 | The Troubadour and Other Poems |  |
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THE TROUBADOUR
It was the Christmas of the year;The wind blew chill, the night was drear;
And round the strong walls of the keep
The silent snow fell white and deep.
But well the Baron's board was spread,
Of winter ways he had no dread.
Good meat, good wine, good company—
What more could heart desire? Yet he
Sat frowning by the yule-log's flame,
That lit the cheek of squire and dame.
And too, his lady, pouting, pressed
Against the window, facing west,
As though in vain she sought to see
Some guest belated on the lee.
‘And have we never tale nor song
To break the hours lest they prove long?’
The Baron cried. ‘Come, Harper, rise,
Lest heavy grow these ladies' eyes,
And if they close, 'twere night indeed
Bereft of stars. Throw thou with speed
From thy sweet harp its magic noose
To thrall them with. Some song they choose.’
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Of nought save love's sweet happening.
But loud each knight did smiling chide,
‘Let him but tell of war,’ they cried.
The Baron laughed. ‘Lest this dispute
Should keep the precious music mute,
Come sing the passion of the soul,
And thus content each rantipole.
For here is love and war, I wot,
Good Harper, take thou for thy plot
A jealous heart. And one that fain
Would ease its most impious pain.’
He looked to where his lady sighed
Against the western window wide.
‘Tell thou some tale so full of fear
The foolish heart shall quake to hear,
Shall stay on its uncertain path
Before thy song of tears and wrath,
And turn before it be too late,
To its aggrieved and jealous mate.’
Thus did the Baron say and pause
Before the murmur of applause.
The minstrel to his knee did take
His harp in hand, some tune to wake,
And held it to his bosom pressed,
As though a gentle head did rest
Beside his heart. Into whose ear
He sung this song of wrath and fear,
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The love and passion he awoke.
And silence held them one and all
At Christmas in the Baron's hall.
The Harper's Story
My pretty ladies, mid this Christmas cheer,Loth though I am to wake a single tear
From thy soft bosoms, yet I claim a sigh
For hapless love and frenzied jealousy.
And if, beneath the favour of thy smile,
I dare reprove some restless love, whose guile
Had bid him enter to this garden close
Of speedwell eyes, and every cheek a rose,
To snatch from some sweet bloom a wanton hour.
Ah, chide me not, but hide, O hapless flower,
Thy honied head, and listen to my lay
Of Margarida, who on luckless day
Had found such love, and ill-advised desire
That all her beauteous self did soon expire,—
As some poor rose, chilled by too rough a wind,
Leaves but a scattered memory behind.
So, though we grieve the perfect bloom decays,
We can admire no more, nor sing the praise
Of her fair being.—So Margarida cast
Her prudence to the teeth of passion's blast,
And scattered were her virtues by its breath.
She died dishonoured of a sinful death.
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For Margarida scorn, and her downfall,
Let him but list to all this tangled tale
Of misplaced love. So let his cheek grow pale.
If in his heart he plays the troubadour,
As Guillem de Cabestaing, in days of yore,
Who loved unwisely Count Rossillon's bride,
And for this wanton love most sorely died.
And if my grievous tale doth hold some ear,
And strike some heart that hath a jealous fear
That restless love had sought his garden close,
To steal the treasure of his sweetest rose,
Let him but pause. For know where love doth be,
That evil snake, his jaundiced jealousy,
Doth linger too. So bitter is its sting,
That to love's self it can destruction bring.
So did it coil about Rossillon's heart,
Till pity in despair did swift depart,
And his cold breast sweet mercy did forsake.
Then two were slain to feed the horrid snake.
Nor did love's tears or weeping aught avail,
As you shall hear who listen to my tale.
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The Pitiful Tragedy of Margarida and the Troubadour
Sweet Margarida, dreaming in her bower
Through lonely days, lamented each long hour
That thrust her forth from her dream paradise
Of youthful years, that knew but summer skies.
‘Alack!’ quoth she, ‘is love then but a theme
For maiden lips, and constancy a dream?
Here lone I sit who once Rossillon wooed.
Me, like some speeding doe, he fierce pursued.
And as swift hawks his wingèd words so came
That all my young reluctance soon was slain
And we were wed. No longer cheek to cheek,
Or heart to heart, he strives to make me speak
Those words of love that once so precious were.
He dreams me his, and so he hath no care.
Through lonely days, lamented each long hour
That thrust her forth from her dream paradise
Of youthful years, that knew but summer skies.
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For maiden lips, and constancy a dream?
Here lone I sit who once Rossillon wooed.
Me, like some speeding doe, he fierce pursued.
And as swift hawks his wingèd words so came
That all my young reluctance soon was slain
And we were wed. No longer cheek to cheek,
Or heart to heart, he strives to make me speak
Those words of love that once so precious were.
He dreams me his, and so he hath no care.
Now goes he to the chase with hawk and hound,
To slay some beast that had not such a wound
As I have here.’ On Margarida's breast
Her slender palm with outspread fingers pressed.
To slay some beast that had not such a wound
As I have here.’ On Margarida's breast
Her slender palm with outspread fingers pressed.
Then rapped her shoe upon the mossy ground,
The shoe that once with its silk latchets bound,
Full oft some heart so seeking thus to die,
Upon her pretty path was glad to lie.
The shoe that once with its silk latchets bound,
Full oft some heart so seeking thus to die,
Upon her pretty path was glad to lie.
She raised her hand,—oft had some knight in state
Rode for its pleasure to her father's gate—
There neath her tears hung loose her marriage ring.
She felt, once more, her lord's rough fingers cling
In their fierce joy to press the bauble there
That pledged her his. And sudden came aware
Of watching eyes. She checked the soothing tear
And bade th' intruding stranger draw him near.
Sharp on her tongue scorn's bitter arrows pressed
To pierce this rude intruder's curious breast.
Rode for its pleasure to her father's gate—
There neath her tears hung loose her marriage ring.
She felt, once more, her lord's rough fingers cling
In their fierce joy to press the bauble there
That pledged her his. And sudden came aware
Of watching eyes. She checked the soothing tear
And bade th' intruding stranger draw him near.
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To pierce this rude intruder's curious breast.
But when she saw no laughter in that eye,
And his breast heave with many a piteous sigh
For her sad plight, her tears broke forth anew,
For here was one who guessed her sorrow too.
And since for her a cheek so pale he bore,
She felt her wrongs more bitter than before.
So wept she for herself, and he for her,
Till in that bower of rose and lavender,
A little storm did grow in sudden way,
With gentle moans, ‘Ah me,’ and ‘Well-a-day.’
Their windy grief blew forth in gusty sighs,
And bitter tears rained from their downcast eyes.
And his breast heave with many a piteous sigh
For her sad plight, her tears broke forth anew,
For here was one who guessed her sorrow too.
And since for her a cheek so pale he bore,
She felt her wrongs more bitter than before.
So wept she for herself, and he for her,
Till in that bower of rose and lavender,
A little storm did grow in sudden way,
With gentle moans, ‘Ah me,’ and ‘Well-a-day.’
Their windy grief blew forth in gusty sighs,
And bitter tears rained from their downcast eyes.
Now, hear, ye gallants, who this love deride,
And find a moral ere you pