floating down to peasant ears!
Still pure as in thine earliest years,
Thy sweet voice, echoed by church-bells,
Comes floating down to peasant ears!
Still round thy shrines thy poor bereaved
In Christ's own presence meet to pray,
And, none rejected, none deceived,
Bear all His choicest gifts away.
In Christ's own presence meet to pray,
And, none rejected, none deceived,
Bear all His choicest gifts away.
Oh, if one, wandering from thy fold,
Hath in her pictured paths found pleasure,
Who singeth the good strains of old,
But sings them to another measure;
Hath in her pictured paths found pleasure,
Who singeth the good strains of old,
But sings them to another measure;
If he have touch'd enchanted ground,
And love to roam and linger there,
Oh lure him back with the sweet sound
Of thy pure creed and simple prayer;
And love to roam and linger there,
Oh lure him back with the sweet sound
Of thy pure creed and simple prayer;
168
And with the spirit, stern and strong,
That fill'd thy martyrs' souls undaunted,
And with the sympathies that throng
Round thine old churches, angel-haunted!
That fill'd thy martyrs' souls undaunted,
And with the sympathies that throng
Round thine old churches, angel-haunted!
And if thy pleas in vain be said,
Then show the doubt, the grief, the gloom,
The soul untrain'd, the heart misled—
The blind child's solitary doom.
Then show the doubt, the grief, the gloom,
The soul untrain'd, the heart misled—
The blind child's solitary doom.
I may be allowed to record with mournful pleasure that this verse was added by the late Professor W. Archer Butler, upon reading this poem in manuscript.
THE LEGEND OF STUMPIE'S BRAE.
Heard ye no' tell of the Stumpie's Brae?
Sit down, sit down, young friend,
I'll make your flesh to creep to-day,
And your hair to stan' on end.
Sit down, sit down, young friend,
I'll make your flesh to creep to-day,
And your hair to stan' on end.
Young man, it's hard to strive wi' sin,
And the hardest strife of a'
Is where the greed o' gain creeps in,
And drives God's grace awa'.
And the hardest strife of a'
Is where the greed o' gain creeps in,
And drives God's grace awa'.
Oh, it's quick to do, but it's lang to rue,
When the punishment comes at last,
And we would give the world to undo
The deed that's done and past.
When the punishment comes at last,
And we would give the world to undo
The deed that's done and past.
169
Over yon strip of meadow land,
And over the burnie bright,
Dinna ye mark the fir-trees stand,
Around yon gable white?
And over the burnie bright,
Dinna ye mark the fir-trees stand,
Around yon gable white?
I mind it weel, in my younger days
The story yet was rife:
There dwelt within that lonely place
A farmer man and his wife.
The story yet was rife:
There dwelt within that lonely place
A farmer man and his wife.
They sat together all alone,
One blessed autumn night,
When the trees without, and hedge, and stone,
Were white in the sweet moonlight.
One blessed autumn night,
When the trees without, and hedge, and stone,
Were white in the sweet moonlight.
The boys and girls were gone down all
A wee to the blacksmith's wake;
There pass'd ane on by the window small,
And guv the door a shake.
A wee to the blacksmith's wake;
There pass'd ane on by the window small,
And guv the door a shake.
The man he up and open'd the door—
When he had spoken a bit,
A pedlar men stepp'd into the floor,
Down he tumbled the pack he bore,
Right heavy pack was it.
When he had spoken a bit,
A pedlar men stepp'd into the floor,
Down he tumbled the pack he bore,
Right heavy pack was it.
“Gude save us a',” says the wife, wi' a smile,
“But yours is a thrivin' trade.”—
“Ay, ay, I've wander'd mony a mile,
And plenty have I made.”
“But yours is a thrivin' trade.”—
“Ay, ay, I've wander'd mony a mile,
And plenty have I made.”
170
The man sat on by the dull fire flame,
When the pedlar went to rest;
Close to his ear the Devil came,
And slipp'd intil his breast.
When the pedlar went to rest;
Close to his ear the Devil came,
And slipp'd intil his breast.
He look'd at his wife by the dim fire light,
And she was as bad as he—
“Could we no' murder thon man the night?”—
“Ay, could we, ready,” quo' she.
And she was as bad as he—
“Could we no' murder thon man the night?”—
“Ay, could we, ready,” quo' she.
He took the pickaxe without a word,
Whence it stood, ahint the door;
As he pass'd in, the sleeper stirr'd,
That never waken'd more.
Whence it stood, ahint the door;
As he pass'd in, the sleeper stirr'd,
That never waken'd more.
“He's dead!” says the auld man, coming back—
“What o' the corp, my dear?”
“We'll bury him snug in his ain bit pack,
Never ye mind for the loss of the sack,
I've ta'en out a' the gear.”
“What o' the corp, my dear?”
“We'll bury him snug in his ain bit pack,
Never ye mind for the loss of the sack,
I've ta'en out a' the gear.”
“The pack's owre short by twa gude span,
What'll we do?” quo' he—
“Ou, you're a doited, unthoughtfu' man,
We'll cut him off at the knee.”
What'll we do?” quo' he—
“Ou, you're a doited, unthoughtfu' man,
We'll cut him off at the knee.”
They shorten'd the corp, and they pack'd him tight,
Wi' his legs in a pickle hay;
Over the burn, in the sweet moonlight,
They carried him till this brae.
Wi' his legs in a pickle hay;
Over the burn, in the sweet moonlight,
They carried him till this brae.
171
They shovell'd a hole right speedily,
They laid him in on his back—
“A right pair are ye,” quo' the pedlar, quo' he,
Sitting bolt upright in the pack.
They laid him in on his back—
“A right pair are ye,” quo' the pedlar, quo' he,
Sitting bolt upright in the pack.
“Ye think ye've laid me snugly here,
And none shall know my station;
But I'll hant ye far, and I'll hant ye near,
Father and son, wi' terror and fear,
To the nineteenth generation.”
And none shall know my station;
But I'll hant ye far, and I'll hant ye near,
Father and son, wi' terror and fear,
To the nineteenth generation.”
The twa were sittin' the vera next night,
When the dog began to cower,
And they knew, by the pale blue fire light,
That the Evil One had power.
When the dog began to cower,
And they knew, by the pale blue fire light,
That the Evil One had power.
It had stricken nine, just nine o' the clock—
The hour when the man lay dead;
There came to the outer door a knock,
And a heavy, heavy tread.
The hour when the man lay dead;
There came to the outer door a knock,
And a heavy, heavy tread.
The old man's head swam round and round,
The woman's blood 'gan freeze,
For it was not like a natural sound,
But like some one stumping o'er the ground
An the banes of his twa bare knees.
The woman's blood 'gan freeze,
For it was not like a natural sound,
But like some one stumping o'er the ground
An the banes of his twa bare knees.
And through the door, like a sough of air,
And stump, stump, round the twa,
Wi' his bloody head, and his knee banes bare—
They'd maist ha'e died of awe!
And stump, stump, round the twa,
Wi' his bloody head, and his knee banes bare—
They'd maist ha'e died of awe!
172
The wife's black locks ere morn grew white,
They say, as the mountain snaws;
The man was as straight as a staff that night,
But he stoop'd when the morning rose.
They say, as the mountain snaws;
The man was as straight as a staff that night,
But he stoop'd when the morning rose.
Still, year and day, as the clock struck nine,
The hour when they did the sin,
The wee bit dog began to whine,
And the ghaist came clattering in.
The hour when they did the sin,
The wee bit dog began to whine,
And the ghaist came clattering in.
Ae night there was a fearful flood—
Three days the skies had pour'd;
And white wi' foam, and black wi' mud,
The burn in fury roar'd.
Three days the skies had pour'd;
And white wi' foam, and black wi' mud,
The burn in fury roar'd.
Quo' she—“Gude man, ye need na turn
Sae pale in the dim fire light;
The Stumpie canna cross the burn,
He'll no' be here the night.
Sae pale in the dim fire light;
The Stumpie canna cross the burn,
He'll no' be here the night.
“For it's o'er the bank, and it's o'er the linn,
And it's up to the meadow ridge—”
“Ay,” quo' the Stumpie hirpling in,
And he gied the wife a slap on the chin,
“But I cam' round by the bridge!”
And stump, stump, stump, to his plays again,
And o'er the stools and chairs ;
Ye'd surely hae thought ten women and men
Were dancing there in pairs.
And it's up to the meadow ridge—”
“Ay,” quo' the Stumpie hirpling in,
And he gied the wife a slap on the chin,
“But I cam' round by the bridge!”
And stump, stump, stump, to his plays again,
And o'er the stools and
chairs ;
Ye'd surely hae thought ten women and men
Were dancing there in pairs.
173
They sold their gear, and over the sea
To a foreign land they went,
Over the sea—but wha can flee
His appointed punishment?
To a foreign land they went,
Over the sea—but wha can flee
His appointed punishment?
The ship swam over the water clear,
Wi' the help o' the eastern breeze;
But the vera first sound in guilty fear,
O'er the wide, smooth deck, that fell on their ear
Was the tapping o' them twa knees.
Wi' the help o' the eastern breeze;
But the vera first sound in guilty fear,
O'er the wide, smooth deck, that fell on their ear
Was the tapping o' them twa knees.
In the woods of wild America
Their weary feet they set;
But Stumpie was there the first, they say,
And he haunted them on to their dying day,
And he follows their children yet.
Their weary feet they set;
But Stumpie was there the first, they say,
And he haunted them on to their dying day,
And he follows their children yet.
I haud ye, never the voice of blood
Call'd from the earth in vain;
And never has crime won worldly good,
But it brought its after-pain.
Call'd from the earth in vain;
And never has crime won worldly good,
But it brought its after-pain.
This is the story o' Stumpie's Brae,
And the murderers' fearfu' fate:
Young man, your face is turn'd that way,
Ye'll be ganging the night that gate.
And the murderers' fearfu' fate:
Young man, your face is turn'd that way,
Ye'll be ganging the night that gate.
Ye'll ken it weel, through the few fir trees,
The house where they wont to dwell;
Gin ye meet ane there, as daylight flees,
Stumping about on the banes of his knees,
It'll jist be Stumpie himsel',
The house where they wont to dwell;
Gin ye meet ane there, as daylight flees,
Stumping about on the banes of his knees,
It'll jist be Stumpie himsel',
This ballad embodies an actual legend attached to a lonely spot on the border of the county of Donegal. The language of the ballad is the peculiar semi-Scottish dialect spoken in the north of Ireland.
174
LOST FOR GOLD.
She stood by the hedge where the orchard slopes
Down to the river below;
The trees all white with their autumn hopes
Look'd heaps of drifted snow:
Down to the river below;
The trees all white with their autumn hopes
Look'd heaps of drifted snow:
They gleam'd like ghosts through the twilight pale,
The shadowy river ran black;
“It's weary waiting,” she said, with a wail,
“For them that never come back.
The shadowy river ran black;
“It's weary waiting,” she said, with a wail,
“For them that never come back.
“The mountain waits there, barren and brown,
Till the yellow furze comes in Spring,
To crown his brows with a golden crown,
And girdle him like a king.
Till the yellow furze comes in Spring,
To crown his brows with a golden crown,
And girdle him like a king.
“The river waits till the Summer lays
The white lily on his track;
But it's weary waiting nights and days
For him that never comes back.
The white lily on his track;
But it's weary waiting nights and days
For him that never comes back.
“Ah, the white lead kills in the heat of the fight,
When passions are hot and wild;
But the red gold kills by the fair fire light
The love of father and child.
When passions are hot and wild;
But the red gold kills by the fair fire light
The love of father and child.
“'Tis twenty years since I heard him say,
When the wild March morn was airy,
Through the drizzly dawn—“‘I'm going away,
To make you a fortune, Mary.”
When the wild March morn was airy,
Through the drizzly dawn—“‘I'm going away,
To make you a fortune, Mary.”
175
“Twenty Springs, with their long grey days,
When the tide runs up on the sand,
And the west wind catches the birds, and lays
Them shrieking far inland.
When the tide runs up on the sand,
And the west wind catches the birds, and lays
Them shrieking far inland.
“From the sea-wash'd reefs, and the stormy mull,
And the damp weed-tangled caves—
Will he ever come back, O wild sea-gull,
Across the green salt waves?
And the damp weed-tangled caves—
Will he ever come back, O wild sea-gull,
Across the green salt waves?
“Twenty Summers, with blue flax bells,
And the young green corn on the lea,
That yellows by night in the moon, and swells
By day like a rippling sea.
And the young green corn on the lea,
That yellows by night in the moon, and swells
By day like a rippling sea.
“Twenty Autumns, with reddening leaves,
In their glorious harvest light,
Steeping a thousand golden sheaves,
And doubling them all at night.
In their glorious harvest light,
Steeping a thousand golden sheaves,
And doubling them all at night.
“Twenty Winters, how long and drear!
With a patter of rain in the street,
And a sound in the last leaves, red and sere;
But never the sound of his feet.
With a patter of rain in the street,
And a sound in the last leaves, red and sere;
But never the sound of his feet.
“The ploughmen talk by furrow and ridge,
I hear them day by day;
The horsemen ride down by the narrow bridge,
But never one comes this way.
I hear them day by day;
The horsemen ride down by the narrow bridge,
But never one comes this way.
176
“And the voice that I long for is wanting there,
And the face I would die to see,
Since he went away in the wild March air,
Ah! to make a fortune for me.
And the face I would die to see,
Since he went away in the wild March air,
Ah! to make a fortune for me.
“O, father dear! but you never thought
Of the fortune you squander'd and lost,
Of the duty that never was sold and bought,
And the love beyond all cost.
Of the fortune you squander'd and lost,
Of the duty that never was sold and bought,
And the love beyond all cost.
“For the vile red dust you gave in thrall
The heart that was God's above;
How could you think that money was all,
When the world was won for love?
The heart that was God's above;
How could you think that money was all,
When the world was won for love?
“You sought me wealth in the stranger's land
Whose veins are veins of gold;
And the fortune God gave was in mine hand,
When yours was in its hold.
Whose veins are veins of gold;
And the fortune God gave was in mine hand,
When yours was in its hold.
“If I might but look on your face,” she says,
“And then let me have or lack;
But it's weary waiting nights and days
For him that never comes back.”
“And then let me have or lack;
But it's weary waiting nights and days
For him that never comes back.”
LILIAN.
“Good sir, 'tis but a poor child's grave,”
The old man to the stranger said,
And he bowed down his silver head,
And plucked a weed that dared to wave
Amid the flowers that decked the mound.
“And dost thou ask me why the ground
Is trimmed, and tended so,
When all around is rough and wild?
'Tis but a peasant's simple child,
That lieth here below.
The old man to the stranger said,
And he bowed down his silver head,
And plucked a weed that dared to wave
177
“And dost thou ask me why the ground
Is trimmed, and tended so,
When all around is rough and wild?
'Tis but a peasant's simple child,
That lieth here below.
“Few lines are on the rude head-stone,—
Ay, stranger, trace them every one;
The strength of these old eyes is gone,
But I remember me, there came,
First, rudely carved, a wild-flower wreath,
And then a cross, and then the name
‘Sweet Lilian,’ underneath.
Ay, stranger, trace them every one;
The strength of these old eyes is gone,
But I remember me, there came,
First, rudely carved, a wild-flower wreath,
And then a cross, and then the name
‘Sweet Lilian,’ underneath.
“It is a tale of my young day;
Sir stranger, wilt thou bide a space?
Still hotly falls the sun's bright ray
On the old dial's face.”
Sir stranger, wilt thou bide a space?
Still hotly falls the sun's bright ray
On the old dial's face.”
The old man's glistening eye is full,
His words are words of grief and love,
The stranger hath a pitying heart;
He sitteth down, but not above
That low green grave; a space apart,
Where some rude hands had dared to pull
A bulwark from the old church wall,
And the hewn stone in fragments fair,
Lay scattered round; he sitteth there:
The old man telleth all.
His words are words of grief and love,
The stranger hath a pitying heart;
He sitteth down, but not above
That low green grave; a space apart,
Where some rude hands had dared to pull
A bulwark from the old church wall,
And the hewn stone in fragments fair,
Lay scattered round; he sitteth there:
The old man telleth all.
178
“It was a glorious morn in May,
Like this, whereon we two are met,
The sweet church bells were ringing yet
Chiming our Whitsun holiday.
Like this, whereon we two are met,
The sweet church bells were ringing yet
Chiming our Whitsun holiday.
“I leaned across my cottage gate,
(Down by the laneside dwelt we then,)
There came poor Richard of the glen,
A widowed man, without a mate,
The child that wrought her mother's loss,
He bore her gently in his arm,
To sign her with Christ's Holy Cross,
And bless her in His Name from harm.
(Down by the laneside dwelt we then,)
There came poor Richard of the glen,
A widowed man, without a mate,
The child that wrought her mother's loss,
He bore her gently in his arm,
To sign her with Christ's Holy Cross,
And bless her in His Name from harm.
“The font, within the Church was dressed,
The solemn Pastor stood thereby,
And the bright gifted water blest,
In Name of the Great Trinity.
The solemn Pastor stood thereby,
And the bright gifted water blest,
In Name of the Great Trinity.
“And Richard said into my ear,
‘Come, be thou godsire to the maid,
I have no friend or kinsman near,
The christening must not be delayed.’
‘Come, be thou godsire to the maid,
I have no friend or kinsman near,
The christening must not be delayed.’
“We had been comrades in our youth,
I answered ‘Yes,’ for very shame,
And out of kindliness in sooth.
And too, across my heart it came
'Twere pity the eternal gate
Were shut to one poor desolate,
Upon Christ's ransomed earth;
Because no brother of His band,
Would speak her plighting vows, and stand
To witness her new birth.
I answered ‘Yes,’ for very shame,
And out of kindliness in sooth.
And too, across my heart it came
'Twere pity the eternal gate
Were shut to one poor desolate,
179
Because no brother of His band,
Would speak her plighting vows, and stand
To witness her new birth.
“So by the font my place I took,
The solemn Priest in snowy vest,
He opened wide the Holy Book;
The child in poor white garments dressed,
The woman gave her tenderly.
Methought that as they gave the child,
Up in my face she looked and smiled,
She looked and smiled at me.
The solemn Priest in snowy vest,
He opened wide the Holy Book;
The child in poor white garments dressed,
The woman gave her tenderly.
Methought that as they gave the child,
Up in my face she looked and smiled,
She looked and smiled at me.
“And when the solemn words were spoken,
The words of love, and hope, and grace,
And her brow bore the sprinkled token,
I looked again into her face,
As almost thinking it would be
Changed with that wondrous mystery:
The large bright drops were hanging o'er
Her eyes, she looked, and smiled at me,
As she had smiled before.
The words of love, and hope, and grace,
And her brow bore the sprinkled token,
I looked again into her face,
As almost thinking it would be
Changed with that wondrous mystery:
The large bright drops were hanging o'er
Her eyes, she looked, and smiled at me,
As she had smiled before.
“Because the earthly vessel wears
No sign of that which it enfolds,
Even as the root in winter bears
No semblance to the flower it holds,
And man in faith must labour here,
Till Heaven's light make his vision clear.
No sign of that which it enfolds,
Even as the root in winter bears
No semblance to the flower it holds,
And man in faith must labour here,
Till Heaven's light make his vision clear.
180
“But by that faith I knew full well
What spirit in the child did dwell,
How Christ Himself did fill her heart,
For she of His own Church was part,
An heir of Heaven's eternal light,
If she but truly held her plight,
And kept her blood-washed garment white,
With faith, and holy deed.
And at my heart lay heavy still,
How I had vowed God's Holy Will
To teach her, and the Christian Creed,
Whereby the holy fight is fought;
I wended homeward with the crowd,
And pondered in my inmost thought,
On what my lips had vowed.
What spirit in the child did dwell,
How Christ Himself did fill her heart,
For she of His own Church was part,
An heir of Heaven's eternal light,
If she but truly held her plight,
And kept her blood-washed garment white,
With faith, and holy deed.
And at my heart lay heavy still,
How I had vowed God's Holy Will
To teach her, and the Christian Creed,
Whereby the holy fight is fought;
I wended homeward with the crowd,
And pondered in my inmost thought,
On what my lips had vowed.
“Good sir, the morn most dark and grey,
May have its sunny hours ere noon,
And buds that have been late in May,
Have borne their blossoms bright in June.
And soft as sunshine seen through tears,
And slight as spring flowers nursed in dew;
So frail, and fair, through earliest years,
Our Lilian's childhood grew.
The village dames did prophesy,
She would not live out her first spring,
And when the fifth went lingering by,
They vowed it was a marvellous thing,
The like they never knew.
May have its sunny hours ere noon,
And buds that have been late in May,
Have borne their blossoms bright in June.
And soft as sunshine seen through tears,
And slight as spring flowers nursed in dew;
So frail, and fair, through earliest years,
Our Lilian's childhood grew.
The village dames did prophesy,
She would not live out her first spring,
And when the fifth went lingering by,
They vowed it was a marvellous thing,
The like they never knew.
181
“She learned to love me, my sweet charge;
Whene'er I sought the lonely glen,
She knew me from all other men,
Ay, long before she went at large,
And she would gently kiss my cheek,
And stroke it with her fingers weak.
Whene'er I sought the lonely glen,
She knew me from all other men,
Ay, long before she went at large,
And she would gently kiss my cheek,
And stroke it with her fingers weak.
“But I did never meet her eyes,
That were like streams in winter, deep,
And darkly blue, yet full of glee,
Like those same waters, when they leap
Up in the summer sunshine free,
But to my soul that vow would rise.
That were like streams in winter, deep,
And darkly blue, yet full of glee,
Like those same waters, when they leap
Up in the summer sunshine free,
But to my soul that vow would rise.
“Her sire grew reckless, rude, and wild,
He never prayed our prayers at all,
He was not fit to teach the child.
And neighbours whispering, let fall
Strange stories of wild comrades met,
In his lone house when suns were set.
He never prayed our prayers at all,
He was not fit to teach the child.
And neighbours whispering, let fall
Strange stories of wild comrades met,
In his lone house when suns were set.
“Thy father must have told thee tales,
Of the wild work in these our dales,
When the good Charles was king.
Ah! how should flowers of faith take root,
Or holiness bear precious fruit,
'Mid them who mocked each holy thing?
Who burst in twain each hallowed tie,
Denying what God's Spirit wrought?
She had her home with such, and I
Was bound to see her taught.
Of the wild work in these our dales,
When the good Charles was king.
Ah! how should flowers of faith take root,
Or holiness bear precious fruit,
'Mid them who mocked each holy thing?
Who burst in twain each hallowed tie,
Denying what God's Spirit wrought?
She had her home with such, and I
Was bound to see her taught.
182
“The flower is but a little thing,
It perfumes all the gales of spring,
God feeds it with His dewdrops bright,
And never yet the heart has beat
Too mean, too lowly, too unmeet,
To do its proper part aright;
Nor hand has been too weak, or small,
To work for Him, Who works in all.
It perfumes all the gales of spring,
God feeds it with His dewdrops bright,
And never yet the heart has beat
Too mean, too lowly, too unmeet,
To do its proper part aright;
Nor hand has been too weak, or small,
To work for Him, Who works in all.
“I told the Pastor all my woes,
And fears for Lilian's sad estate,
And he did tell me words, like those
I spake to thee of late;
And bade me pray right earnestly,
For her soul's final victory.
And fears for Lilian's sad estate,
And he did tell me words, like those
I spake to thee of late;
And bade me pray right earnestly,
For her soul's final victory.
“The good old Priest, he would not leave
Her foot to wander where it would.
To him the evil and the good,
Were children all; and he did grieve
If one poor sinner went astray,
And prayed, and sought him night and day;
As shepherd on some barren track,
If one small lambkin be not found,
Seeks all the desert region round,
Until he bear the lost one back.
Her foot to wander where it would.
To him the evil and the good,
Were children all; and he did grieve
If one poor sinner went astray,
And prayed, and sought him night and day;
As shepherd on some barren track,
If one small lambkin be not found,
Seeks all the desert region round,
Until he bear the lost one back.
183
“The lamb that his own arm had borne,
And with the holy water crossed,
Upon her soul's baptismal morn
He would not see her lost.
And with the holy water crossed,
Upon her soul's baptismal morn
He would not see her lost.
“And many a time when winter's snow,
Along the trackless glen lay white;
And when the summer sun did glow,
At early dawn, at pale twilight;
Or when the sultry noon was hot,
I saw him seeking the lone spot.
Along the trackless glen lay white;
And when the summer sun did glow,
At early dawn, at pale twilight;
Or when the sultry noon was hot,
I saw him seeking the lone spot.
“And many a time I tound him there,
In that poor cottage rude and bare,
Sweet Lilian with uplifted head,
Intent on holy rule or prayer;
While the deaf grandam in her chair
Sat spinning out her weary thread.
In that poor cottage rude and bare,
Sweet Lilian with uplifted head,
Intent on holy rule or prayer;
While the deaf grandam in her
chair
Sat spinning out her weary thread.
“'Twas marvellous how the good Priest loved
Those hours of childish communing:
It seemed the old Saint, tried and proved,
Whose foot th' eternal threshold trod,
Loved best the pure and gentle things,
Come freshest from the hand of God;
And his dim eye would catch the light
Of her sweet smile so glad and bright,
As night is beautiful, when day
Just tints it with its purple ray.
Those hours of childish communing:
It seemed the old Saint, tried and proved,
Whose foot th' eternal threshold trod,
Loved best the pure and gentle things,
Come freshest from the hand of God;
And his dim eye would catch the light
Of her sweet smile so glad and bright,
As night is beautiful, when day
Just tints it with its purple ray.
184
“Thus did he sow the precious seed,
And fast and fair the blossoms grew,
She could not write, she could not read,
That gentle child; and yet she knew,
To my poor thought, far more in sooth
Than learned age or lettered youth.
And fast and fair the blossoms grew,
She could not write, she could not read,
That gentle child; and yet she knew,
To my poor thought, far more in sooth
Than learned age or lettered youth.
“The good church bells did never chime,
But Lilian came there every time,
Till the old man would laughing say,
‘Sweet Lilian’ told the hour of day;
(This name they gave her for the grace,
And gentleness of her sweet face.)
And when she knelt with downcast eyes
The village dames a sigh would give,
And say the poor child could not live,
She was so young and wise.—
But Lilian came there every time,
Till the old man would laughing say,
‘Sweet Lilian’ told the hour of day;
(This name they gave her for the grace,
And gentleness of her sweet face.)
And when she knelt with downcast eyes
The village dames a sigh would give,
And say the poor child could not live,
She was so young and wise.—
“It was the first month of the year,
And good King Charles would hunt the deer,
Within Sir Geoffrey's park;
A gallant sight to see, good sir,
The whole small hamlet was astir,
While yet the morn was dark.
And good King Charles would hunt the deer,
Within Sir Geoffrey's park;
A gallant sight to see, good sir,
The whole small hamlet was astir,
While yet the morn was dark.
“The frost that with his iron hand,
Had bound the stream, and held the land,
For many a bitter day,
Had loosed his hold, and all the earth
As prescient of the spring's new birth,
In wintry garb looked gay.
“Three times I saw the chase sweep by:
How loud and deep the good hounds cried!
Each man of that high company,
How bravely did he ride!
Had bound the stream, and held the land,
For many a bitter day,
Had loosed his hold, and all the earth
As prescient of the spring's new birth,
In wintry garb looked gay.
185
How loud and deep the good hounds cried!
Each man of that high company,
How bravely did he ride!
“The earliest snowdrops just had burst
With pure white leaf their verdant shell,
They always sprang and blossomed first
In Lilian's sheltered dell.
With pure white leaf their verdant shell,
They always sprang and blossomed first
In Lilian's sheltered dell.
“At early morn the child would go,
Of those sweet flowers, as white as snow,
A posy fresh to bring,
And tied it with a silken thread;
And when I asked, she smiled, and said,
That it was for the king.
Of those sweet flowers, as white as snow,
A posy fresh to bring,
And tied it with a silken thread;
And when I asked, she smiled, and said,
That it was for the king.
“The chase was o'er at middle day,
Short time for food or rest might be,
The monarch's towers were far away,
And all the hamlet stood to see,
As he came from the hostel room,
While waiting round in their due course,
Were belted knight, and squire, and groom,
To see the king to horse:
Short time for food or rest might be,
The monarch's towers were far away,
And all the hamlet stood to see,
As he came from the hostel room,
While waiting round in their due course,
Were belted knight, and squire, and groom,
To see the king to horse:
“When in her Sunday kirtle dressed,
Holding her simple offering,
Sweet Lilian through the people pressed,
And knelt before the king.
“She told him, she had been to cull
Those flowers for him at morning fair;
And the good king so beautiful,
With his long flowing hair,
And his dark melancholy eyes,
He did not bid the fair child rise,
But stooped down 'mid his smiling band,
And raised her with his royal hand.
Holding her simple offering,
Sweet Lilian through the people pressed,
And knelt before the king.
186
Those flowers for him at morning fair;
And the good king so beautiful,
With his long flowing hair,
And his dark melancholy eyes,
He did not bid the fair child rise,
But stooped down 'mid his smiling band,
And raised her with his royal hand.
“Then with such sweet and gentle look,
So fatherly and mild,
Kindly the simple gift he took,
And to his lip, and to his breast,
With grateful action courteous pressed,
And answered to the child,
Fair maiden, this good horse of ours,
He will not let us ride with flowers,
Thy fragrant gift I may not take,
But thou shalt wear for Charles's sake,
What Charles's hand has bound.’
The monarch took his light gold chain,
He tied the posy round and round,
And gave it to the child again.
So fatherly and mild,
Kindly the simple gift he took,
And to his lip, and to his breast,
With grateful action courteous pressed,
And answered to the child,
Fair maiden, this good horse of ours,
He will not let us ride with flowers,
Thy fragrant gift I may not take,
But thou shalt wear for Charles's sake,
What Charles's hand has bound.’
The monarch took his light gold chain,
He tied the posy round and round,
And gave it to the child again.
“The king rode from the hostelry,
The people shouted loud and clear;
There stood in little Lilian's eye
And on her crimson cheek a tear,
I know not if 'twas joy, or fear,
Or haply a dim shadow drear,
From sad futurity.
“Poor innocent! that glittering band,
She gave it to her father's hand,
She caréd not for gold at all,
But ever told me she loved best
The flowers the king's own lip had pressed,
And still at each high festival,
She wore them in her vest.
The people shouted loud and clear;
There stood in little Lilian's eye
And on her crimson cheek a tear,
I know not if 'twas joy, or fear,
Or haply a dim shadow drear,
From sad futurity.
187
She gave it to her father's hand,
She caréd not for gold at all,
But ever told me she loved best
The flowers the king's own lip had pressed,
And still at each high festival,
She wore them in her vest.
“Thus lovelier, better, year by year,
The poor man's child did grow more dear,
And wise, and gentle in our sight.
For never yet the heart has beat,
Too mean, too lowly, too unmeet,
To do its proper part aright,
Nor hand hath been too weak, or small,
To work for Him Who works for all.
The poor man's child did grow more dear,
And wise, and gentle in our sight.
For never yet the heart has beat,
Too mean, too lowly, too unmeet,
To do its proper part aright,
Nor hand hath been too weak, or small,
To work for Him Who works for all.
“I saw thee viewing o'er and o'er,
From eastern cross to western door,
Yon ancient church right curiously,
The pointed windows moulded rich,
The buttress tall, the fretted niche,
Where saintly image wont to be.
From eastern cross to western door,
Yon ancient church right curiously,
The pointed windows moulded rich,
The buttress tall, the fretted niche,
Where saintly image wont to be.
“O, stranger, hadst thou seen it then!
In its first beauteous form; ere men
Did reverence superstition call,
And plucked the stone-work from the wall,
And broke the font, and dared to tear
From tomb, and shrine, the carving fair.
In its first beauteous form; ere men
Did reverence superstition call,
And plucked the stone-work from the wall,
And broke the font, and dared to tear
From tomb, and shrine, the carving fair.
188
“They rose who said, 'twere shame to kneel,
Those ornamented walls within,
That the loud organ's solemn peal
Was mockery and sin;
That the Great God Whom Christians sought,
Loved hastier prayer, and strain less sweet:
And costly gift, and time, and thought,
Were not for Him an offering meet.
Those ornamented walls within,
That the loud organ's solemn peal
Was mockery and sin;
That the Great God Whom Christians sought,
Loved hastier prayer, and strain less sweet:
And costly gift, and time, and thought,
Were not for Him an offering meet.
“I am a man of simple wit,
Unfit to strive, unapt to teach,
I could not answer to their speech;
And yet the honey-drop, I ween,
Is none less sweet in lily sheen,
For the fair cup that holdeth it.
Unfit to strive, unapt to teach,
I could not answer to their speech;
And yet the honey-drop, I ween,
Is none less sweet in lily sheen,
For the fair cup that holdeth it.
“And sure the temple high and vast,
That God's Own Hand has made,
The shadowy mountains standing fast,
The long green aisle of forest shade,
Proud Nature's own eternal shrine,
Is beautiful as eye may see,
And outward things are for a sign,
And ever teach us silently.
That God's Own Hand has made,
The shadowy mountains standing fast,
The long green aisle of forest shade,
Proud Nature's own eternal shrine,
Is beautiful as eye may see,
And outward things are for a sign,
And ever teach us silently.
“And scarce I deemed, they much misused
God's precious gifts of all abused,
Who brought Him back a part,
The costly things that wealth commands,
The curious work of cunning hands,
Perfection of fine art.—
God's precious gifts of all abused,
Who brought Him back a part,
The costly things that wealth commands,
The curious work of cunning hands,
Perfection of fine art.—
189
“But when they told me the dear prayers,
That night and day to all my joys
Had comrades been, and soothed my cares,
Were idle form, and empty noise,
I knew their words were false and vain,
For deep in my own heart there rung
An echo to each hallowed word,
As when the harp is featly strung,
And by the sweetness of the chord,
We know how true the strain.
That night and day to all my joys
Had comrades been, and soothed my cares,
Were idle form, and empty noise,
I knew their words were false and vain,
For deep in my own heart there rung
An echo to each hallowed word,
As when the harp is featly strung,
And by the sweetness of the chord,
We know how true the strain.
“But they had lost that soothing tone,
And their proud hearts waxed worse and worse,
Quiet and calm of soul were gone,
For all our blessings came a curse,
The heavy curse of evil strife,
Upon our peaceful peasant life.
And their proud hearts waxed worse and worse,
Quiet and calm of soul were gone,
For all our blessings came a curse,
The heavy curse of evil strife,
Upon our peaceful peasant life.
‘They laid the tomb and altar low,
They poisoned many a simple heart;
And Richard to the wars would go,
And for the Commons’ part.
They poisoned many a simple heart;
And Richard to the wars would go,
And for the Commons’ part.
“'Twas said he fell at Marston Moor;
The grandam in her grave was laid,
The child was desolate and poor,
She had been welcome to the shade
Of my poor roof tree; but there stayed
That hour, at old Sir Geoffrey's park,
Stern men of aspect cold and dark;
The grandam in her grave was laid,
The child was desolate and poor,
She had been welcome to the shade
Of my poor roof tree; but there stayed
That hour, at old Sir Geoffrey's park,
Stern men of aspect cold and dark;
190
They shut the poor man's lowly door,
They said the maiden must be sent,
To earn an honest livelihood,
Her sire had served the Parliament.
Ah me! their judgment was not good,
She was too young and innocent.
They said the maiden must be sent,
To earn an honest livelihood,
Her sire had served the Parliament.
Ah me! their judgment was not good,
She was too young and innocent.
“There passed a stranger up the way,
Where Lilian stood alone with me,
And whispered how she might not stay
In her old home; the man was grey,
Into my face with strange wild eye,
He looked up, as he passed us by,
‘The king is slain,’ quoth he.
Where Lilian stood alone with me,
And whispered how she might not stay
In her old home; the man was grey,
Into my face with strange wild eye,
He looked up, as he passed us by,
‘The king is slain,’ quoth he.
“Sweet Lilian laid in mine her hand;
The snow whereon we three did stand
Was dark beside the poor child's cheek;
Said she, ‘'Tis many a weary week
Since we have been to Church and prayed,
Let us go there and ask for aid
From God in Heaven, for our good king.’
‘Child,’ quoth the old man, wondering,
‘The king is with the Saints at rest;
When thou shalt bend the knee again,
Pray for the miserable men
Who smote that royal breast;
And for the land whereon the stain
Of his dear blood doth rest.’
The snow whereon we three did stand
Was dark beside the poor child's cheek;
Said she, ‘'Tis many a weary week
Since we have been to Church and prayed,
Let us go there and ask for aid
From God in Heaven, for our good king.’
‘Child,’ quoth the old man, wondering,
‘The king is with the Saints at rest;
When thou shalt bend the knee again,
Pray for the miserable men
Who smote that royal breast;
And for the land whereon the stain
Of his dear blood doth rest.’
191
“The traveller asked me of the time
And of the place, and of the priest;
I told him it was long a crime,
At holy tide, at fast, or feast,
To worship at our Father's shrine,
And for I saw his heart was true,
I told him of the faithful few,
Who with the holy Pastor met,
And still the bread mysterious ate,
And drank the consecrated wine.
And of the place, and of the priest;
I told him it was long a crime,
At holy tide, at fast, or feast,
To worship at our Father's shrine,
And for I saw his heart was true,
I told him of the faithful few,
Who with the holy Pastor met,
And still the bread mysterious ate,
And drank the consecrated wine.
“But even this was o'er, I said,
Close search for the good Priest had been
Ten days, and he had not been seen,
And some avowed that he was dead,
And some men spake of tyranny
That might not reach beyond the sea.
Close search for the good Priest had been
Ten days, and he had not been seen,
And some avowed that he was dead,
And some men spake of tyranny
That might not reach beyond the sea.
“I told him, too, of mine own fear,
Of the lone doom of Lilian dear,
And how our hearts were sunk and chill,
For we had none, for good or ill,
To counsel or to cheer.
And he did wring my hand, and say,
‘Take courage, brother, work and pray.
Of the lone doom of Lilian dear,
And how our hearts were sunk and chill,
For we had none, for good or ill,
To counsel or to cheer.
And he did wring my hand, and say,
‘Take courage, brother, work and pray.
“‘The gales of spring are rude and cold,
Yet patiently the flowers unfold
Their fragrant breath, their colours bright;
And never yet the heart has beat
Too mean, too lowly, too unmeet,
To do its proper part aright,
Nor hand has been too weak or small,
To work for Him, Who works for all.’
Yet patiently the flowers unfold
Their fragrant breath, their colours bright;
192
Too mean, too lowly, too unmeet,
To do its proper part aright,
Nor hand has been too weak or small,
To work for Him, Who works for all.’
“There have been weeds in garden bowers,
By chance winds thither brought,
That have grown up amid the flowers,
And there have stood long summer hours,
Yet, nothing of their fragrance caught.
And hearts have been in Christian land,
With names enrolled in Christ's Own band,
And brows that bore His cleansing mark;
Yet knew not of His spirit mild.—
She was a woman stern and dark,
To whom they gave the child.
By chance winds thither brought,
That have grown up amid the flowers,
And there have stood long summer hours,
Yet, nothing of their fragrance caught.
And hearts have been in Christian land,
With names enrolled in Christ's Own band,
And brows that bore His cleansing mark;
Yet knew not of His spirit mild.—
She was a woman stern and dark,
To whom they gave the child.
“The tears were in mine eyes; I prayed,
And almost on my bended knee,
Sith I was godsire to the child,
That she might dwell with me.
And almost on my bended knee,
Sith I was godsire to the child,
That she might dwell with me.
“Alas! the dame was harsh and stern,
She led her weary nights and days,
She nothing knew of childhood's ways,
And how should she their nature learn?
She had no children of her own,
And in her loneness she had grown
She led her weary nights and days,
She nothing knew of childhood's ways,
And how should she their nature learn?
She had no children of her own,
And in her loneness she had grown
193
E'en like the rock, whereon there fall
No drops of water day by day,
To wear its ruggedness away:
Hers was a cruel thrall.
No drops of water day by day,
To wear its ruggedness away:
Hers was a cruel thrall.
“I seldom saw my darling then,
And she did never make complaint,
Only to mine earnest ken
It seemed her voice did grow more faint,
And I could count, she grew so thin,
The small bones underneath her skin.
And she did never make complaint,
Only to mine earnest ken
It seemed her voice did grow more faint,
And I could count, she grew so thin,
The small bones underneath her skin.
“She never spake of usage hard,
Only after doors were barred,
When birds and lambs are gone to rest,
And children should be long abed;
A little hand my latch has pressed,
And she has come and asked for bread.
Only after doors were barred,
When birds and lambs are gone to rest,
And children should be long abed;
A little hand my latch has pressed,
And she has come and asked for bread.
“And neighbours told me they had heard
In the dark night a childish moan,
All day rude blow and angry word,
And hours of toil beyond her years,
And threats that mocked at childhood's fears:
Ah me! that woman's heart was stone.
In the dark night a childish moan,
All day rude blow and angry word,
And hours of toil beyond her years,
And threats that mocked at childhood's fears:
Ah me! that woman's heart was stone.
“A woman might perchance have borne,
A man had power to hold his own:
But one poor little child alone,
With that hard bondage daily worn,
Oppressed, unloved, and over-wrought,
It was a miserable thought.
A man had power to hold his own:
But one poor little child alone,
194
Oppressed, unloved, and over-wrought,
It was a miserable thought.
“And I could hardly rest at night,
For thought of Lilian's wretched plight;
And when my children slept around,
The music of their breathing deep,
Would fail to lull my soul to sleep,
With its deep regular sound.
For thought of Lilian's wretched plight;
And when my children slept around,
The music of their breathing deep,
Would fail to lull my soul to sleep,
With its deep regular sound.
“Till weary with my long unrest,
I have risen up by night, and gone
Out in the trouble of my breast,
To wander through the twilight wan.
I have risen up by night, and gone
Out in the trouble of my breast,
To wander through the twilight wan.
“One morn, within the old park wall,
I stood beside the trodden track,
Where erst the happy peasants all,
Had pressed to Church, and lingered back.
I stood beside the trodden track,
Where erst the happy peasants all,
Had pressed to Church, and lingered back.
“The first faint streak of early dawn,
Just lifted up the night-clouds grey,
And whitening all the silver lawn,
The pearly dew like hoar-frost lay.
Just lifted up the night-clouds grey,
And whitening all the silver lawn,
The pearly dew like hoar-frost lay.
“The lark's first song rose clear and sweet,
Fresh from his purple clover bed:
I heard the sound of coming feet,
But 'twas so light a tread,
That I drew back a little space,
As thin king fays might haunt the place.
Fresh from his purple clover bed:
I heard the sound of coming feet,
But 'twas so light a tread,
That I drew back a little space,
As thin king fays might haunt the place.
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“Sweet Lilian through the glistening grass,
Came with quick step and frightened air,
Straight to the church wall did she pass,
And somewhat in her hand did bear.
Came with quick step and frightened air,
Straight to the church wall did she pass,
And somewhat in her hand did bear.
“She looked so pale and spiritwise,
I thought at first it was her ghost,
Lingering awhile in fleshly guise,
Around the spot she lovéd most.
I thought at first it was her ghost,
Lingering awhile in fleshly guise,
Around the spot she lovéd most.
“By the north door she entered in,
I on her footsteps softly crept:
That door scarce closed that once had been
So carefully and duly kept,
Save when the solemn church bells chimed,
For evensong or matin prayer,—
Into a window tall I climbed,
To see what did she there.
I on her footsteps softly crept:
That door scarce closed that once had been
So carefully and duly kept,
Save when the solemn church bells chimed,
For evensong or matin prayer,—
Into a window tall I climbed,
To see what did she there.
“Dear heart! it was a marvellous sight
The eastern heavens were all alight,
And through the arched east window tall
Its shivered rose of fair design,
The slanting rays now stainless all,
Broke in in many a silver line.
The eastern heavens were all alight,
And through the arched east window tall
Its shivered rose of fair design,
The slanting rays now stainless all,
Broke in in many a silver line.
“And by the tomb of that red knight,
Who wore the cross in eastern fight,
Sweet Lilian sat; and she had spread
Her simple feast of meat and bread,
Who wore the cross in eastern fight,
Sweet Lilian sat; and she had spread
Her simple feast of meat and bread,
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What I and others ne'er denied
Unto her earnest prayer.
There sat an old man at her side,
The Pastor with his thin white hair.
Unto her earnest prayer.
There sat an old man at her side,
The Pastor with his thin white hair.
“O! but our hearts were cold and dull,
That knew not where our Priest to seek;
God's ways are wise and wonderful,
His tools are small and weak.
That knew not where our Priest to seek;
God's ways are wise and wonderful,
His tools are small and weak.
“With words of gratitude and praise,
The Pastor broke the simple food,
And drank the water clear and good,
And she sat by him, with a gaze
That almost made her eye grow bright,
With its old innocent delight.
I thought as I did on them look,
Of the old tales of Israel,
And of the Prophet by the brook,
And how the Lord, unchangeable,
Was still a Lord of life and love,
And for the raven sent the dove.
The Pastor broke the simple food,
And drank the water clear and good,
And she sat by him, with a gaze
That almost made her eye grow bright,
With its old innocent delight.
I thought as I did on them look,
Of the old tales of Israel,
And of the Prophet by the brook,
And how the Lord, unchangeable,
Was still a Lord of life and love,
And for the raven sent the dove.
“He by the altar knelt and prayed,
And she without the rail did bow,
I could not hear the words he said,
But the strong murmur deep and low,
Filled all the lonely church; and then
As echo answers from the hills,
When some wild strain of music thrills,
There came her soft ‘Amen.’
And she without the rail did bow,
I could not hear the words he said,
But the strong murmur deep and low,
Filled all the lonely church; and then
As echo answers from the hills,
When some wild strain of music thrills,
There came her soft ‘Amen.’
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“Then both his hands on her bent head
He laid, and blessed her; and she came
Forth from the church; and to the dame
Went back while yet the sky was red.
He laid, and blessed her; and she came
Forth from the church; and to the dame
Went back while yet the sky was red.
“I kneeling lonely, in the hush
Of mine own chamber, ere the blush
Of that bright morning in the skies,
Had broken on my children's eyes,
Did ponder in my prayer,
How much that little hand had wrought,
How slow to hers, how cold my thought,
How full of selfish care.
Of mine own chamber, ere the blush
Of that bright morning in the skies,
Had broken on my children's eyes,
Did ponder in my prayer,
How much that little hand had wrought,
How slow to hers, how cold my thought,
How full of selfish care.
“Due portion from that hour I laid
Each day aside for Lilian's store,
With smiles and kisses she repaid,
But spake not, nor I questioned more.
Each day aside for Lilian's store,
With smiles and kisses she repaid,
But spake not, nor I questioned more.
“This was not long: the summer time
Had passed her glorious middle prime,
And long ere yellow autumn browned
With sober touch, her foliage fair,
The good old Priest no more was there.
I know not if the foemen found
At last, their hotly hunted prey,
Or if the good man went away
To labour some more grateful ground:
One knew, but she would only say,
He bade us watch, and work, and pray:
And never came she as of yore,
At twilight, to my cottage door.
Had passed her glorious middle prime,
And long ere yellow autumn browned
With sober touch, her foliage fair,
The good old Priest no more was there.
I know not if the foemen found
At last, their hotly hunted prey,
Or if the good man went away
To labour some more grateful ground:
One knew, but she would only say,
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And never came she as of yore,
At twilight, to my cottage door.
“The autumn days grew shorter still,
And Lilian waxed more faint and ill,
She did not moan, she did not weep,
But ever walked with us like one
Who longeth to lie down and sleep,
Yet lingered still, her work all done;
Like birds that hang with their white wings
Just on the verge of the blue sea;
Till autumn faded utterly,
All beautiful and fragrant things
Die then; and so died she.
And Lilian waxed more faint and ill,
She did not moan, she did not weep,
But ever walked with us like one
Who longeth to lie down and sleep,
Yet lingered still, her work all done;
Like birds that hang with their white wings
Just on the verge of the blue sea;
Till autumn faded utterly,
All beautiful and fragrant things
Die then; and so died she.
“That woman of ungentle mood,
One morn beside my threshold stood,
And told, half angry, half in fear,
Ere dawn the child had been away,
And sure she must have wandered here.
I had not seen her all the day:
And the stern woman's cheek grew pale,
And neighbours gathered at the tale,
And all with anxious face; for we
Did love the child exceedingly.
One morn beside my threshold stood,
And told, half angry, half in fear,
Ere dawn the child had been away,
And sure she must have wandered here.
I had not seen her all the day:
And the stern woman's cheek grew pale,
And neighbours gathered at the tale,
And all with anxious face; for we
Did love the child exceedingly.
“Women, and youths, and bearded men,
We sought her in each hamlet home,
And through the park, and up the glen.
At length I whispered, ‘Let us come
To the old church; by word or dell,
No spot loves Lilian half so well.’
We sought her in each hamlet home,
And through the park, and up the glen.
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To the old church; by word or dell,
No spot loves Lilian half so well.’
“Good sir, it is a piteous tale:
We found her by the chancel stair,
Where last with him she knelt in prayer,
E'en at the altar rail,
Thereon reclined her little head,
In her closed hand the king's gift lay,
We tried to take those flowers away,
And found that she was dead.
We found her by the chancel stair,
Where last with him she knelt in prayer,
E'en at the altar rail,
Thereon reclined her little head,
In her closed hand the king's gift lay,
We tried to take those flowers away,
And found that she was dead.
“Without a pang, without a sob,
It seemed the child's sweet soul had fled
From its poor dwelling quietly,
Up to His presence, Who has said,
‘Let little children come to Me.’
We felt for but one little throb
Of pulse or heart, in vain; 'tis strange
How man will tremble at that change!
How we did watch most earnestly
Those eyes, for but one gleam of life,
Though the next moment they might be
Wet with the anguish of its strife.
It seemed the child's sweet soul had fled
From its poor dwelling quietly,
Up to His presence, Who has said,
‘Let little children come to Me.’
We felt for but one little throb
Of pulse or heart, in vain; 'tis strange
How man will tremble at that change!
How we did watch most earnestly
Those eyes, for but one gleam of life,
Though the next moment they might be
Wet with the anguish of its strife.
“I knew she would not find unrest
Again, or weariness, or loss:
I knew that for the dewy cross,
I saw on her pale brow impressed,
Henceforth would be a golden crown;
And yet the tears dropped slowly down.
It was a natural grief, good sir,
None other breathed on earth like her.
Again, or weariness, or loss:
I knew that for the dewy cross,
I saw on her pale brow impressed,
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And yet the tears dropped slowly down.
It was a natural grief, good sir,
None other breathed on earth like her.
“We laid her underneath this sod,
And each one in his heart did trust
Our sister's body to the dust,
Her soul unto the living God;
For none was there to speak aloud,
The holy words above her shroud.
And each one in his heart did trust
Our sister's body to the dust,
Her soul unto the living God;
For none was there to speak aloud,
The holy words above her shroud.
“But I do never seek the place,
But over my whole soul will creep
Thoughts of her gentleness, and grace,
And patient goodness, like the deep
Sweet murmur of some river's flow,
That we have dwelt by long ago,
And seem to hear again in sleep.
But over my whole soul will creep
Thoughts of her gentleness, and grace,
And patient goodness, like the deep
Sweet murmur of some river's flow,
That we have dwelt by long ago,
And seem to hear again in sleep.
“She was a token unto me,
Of truth veiled up in mystery,
A sign that prayer is answerèd,
So strongly, e'en to outward sense,
Had the Great Spirit's influence,
On her young soul been shed.
Of truth veiled up in mystery,
A sign that prayer is answerèd,
So strongly, e'en to outward sense,
Had the Great Spirit's influence,
On her young soul been shed.
“Alas! our hearts are slow to faith,
That Spirit worketh every day;
Can we not trust Him when He saith,
He heareth all we say?
“And thus I learnt, how poor low things
Do service to the King of kings,
Led on by His own might.
For never yet the heart has beat
Too mean, too lowly, too unmeet,
To do its proper part aright,
Nor hand hath been too weak or small,
To work for Him, Who works in all.”
That Spirit worketh every day;
Can we not trust Him when He saith,
He heareth all we say?
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Do service to the King of kings,
Led on by His own might.
For never yet the heart has beat
Too mean, too lowly, too unmeet,
To do its proper part aright,
Nor hand hath been too weak or small,
To work for Him, Who works in all.”
The stranger riseth to depart,
With moistened eye, and softened heart,
Like one who in the desert ground
Perchance a little spot has found,
A fountain clear as morning dew,
With green grass planted all around,
And sweet flowers springing through.
He had but come in idleness,
To scan those arches old and grey,—
A thought of love and holiness,
A dream of peace and blessedness,
That stranger bore away.
With moistened eye, and softened heart,
Like one who in the desert ground
Perchance a little spot has found,
A fountain clear as morning dew,
With green grass planted all around,
And sweet flowers springing through.
He had but come in idleness,
To scan those arches old and grey,—
A thought of love and holiness,
A dream of peace and blessedness,
That stranger bore away.
THE BARON'S LITTLE DAUGHTER.
“I love the winter violet blue,”
The child said to her mother,
“With its sweet scent and purple hue,
It blossoms through the rain and snow,
And never heeds what wind may blow,
Sure earth has no such other.”
The child said to her mother,
“With its sweet scent and purple hue,
It blossoms through the rain and snow,
And never heeds what wind may blow,
Sure earth has no such other.”
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And she made answer quietly,
That lady beautiful to see,
Bending the child above,
“The likest thing in all the earth
To that sweet flowret's modest worth,
Is pure unselfish love.”
That lady beautiful to see,
Bending the child above,
“The likest thing in all the earth
To that sweet flowret's modest worth,
Is pure unselfish love.”
And her eyes shone with double light
Through the long silken fringe,
Around their lids so shrunk and white,
And on each cheek glowed strangely bright
The spot of hectic tinge.
Amid the fair child's ringlets free
Played her long fingers wan,
“You must love your father tenderly,
Clarice, when I am gone.
Through the long silken fringe,
Around their lids so shrunk and white,
And on each cheek glowed strangely bright
The spot of hectic tinge.
Amid the fair child's ringlets free
Played her long fingers wan,
“You must love your father tenderly,
Clarice, when I am gone.
“When he comes weary from the chase
He will not meet my glad embrace,
Nor chide again in playful mood,
The weakness of my woman's blood,
As shrinking I essay
The heavy corselet to unlace,
And take the visor from his face
After the battle day.
He will not meet my glad embrace,
Nor chide again in playful mood,
The weakness of my woman's blood,
As shrinking I essay
The heavy corselet to unlace,
And take the visor from his face
After the battle day.
“No hand but yours to mix the cup,
When he is vexed and hot.”—
The little child looked meekly up,
Through locks that cast a golden glow,
Upon her delicate young brow,
Like sunrise on a hill of snow;
“O, sweetest mother, do not go;
You know he loves me not.
When he is vexed and hot.”—
The little child looked meekly up,
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Upon her delicate young brow,
Like sunrise on a hill of snow;
“O, sweetest mother, do not go;
You know he loves me not.
“He bids me sternly from his sight,
He cannot brook my voice to hear;
His large dark eyes so fiercely bright,
That look so soft when you are near
As shaded clouds of summer light,
To me are black as winter night.
He cannot brook my voice to hear;
His large dark eyes so fiercely bright,
That look so soft when you are near
As shaded clouds of summer light,
To me are black as winter night.
“He gives no kisses to my cheek,
Like those he gives to you,
Why is it,—gentle mother, speak—
He cannot love us two?
Has his broad breast a heart so small,
That it can care for one alone?
And how may love to him be shown
Who loveth not at all?”
Like those he gives to you,
Why is it,—gentle mother, speak—
He cannot love us two?
Has his broad breast a heart so small,
That it can care for one alone?
And how may love to him be shown
Who loveth not at all?”
So quick the breathing came and went,
Against that lady's wasted side,
For sorrow as the child replied,
That every breath was like a sob,
And you could hear the pulses throb,
Like short rough waves too closely pent,
Of an uneasy tide.
Against that lady's wasted side,
For sorrow as the child replied,
That every breath was like a sob,
And you could hear the pulses throb,
Like short rough waves too closely pent,
Of an uneasy tide.
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Far up, far up, in turret high,
With loophole looking to the sky,
That lady's chamber lay;
Whence they could see the tall trees toss
Their topmost boughs in middle air,
And down below the small white cross,
On roof of the carved chapel fair,
Gleam in the sunset ray.
With loophole looking to the sky,
That lady's chamber lay;
Whence they could see the tall trees toss
Their topmost boughs in middle air,
And down below the small white cross,
On roof of the carved chapel fair,
Gleam in the sunset ray.
“My child, my child, did He not love,
Who hung for thee thereon?”
(Slowly doth her finger move,
Until it showeth steadily,
Sign of best love and agony,
That little cross of stone.)
Who hung for thee thereon?”
(Slowly doth her finger move,
Until it showeth steadily,
Sign of best love and agony,
That little cross of stone.)
“And where for Him was mercy dear,
Or pitying thought, or soothing tear?
Who loved Him as He loved?
Did they not scorn His gentleness?
Did they not mock His soul's distress,
And meet His melting tenderness
Unsoftened and unmoved?
Or pitying thought, or soothing tear?
Who loved Him as He loved?
Did they not scorn His gentleness?
Did they not mock His soul's distress,
And meet His melting tenderness
Unsoftened and unmoved?
“And you are His, sweet daughter mine,
Whom shadowed o'er by His own sign,
We vowed His cup to share—
To love, to suffer, and to do,
These are the marks His children wear;
And seems the path too rough for you,
The cross too sharp to bear?
Whom shadowed o'er by His own sign,
We vowed His cup to share—
To love, to suffer, and to do,
These are the marks His children wear;
And seems the path too rough for you,
The cross too sharp to bear?
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“Nay, truest hearts love on, my child,
And look not for return,
And love is gentle, patient, mild,
Nor knoweth aught of words that burn,
Of fierce reproach and anger stern.
E'en selfish worldly hearts have caught
A warmth by others given;
But that which gives its own for nought,
Is like the God of Heaven.”
And look not for return,
And love is gentle, patient, mild,
Nor knoweth aught of words that burn,
Of fierce reproach and anger stern.
E'en selfish worldly hearts have caught
A warmth by others given;
But that which gives its own for nought,
Is like the God of Heaven.”
The little maiden bowed her head,
Her soft cheek blushed a deeper red,
And tears came swimming o'er her eyes,
Like rain, 'twixt earth and summer skies;
But ere the sunset's golden touch
Had faded from that cross of stone,
The shower had passed, the cloud was gone—
The child knelt by her mother's couch.
Her soft cheek blushed a deeper red,
And tears came swimming o'er her eyes,
Like rain, 'twixt earth and summer skies;
But ere the sunset's golden touch
Had faded from that cross of stone,
The shower had passed, the cloud was gone—
The child knelt by her mother's couch.
Her gentle eyes, all blue and clear,
To Heaven were lifted trustingly:
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly did the maiden pray,
“And guard him in the battle fray,
And make him to love me.”
To Heaven were lifted trustingly:
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly did the maiden pray,
“And guard him in the battle fray,
And make him to love me.”
The Moldau flings her silver spray,
Round Rosenberg's green summer woods;
The mighty Danube rolls his floods,
By tower, and hamlet, far away.—
Sir Otho is the bravest knight,
That battles for Duke Conrad's right,
He hath a princely sway.
Round Rosenberg's green summer woods;
The mighty Danube rolls his floods,
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Sir Otho is the bravest knight,
That battles for Duke Conrad's right,
He hath a princely sway.
I ween it were a long day's ride,
But if you left the Moldau side,
When matin prayers were sung,
Ere you had reached the last Church tower,
That owned Sir Otho's feudal power,
The vespers would have rung.
The foremost by the Kaiser's steed,
Sir Otho rides in battle fray;
And bards have sung his glorious deed,
Full many a night in festal lay.
But if you left the Moldau side,
When matin prayers were sung,
Ere you had reached the last Church tower,
That owned Sir Otho's feudal power,
The vespers would have rung.
The foremost by the Kaiser's steed,
Sir Otho rides in battle fray;
And bards have sung his glorious deed,
Full many a night in festal lay.
And he has set above the shrine,
With reverent hand God's holy sign,
But wore it not within;
For where the Cross of Christ doth reign,
There wilful sin may not remain;
The proudest man in all Almaine
Is he; and pride is sin.
With reverent hand God's holy sign,
But wore it not within;
For where the Cross of Christ doth reign,
There wilful sin may not remain;
The proudest man in all Almaine
Is he; and pride is sin.
Sir Otho had a gentle bride:
The fairest rose in all the land,
He plucked it with his mailed right hand,
He twined it round his battle brand.
O shame upon the warrior's pride!
The fairest rose in all the land,
He plucked it with his mailed right hand,
He twined it round his battle brand.
O shame upon the warrior's pride!
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Shame on his heart! not even she
So lovely in her innocent joy,
Can make him bow to Heaven's decree,
Because he has no boy;
So lovely in her innocent joy,
Can make him bow to Heaven's decree,
Because he has no boy;
While he, his house's ancient foe,
The Lichtenberg's young lord, who gave
His plighted troth in the same hour,
And bore home to his bridal bower
The daughter of Rodolph the brave,
Has two fair sons to show.
The Lichtenberg's young lord, who gave
His plighted troth in the same hour,
And bore home to his bridal bower
The daughter of Rodolph the brave,
Has two fair sons to show.
And when in council-hall of late,
The chieftain by his rival sate,
Sir Eldred asked in jeering mood,
“How suits the dove the goshawk's nest?”
Hot flowed Sir Otho's fiery blood;
He cannot brook a jest.
The chieftain by his rival sate,
Sir Eldred asked in jeering mood,
“How suits the dove the goshawk's nest?”
Hot flowed Sir Otho's fiery blood;
He cannot brook a jest.
Sweet Spring hath many a blossom bright,
That cold winds wither at their birth,
'Tis well that cold looks cannot blight
The living flowers of earth.
That cold winds wither at their birth,
'Tis well that cold looks cannot blight
The living flowers of earth.
But silent now within the hall
Of Rosenberg, the festal call,
The banner droops upon the wall.
The very Moldau's voice is dull;
The gentle dame so beautiful,
Whose smile alone the poor man loved,
Far better than another's gold,
And blest her softly as she moved,
With pious truth so meekly told,
And sweet bright looks for young and old;—
Of Rosenberg, the festal call,
The banner droops upon the wall.
The very Moldau's voice is dull;
The gentle dame so beautiful,
208
Far better than another's gold,
And blest her softly as she moved,
With pious truth so meekly told,
And sweet bright looks for young and old;—
She in the cold Church chancel lieth,
Without a smile, without a word.
Sir Knight, the fair and noble dieth,
Even like the common herd.
Without a smile, without a word.
Sir Knight, the fair and noble dieth,
Even like the common herd.
The pavement stone lies on her breast,
But over it, a tomb is dressed
And the bright sunbeams as they fall
In coloured lines along the wall,
See day by day, reflected there,
The image of that lady fair,
With carvéd lip, and sculptured hair,
And white hands ever joined in prayer,
On her cold bosom pressed:
And angel form, with wings dispread,
And palm in hand, beside her head.
But over it, a tomb is dressed
And the bright sunbeams as they fall
In coloured lines along the wall,
See day by day, reflected there,
The image of that lady fair,
With carvéd lip, and sculptured hair,
And white hands ever joined in prayer,
On her cold bosom pressed:
And angel form, with wings dispread,
And palm in hand, beside her head.
And since in life her hands were seen
Thus, ofttimes, when in prayer she bent,
Therefore, that marble monument
Still bears a semblance faint,
Of what she is, and what has been,
Bright angel, praying saint.
The Baron's heart is sorely wrung,
He shuns the chase, he spurns the wine,
He kneeleth low at holy shrine,
O, God is good to old and young,
And they will seek His sympathy,
When hearts are torn, when eyes are dim
Who never in prosperity,
Or served, or cared for Him.
Thus, ofttimes, when in prayer she bent,
Therefore, that marble monument
Still bears a semblance faint,
Of what she is, and what has been,
Bright angel, praying saint.
209
He shuns the chase, he spurns the wine,
He kneeleth low at holy shrine,
O, God is good to old and young,
And they will seek His sympathy,
When hearts are torn, when eyes are dim
Who never in prosperity,
Or served, or cared for Him.
So he has doffed the warrior plume,
And duly at the matin time,
He kneeleth in his spirit's gloom,
And duly when the vespers chime,
Beside his lady's tomb.
And duly at the matin time,
He kneeleth in his spirit's gloom,
And duly when the vespers chime,
Beside his lady's tomb.
When first the warrior thither came,
Sweet violets, and roses red,
By the white image of the dame,
Lay on her marble bed.
He took the garland from its rest,
He set it in his unmailed breast,
It seemed to soothe his grief;
And ever after, day by day,
Thereon a bunch of sweet flowers lay,
Fresh gathered, for the chief.
Sweet violets, and roses red,
By the white image of the dame,
Lay on her marble bed.
He took the garland from its rest,
He set it in his unmailed breast,
It seemed to soothe his grief;
And ever after, day by day,
Thereon a bunch of sweet flowers lay,
Fresh gathered, for the chief.
He never thought what little hand
Had culled them, ere the dew was dry;
What tiny fingers tied the band;—
He never thought whose soft clear eye
Looked glistening on his inward throe,
And in her simple heart had planned
This solace for his woe.
Had culled them, ere the dew was dry;
What tiny fingers tied the band;—
He never thought whose soft clear eye
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And in her simple heart had planned
This solace for his woe.
O, strange it is, how man will bear
His heart to God's Own House of prayer:
And when the solemn organ swelleth,
And when the Holy Writing telleth,
Of His sweet mercy dear,
Who was so lowly, pure, and true,
Who died for us so tenderly,
And bade us like good deeds to do,
As loving, and as meek to be—
The words shall fill his ear;
His heart to God's Own House of prayer:
And when the solemn organ swelleth,
And when the Holy Writing telleth,
Of His sweet mercy dear,
Who was so lowly, pure, and true,
Who died for us so tenderly,
And bade us like good deeds to do,
As loving, and as meek to be—
The words shall fill his ear;
And his voice mingling there will borrow
The strain of penitential sorrow;
Yet unrepented still within
Lurks deep his bosom's cherished sin,
And he will go to-day, to-morrow,
And be, as he has been.
The strain of penitential sorrow;
Yet unrepented still within
Lurks deep his bosom's cherished sin,
And he will go to-day, to-morrow,
And be, as he has been.
Sir Otho is as cold and proud,
In his dark sorrow, now;
As in his hours most blest, and bright.—
The rugged mountain's flinty height
Is none the softer for the cloud
That rests upon its brow.
In his dark sorrow, now;
As in his hours most blest, and bright.—
The rugged mountain's flinty height
Is none the softer for the cloud
That rests upon its brow.
211
The child is in the turret tall,
The warder passes to and fro,
She hears the river's murmuring fall,
She sees the green trees wave below.
The warder passes to and fro,
She hears the river's murmuring fall,
She sees the green trees wave below.
She kneeleth low on bended knee,
She lifteth up her blue eye clear,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly doth the maiden pray,
“And help him in dark sorrow's day,
And make him to love me.”
She lifteth up her blue eye clear,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly doth the maiden pray,
“And help him in dark sorrow's day,
And make him to love me.”
Devoted love, and gentle thought,
Are meetest for the saints on earth:
Good deeds are infinite in worth,
The tokens of that better birth,
By God's good Spirit in us wrought:
And if they fail to do their part,
On others their own charm impressing
Surely, they come back to the heart
That gave them, with a double blessing.
Are meetest for the saints on earth:
Good deeds are infinite in worth,
The tokens of that better birth,
By God's good Spirit in us wrought:
And if they fail to do their part,
On others their own charm impressing
Surely, they come back to the heart
That gave them, with a double blessing.
The wild rose in the desert placed,
Unfolding all in vain the power
Of her sweet perfume to the waste,
Herself grows lovelier every hour.
The stream runs broader as it flows;
And kindlier, sweeter, meeker grows,
Each day the child within the tower,
The Baron's solitary rose.
Unfolding all in vain the power
Of her sweet perfume to the waste,
Herself grows lovelier every hour.
The stream runs broader as it flows;
And kindlier, sweeter, meeker grows,
Each day the child within the tower,
The Baron's solitary rose.
212
The Baron to the fight has gone,
Pain, sorrow, love are all forgot,
His helm is donned: who answers not,
When Conrad calls his own?
Pain, sorrow, love are all forgot,
His helm is donned: who answers not,
When Conrad calls his own?
The fair child at her lonely sport,
Has heard the heavy warriors tramp,
Has heard the eager chargers champ,
Beneath her in the castle court.
Has heard the heavy warriors tramp,
Has heard the eager chargers champ,
Beneath her in the castle court.
And hastily she climbed into
The narrow casement, tall and high,
Thence looked down with an eager eye
And soon his stately form she knew,
Who never to that casement threw
The comfort of one kind adieu.
The narrow casement, tall and high,
Thence looked down with an eager eye
And soon his stately form she knew,
Who never to that casement threw
The comfort of one kind adieu.
For the first ray of morning light
Was gleaming on his armour bright,
And she could trace on azure field,
The grey goshawk that decked his shield;
And she could see on his helmed head,
The mingled plumes of white, and red,
Shake in the early air:
As slow the arméd train rode out,
With trumpet clang, and martial shout.
She watched them till her eyes grew dim,
Then soft she sang her morning hymn,
And prayed her daily prayer.
Was gleaming on his armour bright,
And she could trace on azure field,
The grey goshawk that decked his shield;
And she could see on his helmed head,
The mingled plumes of white, and red,
Shake in the early air:
As slow the arméd train rode out,
With trumpet clang, and martial shout.
She watched them till her eyes grew dim,
Then soft she sang her morning hymn,
And prayed her daily prayer.
213
“'Tis a good alms and sweetly given;
God bless the little lady's hand,
It is the smallest in the land,
That brings us home the gifts of Heaven.”
Thus the poor villagers would say,
When angel-like the blue-eyed maiden
Came gliding down the rugged way
From that old mountain fortress, laden
With simple things, that poor men know
Can lighten pain, or soften woe.
God bless the little lady's hand,
It is the smallest in the land,
That brings us home the gifts of Heaven.”
Thus the poor villagers would say,
When angel-like the blue-eyed maiden
Came gliding down the rugged way
From that old mountain fortress, laden
With simple things, that poor men know
Can lighten pain, or soften woe.
The gentle maiden, motherless,
They loved her, with the love that longs
Its kindly feelings to express;
And in their simple-heartedness,
The good old dames would sing her songs,
And lull her in their arms to sleep.
And old men told her many a tale,
Of wars, that made her cheek grow pale,
And woes that made her weep.
They loved her, with the love that longs
Its kindly feelings to express;
And in their simple-heartedness,
The good old dames would sing her songs,
And lull her in their arms to sleep.
And old men told her many a tale,
Of wars, that made her cheek grow pale,
And woes that made her weep.
They told how wounded men had lain,
Long nights upon the battle plain,
With festering flesh, and thirsty soul,
And none had brought the cooling bowl,
No loving wife, no duteous daughter;
And they had died with hearts on flame,
And parched lips, praying in God's Name,
For one poor drop of water.
Long nights upon the battle plain,
With festering flesh, and thirsty soul,
And none had brought the cooling bowl,
No loving wife, no duteous daughter;
And they had died with hearts on flame,
And parched lips, praying in God's Name,
For one poor drop of water.
214
And when the lonely innocent
Back to her turret chamber went,
Oft would she sit and think
Of prayers breathed o'er and o'er again,
By the parched lips of dying men,
That asked in vain to drink.
Back to her turret chamber went,
Oft would she sit and think
Of prayers breathed o'er and o'er again,
By the parched lips of dying men,
That asked in vain to drink.
They little think, the high and great,
Who lead the war, or sway the state,
How much of safety and success,
To soft words breathed in gentleness
By simple lips are due,
And pleadings of the faithful soul;—
For God in Heaven will save the whole,
For the sake of the holy few:
And the spell of poor men's quiet prayers
Is brooding o'er them unawares.
Who lead the war, or sway the state,
How much of safety and success,
To soft words breathed in gentleness
By simple lips are due,
And pleadings of the faithful soul;—
For God in Heaven will save the whole,
For the sake of the holy few:
And the spell of poor men's quiet prayers
Is brooding o'er them unawares.
Little he deemed, that man of pride,
When oft the axe was turned aside,
And battle spear that might have sent
The sinner to his punishment,
Who pleaded for his grace;
Where little children's angels dwell,
In presence of the Invisible,
And see the Father's face.
When oft the axe was turned aside,
And battle spear that might have sent
The sinner to his punishment,
Who pleaded for his grace;
Where little children's angels dwell,
In presence of the Invisible,
And see the Father's face.
The child sits in the turret tall,
She hears the warder pacing near
And sometimes the old seneschal
Will come to question of her cheer,
She kneeleth low on bended knee,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly doth the maiden pray,
“And shield him in the battle day,
And make him to love me.”
She hears the warder pacing near
215
Will come to question of her cheer,
She kneeleth low on bended knee,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus meekly doth the maiden pray,
“And shield him in the battle day,
And make him to love me.”
The child hath heard the seneschal
Speak to her maidens in the hall,
“The messenger came yesternight,
Right heavy tidings did he bring;
He saith it was a fearful fight,
The Baron is not with the King.”
Speak to her maidens in the hall,
“The messenger came yesternight,
Right heavy tidings did he bring;
He saith it was a fearful fight,
The Baron is not with the King.”
The women's cheeks grew pale with fear,—
“It is not two days' march from here,
And it was yester eve;”
Still as they spake the child drew near;
Perhaps they did not well believe
That one so young would heed their word,
Or one so slighted could not grieve,
They thought, for that stern lord.
“It is not two days' march from here,
And it was yester eve;”
Still as they spake the child drew near;
Perhaps they did not well believe
That one so young would heed their word,
Or one so slighted could not grieve,
They thought, for that stern lord.
“Pray God the Baron be not slain,”
The old retainer said again;
“He rides not with the Kaiser's train.”
“Or haply he is wounded sore,
And lieth on the battle plain,”
A maiden said, and spake no more,
Because the child's full eye she saw,
Fixed on her face in silent awe.
The old retainer said again;
“He rides not with the Kaiser's train.”
“Or haply he is wounded sore,
216
A maiden said, and spake no more,
Because the child's full eye she saw,
Fixed on her face in silent awe.
Then did they whisper; and go out,
Where each might speak her dread and doubt,
Unheard of her, who did not moan,
Nor weep, there being left alone.
Only, to herself she said,
“There's none to help, there's none to bring
One drop of water from the spring,
To cool his burning head.”
Where each might speak her dread and doubt,
Unheard of her, who did not moan,
Nor weep, there being left alone.
Only, to herself she said,
“There's none to help, there's none to bring
One drop of water from the spring,
To cool his burning head.”
The child kneels in the turret tall,
The warder did not pace that day,
For all was terror and dismay
Within the castle wall.
She rose up with a calm, fixed face,
That neither wept at all, nor smiled,
Only she said, “God give me grace:
There's none to help, there's none to bring
One drop of water from the spring;
I am his only child.”
The warder did not pace that day,
For all was terror and dismay
Within the castle wall.
She rose up with a calm, fixed face,
That neither wept at all, nor smiled,
Only she said, “God give me grace:
There's none to help, there's none to bring
One drop of water from the spring;
I am his only child.”
She took her grey cloth mantle fine,
The pitcher in her small hand fair,
Wherein she mingled with due care,
Fresh water and old wine.
The pitcher in her small hand fair,
Wherein she mingled with due care,
Fresh water and old wine.
217
Her maidens saw her passing out,
And one did to the other say,
“There will be stragglers from the rout;
The lady should not walk to-day,”—
“Nay, but the poor child's heart is lonely,
She beareth in her hand a boon,
She goeth to the hamlet only,
She will be back ere noon.”
And one did to the other say,
“There will be stragglers from the rout;
The lady should not walk to-day,”—
“Nay, but the poor child's heart is lonely,
She beareth in her hand a boon,
She goeth to the hamlet only,
She will be back ere noon.”
The child is at the Moldau side,
(For she hath seen at break of day
Some weary horsemen ride that way,
And they were from the battle fray.)
Nor needed she another guide,
Than that dark stream whereon were borne
Bright broken plumes and banners torn,
Whose flood was purple dyed.
(For she hath seen at break of day
Some weary horsemen ride that way,
And they were from the battle fray.)
Nor needed she another guide,
Than that dark stream whereon were borne
Bright broken plumes and banners torn,
Whose flood was purple dyed.
And on through field and open glade,
All through that pleasant vine-dressed land,
The pitcher in her little hand,
She journeyed on, and never stayed.
All through that pleasant vine-dressed land,
The pitcher in her little hand,
She journeyed on, and never stayed.
The broad sun told the middle day,
And still she hastened on her way;
The broad sun faded in the west,
She did not weary or turn back,
And she had passed by many a track
Where foot of horse and man had pressed;
And still she hastened on her way;
The broad sun faded in the west,
She did not weary or turn back,
And she had passed by many a track
Where foot of horse and man had pressed;
218
And wounded men had met the maiden,
And plunderers with booty laden:
But never one did her alarm
With word of scorn, or deed of harm.
And plunderers with booty laden:
But never one did her alarm
With word of scorn, or deed of harm.
Because the innocent spirit bears
A charm against the evil power,
And God's good angels every hour,
Watch round it unawares.
And never yet, I ween, was ward
Of sentinel, or portal barred,
Like those white wings of theirs.
A charm against the evil power,
And God's good angels every hour,
Watch round it unawares.
And never yet, I ween, was ward
Of sentinel, or portal barred,
Like those white wings of theirs.
And she as sweetly, soundly slept,
While the night shadows round her crept,
In that deep forest's gloom;
While far away the wolf did howl,
And to and fro the large white owl,
Went flitting o'er her head,
As in the quiet turret room,
On her own silken bed.
While the night shadows round her crept,
In that deep forest's gloom;
While far away the wolf did howl,
And to and fro the large white owl,
Went flitting o'er her head,
As in the quiet turret room,
On her own silken bed.
The child is in the lone greenwood,
She hears the white owl hooting near,
She hears the murmur of the flood
She kneeleth low on bended knee,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,
All through this dreadful night,” she saith,
“And save him from the soldier's death,
And make him to love me.”
She hears the white owl hooting near,
She hears the murmur of the flood
She kneeleth low on bended knee,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,
All through this dreadful night,” she saith,
“And save him from the soldier's death,
And make him to love me.”
219
The morning sun roused up the child,
Touching the lids of her sealed eyes;
And she sat up, and almost smiled,
First in her innocent surprise:
So strange unto her earnest gaze,
So fresh and beautiful did seem
All nature in its morning haze;
While bright the bladed grass did gleam,
With every dewdrop like a beam
Fresh fallen from the skies.
Touching the lids of her sealed eyes;
And she sat up, and almost smiled,
First in her innocent surprise:
So strange unto her earnest gaze,
So fresh and beautiful did seem
All nature in its morning haze;
While bright the bladed grass did gleam,
With every dewdrop like a beam
Fresh fallen from the skies.
The child has taken hastily
The pitcher in her little hand;
She wanders through that lovely hand,
Herself a thing more fair to see,
Than opening flower or dewy sod,
A witness of the truth of God,
Of kindly thoughts, and holy powers,
Still lingering on this earth of ours.
The pitcher in her little hand;
She wanders through that lovely hand,
Herself a thing more fair to see,
Than opening flower or dewy sod,
A witness of the truth of God,
Of kindly thoughts, and holy powers,
Still lingering on this earth of ours.
And telling the cold-hearted world,
What love can dare and do.—
Her golden hair is all uncurled,
Her cheek is white, her lip is blue,
Her little feet are swollen sore,
And still she journeys as before,
Her heart is brave and true.
What love can dare and do.—
Her golden hair is all uncurled,
Her cheek is white, her lip is blue,
Her little feet are swollen sore,
And still she journeys as before,
Her heart is brave and true.
She passed the tufted birchen bower,
The elderbush all white with flower,
She passed the line of forest trees;—
And all at once the fearful sight,
Whereon her eye had sought to dwell,
Now in its nearness terrible,
The battle-field of deadly fight,
Trampled and strewn, she sees.
The elderbush all white with flower,
She passed the line of forest trees;—
220
Whereon her eye had sought to dwell,
Now in its nearness terrible,
The battle-field of deadly fight,
Trampled and strewn, she sees.
The eyes of the dead men did glare,
Through the still misty morning air,
Up, with a fixed and glassy stare,
Into the lone child's face.
She did not turn back to the wood,
Only she trembled as she stood,
Looking on them a little space.
Through the still misty morning air,
Up, with a fixed and glassy stare,
Into the lone child's face.
She did not turn back to the wood,
Only she trembled as she stood,
Looking on them a little space.
And in her frightened heart she saith,
“How strange and stiff the slumberers lie:
Do warriors sleep with open eye,
That they may watch each other?
Or haply this cold trance is death,—
And yet they look not like my mother,
When she lay cold, and stiff abed,
And maidens told me she was dead.”
“How strange and stiff the slumberers lie:
Do warriors sleep with open eye,
That they may watch each other?
Or haply this cold trance is death,—
And yet they look not like my mother,
When she lay cold, and stiff abed,
And maidens told me she was dead.”
Still on, and on, across the plain,
She hastens through the heaps of slain.
Why stays she in her ghastly walk
To trace the image half concealed
In blood and dust on yonder shield?
Ah! well she knows that grey goshawk,
And the soiled plume of white and red,
Still streaming from that prostrate head.
She hastens through the heaps of slain.
Why stays she in her ghastly walk
To trace the image half concealed
In blood and dust on yonder shield?
Ah! well she knows that grey goshawk,
And the soiled plume of white and red,
Still streaming from that prostrate head.
221
Long time, long time the child did linger
O'er the close steel vizor barred,
Ere she unclasped with her slight finger
The iron cold and hard,
And when it yielded to the strength
Of her true purpose, and at length
Her father's face before her lay,
She shrank a little space away;
And dared not kiss his rigid brow
As she knelt by him on the sod,
And heard him mutter hoarse and low,
“Give water for the love of God.”
O'er the close steel vizor barred,
Ere she unclasped with her slight finger
The iron cold and hard,
And when it yielded to the strength
Of her true purpose, and at length
Her father's face before her lay,
She shrank a little space away;
And dared not kiss his rigid brow
As she knelt by him on the sod,
And heard him mutter hoarse and low,
“Give water for the love of God.”
And still she shivered as she set
His dark head on her little knee,
And her hand trembled as she wet
His pale parched lips most tenderly.
His dark head on her little knee,
And her hand trembled as she wet
His pale parched lips most tenderly.
The Baron drank an eager draught,
At the small pitcher's brim,
And the life ebbing as he quaffed,
Lit up again his dark eye dim,
And thrilled his pulse, and moved his limb.
An earnest glance he lifted up,
To her who gave that pitying cup,
And looked on her in strange amaze,
While she, her blue eyes opened wide,
Sat in the terror of that gaze,
And had not power to draw aside.
He murmured, “'Tis a vision wild,
O God, have mercy on my sin;
Proud man, bad father have I been,
She was my only child.
At the small pitcher's brim,
And the life ebbing as he quaffed,
Lit up again his dark eye dim,
And thrilled his pulse, and moved his limb.
An earnest glance he lifted up,
To her who gave that pitying cup,
And looked on her in strange amaze,
While she, her blue eyes opened wide,
Sat in the terror of that gaze,
And had not power to draw aside.
222
O God, have mercy on my sin;
Proud man, bad father have I been,
She was my only child.
“I had no other thing on earth,—
I never loved her from her birth,—
And comes the false fiend to upbraid
My spirit in its dying time,
With the pale image of my crime?
It cannot be the maid.”
I never loved her from her birth,—
And comes the false fiend to upbraid
My spirit in its dying time,
With the pale image of my crime?
It cannot be the maid.”
O, fearful sinner! God is good;
They're real lips of flesh and blood,
That press thy brow, and strive to speak,
They're real tears as warm and bright,
As e'er from eyes of living light,
Have fallen, when woman's heart was weak,
That drop upon thy bloodless cheek.
They're real lips of flesh and blood,
That press thy brow, and strive to speak,
They're real tears as warm and bright,
As e'er from eyes of living light,
Have fallen, when woman's heart was weak,
That drop upon thy bloodless cheek.
How could his soul so long in ire,
The spell of her sweet love withstand?
Those tears to him are drops of fire,
And still he feels that light cool hand
Heaping the hot coals on his head.
“My child, I have not merited
This mercy at thine hand,” he said.
He tries to raise him from the ground,
The staunched blood gushes free and warm
Again from out his gaping wound,
He fainteth on her arm.
The spell of her sweet love withstand?
Those tears to him are drops of fire,
And still he feels that light cool hand
Heaping the hot coals on his head.
“My child, I have not merited
This mercy at thine hand,” he said.
He tries to raise him from the ground,
The staunched blood gushes free and warm
Again from out his gaping wound,
He fainteth on her arm.
223
“O hasten, hasten, holy man,
The bloody wound gapes in his side,
Thine hand hath skill to staunch the tide.”
Closely did the old priest scan
The child's pale face in wonderment,
Whose little blood-stained hand was pressed
So closely on his dark serge vest,
And then he turned and with her went.
The bloody wound gapes in his side,
Thine hand hath skill to staunch the tide.”
Closely did the old priest scan
The child's pale face in wonderment,
Whose little blood-stained hand was pressed
So closely on his dark serge vest,
And then he turned and with her went.
He was a man of love and prayer,
Come from his lowly chapel near,
At break of day to wander there
The voice of penitence to hear,
To shrive, to comfort, and to pray,
Ere the poor spirit passed away.
Come from his lowly chapel near,
At break of day to wander there
The voice of penitence to hear,
To shrive, to comfort, and to pray,
Ere the poor spirit passed away.
And when he stood with lifted rood
Beside the man of sin and blood,
And saw with sweet caresses mild,
And cooling cup, the gentle child
Over the bleeding warrior bent,
He almost deemed her in his need,
A ministering angel, sent
To help his holy deed.
Beside the man of sin and blood,
And saw with sweet caresses mild,
And cooling cup, the gentle child
Over the bleeding warrior bent,
He almost deemed her in his need,
A ministering angel, sent
To help his holy deed.
He staunched the warrior's gaping wound,
He bore him from the battle ground,
He watched him many a weary day,
He and the child in mute distress,
And prayed and counselled as he lay,
And soothed his spirit's bitterness.
He bore him from the battle ground,
He watched him many a weary day,
He and the child in mute distress,
And prayed and counselled as he lay,
And soothed his spirit's bitterness.
224
O, sickness is a teacher good
Through its long hours of silent thought,
And souls that have all else withstood,
Strong pain hath tamed and taught.
Through its long hours of silent thought,
And souls that have all else withstood,
Strong pain hath tamed and taught.
And fierce remorse is hard to bear,
But holy penitence is sweet,
It beareth fruit of contrite prayer,
Of righteous deeds most meet,
In love and earnestness to tell,
Before the face of man and Heaven,
Of punishment deserved too well,
For one dear Sake forgiven.
But holy penitence is sweet,
It beareth fruit of contrite prayer,
Of righteous deeds most meet,
In love and earnestness to tell,
Before the face of man and Heaven,
Of punishment deserved too well,
For one dear Sake forgiven.
An altered man the Baron rides
Back from that bloody battle field;
He loves no more the spear and shield;
An altered man he glides
All up the chapel chancel fair,
In other mood he kneels in prayer.
Back from that bloody battle field;
He loves no more the spear and shield;
An altered man he glides
All up the chapel chancel fair,
In other mood he kneels in prayer.
And he hath cast his pride away,
And when of late on council day,
The haughty Eldred passed him by,
And took the highest place,
There came no anger in his eye,
No flush on his calm face.
“Good sooth, the Baron groweth meek,”
The knights said each in other's ear;
Full well Sir Otho marked the jeer,
And yet he did not speak.
And when of late on council day,
The haughty Eldred passed him by,
And took the highest place,
There came no anger in his eye,
No flush on his calm face.
“Good sooth, the Baron groweth meek,”
The knights said each in other's ear;
Full well Sir Otho marked the jeer,
And yet he did not speak.
225
All through his lands, the poor men bless
The lord who is so high and great,
Yet knows to pity their distress.—
There are twelve poor children motherless
Fed daily at his gate.
For woes that little children share
His heart has a peculiar care,
All other woes above.
His child no more is desolate,
She hath a father's love.
The lord who is so high and great,
Yet knows to pity their distress.—
There are twelve poor children motherless
Fed daily at his gate.
For woes that little children share
His heart has a peculiar care,
All other woes above.
His child no more is desolate,
She hath a father's love.
The child is in the turret tall,
But not alone as heretofore,
The warder paces on the wall,
The Moldau murmurs to the shore,
The child kneels at her father's knee,
Her eye is bright, her voice is clear,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus ever prayeth she,
“Down on us two Thy blessing pour,
And make my heart to love him more,
Who dearly loveth me.”
But not alone as heretofore,
The warder paces on the wall,
The Moldau murmurs to the shore,
The child kneels at her father's knee,
Her eye is bright, her voice is clear,
“Good Christ, keep Thou my father dear,”
Thus ever prayeth she,
“Down on us two Thy blessing pour,
And make my heart to love him more,
Who dearly loveth me.”
THE GRAVEYARD IN THE HILLS.
“It is the place of tombs,” the maiden said;
“The graveyard where our fathers' ashes rest;
A rude and lonely cradle have they here—
God rest their souls.” She crossed her brow and breast,
Then took her pitcher up, which she had set
Down on the mountain side, to gaze awhile
On the inquiring stranger, and pass'd on.
Over the loose low wall the strange man stepp'd,
And through grey tombstones bedded half in earth,
And new-made mounds of green uneven turf,
Till by the ruin'd chapel's western door
He paused, reclining on a broad flat stone,
Which some poor mourner, seeking sepulture
For his beloved within that holiest place,
From the old chancel pavement had uptorn.
Here stay'd the stranger, nor with passive mien,
Nor eyes unlit with rapturous delight,
Look'd on the scene around; for beautiful
The lonely spot those ancient peasants found,
Wherein to wear away their long repose;
Perchance because they deem'd it sin and shame
That man should build no altar there to God,
Where earth had rear'd so eloquent a shrine
To praise Him in her rugged loveliness.
Perchance (for those were rude, uneasy times),
The fathers of the hamlet there had set
Their lowly temple, calling on those hills,
On those steep pathless heights, to guard the shrine
From rapine of the fierce marauding Dane.
“The graveyard where our fathers' ashes rest;
A rude and lonely cradle have they here—
God rest their souls.” She crossed her brow and breast,
226
Down on the mountain side, to gaze awhile
On the inquiring stranger, and pass'd on.
Over the loose low wall the strange man stepp'd,
And through grey tombstones bedded half in earth,
And new-made mounds of green uneven turf,
Till by the ruin'd chapel's western door
He paused, reclining on a broad flat stone,
Which some poor mourner, seeking sepulture
For his beloved within that holiest place,
From the old chancel pavement had uptorn.
Here stay'd the stranger, nor with passive mien,
Nor eyes unlit with rapturous delight,
Look'd on the scene around; for beautiful
The lonely spot those ancient peasants found,
Wherein to wear away their long repose;
Perchance because they deem'd it sin and shame
That man should build no altar there to God,
Where earth had rear'd so eloquent a shrine
To praise Him in her rugged loveliness.
Perchance (for those were rude, uneasy times),
The fathers of the hamlet there had set
Their lowly temple, calling on those hills,
On those steep pathless heights, to guard the shrine
From rapine of the fierce marauding Dane.
The bounding river, like a broad blue belt
Encircled half that lone sepulchral mound,
And tall, dark mountains girded it about;
Cold barren heights, whereon there never slept
The graceful shadow of the greenwood tree;
And the rude wind that whisper'd there at even,
Had wander'd through no perfume-laden grove;
But all was pasture bare, or purple heath,
With here and there perchance a darker patch,
Where, in its little plot of labour'd land,
The blue smoke curl'd from some poor peasant's thatch.
North, east, and south the rugged barrier frown'd,
But in the narrow gorge to westward set,
Like a long gleam of silver light, the sea
Slept in the distance. He had never thought,
Who look'd in quiet on that narrow strip,
It were a portion of those restless waves
That bore of old the venturous Genoese,
When first he laugh'd to scorn the western wind
And bravely baffled, in his generous quest,
Unworthy scorn, and jealousy, and fear.
He had not deem'd that glittering drop a part,
Which like a blue gem slept between the hills,
A part of that immeasurable waste.
Thus man looks fondly on his passing life,
A narrow space within two limits bound,
Forgetting that he sees but one small drop
Of the immense eternity beyond.
Encircled half that lone sepulchral mound,
And tall, dark mountains girded it about;
227
The graceful shadow of the greenwood tree;
And the rude wind that whisper'd there at even,
Had wander'd through no perfume-laden grove;
But all was pasture bare, or purple heath,
With here and there perchance a darker patch,
Where, in its little plot of labour'd land,
The blue smoke curl'd from some poor peasant's thatch.
North, east, and south the rugged barrier frown'd,
But in the narrow gorge to westward set,
Like a long gleam of silver light, the sea
Slept in the distance. He had never thought,
Who look'd in quiet on that narrow strip,
It were a portion of those restless waves
That bore of old the venturous Genoese,
When first he laugh'd to scorn the western wind
And bravely baffled, in his generous quest,
Unworthy scorn, and jealousy, and fear.
He had not deem'd that glittering drop a part,
Which like a blue gem slept between the hills,
A part of that immeasurable waste.
Thus man looks fondly on his passing life,
A narrow space within two limits bound,
Forgetting that he sees but one small drop
Of the immense eternity beyond.
Now slanting lay the sunbeams on the turf,
And the white clouds passed over the sun's face
Making strange shadows on the mountain side,
And the sea eagle wheel'd around the height,
And the goat bleated through the calm, still air;
So still, you heard afar the clanking tread
Of laden horse, as upward from the glen
The mountain road precipitous he trod,
And, passing each poor wayside dwelling, waked
The angry clamour of the watchful cur.
And the white clouds passed over the sun's face
228
And the sea eagle wheel'd around the height,
And the goat bleated through the calm, still air;
So still, you heard afar the clanking tread
Of laden horse, as upward from the glen
The mountain road precipitous he trod,
And, passing each poor wayside dwelling, waked
The angry clamour of the watchful cur.
There are who love to look on Nature's face,
But have no heart to worship at her shrine.
Fair in her teeming fruitfulness she is
To them, but dead, a thing without a soul.
They hear no praises in her wild bird's song,
They scent no incense rising from her flowers,
The winds of heaven are voiceless unto them,
The ancient hills are not green altars rear'd
To Him who piled them; in His open hand
They see no bounty, in His wise decree
No wisdom and no order, nor perceive
In yon blue sky the open gate of heaven.
Such and so ignorant of joy's chief spring
Was he who linger'd by the poor man's grave,
And look'd along the valley; he was one
On whom high culture, feelings, powers of mind,
Like seed upon the barren rock had been
Scatter'd, and bore no fruit; yet was his mind
Polish'd, and of fine thought susceptible.
The calm of nature, and the wild bird's note,
And the sweet voice of song; these on his ear
Fell like a charm, and soothed his weary soul,
And made his spirit drunk with harmony.
Albeit the utterances that had come
To visit him in childhood, by that stream
And from those mountain gorges, long had ceased
To haunt him with their holy whisperings,
Who had forgotten God; and in his ways
And in his heart set up the idol, self.
Yet it was pleasure thus to sit, and have
All senses moulded into sympathy
With the sweet silence of that summer even.
The radiant sun declining touch'd with gold
The silver sea, when through the tombs there came
One toward the Solitary, with firm step
That loiter'd yet, and paused anon to gaze
Down the broad vale, to court the merry breeze
That, as he raised his hat in courtesy,
From his high brow blew back the clustering locks,
Where time had laid no hand. They greeted then
As though the meeting were of each foreseen;
And soon the Pastor by the stranger sate:
For, of the wild rude flock that scatter'd dwelt
Amid those rugged mountain fastnesses,
He was the shepherd and the minister.
But have no heart to worship at her shrine.
Fair in her teeming fruitfulness she is
To them, but dead, a thing without a soul.
They hear no praises in her wild bird's song,
They scent no incense rising from her flowers,
The winds of heaven are voiceless unto them,
The ancient hills are not green altars rear'd
To Him who piled them; in His open hand
They see no bounty, in His wise decree
No wisdom and no order, nor perceive
In yon blue sky the open gate of heaven.
Such and so ignorant of joy's chief spring
Was he who linger'd by the poor man's grave,
And look'd along the valley; he was one
On whom high culture, feelings, powers of mind,
Like seed upon the barren rock had been
Scatter'd, and bore no fruit; yet was his mind
Polish'd, and of fine thought susceptible.
The calm of nature, and the wild bird's note,
229
Fell like a charm, and soothed his weary soul,
And made his spirit drunk with harmony.
Albeit the utterances that had come
To visit him in childhood, by that stream
And from those mountain gorges, long had ceased
To haunt him with their holy whisperings,
Who had forgotten God; and in his ways
And in his heart set up the idol, self.
Yet it was pleasure thus to sit, and have
All senses moulded into sympathy
With the sweet silence of that summer even.
The radiant sun declining touch'd with gold
The silver sea, when through the tombs there came
One toward the Solitary, with firm step
That loiter'd yet, and paused anon to gaze
Down the broad vale, to court the merry breeze
That, as he raised his hat in courtesy,
From his high brow blew back the clustering locks,
Where time had laid no hand. They greeted then
As though the meeting were of each foreseen;
And soon the Pastor by the stranger sate:
For, of the wild rude flock that scatter'd dwelt
Amid those rugged mountain fastnesses,
He was the shepherd and the minister.
Four rude white walls are in the valley set,
Down by the river; to the eastward turn'd
One pointed window; on the bare slate roof
Nor tower, nor spire, nor even time-honour'd cross
Points up to heaven; but one lone bell is hung,
That, when the wind sweeps down the mountain gorge,
Shakes fitfully above the empty shrine—
That is the temple of his ministry.
And yon low dwelling—where the blue smoke curls
From verdant clumps of newly planted trees,
Where the small garden blushes to the sun,
Where the green turf is trimm'd, and through the sward
Spring daisies white, and daffodils in spring,
And violets—his pastoral abode.
Down by the river; to the eastward turn'd
One pointed window; on the bare slate roof
230
Points up to heaven; but one lone bell is hung,
That, when the wind sweeps down the mountain gorge,
Shakes fitfully above the empty shrine—
That is the temple of his ministry.
And yon low dwelling—where the blue smoke curls
From verdant clumps of newly planted trees,
Where the small garden blushes to the sun,
Where the green turf is trimm'd, and through the sward
Spring daisies white, and daffodils in spring,
And violets—his pastoral abode.
Blue lakes there are hid far within the wilds
Of the new world; bright solitary lakes
Where never the keen fisher's net was spread,
Nor the swift oar has ruffled the smooth wave;
But fair green islands sleep upon the tide,
And graceful trees dip in their drooping boughs.
In depth of the untraversed waste they lie.
The clamorous wild duck shelters there her brood,
The green moss grows luxuriant on the bank,
And the waves rippling for a moment break
The heaven reflected in their azure depths.
Thus was it with the Pastor of the vale;
Lowly, and placid, and beneficent,
He look'd to heaven from that sequester'd place,
And caught its impress: for the good man's life
Is like a mirror wherein others see,
Though broken ofttimes, many times obscure,
An image of that thing they ought to be.
Of the new world; bright solitary lakes
Where never the keen fisher's net was spread,
Nor the swift oar has ruffled the smooth wave;
But fair green islands sleep upon the tide,
And graceful trees dip in their drooping boughs.
In depth of the untraversed waste they lie.
The clamorous wild duck shelters there her brood,
The green moss grows luxuriant on the bank,
And the waves rippling for a moment break
The heaven reflected in their azure depths.
Thus was it with the Pastor of the vale;
Lowly, and placid, and beneficent,
He look'd to heaven from that sequester'd place,
And caught its impress: for the good man's life
231
Though broken ofttimes, many times obscure,
An image of that thing they ought to be.
Nor had he come to dwell a hermit here,
Of the world wearied, by the world contemn'd.
But in the strength and vigour of his days,
Ere yet the crown was wither'd on his brow,
Which in the throng of academic courts
His youth in eager conflict had borne off.
Duty, stern summoner, had hither called;
He heard and came—not passively alone,
But gladly; as he deemed it honour high
To labour in the loneliest, lowest spot
Of his great Master's vineyard; there he brought
The energy, the patience, the strong mind
That in the world had won for him high place,
And honour, and esteem, and gentle cares,
And graceful condescension; for in him
The intellectual current that flow'd on,
Deep in the soul, was calm as powerful,
And with an even wave bore gently up
The flowers of love, and cheerfulness, and peace,
That lay like lilies floating on the tide.
Of the world wearied, by the world contemn'd.
But in the strength and vigour of his days,
Ere yet the crown was wither'd on his brow,
Which in the throng of academic courts
His youth in eager conflict had borne off.
Duty, stern summoner, had hither called;
He heard and came—not passively alone,
But gladly; as he deemed it honour high
To labour in the loneliest, lowest spot
Of his great Master's vineyard; there he brought
The energy, the patience, the strong mind
That in the world had won for him high place,
And honour, and esteem, and gentle cares,
And graceful condescension; for in him
The intellectual current that flow'd on,
Deep in the soul, was calm as powerful,
And with an even wave bore gently up
The flowers of love, and cheerfulness, and peace,
That lay like lilies floating on the tide.
“'Tis marvellous,” the stranger said, “how much
We love familiar scenes; this mountain view
Needs some relief of woodland green to break
The outline of its rugged majesty;
And yet, methinks, I would not see displaced
One purple heath-flower on the mountain side.
That hollow in the hills were fairer far
Did twisted trunks and spreading branches shade
Its narrow glen; and that broad river's course,
How lovely were it winding amid banks
Where silver birch should wave, or willow bough
Droop o'er it; yet I would not see it changed.
But for thy portion of this desert glen
Thou wilt not tell me thou dost wish unchanged
The dwellers in this lonely wilderness?”
We love familiar scenes; this mountain view
Needs some relief of woodland green to break
The outline of its rugged majesty;
232
One purple heath-flower on the mountain side.
That hollow in the hills were fairer far
Did twisted trunks and spreading branches shade
Its narrow glen; and that broad river's course,
How lovely were it winding amid banks
Where silver birch should wave, or willow bough
Droop o'er it; yet I would not see it changed.
But for thy portion of this desert glen
Thou wilt not tell me thou dost wish unchanged
The dwellers in this lonely wilderness?”
“The people,” said the Pastor, “like the place,
Are cultureless and rugged, needing much
Of ornament, and discipline, and care;
Yet are there features in their character—
Shadows, and lights, and passing gleams, whereon
The eye, as thine on yonder hill to-night,
Delights to linger and should grieve to lose.
But in the hamlets that so thickly stud
This populous valley, many souls there be
Who own me not, but him their shepherd name,
Who for their sins, in that time-honour'd tongue
Of them unknown, unutter'd, pours the prayer
Within those walls that proudly arrogate
(Shame on the coward hearts that yielded it)
The white cross gleaming in the western ray.
Yet even they have wrecks of better things;
Some pearls there are, yet cast upon the shore
Amid the weeds that error's wave flings up,
Relics of purer times, sweet simple rites,
Which when I meet I cannot chose but love.”
Are cultureless and rugged, needing much
Of ornament, and discipline, and care;
Yet are there features in their character—
Shadows, and lights, and passing gleams, whereon
The eye, as thine on yonder hill to-night,
Delights to linger and should grieve to lose.
But in the hamlets that so thickly stud
This populous valley, many souls there be
Who own me not, but him their shepherd name,
Who for their sins, in that time-honour'd tongue
Of them unknown, unutter'd, pours the prayer
Within those walls that proudly arrogate
(Shame on the coward hearts that yielded it)
The white cross gleaming in the western ray.
Yet even they have wrecks of better things;
Some pearls there are, yet cast upon the shore
233
Relics of purer times, sweet simple rites,
Which when I meet I cannot chose but love.”
“It may be so,” his friend rejoined; “for me,
I love not to uplift the graceful veil
That fancy flings round the external things
Of this too real world; I would not delve
Into the bosom of the earth for gold
While on its surface spring so many flowers.
Yon hamlet-dwelling, where the curling smoke
Hangs in blue wreaths around the open door,
How meetly mingle with the mountain hues
The stains on its thatch'd roof; how softly falls
The passing sunbeam on that silver mist;
But thou wilt lift the latch and enter in,
And poverty shall greet thee, discontent,
Disease, and discord, haply lawless guilt,
And crouching superstition, worse than all.
I would not follow thee so far, to pluck
The roses from my garland, to dispel
The charm of distance and of ignorance.”
I love not to uplift the graceful veil
That fancy flings round the external things
Of this too real world; I would not delve
Into the bosom of the earth for gold
While on its surface spring so many flowers.
Yon hamlet-dwelling, where the curling smoke
Hangs in blue wreaths around the open door,
How meetly mingle with the mountain hues
The stains on its thatch'd roof; how softly falls
The passing sunbeam on that silver mist;
But thou wilt lift the latch and enter in,
And poverty shall greet thee, discontent,
Disease, and discord, haply lawless guilt,
And crouching superstition, worse than all.
I would not follow thee so far, to pluck
The roses from my garland, to dispel
The charm of distance and of ignorance.”
The Pastor answered, “There are things in life
That for the very roughness of their truth
Pierce through the veil of graceful poetry;
But not for this should charity forbear
To enter in and soothe the rugged part:
He is no mariner who courts the wave
In the calm sunshine, and when tempests lour,
A trembling coward, hides his face and flees.
And Duty wears a halo of her own;
There is a borrow'd light in her calm eye
That sheds around all rude and common things
A chasten'd charm proud Fancy never knew.
Much that thou fearest, many things perchance
That thou conceivest not, in daily walks
And visits to this people have I met—
Wrongs unredress'd, and sorrows unassuaged,
And patient industry that toil'd in vain,
By want attended. Circumstance and time
And numbers are against them, and have sway'd
Their spirits with an evil influence.
Dwellers are here too many for the soil;
Their soul is broken; poverty and need
Have press'd too hardly on them, and have made
Each to his fellow harsh and cold of heart;
They have lost trust; suspicion, and deceit,
And crouching guile that fears to be betray'd,
And pride are theirs, and darkest ignorance.
The mean oppress the meaner; and the fires
Of ancient hates and feudal jealousies
Sleep in their hearts, till wrath or injury
Rouse the fierce flames: yet in the darksome web
Are many goodly golden threads entwined.
Love have I met, deep feelings brave and true,
And meek content; and to the will of God,
In want, submission, fortitude in grief,
And natural affection's lively flow,
And charity that round the peasant's hearth
Sprang freely as the heath-flower on his hills,
And piety, and rev'rent duty, whence
The fierceness of their superstitious zeal,
As though even virtue's self had run to seed
And brought forth vice.
That for the very roughness of their truth
Pierce through the veil of graceful poetry;
But not for this should charity forbear
To enter in and soothe the rugged part:
He is no mariner who courts the wave
In the calm sunshine, and when tempests lour,
234
And Duty wears a halo of her own;
There is a borrow'd light in her calm eye
That sheds around all rude and common things
A chasten'd charm proud Fancy never knew.
Much that thou fearest, many things perchance
That thou conceivest not, in daily walks
And visits to this people have I met—
Wrongs unredress'd, and sorrows unassuaged,
And patient industry that toil'd in vain,
By want attended. Circumstance and time
And numbers are against them, and have sway'd
Their spirits with an evil influence.
Dwellers are here too many for the soil;
Their soul is broken; poverty and need
Have press'd too hardly on them, and have made
Each to his fellow harsh and cold of heart;
They have lost trust; suspicion, and deceit,
And crouching guile that fears to be betray'd,
And pride are theirs, and darkest ignorance.
The mean oppress the meaner; and the fires
Of ancient hates and feudal jealousies
Sleep in their hearts, till wrath or injury
Rouse the fierce flames: yet in the darksome web
Are many goodly golden threads entwined.
Love have I met, deep feelings brave and true,
And meek content; and to the will of God,
In want, submission, fortitude in grief,
And natural affection's lively flow,
And charity that round the peasant's hearth
235
And piety, and rev'rent duty, whence
The fierceness of their superstitious zeal,
As though even virtue's self had run to seed
And brought forth vice.
“We are set here below,
Each in his place to work the will of heaven
In faith and quietness; we shall not see
The current of man's evil nature change,
And earth grow new beneath our charmèd touch;
But silently, as coming of the spring,
God's purpose slowly worketh on within;
And all man's righteous efforts, like the dew,
The sap in the sweet flowers, the gentle breeze,
Shall operate conjointly with His will
The glorious spring-time of a world renew'd.”
Each in his place to work the will of heaven
In faith and quietness; we shall not see
The current of man's evil nature change,
And earth grow new beneath our charmèd touch;
But silently, as coming of the spring,
God's purpose slowly worketh on within;
And all man's righteous efforts, like the dew,
The sap in the sweet flowers, the gentle breeze,
Shall operate conjointly with His will
The glorious spring-time of a world renew'd.”
He finish'd, and the stranger had not framed
His careless answer, when there came a sound
Like the low plashing of the summer sea
Along its pebbly margin, or the stir
Of whispering winds among the leafless trees.
Both started and look'd round: “I know it,” then
The Pastor said, “it is that woman's voice:
Each night she sits upon yon new-made grave;
Dost thou not mark it by the western wall,
Deck'd with rude crosses twined with garlands white,—
A southern rite? She is not of this land—
That mournful woman. Scarce three days are gone
Since here I heard the funeral note of woe,
And saw the train wind up the mountain path.
Four peasants, for the love of charity,
(That seed that in the Irish poor man's breast
Springs so abundant,) bore the coffin bare;
She and some women following alone.
They told me he was a poor travelling man,
Who had lain down and died in Owen's hut,
Of want or weariness; they knew not how
Nor whence he came: that woman was his wife.”
The stranger said, “Ye must have many such
In this o'er-peopled land, who on its face
Die shelterless, unown'd.” The Priest replied,
“Let us go down and seek to comfort her.”
His careless answer, when there came a sound
Like the low plashing of the summer sea
Along its pebbly margin, or the stir
Of whispering winds among the leafless trees.
Both started and look'd round: “I know it,” then
The Pastor said, “it is that woman's voice:
Each night she sits upon yon new-made grave;
Dost thou not mark it by the western wall,
Deck'd with rude crosses twined with garlands white,—
A southern rite? She is not of this land—
236
Since here I heard the funeral note of woe,
And saw the train wind up the mountain path.
Four peasants, for the love of charity,
(That seed that in the Irish poor man's breast
Springs so abundant,) bore the coffin bare;
She and some women following alone.
They told me he was a poor travelling man,
Who had lain down and died in Owen's hut,
Of want or weariness; they knew not how
Nor whence he came: that woman was his wife.”
The stranger said, “Ye must have many such
In this o'er-peopled land, who on its face
Die shelterless, unown'd.” The Priest replied,
“Let us go down and seek to comfort her.”
She sat upon the grave, and to and fro
Rock'd her slight form, wrapp'd in the mantle red,
That from her brow hung backward to the ground;
Nor lack'd that face, albeit colourless
And stain'd with want and sorrow, token fair
Of beauty that had lit the dark blue eye,
And hung in smiles around the red curved lip;
And youth extreme (for soon they knit the bond
That binds the maiden to her peasant lord).
Rock'd her slight form, wrapp'd in the mantle red,
That from her brow hung backward to the ground;
Nor lack'd that face, albeit colourless
And stain'd with want and sorrow, token fair
Of beauty that had lit the dark blue eye,
And hung in smiles around the red curved lip;
And youth extreme (for soon they knit the bond
That binds the maiden to her peasant lord).
“There is no hope for me,” the woman said—
“My hearth is black; the sunshine from my heart
Has past away; I have no husband now;
The lip, whose harshest word than flattery
Of other men was sweeter far, is mute;
The eye is closed whose coldest look was love.
Vein of my heart, what voice shall comfort me?
Light of my eyes, who now shall smile on me?
I am alone; I have no hope, no help.”
“My hearth is black; the sunshine from my heart
Has past away; I have no husband now;
237
Of other men was sweeter far, is mute;
The eye is closed whose coldest look was love.
Vein of my heart, what voice shall comfort me?
Light of my eyes, who now shall smile on me?
I am alone; I have no hope, no help.”
“He is the resurrection, and the life,
Who hung thereon for thee,” the Pastor spake,
And touch'd the white cross rudely garlanded:
“Daughter, the widow's God will comfort thee.”
Who hung thereon for thee,” the Pastor spake,
And touch'd the white cross rudely garlanded:
“Daughter, the widow's God will comfort thee.”
“Now the Lord's blessing be on thee,” she said,
“Whoe'er thou art, for by that word I know
Thee good and kind, who thus has solaced me.
Yes, He can hear and help; yet is it hard,
Hard for the poor, the ignorant, the lone,
So to forget their fate, and look beyond
This cold dead clay; and yet I know He hears
The voice of woman for His mother's sake.”
“Whoe'er thou art, for by that word I know
Thee good and kind, who thus has solaced me.
Yes, He can hear and help; yet is it hard,
Hard for the poor, the ignorant, the lone,
So to forget their fate, and look beyond
This cold dead clay; and yet I know He hears
The voice of woman for His mother's sake.”
“Then turn thee unto Him,” the Pastor said;
And he sat down, and with the mourner held
Communion in her grief; and like the flow
Of mingling waters, on her sorrowing soul
Fell from his pitying eye and soothing lip
Compassion, and concern, and sympathy.
He spake of judgments that seem'd dark and stern,
And said they were sweet Mercy's messengers,
To lead the wanderer home. He spake of One
Self-named the Father of the fatherless,
The widow's stay. Then gently her poor soul
From that cold sod, this dim, deserted earth,
He lifted up, and show'd angelic homes,
And holy counsel mingled in his speech;
And all with such a touching eloquence,
The stranger hearken'd mute, and the still air
Around seem'd perfumed with the good man's words:
And the pale mourner wept, and bow'd her head
Down to the unconscious earth, and own'd them true.
And when he ceased, she bless'd his pious care,
And then, for simple sorrow deems the load
She shares with pitying hearts is lighten'd half,
She lifted up her voice, and told her tale:—
And he sat down, and with the mourner held
Communion in her grief; and like the flow
Of mingling waters, on her sorrowing soul
Fell from his pitying eye and soothing lip
Compassion, and concern, and sympathy.
He spake of judgments that seem'd dark and stern,
And said they were sweet Mercy's messengers,
238
Self-named the Father of the fatherless,
The widow's stay. Then gently her poor soul
From that cold sod, this dim, deserted earth,
He lifted up, and show'd angelic homes,
And holy counsel mingled in his speech;
And all with such a touching eloquence,
The stranger hearken'd mute, and the still air
Around seem'd perfumed with the good man's words:
And the pale mourner wept, and bow'd her head
Down to the unconscious earth, and own'd them true.
And when he ceased, she bless'd his pious care,
And then, for simple sorrow deems the load
She shares with pitying hearts is lighten'd half,
She lifted up her voice, and told her tale:—
“Far in the South my father's house was set,
'Mid those wild hills where Glendalough's deep wave
Heaves to the echoes of her seven shrines,
And the clear Avon's ancient waters glide
Around Ierne's ruined capital.
And I was nursed amid those relics hoar,
And fed upon the haunted airs that rock'd
That wondrous tower whereof no legends tell.
My knee had bent within our Lady's shrine,
My foot had climb'd to stern St. Kevin's bed,
And my young eye had dizzily look'd down
On the dark waters where his Cathleen sank.
There was no lighter step in all the glen,
No heart more heedless till young Alick came;
A dying mother's heavy sin to shrive,
From the black North, a weary pilgrimage,
He came to seek our Lady of the Glen,
And there amid those holy hills perform
A station for her soul's eternal weal.
What boots to tell how I was woo'd and won;
How by the lake where never skylark sings
He pour'd a song far sweeter to mine ear;
How through the young green woods of Derrybawn
We roam'd together, when the harvest-moon
Was on the waterfall, and Brocklagh's height
And Comaderry heard his whisper'd vows,
And dark Lugduff.
'Mid those wild hills where Glendalough's deep wave
Heaves to the echoes of her seven shrines,
And the clear Avon's ancient waters glide
Around Ierne's ruined capital.
And I was nursed amid those relics hoar,
And fed upon the haunted airs that rock'd
That wondrous tower whereof no legends tell.
My knee had bent within our Lady's shrine,
My foot had climb'd to stern St. Kevin's bed,
And my young eye had dizzily look'd down
On the dark waters where his Cathleen sank.
There was no lighter step in all the glen,
239
A dying mother's heavy sin to shrive,
From the black North, a weary pilgrimage,
He came to seek our Lady of the Glen,
And there amid those holy hills perform
A station for her soul's eternal weal.
What boots to tell how I was woo'd and won;
How by the lake where never skylark sings
He pour'd a song far sweeter to mine ear;
How through the young green woods of Derrybawn
We roam'd together, when the harvest-moon
Was on the waterfall, and Brocklagh's height
And Comaderry heard his whisper'd vows,
And dark Lugduff.
“Thus did he lure my steps
From kindred, and from friends, and maiden cares,
And from my childhood's beautiful wild home;
And still I thought there was no place on earth
So cold and dull but there our mutual love
Should light some sparks of quiet happiness.
I did not err: four pleasant summer years,
Four winters drear we dwelt in bliss together;
The tears I shed upon my father's neck
Were dried full soon. My mother's weeping face
Haunted my dreams no more; there only dwelt
The memory of their blessings and their prayers
Enshrined within my heart. A pleasant scene
Was the broad vale beneath us, fair to see
From the grey hill-side where our cabin stood;
The Morne, like glittering serpent, roll'd his length
O'er his rough bed around Strabane's white wall,
And gently, like a bride, the silver Finn
Came through her meadows, wandering to meet
His bounding wave by Lifford's silent tower.
And it was beautiful to trace their course,
Standing together by the threshold lone
Of our poor dwelling, when sweet twilight brought
Short respite to our toil; for all the day
He labour'd at the weary loom within,
Winning scant pittance for my babes and me,
And I beside him, winding the long thread,
Rock'd with my foot the cradle of our boy,
While our young daughter, climbing round my knee
With pretty prattle chided the long hours,
Till he would sometimes lay his shuttle down
And laugh with us. I was the happiest wife,
The proudest mother then: ah me! those days
How fast they fleeted. Our fifth winter came,
And with it a third child; in evil hour
Of sickliness and danger came he forth;
And it was long ere health or strength return'd
To my wan wither'd cheek and weaken'd frame.
The season too was hard; the poor man's loom
Stood idle now, or rung a gain so small,
So trivial, 'twas a mockery to toil.
And yet he labour'd on; no more at even
I sate, my hand in his: the regular fall
Of the dull shuttle sounded in my ear
Half through the weary night; and still the sound
Of his dear voice rose o'er it cheerily,
And still he bade me hope, and when his cheek
Faded, he smiled, and told me all was well.
From kindred, and from friends, and maiden cares,
And from my childhood's beautiful wild home;
And still I thought there was no place on earth
So cold and dull but there our mutual love
Should light some sparks of quiet happiness.
I did not err: four pleasant summer years,
Four winters drear we dwelt in bliss together;
The tears I shed upon my father's neck
Were dried full soon. My mother's weeping face
Haunted my dreams no more; there only dwelt
The memory of their blessings and their prayers
Enshrined within my heart. A pleasant scene
Was the broad vale beneath us, fair to see
From the grey hill-side where our cabin stood;
240
O'er his rough bed around Strabane's white wall,
And gently, like a bride, the silver Finn
Came through her meadows, wandering to meet
His bounding wave by Lifford's silent tower.
And it was beautiful to trace their course,
Standing together by the threshold lone
Of our poor dwelling, when sweet twilight brought
Short respite to our toil; for all the day
He labour'd at the weary loom within,
Winning scant pittance for my babes and me,
And I beside him, winding the long thread,
Rock'd with my foot the cradle of our boy,
While our young daughter, climbing round my knee
With pretty prattle chided the long hours,
Till he would sometimes lay his shuttle down
And laugh with us. I was the happiest wife,
The proudest mother then: ah me! those days
How fast they fleeted. Our fifth winter came,
And with it a third child; in evil hour
Of sickliness and danger came he forth;
And it was long ere health or strength return'd
To my wan wither'd cheek and weaken'd frame.
The season too was hard; the poor man's loom
Stood idle now, or rung a gain so small,
So trivial, 'twas a mockery to toil.
And yet he labour'd on; no more at even
I sate, my hand in his: the regular fall
Of the dull shuttle sounded in my ear
Half through the weary night; and still the sound
241
And still he bade me hope, and when his cheek
Faded, he smiled, and told me all was well.
“In the young spring-time, when the days grew long,
Late labouring and early, we had set
With our own hands the precious roots whereon
Our babes might feed, within a narrow spot,
Rough and uneven, by our mountain home;
Now their green tops were blacken'd, and the spade
Was ready made to cast our treasure forth.
Stern was the man, and hard of heart, alas!
Of whom we held our dwelling. They whose veins
Hold gentle blood are gentle-hearted ever:
But this poor churl was mean as we; his heart
No pity had, no patience; for the rent
Of those four walls he seized our sustenance;
It was our life, our all; we had but it;
I look'd on my poor children, and despair'd,
And he whose steady soul had ever smiled
Through all our trials, making sorrow wear
The hue of his courageous cheerfulness,
Like trees by moonlight whose dark, different dyes
Are changed to silver white—his heart, too, sank
With aspect of our hopeless misery.
Late labouring and early, we had set
With our own hands the precious roots whereon
Our babes might feed, within a narrow spot,
Rough and uneven, by our mountain home;
Now their green tops were blacken'd, and the spade
Was ready made to cast our treasure forth.
Stern was the man, and hard of heart, alas!
Of whom we held our dwelling. They whose veins
Hold gentle blood are gentle-hearted ever:
But this poor churl was mean as we; his heart
No pity had, no patience; for the rent
Of those four walls he seized our sustenance;
It was our life, our all; we had but it;
I look'd on my poor children, and despair'd,
And he whose steady soul had ever smiled
Through all our trials, making sorrow wear
The hue of his courageous cheerfulness,
Like trees by moonlight whose dark, different dyes
Are changed to silver white—his heart, too, sank
With aspect of our hopeless misery.
“It was a dark December even; the sleet
Beat coldly on our narrow window pane;
We sat and look'd into each other's eyes,
And spake no word of comfort; bit nor sup
Had broken his fast or mine that weary day.
I rock'd the sickly infant on my knee,
And, as it wail'd, the wan fire's flickering light
Fell on my wasted form: he turn'd away,
And took up his fair boy to make him sport,
But the child look'd up in his father's face
And ask'd for food. Then was the measure full;
The brimming cup of aggravated woe
Ran o'er at last. ‘God help me, Rose,’ he said,
‘I cannot see them starve.’ Then quick caught up
The basket and the shovel, and was gone.
It was the longest hour in all my life
Till Alick came again; not emptily,
But laden with full store; for he had been
To our oppressor's field, and from the pit
Had taken a part; he said it was his own,
But well I knew the specious plea was false,
And even as he spoke the flush of shame,
Of dark dishonest shame, the first that ever
Mine eye had seen on that broad manly brow,
Rose to his face. He stay'd with me that night,
But ere the morning dawn he fled away.
Oh! but the rich are happy; they are not
Goaded to guilt by misery extreme,
Nor till her bosom have been wrung like his,
Let Innocence inexorably judge
'Mid all her gifts, the madness of that hour.
Beat coldly on our narrow window pane;
242
And spake no word of comfort; bit nor sup
Had broken his fast or mine that weary day.
I rock'd the sickly infant on my knee,
And, as it wail'd, the wan fire's flickering light
Fell on my wasted form: he turn'd away,
And took up his fair boy to make him sport,
But the child look'd up in his father's face
And ask'd for food. Then was the measure full;
The brimming cup of aggravated woe
Ran o'er at last. ‘God help me, Rose,’ he said,
‘I cannot see them starve.’ Then quick caught up
The basket and the shovel, and was gone.
It was the longest hour in all my life
Till Alick came again; not emptily,
But laden with full store; for he had been
To our oppressor's field, and from the pit
Had taken a part; he said it was his own,
But well I knew the specious plea was false,
And even as he spoke the flush of shame,
Of dark dishonest shame, the first that ever
Mine eye had seen on that broad manly brow,
Rose to his face. He stay'd with me that night,
But ere the morning dawn he fled away.
Oh! but the rich are happy; they are not
Goaded to guilt by misery extreme,
Nor till her bosom have been wrung like his,
Let Innocence inexorably judge
'Mid all her gifts, the madness of that hour.
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“They sought him like a felon through the land,
And I had died of penury the while,
But for that lady sweet, compassionate,
(God, when she dieth, make her bed in Heaven!)
Who sought me in my need and succour'd me.
Three weeks he came not, three long weary weeks
I sat alone beside my widow'd hearth,
And started when perchance the hollow wind
Howl'd through the mountain passes, or the dog
Stirr'd in his slumber; for I surely thought
It was his footfall on the snowy path,
And many times I rose, and would look forth;
Alas! the pale moon lighted the cold waste,
And I could almost chide her that she look'd
As bright upon my lonely woe, as when
She lit our loves by Glaneola's brook.
And those two rushing rivers, that had been
The mirrors of our happiness, were there,
In their broad beauty; only I was changed.
At length he came: his tremulous finger touch'd
The window pane; the murmur of his voice
Thrill'd to my heart; I bounded to unlatch
The fragile door, and we were one again.
And I had died of penury the while,
But for that lady sweet, compassionate,
(God, when she dieth, make her bed in Heaven!)
Who sought me in my need and succour'd me.
Three weeks he came not, three long weary weeks
I sat alone beside my widow'd hearth,
And started when perchance the hollow wind
Howl'd through the mountain passes, or the dog
Stirr'd in his slumber; for I surely thought
It was his footfall on the snowy path,
And many times I rose, and would look forth;
Alas! the pale moon lighted the cold waste,
And I could almost chide her that she look'd
As bright upon my lonely woe, as when
She lit our loves by Glaneola's brook.
And those two rushing rivers, that had been
The mirrors of our happiness, were there,
In their broad beauty; only I was changed.
At length he came: his tremulous finger touch'd
The window pane; the murmur of his voice
Thrill'd to my heart; I bounded to unlatch
The fragile door, and we were one again.
“That very night across the heather height
Two exiled pilgrims, we fled forth together,
He bearing our two children, I the babe;
Houseless and poor and desolate we went,
Hoping alone in God and in each other.
Long time we wander'd; six times the broad moon
Won her full height, and six times waned again,
And still we sat beside another's fire.
All day we roam'd, and nightly made our bed
Where we found shelter: hardship, hunger, cold,
Such as ye know not, were our portion then,
And we had grief: the sickly babe died first;
Oh! it was hard to lay the burden down
That I had ever borne upon my breast,
In the cold clay. They told me the good God
Had taken home the bark that was too frail
To breast the storm; and my fair other boy
Was there to comfort me; but we love most
That which has cost us most of toil and pain,
And I wept wildly for my white-hair'd boy.
Blind was I then, and of my future fate
Most ignorant, who, when my foot first touch'd
The waters of affliction, stood and moan'd,
Nor saw how high the billows rose around
To whelm my soul; and yet I might have known,
Because there hung a cloud o'er those bright eyes
That were my sun and star; even from the night
When first he stain'd the honest purity
Of his good name with that dishonest deed.
The memory of that one evil act
Clung to his soul through all our sufferings,
Like weight on some poor drowning mariner
That drags him down below; and he would say,
‘I might have waited: God then in His love
Had seen our honest truth and sent relief.
I was too hasty; in my grief I sinn'd.’
And day by day he wither'd from my side,
And yet I would not see; like frighten'd child
That, in his nightly chamber laid alone,
Shuts up his eyes, and deems there cannot be
A danger that he doth not look upon.
Two exiled pilgrims, we fled forth together,
He bearing our two children, I the babe;
Houseless and poor and desolate we went,
Hoping alone in God and in each other.
244
Won her full height, and six times waned again,
And still we sat beside another's fire.
All day we roam'd, and nightly made our bed
Where we found shelter: hardship, hunger, cold,
Such as ye know not, were our portion then,
And we had grief: the sickly babe died first;
Oh! it was hard to lay the burden down
That I had ever borne upon my breast,
In the cold clay. They told me the good God
Had taken home the bark that was too frail
To breast the storm; and my fair other boy
Was there to comfort me; but we love most
That which has cost us most of toil and pain,
And I wept wildly for my white-hair'd boy.
Blind was I then, and of my future fate
Most ignorant, who, when my foot first touch'd
The waters of affliction, stood and moan'd,
Nor saw how high the billows rose around
To whelm my soul; and yet I might have known,
Because there hung a cloud o'er those bright eyes
That were my sun and star; even from the night
When first he stain'd the honest purity
Of his good name with that dishonest deed.
The memory of that one evil act
Clung to his soul through all our sufferings,
Like weight on some poor drowning mariner
That drags him down below; and he would say,
‘I might have waited: God then in His love
245
I was too hasty; in my grief I sinn'd.’
And day by day he wither'd from my side,
And yet I would not see; like frighten'd child
That, in his nightly chamber laid alone,
Shuts up his eyes, and deems there cannot be
A danger that he doth not look upon.
“But wherefore linger? He was failing long.
A kinsman dwelling in yon distant glen
Took the two children while we wended hither,
For we had heard there was a holy well
By this old chapel, in whose sainted wave
There dwelt a healing virtue for the frame
Decay had smitten; to this ruin'd shrine
After long travel we drew nigh; and here
He found indeed what he had sought—relief,
A quiet bed, and for his weary frame
A peaceful lying-down. Poor sufferer,
These healing waters wrought for thee no cure
Whose sickness was a broken heart; thy bed
Is made with the cold earth-worm for a mate.
How shall I turn and go away without thee?
And when thy children meet me by the way,
And ask me for their father, and look up
And lisp thy name, what shall I answer them?”
A kinsman dwelling in yon distant glen
Took the two children while we wended hither,
For we had heard there was a holy well
By this old chapel, in whose sainted wave
There dwelt a healing virtue for the frame
Decay had smitten; to this ruin'd shrine
After long travel we drew nigh; and here
He found indeed what he had sought—relief,
A quiet bed, and for his weary frame
A peaceful lying-down. Poor sufferer,
These healing waters wrought for thee no cure
Whose sickness was a broken heart; thy bed
Is made with the cold earth-worm for a mate.
How shall I turn and go away without thee?
And when thy children meet me by the way,
And ask me for their father, and look up
And lisp thy name, what shall I answer them?”
Then ceased the mourner's tale; but not with it
Her voice of lamentation; that burst forth
In that deep cry most wild, most musical,
That speaks of hopeless anguish for the dead.
It mingled with the murmur of the tide,
It mingled with the merry mountain breeze,
And down the valley fell that single voice
With a strange power, as when the moaning wind
Sighs through the forest, and men think they hear
The mingling of a human voice, and start,
And pause to listen.
Her voice of lamentation; that burst forth
In that deep cry most wild, most musical,
246
It mingled with the murmur of the tide,
It mingled with the merry mountain breeze,
And down the valley fell that single voice
With a strange power, as when the moaning wind
Sighs through the forest, and men think they hear
The mingling of a human voice, and start,
And pause to listen.
“Said I not aright,”
The Pastor of the stranger then inquired,
“Amid the strife of powers untrain'd within
And hard external pressure, which the mind
Lacks principle and courage to withstand,
That beautiful and holy things there are?”
He spoke, and to the mourner pointed out,
Down the green glen, his homely hermitage,
And bade her claim the hospitable aid
Which never the poor tired traveller
Had sought in vain, or wanderer wanted, there.
The Pastor of the stranger then inquired,
“Amid the strife of powers untrain'd within
And hard external pressure, which the mind
Lacks principle and courage to withstand,
That beautiful and holy things there are?”
He spoke, and to the mourner pointed out,
Down the green glen, his homely hermitage,
And bade her claim the hospitable aid
Which never the poor tired traveller
Had sought in vain, or wanderer wanted, there.
THE LAPIDARY'S DAUGHTER.
“Up at Septmonçel in the Jura, where
The lapidaries work, the damsel dwells.”
Mine host made answer, standing by the bridge
Over the Saône at Chalons: “When her sire
Comes here to seek the jewels for his trade,
She bears him company, to show us all
How fair a flower can blossom in the snow.”
“Is it far hence, this village?” said the youth.
“A thousand kilometres, sir, and more
Above the sea; full ten beyond St. Claude
By the new road, albeit but two, they say,
As a bird flies.” Whereat the traveller
Bade him “Good day,” and loitered from the inn.
The lapidaries work, the damsel dwells.”
Mine host made answer, standing by the bridge
Over the Saône at Chalons: “When her sire
Comes here to seek the jewels for his trade,
247
How fair a flower can blossom in the snow.”
“Is it far hence, this village?” said the youth.
“A thousand kilometres, sir, and more
Above the sea; full ten beyond St. Claude
By the new road, albeit but two, they say,
As a bird flies.” Whereat the traveller
Bade him “Good day,” and loitered from the inn.
Beyond the land of vines, beyond the heights
Where the last chestnuts wave their giant arms,
And flowers still smile in upland valleys deep;—
Beyond the nether ridge where the land slopes
Back to its centre, and one hears the voice
Of Brienne roaring in his narrow walls,
And filling all the low Jurassian chain
With noise of torrents;—far beyond St. Claude,
That still old city lying in the gorge,
Mitred and crosiered, like an abbot dead
Cut out in stone upon a tomb;—far up
On the high Jura, where the great brown pines
Clasp the scant earth, and lean from cliff to cliff,
Septmoncel lies, a village in the clouds.
Where the last chestnuts wave their giant arms,
And flowers still smile in upland valleys deep;—
Beyond the nether ridge where the land slopes
Back to its centre, and one hears the voice
Of Brienne roaring in his narrow walls,
And filling all the low Jurassian chain
With noise of torrents;—far beyond St. Claude,
That still old city lying in the gorge,
Mitred and crosiered, like an abbot dead
Cut out in stone upon a tomb;—far up
On the high Jura, where the great brown pines
Clasp the scant earth, and lean from cliff to cliff,
Septmoncel lies, a village in the clouds.
Strange how the footsteps of man's luxury
Climb into God's wild nature: mid the pines,
The snow-peaks, and the torrents dwell a race
Cunning of hand to carve the jewel out
Of the blank stone—topaz, or chrysolite,
Or the green emerald, or from Orient brought,
Kept for the bishop's finger, that rare gem,
The delicate-tinted purple amethyst.
In the low chamber lined with rough-hewn wood,
Where day by day the lapidary sees
His frugal fare, rye bread and thin blue milk
Strained from the cheese that seldom decks his board,
Are gems to set a monarch's crown ablaze,
Or glitter on the bodice of his queen.
And while the poor man sitting at his wheel
Cuts scantly out the pittance that supplies
His modest needs, he holds within his hand
The worth of millions. Outside his poor home
Are snow, and clouds, and freezing winds; within
His poverty, his labour, and the gems.
The civilised drives out the natural.
Taste, luxury, art burn out material night,
As light burns out the darkness by itself.
The red man cannot live beside the white;
His glory dwindles, and his race decays.
And so the softening touch of some great art,
Though it but graze the border of his state,
Shall drive the coarser nature out of man,
And teach him taste, and lead to thought refined.
He cannot hold a jewel in his hand
But something of the better mind of courts
Shall fill his soul with untaught courtesy;
A sound of rustling silks, and ermine trailed,
Shall seem to hang about his rugged home;
And in his heart a sense of costly trust,
Of proud possession that yet is not his,
And fills his mind with thoughts above himself.
Climb into God's wild nature: mid the pines,
The snow-peaks, and the torrents dwell a race
Cunning of hand to carve the jewel out
Of the blank stone—topaz, or chrysolite,
248
Kept for the bishop's finger, that rare gem,
The delicate-tinted purple amethyst.
In the low chamber lined with rough-hewn wood,
Where day by day the lapidary sees
His frugal fare, rye bread and thin blue milk
Strained from the cheese that seldom decks his board,
Are gems to set a monarch's crown ablaze,
Or glitter on the bodice of his queen.
And while the poor man sitting at his wheel
Cuts scantly out the pittance that supplies
His modest needs, he holds within his hand
The worth of millions. Outside his poor home
Are snow, and clouds, and freezing winds; within
His poverty, his labour, and the gems.
The civilised drives out the natural.
Taste, luxury, art burn out material night,
As light burns out the darkness by itself.
The red man cannot live beside the white;
His glory dwindles, and his race decays.
And so the softening touch of some great art,
Though it but graze the border of his state,
Shall drive the coarser nature out of man,
And teach him taste, and lead to thought refined.
He cannot hold a jewel in his hand
But something of the better mind of courts
Shall fill his soul with untaught courtesy;
A sound of rustling silks, and ermine trailed,
Shall seem to hang about his rugged home;
249
Of proud possession that yet is not his,
And fills his mind with thoughts above himself.
So the Septmoncelais is kind and grave;
Meek, but not cringing; full of self-respect,
As one that works with God's most precious gifts,
And most esteemed of man in every age,
And knows himself more noble than his craft.
For not for him the influences work
That harden and demoralize; his heart
Is pure and simple, tender as a child's,
Full of all generous pity for the weak,
And comfort for the injured. 'Tis his faith
To help the suppliant, of his mountain home
To make a shelter for the fugitive,
And then defy the world to drag him forth.
Nor worthy trust alone in things without,
But more within, good father, faithful spouse;
For him no factory opens, calling men
To herd together o'er a hundred looms,
Forgetful of their children and their wives.
He works at home, and loves his simple hearth
And makes it blest; he is the gem unset,
The tender purple of the amethyst,
The ruby's glory, with no factious aid
Of sycophant gold to show the jewel off.
Such was Lamenais, father of Clemence;
Clemence, whose innocent beauty looking out
From eyes as bright and shy as are a fawn's,
Had so beguiled, at Chalons by the Saône,
The traveller, that he turned, and climbed the Jura.
Meek, but not cringing; full of self-respect,
As one that works with God's most precious gifts,
And most esteemed of man in every age,
And knows himself more noble than his craft.
For not for him the influences work
That harden and demoralize; his heart
Is pure and simple, tender as a child's,
Full of all generous pity for the weak,
And comfort for the injured. 'Tis his faith
To help the suppliant, of his mountain home
To make a shelter for the fugitive,
And then defy the world to drag him forth.
Nor worthy trust alone in things without,
But more within, good father, faithful spouse;
For him no factory opens, calling men
To herd together o'er a hundred looms,
Forgetful of their children and their wives.
He works at home, and loves his simple hearth
And makes it blest; he is the gem unset,
The tender purple of the amethyst,
The ruby's glory, with no factious aid
Of sycophant gold to show the jewel off.
Such was Lamenais, father of Clemence;
Clemence, whose innocent beauty looking out
250
Had so beguiled, at Chalons by the Saône,
The traveller, that he turned, and climbed the Jura.
High was her nest: a moan of murmuring winds
Through peaks snow-laden, sighing as they came;
The far-off howl of wolves, and further still
The roar of Flumen thundering to his mills,
Had lulled her childhood many a long cold night,
When on the frozen street the moonbeam played
And on blank casements, and the church stood white,
Laying the shadow of her wooden cross
Over the sleeping town. On summer days
A visit to the valleys where the flowers
The latest lingered in some high deep cleft,
Hemmed in by guardian rocks from wind and frost,
Like a sick child that cannot die for care;
Or from the slippery platform, won with fear,
A venturous peep at Flumen's wall of waves
Tumbling sheer over their tremendous ledge;
Sometimes to wander mid the great brown stems
Of pines that clasp the rocks with crooked roots,
Or to sit looking through their windy tops:
These were her childhood's pleasures; or perchance
A place in the procession winding slow
Up the uneven street, with simple pomp
And chant, on some high Feast-day of the Church.
When older grown, she sat beside the wheel
Cutting the stone, that from its polished face
Gave forth no tint, and shot no shade of light,
Deep as her glance, or radiant as her smile.
Through peaks snow-laden, sighing as they came;
The far-off howl of wolves, and further still
The roar of Flumen thundering to his mills,
Had lulled her childhood many a long cold night,
When on the frozen street the moonbeam played
And on blank casements, and the church stood white,
Laying the shadow of her wooden cross
Over the sleeping town. On summer days
A visit to the valleys where the flowers
The latest lingered in some high deep cleft,
Hemmed in by guardian rocks from wind and frost,
Like a sick child that cannot die for care;
Or from the slippery platform, won with fear,
A venturous peep at Flumen's wall of waves
Tumbling sheer over their tremendous ledge;
Sometimes to wander mid the great brown stems
Of pines that clasp the rocks with crooked roots,
Or to sit looking through their windy tops:
These were her childhood's pleasures; or perchance
A place in the procession winding slow
Up the uneven street, with simple pomp
And chant, on some high Feast-day of the Church.
When older grown, she sat beside the wheel
Cutting the stone, that from its polished face
251
Deep as her glance, or radiant as her smile.
The little brother slumbered in his crib,
The gay clock ticked against the wainscoting
Carved out of mountain pine; the noon was hot,
And all the narrow casements were ajar,
No breath to move the curtain—lazily
A creeping sunbeam touched the secretaire
Of polished chestnut-wood, and lingered round
The two rough wheels that, for the daily toil,
Stood in its light, and drew a sudden flash
From the blue sapphire fixed into the wand
That lay in Clemence' hand. Sweet Clemence sang,
Soothing her labour's long monotony.
Alone she sat, save for the slumbering child.
That day the unfrequent factor to St. Claude
Had brought the rude material, the brute form
Their patience must make costly: father, son,
And mother went, and sisters in their teens,
They climbed the downward path; and Clemence sang—
The gay clock ticked against the wainscoting
Carved out of mountain pine; the noon was hot,
And all the narrow casements were ajar,
No breath to move the curtain—lazily
A creeping sunbeam touched the secretaire
Of polished chestnut-wood, and lingered round
The two rough wheels that, for the daily toil,
Stood in its light, and drew a sudden flash
From the blue sapphire fixed into the wand
That lay in Clemence' hand. Sweet Clemence sang,
Soothing her labour's long monotony.
Alone she sat, save for the slumbering child.
That day the unfrequent factor to St. Claude
Had brought the rude material, the brute form
Their patience must make costly: father, son,
And mother went, and sisters in their teens,
They climbed the downward path; and Clemence sang—
Turn, turn, O wheel, and cut the stone,
Form glorious sapphire while I sing;
Turn, wheel of trial, wheel of life,
And form the jewels for our king.
Form glorious sapphire while I sing;
Turn, wheel of trial, wheel of life,
And form the jewels for our king.
Blaze, blaze, bright jewel, in mine hand,
A precious thing in rugged spot,
Burn hope, and faith, and noble deed,
The jewels of our lowly lot.
A precious thing in rugged spot,
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The jewels of our lowly lot.
Turn, turn, O wheel, and form the gems
For robe, or ring, or coronet;
Turn, wheel of trouble, wheel of toil,
And fashion jewels fairer yet.
For robe, or ring, or coronet;
Turn, wheel of trouble, wheel of toil,
And fashion jewels fairer yet.
Wait, wait, bright sapphire, till thou flash,
The pride of some imperial town;
Wait, living gems, wait, human hearts,
Till Christ shall set you in His crown.
The pride of some imperial town;
Wait, living gems, wait, human hearts,
Till Christ shall set you in His crown.
She paused—a shadow fell into the room,
A shadow that she knew, and her heart beat,
And her hand stayed, still poising the blue stone,
But never touching now the biting steel.
For was not this the stranger that had come
Up to Septmoncel many days agone?
And lingered as the bee in springtime hangs
Over a clover bed, and singles out
One special honey-flower? Many times
Had he not danced with her, and pressed her hand,
And walked with her from church, and heard her sing,
And told her of his home in that bright isle,
Whose sons are nobles? Had he not alone
Breathed in her ear of that delightful land,
And of the long rich flats, and golden hollows,
Golden with grain, and orchards red with fruit,
And stately rivers with an even tread
Going 'twixt grassy banks; and forest trees
More graceful than her pines, with drooping boughs
That laid aside their burning Autumn garb
And donned a delicate green in early Spring;
And flowers that bloomed in sunny garden grounds
And looked a very little while on snow?
Had he not whispered how 'twere sweet to break
Away from winds and mountains, and white peaks
(Herself the only nightingale that sang
In that cold wood, a wood without a tree),
Into a calm of woodlands, and green bowers
Broken with music; sweet to live and love
Where life should need but love, and love should live
While their hearts beat.
A shadow that she knew, and her heart beat,
And her hand stayed, still poising the blue stone,
But never touching now the biting steel.
For was not this the stranger that had come
Up to Septmoncel many days agone?
And lingered as the bee in springtime hangs
Over a clover bed, and singles out
One special honey-flower? Many times
Had he not danced with her, and pressed her hand,
And walked with her from church, and heard her sing,
And told her of his home in that bright isle,
Whose sons are nobles? Had he not alone
Breathed in her ear of that delightful land,
And of the long rich flats, and golden hollows,
Golden with grain, and orchards red with fruit,
253
Going 'twixt grassy banks; and forest trees
More graceful than her pines, with drooping boughs
That laid aside their burning Autumn garb
And donned a delicate green in early Spring;
And flowers that bloomed in sunny garden grounds
And looked a very little while on snow?
Had he not whispered how 'twere sweet to break
Away from winds and mountains, and white peaks
(Herself the only nightingale that sang
In that cold wood, a wood without a tree),
Into a calm of woodlands, and green bowers
Broken with music; sweet to live and love
Where life should need but love, and love should live
While their hearts beat.
And she had heard him speak,
Not knowing half the evil of his words.
Nor he meaning it all, perchance; but blind
With passion, cheating partly his own soul,
And saying inly, she should meet no harm.
But as the small bird when the storm is nigh
Sets all his little ruffled feathers up,
And angrily awaits, a round rough ball,
The pelting of the rain-cloud; some quick sense
Of danger to the innocent maiden came;
And as he spake she gathered up her thoughts.
She had much need; with a few plausible words
Of careless preparation he revealed
How by the presbytère beyond the church
The horses waited that should bear them down,
With clanging hoofs and clattering of bells,
Into the valley, whence the snorting train
That mocks at time and space, should carry them
From vain pursuit, from mountains and from bonds,
Even to the borders of that wide salt sea
That held his white-cliffed island in her lap—
Him happiest of men, and her set free,
Too beautiful a bird for such a cage,
Narrow, and coarse, and full of sordid cares,
And thankless toil; but in that other world
She should move nobly among trees and flowers,
And never soil her dainty fingers more,
Nor vex her soul with thinking of to-morrow,
And be the fairest of a lordly line,
And wear upon her slender neck such gems
As now she moulded with her hand, and have
No care, but love and pleasure all her days,
And he would be all ties on earth to her,
Father and brother, and a dearer name.
Not knowing half the evil of his words.
Nor he meaning it all, perchance; but blind
With passion, cheating partly his own soul,
And saying inly, she should meet no harm.
But as the small bird when the storm is nigh
Sets all his little ruffled feathers up,
And angrily awaits, a round rough ball,
The pelting of the rain-cloud; some quick sense
Of danger to the innocent maiden came;
And as he spake she gathered up her thoughts.
She had much need; with a few plausible words
Of careless preparation he revealed
254
The horses waited that should bear them down,
With clanging hoofs and clattering of bells,
Into the valley, whence the snorting train
That mocks at time and space, should carry them
From vain pursuit, from mountains and from bonds,
Even to the borders of that wide salt sea
That held his white-cliffed island in her lap—
Him happiest of men, and her set free,
Too beautiful a bird for such a cage,
Narrow, and coarse, and full of sordid cares,
And thankless toil; but in that other world
She should move nobly among trees and flowers,
And never soil her dainty fingers more,
Nor vex her soul with thinking of to-morrow,
And be the fairest of a lordly line,
And wear upon her slender neck such gems
As now she moulded with her hand, and have
No care, but love and pleasure all her days,
And he would be all ties on earth to her,
Father and brother, and a dearer name.
He ceased; there burned a light behind her eye,
A little tremble fluttered in her throat.
“Nay, but I cannot go with you,” she said;
“These mountains would reproach me, and the eyes
Of all the children with regretful gaze
Would follow me for ever; most of all
My mother's and my father's, he whose cares
I share and lighten, sitting at his knee,
Hearing him tell old tales of the good men,
Good men and true, who sought our mountain hold
Out of Franche-Comté from the Spanish yoke;
—No yoke would they, for conscience or for neck—
Hearing him tell me, too, the law of God,
Of truth, and peace, and filial piety;
And of the Christ upon His golden Throne,
Who shall come back for us at trump of doom,
Lying due east, with faces towards His coming,
Up in the graveyard yonder; when the toil
And stir of life is over, and its joys:
For life hath many joys, not sad my lot.
If I should burst the little subtle webs
That bind me to this hut, each broken thread
Would rend away a pleasure from my heart.
And if you call my life a weary life,
'Tis wrapt into its future, like yon ruby
That flashes a new shade with every cut;
For some queen's finger ground in this poor place.
And souls, perchance, may wear bright tints in Heaven
From graces wrought by poverty and toil.
And if you say that far-off land is rich
Where you would take me, and a place to love;
Ah! but 'tis not the Jura: there's no seam,
No chasm upon the face of that peaked hill
That fronts this window pane, but is my friend.
No land on earth could ever be to me
What this land is. What are your trees and flowers
To this vast nature of the snow and pine,
And the eternal glacier? dear to home,
To patience, and to labour, dear to me?
And if you say that other home is fair,
And I shall be a queen among your kin,
(Too soon a queen, and long before my time,)
For what am I to change my social place
By one rash move, and step upon a stage
Superior, and with different delights
And different duties all unknown to me?
I am not trained to be a noble's wife,
To sit in idlesse in a painted room;
(Should I not miss the whirring of my wheel?)
I am not trained to meet the sea of thought
That sets about your island; where, they say,
The tide of civilised life is ever up,
Even to high-water mark, and hath no ebbs,
No low flat sands, where ignorant poor souls
Like mine may wander, picking up small shells,
As I do now—mean little pleasures scorned
Of higher intellects.
A little tremble fluttered in her throat.
“Nay, but I cannot go with you,” she said;
“These mountains would reproach me, and the eyes
Of all the children with regretful gaze
Would follow me for ever; most of all
My mother's and my father's, he whose cares
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Hearing him tell old tales of the good men,
Good men and true, who sought our mountain hold
Out of Franche-Comté from the Spanish yoke;
—No yoke would they, for conscience or for neck—
Hearing him tell me, too, the law of God,
Of truth, and peace, and filial piety;
And of the Christ upon His golden Throne,
Who shall come back for us at trump of doom,
Lying due east, with faces towards His coming,
Up in the graveyard yonder; when the toil
And stir of life is over, and its joys:
For life hath many joys, not sad my lot.
If I should burst the little subtle webs
That bind me to this hut, each broken thread
Would rend away a pleasure from my heart.
And if you call my life a weary life,
'Tis wrapt into its future, like yon ruby
That flashes a new shade with every cut;
For some queen's finger ground in this poor place.
And souls, perchance, may wear bright tints in Heaven
From graces wrought by poverty and toil.
And if you say that far-off land is rich
Where you would take me, and a place to love;
Ah! but 'tis not the Jura: there's no seam,
No chasm upon the face of that peaked hill
That fronts this window pane, but is my friend.
No land on earth could ever be to me
What this land is. What are your trees and flowers
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And the eternal glacier? dear to home,
To patience, and to labour, dear to me?
And if you say that other home is fair,
And I shall be a queen among your kin,
(Too soon a queen, and long before my time,)
For what am I to change my social place
By one rash move, and step upon a stage
Superior, and with different delights
And different duties all unknown to me?
I am not trained to be a noble's wife,
To sit in idlesse in a painted room;
(Should I not miss the whirring of my wheel?)
I am not trained to meet the sea of thought
That sets about your island; where, they say,
The tide of civilised life is ever up,
Even to high-water mark, and hath no ebbs,
No low flat sands, where ignorant poor souls
Like mine may wander, picking up small shells,
As I do now—mean little pleasures scorned
Of higher intellects.
And if you say
That I shall some day want another love
Than father-love, for so God's law has said,
Well, sir, it must be here, among these walls,
In this old town, where poor men chisel gems
And die, and live content beside their wheels.
I have no yearning for that higher place,
No fire within me fusing in one mass
Child loves and home, a thousand golden links.
Here, where my mother to her father's hearth
Came back a wedded wife, and dwelt in peace
And kindly interchange of common love,
And heard her children lisp in her own tongue
The gabbled nothings that a mother loves;—
Oh, sir, I pray you, do not tempt me more;
There are wild echoes out about these cliffs
That never seem to rest, but rise, and rise,
If but a herdsman wind his horn, or shrill
The woodman calls his comrades home at eve.
And such an echo many times a day,
Roused by a hundred passing thoughts, would ring
For ever and for ever in her heart,
The false Septmoncelaise, who could forsake
Home, and true love, and her appointed place
Without a father's blessing.”
That I shall some day want another love
Than father-love, for so God's law has said,
Well, sir, it must be here, among these walls,
In this old town, where poor men chisel gems
And die, and live content beside their wheels.
I have no yearning for that higher place,
No fire within me fusing in one mass
Child loves and home, a thousand golden links.
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Came back a wedded wife, and dwelt in peace
And kindly interchange of common love,
And heard her children lisp in her own tongue
The gabbled nothings that a mother loves;—
Oh, sir, I pray you, do not tempt me more;
There are wild echoes out about these cliffs
That never seem to rest, but rise, and rise,
If but a herdsman wind his horn, or shrill
The woodman calls his comrades home at eve.
And such an echo many times a day,
Roused by a hundred passing thoughts, would ring
For ever and for ever in her heart,
The false Septmoncelaise, who could forsake
Home, and true love, and her appointed place
Without a father's blessing.”
Earnestly
Thus answered she. The gilded clock ticked on,
The little brother sat up in his bed,
With great round eyes that wandered round the room,
Seeking for her whose face was turned away.
A shadow fell on the rough narrow street,
Fell quickly, passed as quickly, nevermore
To linger by that lattice, nevermore
Seen on the plateau up by Septmoncel.
And Clemence, with a tear, not of regret,
But pitiful, and womanly, and kind,
Looked through her casement into the hot noon.
Thus answered she. The gilded clock ticked on,
The little brother sat up in his bed,
With great round eyes that wandered round the room,
Seeking for her whose face was turned away.
A shadow fell on the rough narrow street,
Fell quickly, passed as quickly, nevermore
To linger by that lattice, nevermore
Seen on the plateau up by Septmoncel.
And Clemence, with a tear, not of regret,
But pitiful, and womanly, and kind,
Looked through her casement into the hot noon.
258
THE DYING SOLDIER'S WIFE.
Ah! well, the sun is sinking,—it will all be over soon;
When the hungry jackals shriek to-night to the yellow moon,
You will hear them, little daughter, and shudder in your bed,
But I shall be gone, my darling, beyond those bars of red.
When the hungry jackals shriek to-night to the yellow moon,
You will hear them, little daughter, and shudder in your bed,
But I shall be gone, my darling, beyond those bars of red.
For the sun is burning crimson, down on the datetrees' crown,
And the hills in the distance rising show purple, and blue, and brown;
Rising up height over height, sheer into the hot thin air,
I can see them where I lie, like a tinted marble stair,
And the hills in the distance rising show purple, and blue, and brown;
Rising up height over height, sheer into the hot thin air,
I can see them where I lie, like a tinted marble stair,
Inlaid with green and amber, wrapt in a violet glow,
While the white pagodas shine, and the palm-trees shake below:
But I would give all this glory for one pale northern morn,
For the grey light in its heaven, and the gleam of its golden corn.
While the white pagodas shine, and the palm-trees shake below:
But I would give all this glory for one pale northern morn,
For the grey light in its heaven, and the gleam of its golden corn.
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It's far away in the West, and it's long ago, my dear,
But the shadows grow sharp and long, as evening draweth near;
And all the long day I have heard, across this sultry heat,
A patter of rain in the leaves, and the salt wave's tremulous beat.
But the shadows grow sharp and long, as evening draweth near;
And all the long day I have heard, across this sultry heat,
A patter of rain in the leaves, and the salt wave's tremulous beat.
It was early Autumn weather; the flax was in the pool,
And just this time of evening, but a night so calm and cool,
The curlew came up and cried in the shingle along the shore,
And the blue hills turned to black, as I stood at my father's door,
And just this time of evening, but a night so calm and cool,
The curlew came up and cried in the shingle along the shore,
And the blue hills turned to black, as I stood at my father's door,
Ah! why should all this come back to-night on my dying brain?—
I heard their footsteps coming, and their voices in the lane.
Mother was in the byre; I, too, should have been there,
But I knew they were talking of me, and I slipped out unaware.
I heard their footsteps coming, and their voices in the lane.
Mother was in the byre; I, too, should have been there,
But I knew they were talking of me, and I slipped out unaware.
“Neighbour,” my father was saying, “forty pounds has the lass,
And if you will not have her, you can even let her pass.”
Washing, washing, washing, came the tide on the black rocks by,
But my heart beat louder and faster for fear of the man's reply.
And if you will not have her, you can even let her pass.”
260
But my heart beat louder and faster for fear of the man's reply.
He was the wealthiest farmer in all our country wide,—
But he was not to my mind, Jane, had he been an earl beside.
Angry and sharp came the answer,—“Forty is little,” he said;
“You should give your eldest daughter a trifle more to wed.”
But he was not to my mind, Jane, had he been an earl beside.
Angry and sharp came the answer,—“Forty is little,” he said;
“You should give your eldest daughter a trifle more to wed.”
Spake out then your soldier father,—he stood the next to me;
I knew it before he said a word, although I could not see:
“I reckon,” said he, “there's that can never be bought or sold,
And if you give me Mary, I ask nor silver nor gold.”
I knew it before he said a word, although I could not see:
“I reckon,” said he, “there's that can never be bought or sold,
And if you give me Mary, I ask nor silver nor gold.”
Washing, washing, washing, came the tide up over the stones,
Was it that or my own heart-beating that changed my Father's tones?
“Forty pounds is her dower, and you shall have her,” said he.—
It's long ago, my darling, and it's far, far over the sea.
Was it that or my own heart-beating that changed my Father's tones?
“Forty pounds is her dower, and you shall have her,” said he.—
It's long ago, my darling, and it's far, far over the sea.
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Ah! why should all this come back to-night, when my brain is weak?—
The rush of the wild south-wester, and the soft spray on my cheek,—
I've forgotten so many things, but this lives in my breast,
Like the blaze of a crimson dawn burnt into a gloomy west.
The rush of the wild south-wester, and the soft spray on my cheek,—
I've forgotten so many things, but this lives in my breast,
Like the blaze of a crimson dawn burnt into a gloomy west.
I've forgotten so many things, or they pass me by in a maze,—
The Sepoys' murderous battle, and Lucknow's weary days;
The dropping shot on the rampart, the sight of your Father's blood;
And the wail, and the fear, and the hunger, behind those walls of mud.
The Sepoys' murderous battle, and Lucknow's weary days;
The dropping shot on the rampart, the sight of your Father's blood;
And the wail, and the fear, and the hunger, behind those walls of mud.
They pass me by like spectres, as I go down to the grave,
But a music tender and strange comes to me over the wave;
The church stands under the wood, where the hill dips to the loch,
She sings as a mother sings, when she makes the cradle rock.
But a music tender and strange comes to me over the wave;
The church stands under the wood, where the hill dips to the loch,
She sings as a mother sings, when she makes the cradle rock.
Solemnly moves the pastor's lip, and as he prays and reads,
The words of love and of promise drop down like golden beads;—
Oh! it's well that strain has lingered within me to this day,
For it's little I've heard of Christ in this land where Christians sway
The words of love and of promise drop down like golden beads;—
262
For it's little I've heard of Christ in this land where Christians sway
Is it well, O land of glory! to send thy brave sons forth
From thy sunny southland meadows, thy grey cliffguarded North?
You give them bread in the barracks, and weapons for the strife,
But not a Sword to fight the fiend, and not the Bread of Life.
From thy sunny southland meadows, thy grey cliffguarded North?
You give them bread in the barracks, and weapons for the strife,
But not a Sword to fight the fiend, and not the Bread of Life.
From your valleys crowned with Churches, a dry Cross on their brow,
You send them out, with never a one to bid them keep their vow.
They fight your battles bravely; they die for you, sword in hand,
And leave their fair-faced orphans behind in a heathen land,—
You send them out, with never a one to bid them keep their vow.
They fight your battles bravely; they die for you, sword in hand,
And leave their fair-faced orphans behind in a heathen land,—
Behind, with never a Church-bell rung, never a chanted psalm,
But hellish rite, and song impure, and the idol 'neath the palm.
They may grow up in that darkness; there's none to care or know—
O rich men over in England! O mothers! should this be so?
But hellish rite, and song impure, and the idol 'neath the palm.
They may grow up in that darkness; there's none to care or know—
O rich men over in England! O mothers! should this be so?
263
There's never a heart among you, up to the Queen on her throne,
But thrills when the terrible tale of this Indian War is known:
Never an eye but weeps, where her soldiers' arms are piled—
You give him tears and honour, give gold for his perishing child.
But thrills when the terrible tale of this Indian War is known:
Never an eye but weeps, where her soldiers' arms are piled—
You give him tears and honour, give gold for his perishing child.
Hush! hush! they are passing away, the long wash of the sea;
And the singing down in the Church makes music no more for me:
I am drifting slowly homeward, and though there be clouds afar,
They touch but the sails of the ship that crosses the harbour bar.
And the singing down in the Church makes music no more for me:
I am drifting slowly homeward, and though there be clouds afar,
They touch but the sails of the ship that crosses the harbour bar.
For it's not the dying sun that shines in my dying eyes,
But a trail of the glory of Heaven over the mountain lies;
So lift me up, my darling, 'tis a gleam of the Golden Floor,
Through the Gate that is all one pearl, where Christ has passed before.
But a trail of the glory of Heaven over the mountain lies;
So lift me up, my darling, 'tis a gleam of the Golden Floor,
Through the Gate that is all one pearl, where Christ has passed before.
I have served Him badly, my child, weakly, below my desire,
Fearing, and falling, and rising, yet evermore coming nigher;
But as the sunbeam draws all other lights into its ray,
As the hand takes tenderly in the bird that wandered away,—
Fearing, and falling, and rising, yet evermore coming nigher;
264
As the hand takes tenderly in the bird that wandered away,—
So the love of that Heart Divine absorbs my poor weak love,
So the Hand of my Saviour in Heaven takes in His weary dove;
And I could go so gladly, but ever there rises a mist—
'Tis you and your little sister—betwixt my soul and Christ
So the Hand of my Saviour in Heaven takes in His weary dove;
And I could go so gladly, but ever there rises a mist—
'Tis you and your little sister—betwixt my soul and Christ
THE TWIN MUTES; TAUGHT AND UNTAUGHT.
Where the thorn grows by a ruined abbey,
In a valley of our grey north land,
Sits a lonely woman 'mid the gravestones,
Rocking to and fro with claspèd hand.
In a valley of our grey north land,
Sits a lonely woman 'mid the gravestones,
Rocking to and fro with claspèd hand.
Two rough stones, uncarven and unlettered,
Stand to guard that double-mounded grave,
Darkly brown in the untrodden churchyard,
Where the starflowers and the harebells wave.
Stand to guard that double-mounded grave,
Darkly brown in the untrodden churchyard,
Where the starflowers and the harebells wave.
“Ah, my grief is not extreme, O stranger!
Many a mother mourns a buried child;
Many a hearth that's silent in the Autumn
Was not voiceless when the Summer smiled.
Many a mother mourns a buried child;
Many a hearth that's silent in the Autumn
Was not voiceless when the Summer smiled.
265
“But our sorrows are of different texture;
Through the black there runs a silver thread:
Griefs there are susceptible of comfort,
Tears not salt above the happy dead.
Through the black there runs a silver thread:
Griefs there are susceptible of comfort,
Tears not salt above the happy dead.
“Tender joy amid her wildest anguish
Hath the mother, waiting in the calm
Of the death-hush by her angel's cradle,
When she thinketh of the crown and palm:
Hath the mother, waiting in the calm
Of the death-hush by her angel's cradle,
When she thinketh of the crown and palm:
“And the ear that ached with the long tension,
When the eye gave weary sorrow scope,
Hears at night the voices of the dying
Breathe again their last low words of hope.
When the eye gave weary sorrow scope,
Hears at night the voices of the dying
Breathe again their last low words of hope.
“In mine ear there are no voices ringing;
One pale smile is all that memory holds,—
Smile that flickers like a streak at sunset,
That a night of gloomy cloud enfolds.
One pale smile is all that memory holds,—
Smile that flickers like a streak at sunset,
That a night of gloomy cloud enfolds.
“On that mountain, stranger! where the heather
Casts a tint of purple and dull red,
And a darker streak along the meadow
Shows from far the torrent's rocky bed;—
Casts a tint of purple and dull red,
And a darker streak along the meadow
Shows from far the torrent's rocky bed;—
“Where the broken lines of larch and alder
To the roof a scanty shelter yield,
And the furze hedge, like a golden girdle,
Clasps one narrow cultivated field,—
To the roof a scanty shelter yield,
And the furze hedge, like a golden girdle,
Clasps one narrow cultivated field,—
266
“Lies mine homestead. In that whitewashed dwelling,
Joys, and pains, and sorrows have I known;
Looked on the dear faces of my children,
Seen their smiles, and heard their dying moan.
Joys, and pains, and sorrows have I known;
Looked on the dear faces of my children,
Seen their smiles, and heard their dying moan.
“Five times had I heard the birth-cry feeble
In those walls, like music in mine ear,—
Five times, and no son's voice on my bosom
Cried the cry that mothers love to hear.
In those walls, like music in mine ear,—
Five times, and no son's voice on my bosom
Cried the cry that mothers love to hear.
“But the sixth time,—more of pain and wailing,
More of pleasure after long alarms;
For a boy was in the double blessing,—
Son and daughter slept within mine arms.
More of pleasure after long alarms;
For a boy was in the double blessing,—
Son and daughter slept within mine arms.
“Ah, what rapture was it all the summer,
Sitting underneath the alder tree,
While the breeze came freely up the mountain,
And my twin babes smiled upon my knee!
Sitting underneath the alder tree,
While the breeze came freely up the mountain,
And my twin babes smiled upon my knee!
“Piped the thrush on many a cloudy evening,
Poising on the larch-top overhead;
Cried the brown bird from the heather near us,
And the torrent warbled in its bed.
Poising on the larch-top overhead;
Cried the brown bird from the heather near us,
And the torrent warbled in its bed.
“But the twain upon my bosom lying
Were as dead to voice of bird or man,
As the stone that under those blue waters
Heard no rippling music as they ran.
Were as dead to voice of bird or man,
As the stone that under those blue waters
Heard no rippling music as they ran.
267
“Silence, silence in the hearts that bounded
With each passionate pulse of love or hate;
No articulate language or expression,
When the soul rushed to its prison-gate.
With each passionate pulse of love or hate;
No articulate language or expression,
When the soul rushed to its prison-gate.
“Only sometimes through their bars of azure,
The wild eyes, with glances keen and fond,
Told some secret of that unsearched nature,
Of the unfathomed depth that lay beyond.
The wild eyes, with glances keen and fond,
Told some secret of that unsearched nature,
Of the unfathomed depth that lay beyond.
“Came the lady to our lonely mountain,
Pleaded gently with her lips of rose;
Pleaded with her eyes as blue as heaven,
Spake of endless joys and endless woes.
Pleaded gently with her lips of rose;
Pleaded with her eyes as blue as heaven,
Spake of endless joys and endless woes.
“Told me art had bridged that gulf of silence,—
That the delicate finger-language drew
From the deaf-mute's heart its secret strivings,
Gave him back the truths that others knew.
That the delicate finger-language drew
From the deaf-mute's heart its secret strivings,
Gave him back the truths that others knew.
“And she prayed me by all Christian duty,
And she urged me when I wept and strove;—
For the place was far, my son was precious,
And I loved him with a cruel love.
And she urged me when I wept and strove;—
For the place was far, my son was precious,
And I loved him with a cruel love.
“Love! ah no, sweet love is true and tender,
Self-forgetting; flinging at the feet
Of the loved one all her own emotions:
For my thought such name were all unmeet.
Self-forgetting; flinging at the feet
Of the loved one all her own emotions:
For my thought such name were all unmeet.
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“So I gave the girl, and to my bosom
Hugged the boy in his long soundless night;—
Gave the life of an immortal spirit
For the bareness of a short delight.
Hugged the boy in his long soundless night;—
Gave the life of an immortal spirit
For the bareness of a short delight.
“Years came, years went, he grew up on this mountain,
A strange creature, passionate, wild, and strong;
Untaught, savage—wanting, like the savage,
Natural vent for rapture, or for wrong.
A strange creature, passionate, wild, and strong;
Untaught, savage—wanting, like the savage,
Natural vent for rapture, or for wrong.
“He was smitten,—when the furze in April,
To the wind that cometh from the east,
Shakes like gold bells all its hardy blossoms,
The death arrow struck into his breast.
To the wind that cometh from the east,
Shakes like gold bells all its hardy blossoms,
The death arrow struck into his breast.
“And she, too—like that strange wire that vibrates
Thousand miles along to the same strain,—
His twin sister, through her similar nature,
In her far home felt the same sharp pain.
Thousand miles along to the same strain,—
His twin sister, through her similar nature,
In her far home felt the same sharp pain.
“And she came to die beside the hearthstone,
Where we watched him withering, day by day;
On her wan cheek the same burning hectic,
In her eye the same ethereal ray.
Where we watched him withering, day by day;
On her wan cheek the same burning hectic,
In her eye the same ethereal ray.
“But she came back gentle, patient, tutored,
Climbing noble heights of self-control;
On her brow the conscious calm of knowledge,
And the Christian's comfort in her soul.
Climbing noble heights of self-control;
On her brow the conscious calm of knowledge,
And the Christian's comfort in her soul.
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“Ah, mine heart! how throbbed it with reproaches,
When the weak wan fingers met to pray!
When the eyes looked sweetly up to heaven,
While my poor boy laughed, and turned away.
When the weak wan fingers met to pray!
When the eyes looked sweetly up to heaven,
While my poor boy laughed, and turned away.
“Thus they died. Athwart the red leaves falling
Rushed the first cold winds of Autumn time,
When the ears that never heard their howling
Opened to some great eternal chime.
Rushed the first cold winds of Autumn time,
When the ears that never heard their howling
Opened to some great eternal chime.
“She went first: the Angel on the threshold
Saw upon her face the look Divine;
Saw her tracing with her dying finger,
On my hand, her dear Redeemer's sign.
Saw upon her face the look Divine;
Saw her tracing with her dying finger,
On my hand, her dear Redeemer's sign.
“And he took her. Softly, without motion,
Dropped down gently the small finger's tip,
And I looked in her dear eyes and closed them,
With the smile still lingering on her lip.
Dropped down gently the small finger's tip,
And I looked in her dear eyes and closed them,
With the smile still lingering on her lip.
“But the boy!—he felt the darkness gather,
As the Angel's dusky wing drew near:
In his eyes there was a cruel question,
As he looked up in his doubt and fear.
As the Angel's dusky wing drew near:
In his eyes there was a cruel question,
As he looked up in his doubt and fear.
“On his dying face the shadow darkened:
He rose up and clung unto my side.
I had lost him, but I could not save him;
And the shade grew darker as he died.”
He rose up and clung unto my side.
I had lost him, but I could not save him;
And the shade grew darker as he died.”
270
DYING AMONG THE PINES.
Dying among the pines, the living pines,
That hold their heads green all the Winter through,
And from their dark trunks, seamed with silver lines,
Drop down all day their healing balm like dew,
That hold their heads green all the Winter through,
And from their dark trunks, seamed with silver lines,
Drop down all day their healing balm like dew,
Where the soft beat of the low pulsing sea
Scarce ruffles on the level silver strand,
So well the pine woods, hanging on her lea,
Filter the rough winds ere they touch the sand.
Scarce ruffles on the level silver strand,
So well the pine woods, hanging on her lea,
Filter the rough winds ere they touch the sand.
Dying, still dying,—far out in the wood,
Over the sand, there lies a sacred ground,
Where quaint white wreath and roughly carven rood
Tell that the toil-worn fishers rest have found,
Over the sand, there lies a sacred ground,
Where quaint white wreath and roughly carven rood
Tell that the toil-worn fishers rest have found,
Out in the wood, beyond the sandy reach
Of the white domes. Ah me! 'tis far to lie!
There are no northern daisies by this beach;
She had not need to come so far to die.
Of the white domes. Ah me! 'tis far to lie!
There are no northern daisies by this beach;
She had not need to come so far to die.
As when from some great ship in mid seas wrecked,
A baby corpse is washed on some green isle;
For the short sleep that was so long bedecked
In purest lawn, and wearing still a smile;
A baby corpse is washed on some green isle;
For the short sleep that was so long bedecked
In purest lawn, and wearing still a smile;
271
Which finding, the dark natives, with white teeth
And plumèd heads, lay covered in a cave,—
So leave the English lady underneath
The southern pines, beside the fisher's grave.
And plumèd heads, lay covered in a cave,—
So leave the English lady underneath
The southern pines, beside the fisher's grave.
Through the green boughs aslant the warm sunbeams
Shall wrap her feet as in a white lace shroud,—
Surely this wealth of natural life beseems
Her better than the raindrop or the cloud.
Shall wrap her feet as in a white lace shroud,—
Surely this wealth of natural life beseems
Her better than the raindrop or the cloud.
What dim, faint gleams that symbol life unrolls
Of the great Life whereof the door is Death!
And that sweet love of Christ, that to our souls
Is sun, and light, and shade, and balmy breath!
Of the great Life whereof the door is Death!
And that sweet love of Christ, that to our souls
Is sun, and light, and shade, and balmy breath!
Dying among the pines: ah, lightly lie,
White sand, that bearest nor violet, nor moss;
This earth is hallowed under every sky,
A wreath of glory hangs on every cross.
White sand, that bearest nor violet, nor moss;
This earth is hallowed under every sky,
A wreath of glory hangs on every cross.
A TALE OF THE FIRST CHRISTIANS.
Long years have come, long years have gone,
Since dawned one bright spring day,
On the purple hills of Asia,
On Smyrna's silver bay.
Since dawned one bright spring day,
On the purple hills of Asia,
On Smyrna's silver bay.
And the breeze with perfume laden,
Came sweetly from the shore,
As a little Smyrniote maiden
Played at her father's door.
Came sweetly from the shore,
As a little Smyrniote maiden
Played at her father's door.
272
“O, father, dearest father,”
Thus did the maiden say,
“Why do the people gather
Along the public way?
Thus did the maiden say,
“Why do the people gather
Along the public way?
“And why, with flowers and odours,
My tresses have they dressed?
And laced my silver sandals,
And tied my broidered vest?
My tresses have they dressed?
And laced my silver sandals,
And tied my broidered vest?
“Shall we the sacred garlands twine
For heaven's high queen above?
Or go before his altar shrine,
To sacrifice to Jove?
For heaven's high queen above?
Or go before his altar shrine,
To sacrifice to Jove?
“Or shall the whirling chariot, sire,
Go bounding o'er the plain?
Or the fleet coursers, snorting fire,
Spring from the silken rein?
Go bounding o'er the plain?
Or the fleet coursers, snorting fire,
Spring from the silken rein?
“Or shall sweet music linger,
From harp, or viol clear,
Beneath the pressing finger?
Where go we, father dear?”
From harp, or viol clear,
Beneath the pressing finger?
Where go we, father dear?”
And the gay Greek made answer,
Without a tear, or sigh,
“We go to the amphitheatre,
To see the Christian die.”
Without a tear, or sigh,
“We go to the amphitheatre,
To see the Christian die.”
273
No pity turned that young cheek pale,
No sorrow thrilled her heart,
But she has called for her white veil,
All eager to depart.
No sorrow thrilled her heart,
But she has called for her white veil,
All eager to depart.
For through the court by fountains dewed,
Her father's perfumed court,
She heard the maddened multitude
Rush onward to the sport.
Her father's perfumed court,
She heard the maddened multitude
Rush onward to the sport.
And she has caught her father's hand,
And chidden his delay,
And through the marble porch they pass,
And up the crowded way.
And chidden his delay,
And through the marble porch they pass,
And up the crowded way.
And still the throng more eager grew,
And still with quickened pace,
On rolled the mighty living mass,
Unto the public place.
And still with quickened pace,
On rolled the mighty living mass,
Unto the public place.
As waters mingle in one sea,
Most strange it was to view,
How thronged that amphitheatre
The Gentile and the Jew.
Most strange it was to view,
How thronged that amphitheatre
The Gentile and the Jew.
The Roman with his cold proud lip,
Half curled in cruel scorn,
The Syrian soft, the polished Greek,
The slave, and the free born,
Half curled in cruel scorn,
The Syrian soft, the polished Greek,
The slave, and the free born,
274
The high-souled, and the sensitive,
They filled that fearful spot,
Ah! mercy hath no place on earth,
Where God's true love is not.
They filled that fearful spot,
Ah! mercy hath no place on earth,
Where God's true love is not.
There, beauty sat with jewelled brow,
And rolled the large soft eye,
And conscious stretched the neck of snow,
To see an old man die.
And rolled the large soft eye,
And conscious stretched the neck of snow,
To see an old man die.
And the best blood of Asia,
Sat smiling at her side;
Alas for human nature!
And alas for worldly pride!
Sat smiling at her side;
Alas for human nature!
And alas for worldly pride!
An ancient man with long white hair,
And noble mien was he,
On whom that people came to gaze,
In his last agony.
And noble mien was he,
On whom that people came to gaze,
In his last agony.
He looked in all the faces round,
Stage rising over stage,
And some grew pale with terror,
And some grew white with rage.
Stage rising over stage,
And some grew pale with terror,
And some grew white with rage.
His was the only placid brow,
The only eye serene;
So calm looks out the clear blue heaven,
Dark rolling clouds between.
The only eye serene;
So calm looks out the clear blue heaven,
Dark rolling clouds between.
275
There stood the Asian's pagan priest,
There frowned Nicetas dark,
And the Consul stern looked down on him,
And the haughty Irenarch.
There frowned Nicetas dark,
And the Consul stern looked down on him,
And the haughty Irenarch.
All cold, all proud, all pitiless,—
He turned to the kindling pile,
And his steady lip a moment moved,
As with a conqueror's smile.
He turned to the kindling pile,
And his steady lip a moment moved,
As with a conqueror's smile.
Then up and down and through the crowd,
One voice rose wide and high,
“Away with the godless Christian!
False Polycarp to die.”
One voice rose wide and high,
“Away with the godless Christian!
False Polycarp to die.”
And half the little maiden wished
She had not come to see:
When she was aware of some one near,
Lamenting bitterly.
She had not come to see:
When she was aware of some one near,
Lamenting bitterly.
And lo! a little Parthian slave,
Close to her side was press'd;
The scourge had scarred his shoulder,
The brand had marked his breast.
Close to her side was press'd;
The scourge had scarred his shoulder,
The brand had marked his breast.
And ever, as the people called,
“False Polycarp to die,”
The tears came fast and faster still,
From the little slave boy's eye.
“False Polycarp to die,”
The tears came fast and faster still,
From the little slave boy's eye.
276
The shout has sunk on the green hill side,
On the sea, and on the city:
“What makes you weep, what makes you weep?”
Said the child in childish pity.
On the sea, and on the city:
“What makes you weep, what makes you weep?”
Said the child in childish pity.
Ah! little we think how one kind word
May soothe another's pain!
The boy's bright eye looked through his tears,
As sunbeams look through rain.
May soothe another's pain!
The boy's bright eye looked through his tears,
As sunbeams look through rain.
And he has turned to the little maid,
And brushed his tears away,
“I weep for my good lord Polycarp,
For he must die to-day.”
And brushed his tears away,
“I weep for my good lord Polycarp,
For he must die to-day.”
“O love him not,” she answered,
“A godless man is he.”
“He hath a God,” said the slave boy,
“A God not known to thee.
“A godless man is he.”
“He hath a God,” said the slave boy,
“A God not known to thee.
“He told me of that good great God,
Who made the bond and free,
Who set them all in their place on earth,
And loveth them equally.
Who made the bond and free,
Who set them all in their place on earth,
And loveth them equally.
“He told me of His Saviour Son,
The God Who dwelt with man,
Who bore their sin, and punishment,
And washed them clean again.
The God Who dwelt with man,
Who bore their sin, and punishment,
And washed them clean again.
277
“He told me of the Holy Spirit,
That leaveth us not alone,
His gift, Who knows our weaknesses,
For they were once His own.
That leaveth us not alone,
His gift, Who knows our weaknesses,
For they were once His own.
“He buried me in the cleansing sea,
He traced the Cross on my brow,
In the name of the Holy Trinity,
I am a Christian now.
He traced the Cross on my brow,
In the name of the Holy Trinity,
I am a Christian now.
“But they have bound the honoured hand,
That led me to the fold,
And they will seal the lips, that spake
In words so kind and bold.
That led me to the fold,
And they will seal the lips, that spake
In words so kind and bold.
“Who now shall tend the wandering lambs?”
And the slave boy wept aloud;
For once again that taunting cry
Rose, gathering, through the crowd.
And the slave boy wept aloud;
For once again that taunting cry
Rose, gathering, through the crowd.
“Ha, thou that troublest Asia,
Ha, thou that wouldst o'ercast
The altars of the glorious gods,
Thine hour is come at last.
Ha, thou that wouldst o'ercast
The altars of the glorious gods,
Thine hour is come at last.
“Mad fool, deny the Crucified!”
Ah, senseless, and depraved,
Thus mocked they at the dying Saint,
Thus God's dear mercy braved.
Ah, senseless, and depraved,
Thus mocked they at the dying Saint,
Thus God's dear mercy braved.
278
There came a sound above their heads,
Like a rush of many wings;
And the little slave boy heard a voice
As when an angel sings.
Like a rush of many wings;
And the little slave boy heard a voice
As when an angel sings.
That strain the maiden might not hear,
Nor the deep sweet words it said,
“Fear not, My servant Polycarp,
Have thou no doubt, or dread.”
Nor the deep sweet words it said,
“Fear not, My servant Polycarp,
Have thou no doubt, or dread.”
Now they have bound him to the stake,
And the slave boy weepeth not,
And the Martyr lifted up his hands,
As the flame grew fierce and hot.
And the slave boy weepeth not,
And the Martyr lifted up his hands,
As the flame grew fierce and hot.
He looked to earth, he looked to sea,
Calm slept each purple hill,
How glorious was the golden light,
The wave how calm and still!
Calm slept each purple hill,
How glorious was the golden light,
The wave how calm and still!
And his eye one moment rested
On the city, and the plain,
And where the distant sails shone white,
Along the Grecian main.
On the city, and the plain,
And where the distant sails shone white,
Along the Grecian main.
Perchance it lingered o'er that sea,
Because his thought had gone
Back to the exile Hebrew's isle,
His own beloved S. John.
Because his thought had gone
Back to the exile Hebrew's isle,
His own beloved S. John.
279
A fond, but scarce a sad farewell,
That long look seemed to take,
Then, the full eye was fixed on Heaven,
And the dying Martyr spake:
That long look seemed to take,
Then, the full eye was fixed on Heaven,
And the dying Martyr spake:
“I bless Thee, Holiest Father,
I thank Thee, Blessed Son,
Because the golden crown is near,
The race is nearly run.
I thank Thee, Blessed Son,
Because the golden crown is near,
The race is nearly run.
“God of all things created,
Angels, and earthly power,
I praise Thee for the agony
Of this departing hour:
Angels, and earthly power,
I praise Thee for the agony
Of this departing hour:
“That Thou hast deemed Thy servant meet
With all Thy Martyr band,
To drink Christ's cup of suffering:
Who shall hereafter stand,
With all Thy Martyr band,
To drink Christ's cup of suffering:
Who shall hereafter stand,
“In soul, and body, incorrupt,
Around Thy glory's throne;
Therefore I praise, and magnify,
Th' Eternal Three in One.”
Around Thy glory's throne;
Therefore I praise, and magnify,
Th' Eternal Three in One.”
O wonderful! most wonderful!
The flame burns hot, and red,
It toucheth him not, it hath not singed
One hair on the old man's head.
The flame burns hot, and red,
It toucheth him not, it hath not singed
One hair on the old man's head.
280
But over him, like a golden arch,
The broad flame flickered and played,
He stood unhurt in the burning fire,
And fervently he prayed.
The broad flame flickered and played,
He stood unhurt in the burning fire,
And fervently he prayed.
The Pagan people yelled in wrath,
The Roman drew his sword,
He pierced the side of Polycarp,
And forth the red blood poured.
The Roman drew his sword,
He pierced the side of Polycarp,
And forth the red blood poured.
God's elements are merciful,
Man only mocks His will;
The raging fire had spared the Saint,
The sword had power to kill.
Man only mocks His will;
The raging fire had spared the Saint,
The sword had power to kill.
Dim, dim, before that innocent blood
Waxed the reproachful fire,
He lieth a costly sacrifice,
On an unconsumèd pyre.
Waxed the reproachful fire,
He lieth a costly sacrifice,
On an unconsumèd pyre.
The maiden plucked her father's robe,
She turned her head aside,
“Come home, come home in haste, my sire,
We have seen enough,” she cried.
She turned her head aside,
“Come home, come home in haste, my sire,
We have seen enough,” she cried.
The slave boy too, has looked his last,
On him he loved so well,
And he has turned to his master's home,
And yet no tear-drop fell.
On him he loved so well,
And he has turned to his master's home,
And yet no tear-drop fell.
281
And well it was: we need not weep
For the dead Saints, the blest,
Who have come home triumphantly,
To everlasting rest.
For the dead Saints, the blest,
Who have come home triumphantly,
To everlasting rest.
But for the mocker, the deceived,
For them the tear may flow,
And for the souls by sin aggrieved,
Who still strive on below.
For them the tear may flow,
And for the souls by sin aggrieved,
Who still strive on below.
THE LONELY GRAVE.
The silence of a southern day,
When all the air is sick with heat,
O'er forest leagues that stretch away
Before the traveller's weary feet;
When all the air is sick with heat,
O'er forest leagues that stretch away
Before the traveller's weary feet;
He sees no restive leaflets quiver,
No glancing rays that meet and part,
The very beat of the broad river
Is even, as a silent heart;
No glancing rays that meet and part,
The very beat of the broad river
Is even, as a silent heart;
And strange-shaped flowers of gorgeous dyes,
Unmoved by any wandering breeze,
Look out with their great scarlet eyes,
And watch him from the giant trees.
Unmoved by any wandering breeze,
Look out with their great scarlet eyes,
And watch him from the giant trees.
Surely no brother of his race
Came e'er before to these wild woods,
To startle, with his pallid face,
The brightness of their solitudes.
Came e'er before to these wild woods,
To startle, with his pallid face,
The brightness of their solitudes.
282
And yet the path before him breaks
Across the tangled thicket drear,
A straighter track than wild beast makes,
Or antelope that bounds in fear.
Across the tangled thicket drear,
A straighter track than wild beast makes,
Or antelope that bounds in fear.
And as he moves there seems to spring,
In his soul's depth, a consciousness—
As though some other living thing
Were with him in the wilderness.
In his soul's depth, a consciousness—
As though some other living thing
Were with him in the wilderness.
The pathway broadens—and behold,
In the wood's heart, a chamber hewn,
Where Dryad, of the days of old,
Had loved to come and rest at noon!
In the wood's heart, a chamber hewn,
Where Dryad, of the days of old,
Had loved to come and rest at noon!
Or if but England's sky were bent,
And yonder turf were not so brown,
The fairies might hold parliament
At night, when stars were raining down;
And yonder turf were not so brown,
The fairies might hold parliament
At night, when stars were raining down;
And in the midst a little mound,
As it had been a small child's grave,
With the green tendrils twisted round
Of plant whence purple blossoms wave.
As it had been a small child's grave,
With the green tendrils twisted round
Of plant whence purple blossoms wave.
Calm sleep the dead within the church,
Where simple voices sing and pray,
And calm beyond the ivied porch,
Where village children pause to play.
Where simple voices sing and pray,
And calm beyond the ivied porch,
Where village children pause to play.
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Their bed is blest, their dirge was sung,
Their dust is with their fathers' dust,
But sure his heart was sorely wrung
Who here could leave his dead in trust.
Their dust is with their fathers' dust,
But sure his heart was sorely wrung
Who here could leave his dead in trust.
The lonely wanderer pass'd in haste—
“It is a fearful spot,” he saith;
“There is no life in all the waste,
And yet this shrine of human death.”
“It is a fearful spot,” he saith;
“There is no life in all the waste,
And yet this shrine of human death.”
Yea, life is near—a thin blue wreath
Comes curling through the foliage dark—
A settler's hut lies hid beneath,
And now he hears the watch-dog's bark.
Comes curling through the foliage dark—
A settler's hut lies hid beneath,
And now he hears the watch-dog's bark.
Bright gleam'd the exile's lustrous eye;
No stranger to his haunts had come,
While, year by year, that forest high
Hung changeless o'er his lonely home.
No stranger to his haunts had come,
While, year by year, that forest high
Hung changeless o'er his lonely home.
Long time were greeting hands entwined,
Long time they cheer'd the social board
With many an earnest question kind,
And eager answer freely pour'd.
Long time they cheer'd the social board
With many an earnest question kind,
And eager answer freely pour'd.
But when the sun's great heat was quell'd
Beneath the western ocean's wave,
The stranger's hand the exile held,
And led him to the forest-grave.
Beneath the western ocean's wave,
The stranger's hand the exile held,
And led him to the forest-grave.
284
There, while the round moon rose afar,
Making the listener's face look pale,
While, one by one, broke each bright star
Unmark'd, he told his simple tale.
Making the listener's face look pale,
While, one by one, broke each bright star
Unmark'd, he told his simple tale.
“Green grow the valleys of the west,
Bright bound the streams of dark Tyrone,
There are my father's bones at rest,
Where I shall never lay my own.
Bright bound the streams of dark Tyrone,
There are my father's bones at rest,
Where I shall never lay my own.
“Here drowsy Nature lies asleep,
Crush'd by her own abundant treasure,
But there her restless pulses leap
For ever to a changeful measure;
Crush'd by her own abundant treasure,
But there her restless pulses leap
For ever to a changeful measure;
“To moaning of the fitful gale
Through hollows in the purple hill,
To rivers rattling down the vale,
Short showers, and sunbeams shorter still
Through hollows in the purple hill,
To rivers rattling down the vale,
Short showers, and sunbeams shorter still
“Ours was a lonely mountain place,
Girt round with berried rowan trees:
Good Sir, the wind on that hill's face,
It would not let them grow like these.
Girt round with berried rowan trees:
Good Sir, the wind on that hill's face,
It would not let them grow like these.
“But, looking down the mountain bare,
We saw the white church by the river,
And we could hear, when winds were fair,
O'er the low porch, the one bell quiver.
We saw the white church by the river,
And we could hear, when winds were fair,
O'er the low porch, the one bell quiver.
285
“And though the path was hard to climb
Across the bog and up the brae,
God's minister came many a time,
Nor ever blamed the rugged way.
Across the bog and up the brae,
God's minister came many a time,
Nor ever blamed the rugged way.
“Ah me! it is a woeful thing
Never to hear one blessed word
Till sparks, that else might heavenward spring,
Die out for want of being stirr'd.
Never to hear one blessed word
Till sparks, that else might heavenward spring,
Die out for want of being stirr'd.
“The world was round us all the week,
Hard work was ours from morn till even,
The words that good man used to speak
Brought to our souls a glimpse of heaven.
Hard work was ours from morn till even,
The words that good man used to speak
Brought to our souls a glimpse of heaven.
“A wife I had, no truer breast
E'er shared a poor man's grief and joy,
Nor wanted to our mountain nest
Love's dearest pledges—girl and boy.
E'er shared a poor man's grief and joy,
Nor wanted to our mountain nest
Love's dearest pledges—girl and boy.
“Two died and left me,—first, alas!
The mother went, and then the son;
Ah well! the hallow'd churchyard grass
Grows over them—God's will be done.
The mother went, and then the son;
Ah well! the hallow'd churchyard grass
Grows over them—God's will be done.
“And Rose and I were left alone,
A six-year child without a mother,
And still,” he said, “though she is gone,
We are alone with one another.
A six-year child without a mother,
And still,” he said, “though she is gone,
We are alone with one another.
286
“In thought my comrade all day long,
She creeps into my dreams at night,
The burden of a wordless song,
An image true to all but sight.
She creeps into my dreams at night,
The burden of a wordless song,
An image true to all but sight.
“Ever a short, low cough I hear,
There lies in mine a thin, small hand,
Or a voice singeth in mine ear;
The voice that haunted the old land,
There lies in mine a thin, small hand,
Or a voice singeth in mine ear;
The voice that haunted the old land,
“When that brave mountain breeze of ours
That dash'd the scent from golden furze,
And swept across the heather flowers,
Touch'd not a brighter cheek than hers.
That dash'd the scent from golden furze,
And swept across the heather flowers,
Touch'd not a brighter cheek than hers.
“Why tell again the tale of tears
Told by a thousand hearts before,
The anguish of those famine years,
The useless toil, the straiten'd store?
Told by a thousand hearts before,
The anguish of those famine years,
The useless toil, the straiten'd store?
“How, of the land we loved forsaken,
And spurn'd from off her blighted face,
We dared the dark deep, tempest-shaken,
And found an exile's resting place?
And spurn'd from off her blighted face,
We dared the dark deep, tempest-shaken,
And found an exile's resting place?
“Who lauds the lily's silver crown,
He little thinks how, night by night,
From heaven's great heart the dews dropp'd down
That fed its leaves of dazzling white.
He little thinks how, night by night,
From heaven's great heart the dews dropp'd down
That fed its leaves of dazzling white.
287
“Little ye care at home to scan
How good insensibly is cherish'd,
How holy habits form the man,
And souls without their dew have perish'd.
How good insensibly is cherish'd,
How holy habits form the man,
And souls without their dew have perish'd.
“How, heeding not God's blessed day,
All days grow godless as they fall,
And he who has no hour to pray
Forgets, at last, to pray at all.
All days grow godless as they fall,
And he who has no hour to pray
Forgets, at last, to pray at all.
“How, sever'd from each symbol rite,
By Heaven to human weakness lent,
Each pledge of things beyond the sight,
Worship, and priest, and sacrament,
By Heaven to human weakness lent,
Each pledge of things beyond the sight,
Worship, and priest, and sacrament,
“We wander'd through a weary plain,
Where our souls fainted as we trod,
No golden link in labour's chain,
No sweet seventh day for rest and God.
Where our souls fainted as we trod,
No golden link in labour's chain,
No sweet seventh day for rest and God.
‘Still round the child there hung a spell
Of old traditionary rule,
Of texts the Pastor used to tell,
And hymns she learn'd at Sunday school.
Of old traditionary rule,
Of texts the Pastor used to tell,
And hymns she learn'd at Sunday school.
“My heart has bled to hear her sing,
Or lisp ‘Our Father' in her play,
And, but it was so strange a thing,
I could myself have knelt to pray.
Or lisp ‘Our Father' in her play,
And, but it was so strange a thing,
I could myself have knelt to pray.
288
“Let summer winds blow wild at will,
New buds will deck earth's wasted bosom;
O death! thy blast was sterner still,
It tore away my only blossom.
New buds will deck earth's wasted bosom;
O death! thy blast was sterner still,
It tore away my only blossom.
“It would have moved a heart of stone
To see how fast my darling faded,
As a young olive dies alone,
By forest trees too closely shaded.
To see how fast my darling faded,
As a young olive dies alone,
By forest trees too closely shaded.
“And as she wither'd, form and feature,
The smooth round cheek, the dimpled chin,—
It seem'd her spiritual nature
Glow'd with a stronger life within.
The smooth round cheek, the dimpled chin,—
It seem'd her spiritual nature
Glow'd with a stronger life within.
“The struggling soul look'd through the bars
Of those blue eyes so strangely bright;
Sweet eyes, they burn'd like two young stars
Before the moon is up at night.
Of those blue eyes so strangely bright;
Sweet eyes, they burn'd like two young stars
Before the moon is up at night.
“And she would tell me more and more
About the things she learn'd of old,
As memory open'd all her store
When sickness found the key of gold.
About the things she learn'd of old,
As memory open'd all her store
When sickness found the key of gold.
“'Twas after a long day of pain,
When the night fell her brain grew weak,
The fever burn'd along her vein,
And strew'd false roses on her cheek.
When the night fell her brain grew weak,
The fever burn'd along her vein,
And strew'd false roses on her cheek.
289
“I watch'd beside her in the gloom,
I counted every short, thick breath;
There was another in the room
Keeping watch, too,—and that was Death.
I counted every short, thick breath;
There was another in the room
Keeping watch, too,—and that was Death.
“I saw the red moon through the trees,
I heard afar the wild dog crying;
That her sweet soul was ill at ease
I knew, she was so long of dying.
I heard afar the wild dog crying;
That her sweet soul was ill at ease
I knew, she was so long of dying.
“And ‘Call the Rector, Father dear,’
Loud in the noon of night she said;
‘I cannot go until I hear
A prayer beside my dying bed.’
Loud in the noon of night she said;
‘I cannot go until I hear
A prayer beside my dying bed.’
“Then would she sleep—Oh that long night!
How slow it went, and yet how fast,
While waver'd on her life's pale light,
And flicker'd, and went out at last!
How slow it went, and yet how fast,
While waver'd on her life's pale light,
And flicker'd, and went out at last!
“‘Will he not come?’ she cried again;
Then—God forgive me that I lied—
‘He cometh, darling, up the glen,’
I answer'd, and she smiled, and died.”
Then—God forgive me that I lied—
‘He cometh, darling, up the glen,’
I answer'd, and she smiled, and died.”
290
THE IRISH MOTHER'S LAMENT.
“She watched for the return of her son from America in her
home by the Foyle, near Derry.”
There's no one on the long white road,
The night is closing o'er;
O mother! cease to look abroad,
And let me shut the door.
The night is closing o'er;
O mother! cease to look abroad,
And let me shut the door.
“Now here, and there, a twinkling light
Comes out along the bay,
The little ships lie still and white,
And no one comes this way.”
Comes out along the bay,
The little ships lie still and white,
And no one comes this way.”
She turned her straining eyes within,
She sighed both long and low.
“Shut up the door, take out the pin,
“Then, if it must be so.
She sighed both long and low.
“Shut up the door, take out the pin,
“Then, if it must be so.
“But, daughter, set the wick alight,
“And put it in the pane;
“If any should come home to-night,
“He'll see it through the rain.
“And put it in the pane;
“If any should come home to-night,
“He'll see it through the rain.
“Nay, leave the pin beneath the latch,
“If some one push the door,
“Across my broken dreams I'll hear
“His footstep on the floor.”
“If some one push the door,
“Across my broken dreams I'll hear
“His footstep on the floor.”
291
She crouch'd within the ingle nook,
She spread her fingers sere,
Her failed eyes had a far-off look,
Despite her four-score year.
She spread her fingers sere,
Her failed eyes had a far-off look,
Despite her four-score year.
And if in youth they had been fair,
'Twas not the charm they had,
Not the old beauty lingering there,
But something weird and sad.
'Twas not the charm they had,
Not the old beauty lingering there,
But something weird and sad.
The daughter, in the fire-light pale,
A woman grey and wan,
Sat listening, while half dream, half wail,
Her words went wandering on.
A woman grey and wan,
Sat listening, while half dream, half wail,
Her words went wandering on.
“O river that dost never halt
“Till down beyond the bar,
“Thou meet'st the breakers green and salt
“That bore my lads afar.
“Till down beyond the bar,
“Thou meet'st the breakers green and salt
“That bore my lads afar.
“O sea betwixt our slighted isle
“And that wide bounteous West,
“That has such magic in her smile
“To lure away our best,
“And that wide bounteous West,
“That has such magic in her smile
“To lure away our best,
“Bring back, bring back the guiding keel,
“Bring fast the homebound ship,
“Mine eyes look out, I faint to feel
“The touch of hand, and lip.
“Bring fast the homebound ship,
“Mine eyes look out, I faint to feel
“The touch of hand, and lip.
292
“And is that land so much more fair,
“So much more rich that shore
“Than this, where prodigal of care
“I nursed the sons I bore?
“So much more rich that shore
“Than this, where prodigal of care
“I nursed the sons I bore?
“I nursed them at my yielding breast,
“I reared them at my knee,
“They left me for the golden West,
“They left me for the sea.
“I reared them at my knee,
“They left me for the golden West,
“They left me for the sea.
“With hungry heart, and eyes that strove
“In vain their eyes to meet,
“And all my lavish mother's love
“Beat backward to my feet;
“In vain their eyes to meet,
“And all my lavish mother's love
“Beat backward to my feet;
“Like that broad stream that runs, and raves,
“And floweth grandly out,
“But the salt billows catch its waves,
“And fling them all about;
“And floweth grandly out,
“But the salt billows catch its waves,
“And fling them all about;
“The bitter world washed out my claim,
“In childhood it was dear,
“But youth forgets, and manhood came,
“And dashed it far and near.
“In childhood it was dear,
“But youth forgets, and manhood came,
“And dashed it far and near.
“But when I think of the old time,
“Soft fingers, eyes that met,
“In spite of age, in spite of clime,
“I wonder they forget.
“Soft fingers, eyes that met,
“In spite of age, in spite of clime,
“I wonder they forget.
293
“And if they live, their life is strong,
“Forgotten here I die;
“I question with my heart, and long,
“And cannot answer why,
“Forgotten here I die;
“I question with my heart, and long,
“And cannot answer why,
“Till by Christ's grace I walk in white
“Where His redeemed go,
“And know the reason of God's right,
“Or never care to know.
“Where His redeemed go,
“And know the reason of God's right,
“Or never care to know.
“But outbound ships come home again,
“They sail 'neath sun and moon,
“Put thou the candle in the pane,
“They may be coming soon.”
“They sail 'neath sun and moon,
“Put thou the candle in the pane,
“They may be coming soon.”
“Calm lie the lights below the town,
“There's not a ship in sight;
“O mother! cease and lay you down,
“They will not come to-night.”
“There's not a ship in sight;
“O mother! cease and lay you down,
“They will not come to-night.”
SORROW ON THE SEA.
A white sail, shifting in the sun,
Drops slowly down the shadowy lake,
The heaving billows hardly make
A silver track in her green wake,
So lazily they run.
Drops slowly down the shadowy lake,
The heaving billows hardly make
A silver track in her green wake,
So lazily they run.
294
Down, down she drops, the feathery clouds
Lie loosen'd on the distant hills,
An oar-splash in the silence thrills,
Helping the wind that never fills
Her sail, but flaps her shrouds.
Lie loosen'd on the distant hills,
An oar-splash in the silence thrills,
Helping the wind that never fills
Her sail, but flaps her shrouds.
Down where those headlands, wildly fair,
Each with a beauty of its own,
Brown heather tuft, or dark grey stone,
Stand double, one in ocean thrown,
One cutting the clear air.
Each with a beauty of its own,
Brown heather tuft, or dark grey stone,
Stand double, one in ocean thrown,
One cutting the clear air.
She drops, that scarcely seems to move,
Where calm those colour'd pictures sleep
In the still bosom of the deep;
As o'er man's heart the shadows creep
Of our life's grief and love.
Where calm those colour'd pictures sleep
In the still bosom of the deep;
As o'er man's heart the shadows creep
Of our life's grief and love.
Vain image! all that light and dark
Shall with the sun-gleams come and go;
With time and change it is not so,
Their shadows on the heart they throw,
But, ah! they leave their mark!
Shall with the sun-gleams come and go;
With time and change it is not so,
Their shadows on the heart they throw,
But, ah! they leave their mark!
Change, change, O tide! Thy cold salt wave,
The same by rock and silver strand,
Unscathed shall leave the shadowy land,
Unstain'd shall bear the sunset's brand,
And kiss the coral cave.
The same by rock and silver strand,
Unscathed shall leave the shadowy land,
Unstain'd shall bear the sunset's brand,
And kiss the coral cave.
295
But with our hearts 'tis different far:
The tide of life may ebb and flow,
Still the great love shall lurk below,
Still the deep wound of the great woe,
Shall never, never scar.
The tide of life may ebb and flow,
Still the great love shall lurk below,
Still the deep wound of the great woe,
Shall never, never scar.
A woman sitteth silently
In the boat's stern, nor weeps nor sighs;
But gazes where that dark rock lies,
As if the glare of dead men's eyes
Look'd at her through the sea.
In the boat's stern, nor weeps nor sighs;
But gazes where that dark rock lies,
As if the glare of dead men's eyes
Look'd at her through the sea.
Soul, sight, and sense, in one dark mist
Hang o'er the spot; the boatmen say:—
“Poor soul! five years gone and a day,
He went down in that treacherous bay,
And still she keeps her tryst.”
Hang o'er the spot; the boatmen say:—
“Poor soul! five years gone and a day,
He went down in that treacherous bay,
And still she keeps her tryst.”
Out of the heart of that great town,
Where turbid Clyde awhile must stray
'Mid warehouse vast and busy quay,
Then leaves them, rushing through the spray,
Down to his Highlands brown:
Where turbid Clyde awhile must stray
'Mid warehouse vast and busy quay,
Then leaves them, rushing through the spray,
Down to his Highlands brown:
Out of the noise of toil and crime,
The cry for wealth, the hot pursuit:
To where the sun set grandly mute,
O'er Cumbrae wild, and greener Bute,
And Arran's heights sublime,
The cry for wealth, the hot pursuit:
To where the sun set grandly mute,
O'er Cumbrae wild, and greener Bute,
And Arran's heights sublime,
296
Where, as the headlands of Argyle
Grew dim, and faded on the lee,
Fair Antrim's cliffs rose from the sea,
And the shafts carven wondrously,
Of the huge giant's pile,
Grew dim, and faded on the lee,
Fair Antrim's cliffs rose from the sea,
And the shafts carven wondrously,
Of the huge giant's pile,
She came—out of the crush and gloom,
Into the ocean's broken blue,
The glory of the distant view;
Still her poor heart, too sadly true,
Beat but to one low tomb.
Into the ocean's broken blue,
The glory of the distant view;
Still her poor heart, too sadly true,
Beat but to one low tomb.
In the old abbey's keeping laid,
Where shadows into shadows merge,
He lieth sweetly: while the surge,
Repentant, sings a ceaseless dirge
Around the graves it made.
Where shadows into shadows merge,
He lieth sweetly: while the surge,
Repentant, sings a ceaseless dirge
Around the graves it made.
There will she find a vent for tears,
And hug the turf, and sing: “Alas,
There is so long a time to pass
Ere I shall lie beneath this grass,
I am so young in years!”
And hug the turf, and sing: “Alas,
There is so long a time to pass
Ere I shall lie beneath this grass,
I am so young in years!”
Or in a calmer mood she sits,
All a long summer's day alone,
And decks the grave with flowers new blown,
And plucks the grey moss from the stone,
And weeps and prays by fits.
All a long summer's day alone,
And decks the grave with flowers new blown,
And plucks the grey moss from the stone,
And weeps and prays by fits.
297
To her great loneliness of grief
No human voice draws ever nigh;
Ah, mountain airs that pass me by!
Ah, blue drifts in the clouded sky!
Can ye not bring relief?
No human voice draws ever nigh;
Ah, mountain airs that pass me by!
Ah, blue drifts in the clouded sky!
Can ye not bring relief?
Dark headlands rooted in the wave,
With sunset glories on your face,
And storm-tost billows at your base,
Can ye not tell of woe by grace
Made noble, pure, and brave?
With sunset glories on your face,
And storm-tost billows at your base,
Can ye not tell of woe by grace
Made noble, pure, and brave?
Can ye not tell of holy calm
In some high region where the mind—
This dust and ashes left behind—
For bleeding love a salve shall find,
For separation, balm?
In some high region where the mind—
This dust and ashes left behind—
For bleeding love a salve shall find,
For separation, balm?
That sunless land is bright and green;
Its flowers are fair; but evermore
Cold death hangs looming on the shore,
And we but think how sad and sore
The entering in hath been.
Its flowers are fair; but evermore
Cold death hangs looming on the shore,
And we but think how sad and sore
The entering in hath been.
As if a bird, her wings spread wide
For scented groves in sunnier land,
Should linger in the mud and sand,
Where from some short low-lying strand
Creeps back the northern tide.
For scented groves in sunnier land,
Should linger in the mud and sand,
Where from some short low-lying strand
Creeps back the northern tide.
298
As if, through that blind-driving mist,
The golden hills we could not see,
Nor feel how fast the shadows flee,
How long the bright eternity,
There with our risen Christ.
The golden hills we could not see,
Nor feel how fast the shadows flee,
How long the bright eternity,
There with our risen Christ.
Who sits for ever by the cross,
And only kisses the pierced feet,
And hears the painful pulses beat,
Though that great agony be sweet;
Surely he hath a loss.
And only kisses the pierced feet,
And hears the painful pulses beat,
Though that great agony be sweet;
Surely he hath a loss.
He never brought his spice and myrrh,
And watch'd all night where Jesus lay,
Till the grave heaved at break of day,
And the seal'd stone was roll'd away;
He never heard the stir
And watch'd all night where Jesus lay,
Till the grave heaved at break of day,
And the seal'd stone was roll'd away;
He never heard the stir
Of wings that pant, and harps that quiver,
When He who died that heaven to win,
The King of Glory, enter'd in,
An intercessor for our sin,
At God's right hand for ever.
When He who died that heaven to win,
The King of Glory, enter'd in,
An intercessor for our sin,
At God's right hand for ever.
Bear, bear her where that music rolls,
And let her lie at those pierced feet,
(But treading now the golden street,)
And let her hear the strains that greet
His own redeemèd souls.
And let her lie at those pierced feet,
(But treading now the golden street,)
And let her hear the strains that greet
His own redeemèd souls.
299
Let grief's long passion pass away,
That parting never more to be,
The cold low grave beside the sea,
The shriek of his death agony,
The rock in the blue bay.
That parting never more to be,
The cold low grave beside the sea,
The shriek of his death agony,
The rock in the blue bay.
Bear her where only such a heart
Can cease to sorrow and to yearn—
For only there love meets return,
And only there eyes never mourn,
And loved ones never part.
Can cease to sorrow and to yearn—
For only there love meets return,
And only there eyes never mourn,
And loved ones never part.
Then bring her back where burden'd Clyde
Round many a lashing wheel raves white,
There, calm and still in faith's dear might,
Her loving heart shall read you right,
Strains of the hill and tide.
Round many a lashing wheel raves white,
There, calm and still in faith's dear might,
Her loving heart shall read you right,
Strains of the hill and tide.
NEW YEAR'S EVE.
Little
Gretchen, little Gretchen
Wanders up and down the street,
The snow is on her yellow hair,
The frost is at her feet.
Wanders up and down the street,
The snow is on her yellow hair,
The frost is at her feet.
The rows of long dark houses
Without look cold and damp,
By the struggling of the moonbeam,
By the flicker of the lamp.
Without look cold and damp,
By the struggling of the moonbeam,
By the flicker of the lamp.
300
The clouds ride fast as horses,
The wind is from the north,
But no one cares for Gretchen,
And no one looketh forth.
The wind is from the north,
But no one cares for Gretchen,
And no one looketh forth.
Within those damp dark houses,
Are merry faces bright,
And happy hearts are watching out
The old year's latest night.
Are merry faces bright,
And happy hearts are watching out
The old year's latest night.
The board is spread with plenty,
Where the smiling kindred meet,
But the frost is on the pavement,
And the beggar's in the street.
Where the smiling kindred meet,
But the frost is on the pavement,
And the beggar's in the street.
With the little box of matches,
She could not sell all day,
And the thin, thin tattered mantle,
The wind blows every way;
She could not sell all day,
And the thin, thin tattered mantle,
The wind blows every way;
She clingeth to the railing,
She shivers in the gloom,—
There are parents sitting snugly
By firelight in the room;
She shivers in the gloom,—
There are parents sitting snugly
By firelight in the room;
And groups of busy children
Withdrawing just the tips
Of rosy fingers pressed in vain
Against their bursting lips,
With grave and earnest faces
Are whispering each other,
Of presents for the new year, made
For father or for mother.
But no one talks to Gretchen,
And no one hears her speak,
No breath of little whisperers,
Comes warmly to her cheek;
No little arms are round her,
Ah me! that there should be
With so much happiness on earth
So much of misery!
Withdrawing just the tips
Of rosy fingers pressed in vain
Against their bursting lips,
301
Are whispering each other,
Of presents for the new year, made
For father or for mother.
But no one talks to Gretchen,
And no one hears her speak,
No breath of little whisperers,
Comes warmly to her cheek;
No little arms are round her,
Ah me! that there should be
With so much happiness on earth
So much of misery!
Sure they of many blessings
Should scatter blessings round,
As laden boughs in Autumn fling
Their ripe fruits to the ground.
Should scatter blessings round,
As laden boughs in Autumn fling
Their ripe fruits to the ground.
And the best love man can offer
To the God of love, be sure,
Is kindness to His little ones,
And bounty to His poor.
To the God of love, be sure,
Is kindness to His little ones,
And bounty to His poor.
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen
Goes coldly on her way;
There's no one looketh out at her,
There's no one bids her stay.
Goes coldly on her way;
There's no one looketh out at her,
There's no one bids her stay.
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Her home is cold and desolate,
No smile, no food, no fire,
But children clamorous for bread,
And an impatient sire.
No smile, no food, no fire,
But children clamorous for bread,
And an impatient sire.
So she sits down in an angle,
Where two great houses meet,
And she curls up beneath her
For warmth her little feet;
Where two great houses meet,
And she curls up beneath her
For warmth her little feet;
And she looketh on the cold wall,
And on the colder sky,
And wonders if the little stars
Are bright fires up on high.
And on the colder sky,
And wonders if the little stars
Are bright fires up on high.
She heard a clock strike slowly,
Up in a far church tower,
With such a sad and solemn tone,
Telling the midnight hour.
Up in a far church tower,
With such a sad and solemn tone,
Telling the midnight hour.
Then all the bells together,
Their merry music poured;
They were ringing in the feast,
The Circumcision of the Lord.
Their merry music poured;
They were ringing in the feast,
The Circumcision of the Lord.
And she thought as she sat lonely,
And listened to the chime,
Of wondrous things that she had loved
To hear in olden time.
And listened to the chime,
Of wondrous things that she had loved
To hear in olden time.
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And she remembered her of tales
Her mother used to tell,
And of the cradle songs she sang,
When summer's twilight fell;
Her mother used to tell,
And of the cradle songs she sang,
When summer's twilight fell;
Of good men, and of angels,
And of the Holy Child,
Who was cradled in a manger,
When winter was most wild;
And of the Holy Child,
Who was cradled in a manger,
When winter was most wild;
Who was poor, and cold, and hungry,
And desolate, and lone;
And she thought the song had told her,
He was ever with His own.
And desolate, and lone;
And she thought the song had told her,
He was ever with His own.
And all the poor and hungry,
And forsaken ones are His:
“How good of Him to look on me,
In such a place as this.”—
And forsaken ones are His:
“How good of Him to look on me,
In such a place as this.”—
Colder it grows, and colder,
But she does not feel it now,
For the pressure at her heart,
And the weight upon her brow.
But she does not feel it now,
For the pressure at her heart,
And the weight upon her brow.
But she struck one little match
On the wall so cold and bare,
That she might look around her,
And see if He were there.
On the wall so cold and bare,
That she might look around her,
And see if He were there.
304
The single match has kindled,
And by the light it threw,
It seemed to little Gretchen,
The wall was rent in two;
And by the light it threw,
It seemed to little Gretchen,
The wall was rent in two;
And she could see the room within,
The room all warm and bright,
With the fire-glow red, and dusky,
And the tapers all alight.
The room all warm and bright,
With the fire-glow red, and dusky,
And the tapers all alight.
And there were kindred gathered
Round the table richly spread,
With heaps of goodly viands,
Red wine, and pleasant bread.
Round the table richly spread,
With heaps of goodly viands,
Red wine, and pleasant bread.
She could smell the fragrant savour,
She could hear what they did say:
Then all was darkness once again,
The match had burnt away.
She could hear what they did say:
Then all was darkness once again,
The match had burnt away.
She struck another hastily,
And now she seemed to see,
Within the same warm chamber,
A glorious Christmas tree;
And now she seemed to see,
Within the same warm chamber,
A glorious Christmas tree;
The branches were all laden,
With such things as children prize,
Bright gifts for boy and maiden,
She saw them with her eyes.
With such things as children prize,
Bright gifts for boy and maiden,
She saw them with her eyes.
305
And she almost seemed to touch them,
And to join the welcome shout:
When darkness fell around her,
For the little match was out.
And to join the welcome shout:
When darkness fell around her,
For the little match was out.
Another, yet another she
Has tried, they will not light,
Till all her little store she took,
And struck with all her might.
Has tried, they will not light,
Till all her little store she took,
And struck with all her might.
And the whole miserable place,
Was lighted with the glare,
And lo, there hung a little Child,
Before her in the air.
Was lighted with the glare,
And lo, there hung a little Child,
Before her in the air.
There were blood-drops on His forehead,
And a spear-wound in His side,
And cruel nail-prints in His feet,
And in His hands spread wide.
And a spear-wound in His side,
And cruel nail-prints in His feet,
And in His hands spread wide.
And He looked upon her gently,
And she felt that He had known
Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow,
Ay, equal to her own.
And she felt that He had known
Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow,
Ay, equal to her own.
And He pointed to the laden board,
And to the Christmas tree,
Then up to the cold sky, and said,
“Will Gretchen come with Me?”
And to the Christmas tree,
Then up to the cold sky, and said,
“Will Gretchen come with Me?”
306
The poor child felt her pulses fail,
She felt her eyeballs swim,
And a ringing sound was in her ears,
Like her dead mother's hymn.
She felt her eyeballs swim,
And a ringing sound was in her ears,
Like her dead mother's hymn.
And she folded both her thin white hands,
And turned from that bright board,
And from the golden gifts, and said,
“With Thee, with Thee, O Lord.”
And turned from that bright board,
And from the golden gifts, and said,
“With Thee, with Thee, O Lord.”
The chilly winter morning
Breaks up in the dull skies,
On the city wrapped in vapour,
On the spot where Gretchen lies.
Breaks up in the dull skies,
On the city wrapped in vapour,
On the spot where Gretchen lies.
The night was wild and stormy,
The morn is cold and grey,
And good church bells are ringing
Christ's Circumcision day.
The morn is cold and grey,
And good church bells are ringing
Christ's Circumcision day.
And holy men are praying
In many a holy place;
And little children's angels
Sing songs before His face.
In many a holy place;
And little children's angels
Sing songs before His face.
In her scant and tattered garment,
With her back against the wall,
She sitteth cold and rigid,
She answers not their call.
With her back against the wall,
She sitteth cold and rigid,
She answers not their call.
307
They have lifted her up fearfully,
They shuddered as they said,
“It was a bitter, bitter night,
The child is frozen dead.”
They shuddered as they said,
“It was a bitter, bitter night,
The child is frozen dead.”
The Angels sang their greeting,
For one more redeemed from sin;
Men said, “It was a bitter night,
Would no one let her in?”
For one more redeemed from sin;
Men said, “It was a bitter night,
Would no one let her in?”
And they shuddered as they spoke of her,
And sighed;—they could not see,
How much of happiness there was,
With so much misery.
And sighed;—they could not see,
How much of happiness there was,
With so much misery.
THE LEGEND OF THE GOLDEN PRAYERS.
I. The Castle.
In an ancient Lombard castle,
Knightly castle, bravely held,
Was a book with golden letters,
Treasured in the days of eld.
Knightly castle, bravely held,
Was a book with golden letters,
Treasured in the days of eld.
308
Hoary missal, silver-claspen,
Yellow with the touch of age;
Dimly traced, the matin service
Moulder'd on the parchment page.
Yellow with the touch of age;
Dimly traced, the matin service
Moulder'd on the parchment page.
None and compline dark and faded,
Golden all the vesper prayer.
Hearken to the dainty legend
How those lines transfigured were.
Golden all the vesper prayer.
Hearken to the dainty legend
How those lines transfigured were.
There's a censer full of odours
On the sea of glass in Heaven;
Prayers and cries that God's good angel
Carries upward, morn and even.
On the sea of glass in Heaven;
Prayers and cries that God's good angel
Carries upward, morn and even.
Ah! perchance some sighs he beareth,
Voiceless, on the eternal stairs,
Some good work, in love's hot furnace,
Molten into golden prayers.
Voiceless, on the eternal stairs,
Some good work, in love's hot furnace,
Molten into golden prayers.
From his castle by the forest
Rides the princely Count to Rome,
And his bride, the fair Beata,
Keeps her quiet state at home.
Rides the princely Count to Rome,
And his bride, the fair Beata,
Keeps her quiet state at home.
Noble, with a gentle presence,
Moves the lady 'mid her train;
Knight, and dame, and old retainer
Fret not at her silken rein.
Moves the lady 'mid her train;
Knight, and dame, and old retainer
Fret not at her silken rein.
309
On the wall the warder paces,
In the court the pages play,
And the small bell in the chapel
Duly calls them forth to pray.
In the court the pages play,
And the small bell in the chapel
Duly calls them forth to pray.
From her turret-chamber's lattice
Looks the fair Beata forth,
Sees the sun-tinged white snow mountains
Rosy in the distant north;
Looks the fair Beata forth,
Sees the sun-tinged white snow mountains
Rosy in the distant north;
Sees below the peasant's cottage,
In its smoke-wreath blue and grey,
And the sea of the great forest
Creeping many a mile away.
In its smoke-wreath blue and grey,
And the sea of the great forest
Creeping many a mile away.
All the rich Italian summers
Darkly green it swell'd and roll'd,
Then the Autumn came and mark'd it
With his brand of red and gold.
Darkly green it swell'd and roll'd,
Then the Autumn came and mark'd it
With his brand of red and gold.
Full of song, and love, and gladness,
Leaps her heart at every breeze,
Dances with the chequer'd sunlight,
Laughs along the moving trees.
Leaps her heart at every breeze,
Dances with the chequer'd sunlight,
Laughs along the moving trees.
Yet it hath a downward yearning,
And a woman's feeling true
For the cares that never touch'd her,
For the pains she never knew.
And a woman's feeling true
For the cares that never touch'd her,
For the pains she never knew.
310
Through those homes of painful serfdom,
Like a charm she comes to move,
Tells them of a nobler freedom,
Soothes them with a sweeter love.
Like a charm she comes to move,
Tells them of a nobler freedom,
Soothes them with a sweeter love.
In the stately castle chapel,
Morn and eve, the prayers are said,
Where the rounded grey stone arches
Stand about the mould'ring dead.
Morn and eve, the prayers are said,
Where the rounded grey stone arches
Stand about the mould'ring dead.
Rays of amethyst and purple
Touch their tombstones on the floor,
And a sunset splendour floods them
Through the open western door.
Touch their tombstones on the floor,
And a sunset splendour floods them
Through the open western door.
Morn and eve the lady Countess
Kneels below the altar-stair,
On her fringèd crimson cushion,
With a face as grave and fair
Kneels below the altar-stair,
On her fringèd crimson cushion,
With a face as grave and fair
As that lady in the chancel,
Kneeling ever, night and day,
With her parted lips of marble,
Frozen into prayers for aye.
Kneeling ever, night and day,
With her parted lips of marble,
Frozen into prayers for aye.
Till, perchance, a stream of music
Sweepeth from the choir on high,
And her face grows bright a minute,
And the light behind her eye
Sweepeth from the choir on high,
And her face grows bright a minute,
And the light behind her eye
311
Kindles every carven feature
With a flush of love and glory,
Like the sun in a stain'd window
Touching out some grand old story.
With a flush of love and glory,
Like the sun in a stain'd window
Touching out some grand old story.
But the bells are ringing vespers,
And Beata is not there,—
Streams the sunlight down the arches,
Missing much that presence fair.
And Beata is not there,—
Streams the sunlight down the arches,
Missing much that presence fair.
And the angels on the columns
Seem to listen for her tread,
With their white and eager faces,
And their marble wings outspread.
Seem to listen for her tread,
With their white and eager faces,
And their marble wings outspread.
“Lay aside thy hood, O Countess,
And thy mantle's russet fold;
It were late now in the forest,”
Saith the waiting-lady old.
And thy mantle's russet fold;
It were late now in the forest,”
Saith the waiting-lady old.
“Take thy coif of pearls and velvet,
Take thy veil of Flanders' lace,
All the bells are ringing vespers,
And 'tis time we were in place.”
Take thy veil of Flanders' lace,
All the bells are ringing vespers,
And 'tis time we were in place.”
“Go to church, good Lady Bertha,
Say thy prayers,” Beata said;
“But to-night I must say vespers
By a dying sister's bed.
Say thy prayers,” Beata said;
“But to-night I must say vespers
By a dying sister's bed.
312
“From the blind old woodman's cottage
Came a token that I know;
Sick to death his maiden lieth,
On the forest verge below.
Came a token that I know;
Sick to death his maiden lieth,
On the forest verge below.
“We shall pray when she, forgotten,
In her grave, grass-cover'd, lies;
But she must not pass unpitied—
Love is more than sacrifice.
In her grave, grass-cover'd, lies;
But she must not pass unpitied—
Love is more than sacrifice.
“We shall pray when she is singing
At the foot of the great throne;
Should she tell our Lord in Heaven
That we let her die alone?”
At the foot of the great throne;
Should she tell our Lord in Heaven
That we let her die alone?”
So the lady took her gospel,
And she pinn'd the grey cloth hood,
And pass'd down the winding staircase,
Through the postern, to the wood,
And she pinn'd the grey cloth hood,
And pass'd down the winding staircase,
Through the postern, to the wood,
With a half regretful feeling;
For her heart was lingering there—
On the fringèd crimson cushion
Just below the altar-stair.
For her heart was lingering there—
On the fringèd crimson cushion
Just below the altar-stair.
Now the Priest is robed for service,
And the choristers draw near,
And the bells are ringing—ringing
In the Lady Bertha's ear.
And the choristers draw near,
And the bells are ringing—ringing
In the Lady Bertha's ear.
313
II. The Departure.
But the lady treads the forest dark,
Where the twisted path is rough and red,
The huge tree trunks, with their knotted bark,
In and out, stand up on either side;
Down below, their boughs are thin and wide,
But they mingle darkly overhead;
Only sometimes where the jealous screen,
Broken, shows a glimpse of Heaven between,
And the light falls in a silver flood,
Grows a little patch of purest green,
Where, when in the Spring the flowers unfold,
Lieth a long gleam of blue and gold
Hidden in the heart of the old wood.
And a wider space shows on the verge
Of the forest by a bright stream bound,
That keeps fresh a plot of open ground,
Whence the blind old woodman hears the surge
Of the sea of leaves that toss their foam
Of white blossoms round his lowly home,
Whose poor thatch, amid that living mass
Of rich verdure, lieth dark and brown,
Like a lark's nest, russet in the grass
Of a bare field on a breezy down.
Where the twisted path is rough and red,
The huge tree trunks, with their knotted bark,
In and out, stand up on either side;
Down below, their boughs are thin and wide,
But they mingle darkly overhead;
Only sometimes where the jealous screen,
Broken, shows a glimpse of Heaven between,
And the light falls in a silver flood,
Grows a little patch of purest green,
Where, when in the Spring the flowers unfold,
Lieth a long gleam of blue and gold
Hidden in the heart of the old wood.
And a wider space shows on the verge
Of the forest by a bright stream bound,
That keeps fresh a plot of open ground,
Whence the blind old woodman hears the surge
Of the sea of leaves that toss their foam
Of white blossoms round his lowly home,
Whose poor thatch, amid that living mass
Of rich verdure, lieth dark and brown,
Like a lark's nest, russet in the grass
Of a bare field on a breezy down.
In an inner chamber lay the girl,
Dying, as the Autumn day died out.
The low wind, that bore the leaves about,
Every now and then, with sudden whirl,
Through her casement made the curtain flap
With a weary sound upon the wall;
Moved the linen lying on her lap;
But she lay and heeded not at all,
With the brown hands folded close together,
And the cheek, all stain'd with toil and weather,
Fading underneath the squalid cap.
Turn, poor sufferer, give one dying look
To the forest over the clear brook,
For the sunset dim in thy low chamber
Touches it with emerald and amber,
Clasps its jewels in a golden setting—
Ah! she doth not heed, she will not turn,
She but asks the rapture of forgetting,
Life has left her few delights to mourn.
Painful childhood without sport or laughter,
Cheerless growing up in toil and care,
Wanting sympathy to make life fair;
Outward dulness, and an inward blight—
Doom of many that we read aright,
Only in the light of the hereafter.
Dying, as the Autumn day died out.
314
Every now and then, with sudden whirl,
Through her casement made the curtain flap
With a weary sound upon the wall;
Moved the linen lying on her lap;
But she lay and heeded not at all,
With the brown hands folded close together,
And the cheek, all stain'd with toil and weather,
Fading underneath the squalid cap.
Turn, poor sufferer, give one dying look
To the forest over the clear brook,
For the sunset dim in thy low chamber
Touches it with emerald and amber,
Clasps its jewels in a golden setting—
Ah! she doth not heed, she will not turn,
She but asks the rapture of forgetting,
Life has left her few delights to mourn.
Painful childhood without sport or laughter,
Cheerless growing up in toil and care,
Wanting sympathy to make life fair;
Outward dulness, and an inward blight—
Doom of many that we read aright,
Only in the light of the hereafter.
Now her life ebbs to a new beginning,
Not alone the end of toil and sinning,
Not alone the perfect loss of pain,
But the bursting of a life-long chain,
And a dark film passing from the eyes,
The soul breaking into that full blaze
That in gleams, and thoughts, and fantasies
Broke but rarely on her earthly days;
For the shadow of the forest lay
On the crush'd heart of the forest maid;
Glorious sunshine, and the light of day,
And the blue air of long summers play'd
Ever in the green tops of the trees:—
Down below were depths and mysteries,
Dim perspectives, and a humid smell
Of decaying leaves and rotted cones;
While, far up, the wild bee rung her bell,
And the blossoms nodded on their thrones,
She, poor foundling at another's hearth,
She, the blind man's helper and his slave,
To whose thought the quiet of the grave
Hardly paid the drudgery of earth.
Not alone the end of toil and sinning,
Not alone the perfect loss of pain,
But the bursting of a life-long chain,
And a dark film passing from the eyes,
315
That in gleams, and thoughts, and fantasies
Broke but rarely on her earthly days;
For the shadow of the forest lay
On the crush'd heart of the forest maid;
Glorious sunshine, and the light of day,
And the blue air of long summers play'd
Ever in the green tops of the trees:—
Down below were depths and mysteries,
Dim perspectives, and a humid smell
Of decaying leaves and rotted cones;
While, far up, the wild bee rung her bell,
And the blossoms nodded on their thrones,
She, poor foundling at another's hearth,
She, the blind man's helper and his slave,
To whose thought the quiet of the grave
Hardly paid the drudgery of earth.
Till the lady found the forlorn creature,
And she told her all the marvellous story,
Divine love, and suffering, and glory,
That to her abused, neglected nature,
Slowly did a gleam of hope impart—
Gleam that never rose to light her feature,
But it burn'd into her blighted heart:
Gave a meaning to each sound that haunted
Arch on arch, the forest's depth of aisle,
Set to music every wind that chanted,
Made it all a consecrated pile,
For the lady to the chapel stately,
Though the pages whisper'd in her train,
Though the Lady Bertha marvell'd greatly,
Led her once, and oft she came again.
'Neath the crimson window's blazonry,
There she saw the priest and people kneeling,
Trembled at the loud Laudates pealing,
Wept along the solemn Litany;
Mark'd the Psalter's long majestic flow,
With brief pause of sudden Glorias riven,
Heard it warbling at the gates of Heaven,
Heard it wailing from the depths below.
But most won the Gospel strain her soul
When its one clear solitary tone,
After music, on the hush'd church stole.
Like a sweet bird that sings on alone
When the storm of harmony is done,
Or that voice the Prophet heard of old
When the tempest died upon the wold.
And a form divine, great, gentle, wise,
Slowly out of that grand picture grew,
Look'd into her soul with human eyes,
To His heart the desolate creature drew—
Tender heart that beat so kind and true
To her wants, and cares, and sympathies.
Never more His presence fair forsakes her,
To her weary solitude He follows,
Meets her in the forest depths and hollows,
By her rough and toil-worn hand He takes her,
Smiles upon her with His heavenly face,
Till the wood is an enchanted place.
When a beam in summer stray'd, perchance,
Through the boughs that darkly intertwine,
Comes to break a slender silver lance
On the brown trunk of some aged pine,
Falls in shivers on the dappled moss
That doth all its hoary roots emboss;
She, uplooking to that glorious ray,
Saith: “It cometh from the throne of Christ,
Some good saint hath won the holy tryste,
And Heaven's gate is open wide to-day.”
Or when o'er the April sky there pass'd
Clouds that made the forest darkness denser,
And the shadows, by the bare trunks cast,
Weirder, and the distant gloom intenser;
When, as she sat listening, overhead
Came short silence, and a sound of drops,
And a tossing in the great tree tops,
And she saw across the broken arch
Fall the green tufts of the tassell'd larch,
And the white chestnut flowers, row on row,
And the pine-plumes dashing to and fro.
As the thunder cloud pass'd o'er, she said:
“Sure the saints are round about the King,
And I see the waving palms they bring.”
Fair Beata kneeleth at her side,
To her shrunken lip the cordial gives,
Tells her gently that her Saviour lives,
Gently tells her that her Saviour died.
“Read, O Lady, read those words of sorrow,
Part of rapture, and of anguish part,
Which in presence of that awful morrow
Jesus spake—the dying to the dying,
When the dear one on His bosom lying,
Caught them breathing from His breaking heart.”
And the lady from her gospel olden
Read, while ebbed the worn-out life away;
Paused awhile the parting spirit, holden
By the exquisite beauty of the lay.
Ah, did ever poem tell so sweetly
To the saint the rapture of his rest?
Ah, did requiem ever lull so meetly
Weary sinner on a Saviour's breast?
And she told her all the marvellous story,
Divine love, and suffering, and glory,
That to her abused, neglected nature,
Slowly did a gleam of hope impart—
Gleam that never rose to light her feature,
But it burn'd into her blighted heart:
Gave a meaning to each sound that haunted
Arch on arch, the forest's depth of aisle,
Set to music every wind that chanted,
Made it all a consecrated pile,
316
Though the pages whisper'd in her train,
Though the Lady Bertha marvell'd greatly,
Led her once, and oft she came again.
'Neath the crimson window's blazonry,
There she saw the priest and people kneeling,
Trembled at the loud Laudates pealing,
Wept along the solemn Litany;
Mark'd the Psalter's long majestic flow,
With brief pause of sudden Glorias riven,
Heard it warbling at the gates of Heaven,
Heard it wailing from the depths below.
But most won the Gospel strain her soul
When its one clear solitary tone,
After music, on the hush'd church stole.
Like a sweet bird that sings on alone
When the storm of harmony is done,
Or that voice the Prophet heard of old
When the tempest died upon the wold.
And a form divine, great, gentle, wise,
Slowly out of that grand picture grew,
Look'd into her soul with human eyes,
To His heart the desolate creature drew—
Tender heart that beat so kind and true
To her wants, and cares, and sympathies.
Never more His presence fair forsakes her,
To her weary solitude He follows,
Meets her in the forest depths and hollows,
By her rough and toil-worn hand He takes her,
317
Till the wood is an enchanted place.
When a beam in summer stray'd, perchance,
Through the boughs that darkly intertwine,
Comes to break a slender silver lance
On the brown trunk of some aged pine,
Falls in shivers on the dappled moss
That doth all its hoary roots emboss;
She, uplooking to that glorious ray,
Saith: “It cometh from the throne of Christ,
Some good saint hath won the holy tryste,
And Heaven's gate is open wide to-day.”
Or when o'er the April sky there pass'd
Clouds that made the forest darkness denser,
And the shadows, by the bare trunks cast,
Weirder, and the distant gloom intenser;
When, as she sat listening, overhead
Came short silence, and a sound of drops,
And a tossing in the great tree tops,
And she saw across the broken arch
Fall the green tufts of the tassell'd larch,
And the white chestnut flowers, row on row,
And the pine-plumes dashing to and fro.
As the thunder cloud pass'd o'er, she said:
“Sure the saints are round about the King,
And I see the waving palms they bring.”
Fair Beata kneeleth at her side,
To her shrunken lip the cordial gives,
Tells her gently that her Saviour lives,
318
“Read, O Lady, read those words of sorrow,
Part of rapture, and of anguish part,
Which in presence of that awful morrow
Jesus spake—the dying to the dying,
When the dear one on His bosom lying,
Caught them breathing from His breaking heart.”
And the lady from her gospel olden
Read, while ebbed the worn-out life away;
Paused awhile the parting spirit, holden
By the exquisite beauty of the lay.
Ah, did ever poem tell so sweetly
To the saint the rapture of his rest?
Ah, did requiem ever lull so meetly
Weary sinner on a Saviour's breast?
But there comes a strange short quiver now
Creeping darkly up from chin to brow—
Sweet Beata never look'd on death,
And she reads on with unbated breath.
But the blind man, sitting at the door,
Crieth: “Silence, for I hear a shout
In Heaven, and a rustling on the floor,
And the sound of something passing out,
And my hair is lifted with a rush
Of angels' wings. They have pass'd by me. Hush!”
Creeping darkly up from chin to brow—
Sweet Beata never look'd on death,
And she reads on with unbated breath.
But the blind man, sitting at the door,
Crieth: “Silence, for I hear a shout
In Heaven, and a rustling on the floor,
And the sound of something passing out,
And my hair is lifted with a rush
Of angels' wings. They have pass'd by me. Hush!”
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III. The Angel.
Now the bells have ceased to ring,
And the priest begins to pray,
And the loaded censers swing,
And the answers die away—
Wandering through those arches grey,
As the choir responsive sing
And the priest begins to pray,
And the loaded censers swing,
And the answers die away—
Wandering through those arches grey,
As the choir responsive sing
Lady Bertha sweepeth in
With a sadly-troubled brow,
Velvet-robed from foot to chin,
And the points of delicate lace
Laid about her wither'd face.
Serf and soldier all make room,
And the pages kneel in order
In the stately lady's train.
Dim the window's pictured pane,
Dim its deep-stain'd flowery border—
All the chancel lies in gloom;
Lower down along the floor
Gleams of glorious radiance pour,
Not in rays of green or blue
From some old apostle's vest,
Not with light of warmer hue
Won from martyrs' crimson breast,
But the sunset's own soft gleaming
Through the western entrance streaming
Like a line of silver spears
Levell'd when the leader cheers.
With a sadly-troubled brow,
Velvet-robed from foot to chin,
And the points of delicate lace
Laid about her wither'd face.
Serf and soldier all make room,
And the pages kneel in order
In the stately lady's train.
Dim the window's pictured pane,
Dim its deep-stain'd flowery border—
All the chancel lies in gloom;
Lower down along the floor
Gleams of glorious radiance pour,
Not in rays of green or blue
From some old apostle's vest,
Not with light of warmer hue
Won from martyrs' crimson breast,
But the sunset's own soft gleaming
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Like a line of silver spears
Levell'd when the leader cheers.
Not a bell is ringing now,
But the priest is praying loud,
And the choir is answering,
And the people murmur low,
And the incense, like a cloud,
Curls along the chapel proud,
As the loaded censers swing.
Who is this that comes to pray?
Is it priest with stole of white,
In a silver amice dight,
Or a chorister gone astray,
With a bended golden head
Kneeling on the cushion red,
Where the lady knelt alway?
Stay, O priest, thy solemn tone;
A strange voice is join'd to thine:
O sweet Lady cut in stone,
Lift for once those marble eyes
From the gilded carven shrine
Where thy silent warrior lies
In the dim-lit chancel air;
Never, 'mid the kneeling throng
Come to share thy vigil long,
Was worshipper so rare.
Ah, fair saint! she looks not back,
And the priest unto a Higher
Than the whole angelic choir
Calleth; so he doth not slack.
But the people pause and stare,
Even the pages dare not wink,
And the rustling ladies shrink,
And the women low are saying,
Each into a hooded face,
“'Tis a blessed angel praying
In our sainted lady's place.”
But the priest is praying loud,
And the choir is answering,
And the people murmur low,
And the incense, like a cloud,
Curls along the chapel proud,
As the loaded censers swing.
Who is this that comes to pray?
Is it priest with stole of white,
In a silver amice dight,
Or a chorister gone astray,
With a bended golden head
Kneeling on the cushion red,
Where the lady knelt alway?
Stay, O priest, thy solemn tone;
A strange voice is join'd to thine:
O sweet Lady cut in stone,
Lift for once those marble eyes
From the gilded carven shrine
Where thy silent warrior lies
In the dim-lit chancel air;
Never, 'mid the kneeling throng
Come to share thy vigil long,
Was worshipper so rare.
Ah, fair saint! she looks not back,
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Than the whole angelic choir
Calleth; so he doth not slack.
But the people pause and stare,
Even the pages dare not wink,
And the rustling ladies shrink,
And the women low are saying,
Each into a hooded face,
“'Tis a blessed angel praying
In our sainted lady's place.”
But not one of all the host
That beheld and wonder'd most,
After, could the semblance trace
Of that bright angelic creature;
Though they look'd into his feature,
They but saw a bright face glowing,
Golden tresses like a crown,
And the white wings folded down,
And a silver vesture flowing;
Like a dream of poet's weaving,
Or some painter's fond conceiving
Never to his canvas known;
Or the sculptor's warm ideal,
Never wrought into the real
Cold, unbreathing stone.
That beheld and wonder'd most,
After, could the semblance trace
Of that bright angelic creature;
Though they look'd into his feature,
They but saw a bright face glowing,
Golden tresses like a crown,
And the white wings folded down,
And a silver vesture flowing;
Like a dream of poet's weaving,
Or some painter's fond conceiving
Never to his canvas known;
Or the sculptor's warm ideal,
Never wrought into the real
Cold, unbreathing stone.
But a little maiden saith:—
“I have seen it on the day
When my tender mother lay
Struggling with the pangs of death;
Such a creature came to stand
At the bed-side, palm in hand,
And a crown upon his wand,
Beckoning as he heavenward flew;
Then she slept, and left me too.”
“I have seen it on the day
When my tender mother lay
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Such a creature came to stand
At the bed-side, palm in hand,
And a crown upon his wand,
Beckoning as he heavenward flew;
Then she slept, and left me too.”
“I have seen it,” whispering loud,
Saith a mother in the crowd,
“When my christen'd babe did lie
Drest for death, and I sat by
In a trance of grief and pain:—
Cold the forehead without stain,
Dark the dimple and the eye
That was light and love to mine—
Faded every rosy line
Round the sweet mouth stiff and dumb—
He was there, I saw him come;
Laid aside the coffin-lid
Where my broken flower lay hid,
And he took it to his breast,
In his two arms closely prest,
Upward—upward—through the blue,
With a carol sweet and wild,
Bore my darling, and I knew
Christ had sent him for my child.”
Saith a mother in the crowd,
“When my christen'd babe did lie
Drest for death, and I sat by
In a trance of grief and pain:—
Cold the forehead without stain,
Dark the dimple and the eye
That was light and love to mine—
Faded every rosy line
Round the sweet mouth stiff and dumb—
He was there, I saw him come;
Laid aside the coffin-lid
Where my broken flower lay hid,
And he took it to his breast,
In his two arms closely prest,
Upward—upward—through the blue,
With a carol sweet and wild,
Bore my darling, and I knew
Christ had sent him for my child.”
Still the angel saith his prayers,
Reading from Beata's book;
Every time the pages shook
A most wondrous fragrance took
All the creeping chapel air,
Like the scent in woods below
When the limes are all a-blow.
He is gone—the prayers are over—
By the altar, on the stair,
Folded in its vellum cover,
He hath laid the missal rare;
Every prayer the angel told
On its page had turn'd to gold.
Sweet Beata found it there
As the early morning gleam'd,
When she came to thank the Lord
For that weary soul redeem'd,
Trembling at the story quaint
Of her angel visitant.
And she saw each changèd word—
Then she knew that through Heaven's door
Many a gift the angel bears,
And cast it on the crystal floor,
Where love-deeds are golden prayers.
Reading from Beata's book;
Every time the pages shook
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All the creeping chapel air,
Like the scent in woods below
When the limes are all a-blow.
He is gone—the prayers are over—
By the altar, on the stair,
Folded in its vellum cover,
He hath laid the missal rare;
Every prayer the angel told
On its page had turn'd to gold.
Sweet Beata found it there
As the early morning gleam'd,
When she came to thank the Lord
For that weary soul redeem'd,
Trembling at the story quaint
Of her angel visitant.
And she saw each changèd word—
Then she knew that through Heaven's door
Many a gift the angel bears,
And cast it on the crystal floor,
Where love-deeds are golden prayers.
“A legend, I believe of Italian origin, of a lady of rank who vexed herself with the thought that her domestic interfered with her devotional duties. On one occasion when she had been called away from church, she found, on returning, that the pages that she had missed in her Breviary had been re-written in letters of gold, and that an angel had taken her place and prayed in her stead during her absence.”—Lord Lindsay's Christian Art, vol. I. cciv.
HUMILITY.
“Bow down thy false and froward heart,
Tread meekly day by day;
Obedience is thy proper part,
Her path is Wisdom's way.
Tread meekly day by day;
Obedience is thy proper part,
Her path is Wisdom's way.
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“With lowly mien, with humble mind,
With chasten'd heart and true,
Bend to the Rulers of thy kind,
And yield them reverence due.”
With chasten'd heart and true,
Bend to the Rulers of thy kind,
And yield them reverence due.”
Thus man's Almighty Lord has said,
But scornful human pride,
Disdainful lifts his haughty head,
And turns his foot aside.
But scornful human pride,
Disdainful lifts his haughty head,
And turns his foot aside.
Sweet nature's gentle children all,
A different lore they teach,
And bud and blossom hear her call,
That hath nor form nor speech.
A different lore they teach,
And bud and blossom hear her call,
That hath nor form nor speech.
She speaks to them at evening hour,
They hear her and obey;
Fold meekly up each silken flower,
And turn their heads away.
They hear her and obey;
Fold meekly up each silken flower,
And turn their heads away.
Nor from beneath their verdant shells,
With clustering dew-drops bright,
Peep once again the snowy bells,
Till morn's returning light.
With clustering dew-drops bright,
Peep once again the snowy bells,
Till morn's returning light.
Thro' this long gloomy night of ours,
God's voice is with us still,
And we should stand like folded flowers,
And wait to work His will.
God's voice is with us still,
And we should stand like folded flowers,
And wait to work His will.
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They watch till bright dawn come again,
Our dayspring too, is near—
Yet meekly tread, they only reign
Who serve and suffer here.
Our dayspring too, is near—
Yet meekly tread, they only reign
Who serve and suffer here.
CHURCH BELLS.
The Church bell chimes, how sweet they blend
With summer breezes, soft and clear,
Like voice of some beloved friend—
Returning to the ear;
Like echo from his native shore,
To weary wanderer homeward bound;
The dark green wood they murmur o'er,
And much I love the sound.
With summer breezes, soft and clear,
Like voice of some beloved friend—
Returning to the ear;
Like echo from his native shore,
To weary wanderer homeward bound;
The dark green wood they murmur o'er,
And much I love the sound.
They tell of high and holy thought,
Pure feelings hallowed long,
Since first in happy childhood brought,
I walked with yonder throng:
When, as they whispered, week by week
The high ones hither trod,
And here, the peasant came to seek
An audience of his God.
Pure feelings hallowed long,
Since first in happy childhood brought,
I walked with yonder throng:
When, as they whispered, week by week
The high ones hither trod,
And here, the peasant came to seek
An audience of his God.
Back to my soul that music brings
Dreams of mine early innocence,
Which ever loved in outward things
To trace a hidden sense.
And still I thought, when Church bells rang,
Sweet Angels poured a welcome lay;
And Seraph voices, as they sang,
Bade mortals praise and pray.
Dreams of mine early innocence,
Which ever loved in outward things
To trace a hidden sense.
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Sweet Angels poured a welcome lay;
And Seraph voices, as they sang,
Bade mortals praise and pray.
That was the day-dream of a boy,
Yet wearing now my threescore years,
I know that God's good angels joy
O'er sinners' contrite tears;
And prayers of penitential dread
Shall fill to-day yon sacred nave;
And words of pardon shall be said,
Through Him who died to save.
Yet wearing now my threescore years,
I know that God's good angels joy
O'er sinners' contrite tears;
And prayers of penitential dread
Shall fill to-day yon sacred nave;
And words of pardon shall be said,
Through Him who died to save.
Lord, lift thou up each trembling lip,
Each heart thy Spirit give,
To hold our holy fellowship,
To live as angels live;
That when for us the last bell tolls
On Earth, to cold earth given,
Rejoicing o'er our ransom'd souls,
Their harps may ring in Heaven.
Each heart thy Spirit give,
To hold our holy fellowship,
To live as angels live;
That when for us the last bell tolls
On Earth, to cold earth given,
Rejoicing o'er our ransom'd souls,
Their harps may ring in Heaven.
HOPE.
The breath of eve blows fresh and free,
The poor man's day of toil is o'er,
Come take thine harp, and seek with me
The elm tree by the cottage door.
The poor man's day of toil is o'er,
Come take thine harp, and seek with me
The elm tree by the cottage door.
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The sun has sat on his red brow
All through the radiant summer's day,
And the hot hand hangs weary now,
That wiped the drops of toil away.
All through the radiant summer's day,
And the hot hand hangs weary now,
That wiped the drops of toil away.
And dull and weary too, is she,
That pale worn woman sitting nigh,
The sick babe slumbers on her knee,
The day's long task has dimmed her eye.
That pale worn woman sitting nigh,
The sick babe slumbers on her knee,
The day's long task has dimmed her eye.
And ever thus, time wears away,
One dreary round while life shall last,
To-day is just like yesterday,
To-morrow shall be as the past.
One dreary round while life shall last,
To-day is just like yesterday,
To-morrow shall be as the past.
Come, take thine harp and pour the song,
To cheer the poor man's weariness,
For Hope is bright, and Faith is strong,
There's comfort in the worst distress.
To cheer the poor man's weariness,
For Hope is bright, and Faith is strong,
There's comfort in the worst distress.
But tell him not of hours of ease,
When joy's full cup is o'er the brim,
When pleasure whispers in the breeze,
He'll say such joys are not for him.
When joy's full cup is o'er the brim,
When pleasure whispers in the breeze,
He'll say such joys are not for him.
Nor tell him of this cold bare earth,
Its daily meed of toil and care,
Its brightest hours, so little worth,
Then leave him to his own despair.
Its daily meed of toil and care,
Its brightest hours, so little worth,
Then leave him to his own despair.
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These are not all—thine harp shall tell
New feelings wrought by inward powers,
And glorious things invisible,
That walk with him this world of ours.
New feelings wrought by inward powers,
And glorious things invisible,
That walk with him this world of ours.
Bright angel forms that come and go,
For ministering spirits given;
And saints that feel with him below,
As souls made perfect feel in heaven.
For ministering spirits given;
And saints that feel with him below,
As souls made perfect feel in heaven.
And thou shalt tell his honoured place,
In Christ's own Church redeemed and blest,
The child of an immortal race,
The heir of everlasting rest.
In Christ's own Church redeemed and blest,
The child of an immortal race,
The heir of everlasting rest.
And cheerly bid him tread the earth,
And toil within his narrow range;
The birthright of his second birth,
No want can dim, no sorrow change.
And toil within his narrow range;
The birthright of his second birth,
No want can dim, no sorrow change.
His is no mean unhonoured fate,
Who feels within throb proud and high
Beginnings of a better state,
Tokens of immortality.
Who feels within throb proud and high
Beginnings of a better state,
Tokens of immortality.
A glory on his brow is set,
For He who chose the lowliest part,
Has left a ray that lingers yet,
In blessings round the poor of heart.
For He who chose the lowliest part,
Has left a ray that lingers yet,
In blessings round the poor of heart.
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Then leave him as thy strains decay,
With bounding heart, and radiant mien,
To tread in Faith life's weary way,
Still walking with the things unseen.
With bounding heart, and radiant mien,
To tread in Faith life's weary way,
Still walking with the things unseen.
THE PILGRIM.
“Oh, Pilgrim, Pilgrim, pause awhile,
Footsore and faint art thou,
I read thee gentle by thy smile,
And by thy patient brow.
The cross beams broadly on thy breast,
Thy robe is soiled and rent,
Where have thy weary footsteps prest?
And whither are they bent?”
Footsore and faint art thou,
I read thee gentle by thy smile,
And by thy patient brow.
The cross beams broadly on thy breast,
Thy robe is soiled and rent,
Where have thy weary footsteps prest?
And whither are they bent?”
“Oh, I have walked thro' a strange country,
And strange things have I seen,
And deadlier strife by land or sea,
Good brother, hath not been.
My robe was all as the lily white,
When first I wandered forth,
The red cross on my breast was bright
As stars in the frosty north.
And strange things have I seen,
And deadlier strife by land or sea,
Good brother, hath not been.
My robe was all as the lily white,
When first I wandered forth,
The red cross on my breast was bright
As stars in the frosty north.
“And high the banner of our King
Flowed o'er our pilgrim band,
But the long way was wearying,
And dark the gloomy strand.
And we must pass that fearful place
To find our Father's home,
And meet the fierce foes, face to face,
That thro' that strange land roam.
Flowed o'er our pilgrim band,
But the long way was wearying,
And dark the gloomy strand.
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To find our Father's home,
And meet the fierce foes, face to face,
That thro' that strange land roam.
“All night dim murmurs filled the air,
And when the bright day broke
It seemed that wild flowers, strangely fair,
Around our pathway woke;
But when we touched, their leaves were soiled,
And scentless all their bowers,
And the green serpent slumbering coiled
Amid their fairest flowers.
And when the bright day broke
It seemed that wild flowers, strangely fair,
Around our pathway woke;
But when we touched, their leaves were soiled,
And scentless all their bowers,
And the green serpent slumbering coiled
Amid their fairest flowers.
“Large birds flapped o'er us as we walked
Their wings of various dyes,
And evil beasts around us stalked,
With grim and fiery eyes.
Fiercely the grisly monsters came,
But we did never flinch;
But stood our ground, in our Master's name,
And quelled them inch by inch.
Their wings of various dyes,
And evil beasts around us stalked,
With grim and fiery eyes.
Fiercely the grisly monsters came,
But we did never flinch;
But stood our ground, in our Master's name,
And quelled them inch by inch.
“But hard won was the victory,
And many a wound we bore.”
“Good Pilgrim, of thy courtesy,
Where lies that fearful shore?
For I would brave the fiercest strife
For that dear Master's right.
I'd give whole years of this dull life
For one such glorious fight.”
And many a wound we bore.”
“Good Pilgrim, of thy courtesy,
Where lies that fearful shore?
For I would brave the fiercest strife
For that dear Master's right.
I'd give whole years of this dull life
For one such glorious fight.”
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“Oh Christian Brother, every day
Such foes around thee stand,
They fill thy path, they throng thy way,
In this our English land.
Bad thoughts, bad tempers, dreams of earth,
The small unnoticed sin,
Sit by the board and haunt the hearth,
To tempt thy soul within.
Such foes around thee stand,
They fill thy path, they throng thy way,
In this our English land.
Bad thoughts, bad tempers, dreams of earth,
The small unnoticed sin,
Sit by the board and haunt the hearth,
To tempt thy soul within.
“And anger shrieks into thine ear,
And passion hears the cry,
And swelling envy lurketh near,
And pride goes prancing by,
And flowers of ease that seem to bless,
Spring round with specious art,
And the green serpent, selfishness,
Lies coiled around thy heart.
And passion hears the cry,
And swelling envy lurketh near,
And pride goes prancing by,
And flowers of ease that seem to bless,
Spring round with specious art,
And the green serpent, selfishness,
Lies coiled around thy heart.
“Oh Christ's true warrior, these are they
'Gainst whom to gird the sword,
To teach thy proud soul to obey,
Like Him thy lowly Lord;
To watch, to yield, when others press,
To struggle, to deny,
In patience, peace, and gentleness,
Must be thy triumph high.”
'Gainst whom to gird the sword,
To teach thy proud soul to obey,
Like Him thy lowly Lord;
To watch, to yield, when others press,
To struggle, to deny,
In patience, peace, and gentleness,
Must be thy triumph high.”
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THE EVENING HOUR.
Fast fades the busy weary day,
Come, Alice, lay the needle down,
Lo, gentle twilight, cool and grey,
Comes stealing o'er the coppice brown,
Comes stealing over fields and skies;
Stand with me by our cottage door,
And watch the yellow moon up rise,
She never rose more bright before.
Come, Alice, lay the needle down,
Lo, gentle twilight, cool and grey,
Comes stealing o'er the coppice brown,
Comes stealing over fields and skies;
Stand with me by our cottage door,
And watch the yellow moon up rise,
She never rose more bright before.
They tell us evening hours are cold,
Her skies are dim, her dews are tears,
Earth weeping that her flowers grow old;
They do not know how time endears.
They never felt the calm delight
Each year of patient love bestows,
Nor think how yonder river bright,
Grows broader as it onward flows.
Her skies are dim, her dews are tears,
Earth weeping that her flowers grow old;
They do not know how time endears.
They never felt the calm delight
Each year of patient love bestows,
Nor think how yonder river bright,
Grows broader as it onward flows.
And we have won life's evening hour,
I see thy brow no more is smooth;
I see that time's remorseless power
Has dimmed the golden hairs of youth.
To me, those silver locks of thine
Still shadow eyes as bright and fond
As when they decked the village shrine
And bound us both in holy bond.
I see thy brow no more is smooth;
I see that time's remorseless power
Has dimmed the golden hairs of youth.
To me, those silver locks of thine
Still shadow eyes as bright and fond
As when they decked the village shrine
And bound us both in holy bond.
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Yes, there are charms which time that mars
All outward beauty, cannot blight;
Pale evening brings her train of stars,
And flowers smell sweetly all the night.
As sweet as in its earliest birth,
The rose still decks my cottage wall;
Still bright as stars, beside my hearth,
Soft smiles and gentle glances fall.
All outward beauty, cannot blight;
Pale evening brings her train of stars,
And flowers smell sweetly all the night.
As sweet as in its earliest birth,
The rose still decks my cottage wall;
Still bright as stars, beside my hearth,
Soft smiles and gentle glances fall.
Round many an English household tree,
The secret lurks of joy like this,
Were woman what she ought to be,
Did man but know his proper bliss.
If clamorous discord were not heard,
Nor temper wove her evil spell,
With stern reproof and angry word,
Where soft-toned peace should love to dwell.
The secret lurks of joy like this,
Were woman what she ought to be,
Did man but know his proper bliss.
If clamorous discord were not heard,
Nor temper wove her evil spell,
With stern reproof and angry word,
Where soft-toned peace should love to dwell.
If kind good humour brought her smile,
And meek forbearance harboured there,
And ever ready love the while
Drew nigh, each lightened grief to share:
If faith and hope unearthly shone
Through all their tears, and lit their eyes,
If each with loving hand led on
A fellow pilgrim to the skies.
And meek forbearance harboured there,
And ever ready love the while
Drew nigh, each lightened grief to share:
If faith and hope unearthly shone
Through all their tears, and lit their eyes,
If each with loving hand led on
A fellow pilgrim to the skies.
Then not in vain, o'er man and wife,
The Church had poured her blessing free,
Nor sought in vain in wedded life,
Types of her love and unity.
Come, Alice, lay the needle by,
And, grateful that such joys are ours,
We'll tell them o'er with brimming eye,
While stars look down on sweet night flowers.
The Church had poured her blessing free,
Nor sought in vain in wedded life,
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Come, Alice, lay the needle by,
And, grateful that such joys are ours,
We'll tell them o'er with brimming eye,
While stars look down on sweet night flowers.
KING EDWARD'S DREAM.
On lofty Windsor's terraces and bowers
Fair fell the radiance of the sun's last ray;
And purple beamed her palaces and towers,
With the calm lustre of departing day.
The scented air wooed fragrance from the flowers;
In the far west a streak of crimson lay;
As lingering Phœbus grieved his day was sped,
And dropped his glowing mantle, ere he fled.
Fair fell the radiance of the sun's last ray;
And purple beamed her palaces and towers,
With the calm lustre of departing day.
The scented air wooed fragrance from the flowers;
In the far west a streak of crimson lay;
As lingering Phœbus grieved his day was sped,
And dropped his glowing mantle, ere he fled.
On many a regal chamber, fair to see,
The dusky light with fitful ray was streaming;
Thro' heavy folds of crimson drapery,
On gorgeous canopies, where gold was beaming;
On many a sculptured form's rich tracery;
On many a pictured brow of gallant seeming;
On many a kingly throne, and queenly bower,
And sombre silent hall, and darkly frowning tower.
The dusky light with fitful ray was streaming;
Thro' heavy folds of crimson drapery,
On gorgeous canopies, where gold was beaming;
On many a sculptured form's rich tracery;
On many a pictured brow of gallant seeming;
On many a kingly throne, and queenly bower,
And sombre silent hall, and darkly frowning tower.
There is a voice of mirth in Windsor's glades,
For England's nobles join the festive throng;
And guide the silken rein, where high-born maids
Blend their sweet voices with the wood-bird's song;
Or urge the bounding steed thro' sylvan shades,
And loudly cheer the panting hound along;
Yet tho' the pride of England's youth is here,
There lacks her fairest flower, her rose without a peer.
For England's nobles join the festive throng;
And guide the silken rein, where high-born maids
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Or urge the bounding steed thro' sylvan shades,
And loudly cheer the panting hound along;
Yet tho' the pride of England's youth is here,
There lacks her fairest flower, her rose without a peer.
In one vast chamber of that princely pile,
There was a fair and sickly Boy reposing,
While all without, with revelry and smile,
Hailed the glad summer's day so mildly closing:
England's young monarch sat in hall the while,
A volume dark of olden time unclosing;
And save a Prelate old that stayed beside,
He was alone within that chamber wide.
There was a fair and sickly Boy reposing,
While all without, with revelry and smile,
Hailed the glad summer's day so mildly closing:
England's young monarch sat in hall the while,
A volume dark of olden time unclosing;
And save a Prelate old that stayed beside,
He was alone within that chamber wide.
Pale was the princely brow, and high and fair;
On the small hand so pensively reclining,
Parted the ringlets of his chestnut hair;
And in the bright eye, thro' the dark lash shining,
There dwelt a tender melancholy air,
As tho' the gentle soul within were pining,
And longed to lay its mortal vesture down,
And leave its earthly throne, and wear a brighter crown.
On the small hand so pensively reclining,
Parted the ringlets of his chestnut hair;
And in the bright eye, thro' the dark lash shining,
There dwelt a tender melancholy air,
As tho' the gentle soul within were pining,
And longed to lay its mortal vesture down,
And leave its earthly throne, and wear a brighter crown.
Pallid his hue with many a hectic streak,
It seemed as tho' their ancient contest ended
That deluged England many a bloody week,
The white rose with her red foe still contended
For which should reign upon that fair young cheek.
His mien was majesty and mildness blended,
Noble and firm, as Prince's aye should be,
But meek and gracious in its dignity.
It seemed as tho' their ancient contest ended
That deluged England many a bloody week,
The white rose with her red foe still contended
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His mien was majesty and mildness blended,
Noble and firm, as Prince's aye should be,
But meek and gracious in its dignity.
He that would look upon that sweet young brow,
Must seek some lofty pictured gallery;
Where painter's hand would seek to give us now
The perished forms of England's majesty:
Or would he sterner memory, I trow,
He must go tread the tombs of royalty,
And o'er young Tudor's bier the fond tear shed
For him the early wise, alas, the early dead.
Must seek some lofty pictured gallery;
Where painter's hand would seek to give us now
The perished forms of England's majesty:
Or would he sterner memory, I trow,
He must go tread the tombs of royalty,
And o'er young Tudor's bier the fond tear shed
For him the early wise, alas, the early dead.
But for that Prelate, seek no tombstone lone,
No grass-grown grave, where rustics come to weep,
No sculptured shrine, or monumental stone,
Where England lays her hallowed names to sleep:
For till the hour when God shall claim His own
From the red pile, and from the stormy deep,
Till fire and flood alike their dead return,
Of Cranmer's resting-place thou shalt not learn.
No grass-grown grave, where rustics come to weep,
No sculptured shrine, or monumental stone,
Where England lays her hallowed names to sleep:
For till the hour when God shall claim His own
From the red pile, and from the stormy deep,
Till fire and flood alike their dead return,
Of Cranmer's resting-place thou shalt not learn.
Long on his Pupil looked the Prelate grey,
And in his eye the big tear gathered warm;
For he had watched the progress of decay,
And marked the tender graces of his form
Withering before the spoiler, day by day,
Even as the wild flower shrinks before the storm,
And well he deemed that he was marked for death,
That fairest rose on England's royal wreath.
And in his eye the big tear gathered warm;
For he had watched the progress of decay,
And marked the tender graces of his form
Withering before the spoiler, day by day,
Even as the wild flower shrinks before the storm,
And well he deemed that he was marked for death,
That fairest rose on England's royal wreath.
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In the full eye, still bright with wonted fire,
The Prelate gazed, and there he seemed to find
His inward musings were of grief and ire,
Troubled his mien, that brought to Cranmer's mind
The fiery glances of his restless sire;
And yet the look was chastened, sad but kind,
Even as the stream reflects the orb of day,
But burns not, blights not with its gentler ray.
The Prelate gazed, and there he seemed to find
His inward musings were of grief and ire,
Troubled his mien, that brought to Cranmer's mind
The fiery glances of his restless sire;
And yet the look was chastened, sad but kind,
Even as the stream reflects the orb of day,
But burns not, blights not with its gentler ray.
Slowly he laid aside the unheeded book,
And his lip heaved with many a gentle sigh,
As rose leaves tremble, by the soft wind shook,
And the tear glistened in his deep blue eye:
But when he marked that Prelate's anxious look,
And how he watched his inward misery,
Fondly that honoured hand he took, and prest,
And thus revealed the burden of his breast:
And his lip heaved with many a gentle sigh,
As rose leaves tremble, by the soft wind shook,
And the tear glistened in his deep blue eye:
But when he marked that Prelate's anxious look,
And how he watched his inward misery,
Fondly that honoured hand he took, and prest,
And thus revealed the burden of his breast:
“Cranmer, I have a wondrous tale to tell,
“Deem it not fantasy of o'erwrought feeling;
“When yestereve the night's grey curtain fell,
“I lay and heard the solemn vesper pealing
“From the far chapel, like a funeral knell;
“An awful sadness o'er my soul came stealing;
“And fearful visions all the livelong night,
“Came wandering before my fever'd sight.
“Deem it not fantasy of o'erwrought feeling;
“When yestereve the night's grey curtain fell,
“I lay and heard the solemn vesper pealing
“From the far chapel, like a funeral knell;
“An awful sadness o'er my soul came stealing;
“And fearful visions all the livelong night,
“Came wandering before my fever'd sight.
“Methought I stood alone in greenwood bower,
“It was a lonely, and a silent dell,
“From sultry radiance of the noontide hour
“The long green chestnut branches kept it well;
“'Mid the rich grass there blossom'd many a flower;
“In the still shade the wood-bird loved to dwell,
“And a bright stream, as heavenly ether blue,
“Laughed to the breeze, that o'er its waters flew.
“It was a lonely, and a silent dell,
“From sultry radiance of the noontide hour
“The long green chestnut branches kept it well;
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“In the still shade the wood-bird loved to dwell,
“And a bright stream, as heavenly ether blue,
“Laughed to the breeze, that o'er its waters flew.
“Even while I gazed upon the scene around,
“That soothed the soul, the while it charmed the eye,
“Amid the breathings of unearthly sound
“There came on angel pinion floating nigh,
“A heavenly form, that dropped into the ground
“One single seed, that tranquil fountain nigh,
“And then, on radiant wing far upward driven,
“His bright form mingled with the hues of heaven.
“That soothed the soul, the while it charmed the eye,
“Amid the breathings of unearthly sound
“There came on angel pinion floating nigh,
“A heavenly form, that dropped into the ground
“One single seed, that tranquil fountain nigh,
“And then, on radiant wing far upward driven,
“His bright form mingled with the hues of heaven.
“Methought I bore fresh water from the stream,
“And o'er that seed the cooling draught I shed;
“And first, like tender plant its growth did seem,
“And then, into a goodly tree it spread:
“And ever mounting toward the glad daybeam,
“At length it waved its branches o'er my head,
“And when they stirred, those branches green and fair,
“Unwonted fragrance filled the silent air.
“And o'er that seed the cooling draught I shed;
“And first, like tender plant its growth did seem,
“And then, into a goodly tree it spread:
“And ever mounting toward the glad daybeam,
“At length it waved its branches o'er my head,
“And when they stirred, those branches green and fair,
“Unwonted fragrance filled the silent air.
“On every waving bough it seemed to me,
“That golden fruit and snowy flow'rs did spring;
“Nor withered stem, nor broken might you see;
“Nor weed unsightly to the root did cling.
“But, seeking shelter from that goodly tree
“Came many a weary bird on drooping wing;
“And many a wild flower blossomed in the shade
“Of those green boughs, that seemed not formed to fade.
“That golden fruit and snowy flow'rs did spring;
“Nor withered stem, nor broken might you see;
“Nor weed unsightly to the root did cling.
“But, seeking shelter from that goodly tree
“Came many a weary bird on drooping wing;
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“Of those green boughs, that seemed not formed to fade.
“There came a sound, like to the trumpet's swell
“When hostile armies are on battle bent,
“And a strong whirlwind hurried down the dell;
“And, true as shaft from foeman's bow-string sent,
“Full on mine own beloved tree it fell;
“And many a strong bough from the stem it rent,
“And many a blossom bright was borne away,
“Or soiled, and withered, on the green earth lay.
“When hostile armies are on battle bent,
“And a strong whirlwind hurried down the dell;
“And, true as shaft from foeman's bow-string sent,
“Full on mine own beloved tree it fell;
“And many a strong bough from the stem it rent,
“And many a blossom bright was borne away,
“Or soiled, and withered, on the green earth lay.
“The bosom of the earth seemed rent in twain,
“And forth there sprang a mass of living fire,
“And every fair branch scattered on the plain
“Fed the red flame's unquenchable desire;
“Till nought of bud, or blossom, did remain,
“Save the cold ashes on their funeral pyre:
“Till from each pile of ashes lone and white,
“There rose a spirit form, I may not tell how bright.
“And forth there sprang a mass of living fire,
“And every fair branch scattered on the plain
“Fed the red flame's unquenchable desire;
“Till nought of bud, or blossom, did remain,
“Save the cold ashes on their funeral pyre:
“Till from each pile of ashes lone and white,
“There rose a spirit form, I may not tell how bright.
“Ethereal forms, not shaped in earthly mould,
“Were theirs, and angels' radiant wings they wore,
“Around their heads were crowns of shining gold,
“And one the face of gentle Ridley bore,
“Of Hooper one, and Latimer the old.
“And one beloved and honoured even more,
“For where the martyr fires did fiercest shine,
“Heavenward a spirit rose, and Cranmer it was thine!
“Were theirs, and angels' radiant wings they wore,
“Around their heads were crowns of shining gold,
“And one the face of gentle Ridley bore,
“Of Hooper one, and Latimer the old.
“And one beloved and honoured even more,
“For where the martyr fires did fiercest shine,
“Heavenward a spirit rose, and Cranmer it was thine!
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“And many another saintly form, and dear,
“Rose from those glowing piles, in vesture white;
“And glancing thro' the silent air, and clear,
“Shot the red flames in pyramids of light:
“And volumes vast of smoke came floating near,
“Hiding that fair tree from my anxious sight.
“So the dull mist, on Scotia's mountain peaks,
“Shrouds from the shepherd's eye the lonely home he seeks.
“Rose from those glowing piles, in vesture white;
“And glancing thro' the silent air, and clear,
“Shot the red flames in pyramids of light:
“And volumes vast of smoke came floating near,
“Hiding that fair tree from my anxious sight.
“So the dull mist, on Scotia's mountain peaks,
“Shrouds from the shepherd's eye the lonely home he seeks.
“There came a breath from Heaven, all cold and chill,
“As angels sighed above that ruthful scene;
“The heavy smoke that did the blue air fill,
“Fled far before it, down the valley green.
“And lo, that graceful tree was standing still,
“More beautiful than it before had been,
“With riper fruits, and brighter flowers, it stood,
“The rich boughs waving o'er the silent flood.
“As angels sighed above that ruthful scene;
“The heavy smoke that did the blue air fill,
“Fled far before it, down the valley green.
“And lo, that graceful tree was standing still,
“More beautiful than it before had been,
“With riper fruits, and brighter flowers, it stood,
“The rich boughs waving o'er the silent flood.
“So sleeps awhile in Autumn's changeful hour
“The calm blue sky; thick rises the dark cloud
“That bears from far the storm-gust and the shower,
“And o'er the fair scene casts its heavy shroud.
“So came the spoiler's desolating power,
“Stern voices rose, irreverent and loud,
“And hasty footsteps trod that tranquil glade,
“Gathering by that still stream, and round that olive shade.
“The calm blue sky; thick rises the dark cloud
“That bears from far the storm-gust and the shower,
“And o'er the fair scene casts its heavy shroud.
“So came the spoiler's desolating power,
“Stern voices rose, irreverent and loud,
“And hasty footsteps trod that tranquil glade,
“Gathering by that still stream, and round that olive shade.
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“Two mighty Chieftains did those spoilers lead,
“Sullen and cold their aspect, and their bearing,
“In their dark lowering glance the eye might read
“Many a foul tale of sacrilegious daring,
“Of ruthless fury, and of savage deed:
“Stern was their rigid brow, their eye unsparing,
“Each, ere he struck, did look to heaven and kneel;
“Fanatic wrath was one, and one mistaken zeal.
“Sullen and cold their aspect, and their bearing,
“In their dark lowering glance the eye might read
“Many a foul tale of sacrilegious daring,
“Of ruthless fury, and of savage deed:
“Stern was their rigid brow, their eye unsparing,
“Each, ere he struck, did look to heaven and kneel;
“Fanatic wrath was one, and one mistaken zeal.
“First, with destroying hand, they tore away
“Each snowy flower, and every silver bud;
“And then they stripped the green leaves from each spray,
“And scattered them upon the ruffled flood;
“Methought I had no power their wrath to stay,
“When I their savage fury had withstood,
“And then the warm tears gushed into mine eyes,
“And veiled the sight of that sad sacrifice.
“Each snowy flower, and every silver bud;
“And then they stripped the green leaves from each spray,
“And scattered them upon the ruffled flood;
“Methought I had no power their wrath to stay,
“When I their savage fury had withstood,
“And then the warm tears gushed into mine eyes,
“And veiled the sight of that sad sacrifice.
“Again, again, that other change was done,
“And bright, and beautiful, and all unfearing
“Its blossoms renovate, its spoilers gone,
“I saw my glorious olive tree appearing
“Fresh as the landscape, when the bright day sun
“From Nature's face the dark night mist is clearing,
“Like a young warrior risen from repose,
“Strengthened, refreshed, and perfected, it rose.
“And bright, and beautiful, and all unfearing
“Its blossoms renovate, its spoilers gone,
“I saw my glorious olive tree appearing
“Fresh as the landscape, when the bright day sun
“From Nature's face the dark night mist is clearing,
“Like a young warrior risen from repose,
“Strengthened, refreshed, and perfected, it rose.
“And all was calm, as noon of summer's day,
“When scarce the murmuring Zephyr dares to breathe
“Its tell-tale whisper to the trembling spray;
“The fair flowers hung in many a snowy wreath,
“Bowed down to earth the burdened branches lay,
“And Britain's guardian lion chained beneath,
“Watched o'er his cherished charge, with eye of fire,
“And mocked the foeman's rage, and dared the scorner's ire.
“When scarce the murmuring Zephyr dares to breathe
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“The fair flowers hung in many a snowy wreath,
“Bowed down to earth the burdened branches lay,
“And Britain's guardian lion chained beneath,
“Watched o'er his cherished charge, with eye of fire,
“And mocked the foeman's rage, and dared the scorner's ire.
“Long, long I looked, and still it was the same,
“No ruder blast upon the water played,
“No spoiler past, no desolator came,
“And grateful couched the lion in the shade,
“Or proudly raised him, when the voice of fame,
“Waking the echoes of that tranquil glade,
“With Britain's triumphs rife, came floating by;
“Or glory's distant call enkindled his red eye.
“No ruder blast upon the water played,
“No spoiler past, no desolator came,
“And grateful couched the lion in the shade,
“Or proudly raised him, when the voice of fame,
“Waking the echoes of that tranquil glade,
“With Britain's triumphs rife, came floating by;
“Or glory's distant call enkindled his red eye.
“It was a little cloud that rose alone,
“Casting a shade where nought but light had been;
“It was a low sound, like a mourner's tone,
“That marred the peaceful stillness of the scene:
“There was a sickly touch of yellow thrown
“Across its brilliant hue of evergreen;
“It was a stranger passed that tree around,
“Measured its stately girth, and told its boughs, and frown'd.
“Casting a shade where nought but light had been;
“It was a low sound, like a mourner's tone,
“That marred the peaceful stillness of the scene:
“There was a sickly touch of yellow thrown
“Across its brilliant hue of evergreen;
“It was a stranger passed that tree around,
“Measured its stately girth, and told its boughs, and frown'd.
“The name Reform was graven his brow above,
“Specious his aspect, white the robe he wore,
“Smooth was his speech, full swiftly did he move,
“And sharpest shears, and pruning hook he bore;
“And still, I marked, where'er his weapons drove,
“The brightest branches from their stem he tore;
“While bland Expediency, with traitor smile,
“Approved the reckless task, and aided him the while.
“Specious his aspect, white the robe he wore,
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“And sharpest shears, and pruning hook he bore;
“And still, I marked, where'er his weapons drove,
“The brightest branches from their stem he tore;
“While bland Expediency, with traitor smile,
“Approved the reckless task, and aided him the while.
“More open foe red-handed Bigotry
“Showed his rude bloodhounds from afar their prey;
“Fiercely they came, Misrule's dark progeny,
“Clamour and Faction, led the wild array;
“While ever smiled pale Infidelity
“In conscious triumph at the coming fray.
“I looked for him that should the tree have kept,
“For Britain's guardian lion—and he slept.
“Showed his rude bloodhounds from afar their prey;
“Fiercely they came, Misrule's dark progeny,
“Clamour and Faction, led the wild array;
“While ever smiled pale Infidelity
“In conscious triumph at the coming fray.
“I looked for him that should the tree have kept,
“For Britain's guardian lion—and he slept.
“Proud Rome sat near, upon her fallen throne,
“And as she watched, before her prescient eye
“Rose scenes of priestly triumph all her own;
“Visions of crosiered Abbots passed her by,
“Of kingly sceptres at her altar thrown,
“And still she pointed to those branches high,
“And still she sought their fall, for well she knew
“She might not enter where that olive grew.
“And as she watched, before her prescient eye
“Rose scenes of priestly triumph all her own;
“Visions of crosiered Abbots passed her by,
“Of kingly sceptres at her altar thrown,
“And still she pointed to those branches high,
“And still she sought their fall, for well she knew
“She might not enter where that olive grew.
“Then all confused before my aching vision
“Strange forms on ebon wing swept o'er the earth,
“Not angels' pinions, radiant and Elysian,
“But fiend-like spirits of Tartarean birth;
“And ever rose the voice of their derision
“In tones of triumph, mockery, and mirth.
“‘Britain,’ they said, ‘thy day of strength is o'er
“‘Thy Church is falling, thou'rt a Queen no more.’”
“Strange forms on ebon wing swept o'er the earth,
“Not angels' pinions, radiant and Elysian,
“But fiend-like spirits of Tartarean birth;
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“In tones of triumph, mockery, and mirth.
“‘Britain,’ they said, ‘thy day of strength is o'er
“‘Thy Church is falling, thou'rt a Queen no more.’”
Here paused the Prince, and on the Prelate's arm
Wistful he laid his small white wasted hand:
“Oh, have I not good cause for great alarm,
“The fairest olive in my fertile land
“Which, we had hoped, unknowing scath or harm,
“Should proudly, firmly, to all ages stand,
“For which our hearts have yearned, our lips have prayed;
“Oh, is my Church to fall, and is there none to aid?”
Wistful he laid his small white wasted hand:
“Oh, have I not good cause for great alarm,
“The fairest olive in my fertile land
“Which, we had hoped, unknowing scath or harm,
“Should proudly, firmly, to all ages stand,
“For which our hearts have yearned, our lips have prayed;
“Oh, is my Church to fall, and is there none to aid?”
“Prince,” said the Prelate, “seest thou yon slight bark
Moored by the shore, upon the Thames' blue tide,
The waters close around it, deep and dark,
The current swiftly rolls, the stream is wide,
And they who pass thereby and careless mark
How frail the skiff, how fast the billows glide,
Might deem each wave of force to bear away
And break the fragile shell, or whelm it in the spray.
Moored by the shore, upon the Thames' blue tide,
The waters close around it, deep and dark,
The current swiftly rolls, the stream is wide,
And they who pass thereby and careless mark
How frail the skiff, how fast the billows glide,
Might deem each wave of force to bear away
And break the fragile shell, or whelm it in the spray.
“And yet it hath sure anchorage, below
In the blue depth where never eye has sought;
And tho' the sullen billows madly flow
Crested with angry foam, with ruin fraught,
Vainly they come; unheeded onward go;
That anchor'd bark is firm, it fears not aught,
But ever doth it ride triumphantly,
And stems the waves, however rude they be.
In the blue depth where never eye has sought;
And tho' the sullen billows madly flow
Crested with angry foam, with ruin fraught,
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That anchor'd bark is firm, it fears not aught,
But ever doth it ride triumphantly,
And stems the waves, however rude they be.
“So to man's faithless ken it doth appear
The Church thou lov'st is but as shallop frail,
And when the tide of earthly wrath or fear
Doth round her foam, they deem it shall prevail,
And that her hour of ruin draweth near;
Yet she abideth firm; she shall not fail;
She hath an anchor too, man may not see,
Thy God will guard His Church, His favoured olive tree.”
The Church thou lov'st is but as shallop frail,
And when the tide of earthly wrath or fear
Doth round her foam, they deem it shall prevail,
And that her hour of ruin draweth near;
Yet she abideth firm; she shall not fail;
She hath an anchor too, man may not see,
Thy God will guard His Church, His favoured olive tree.”
| Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander | |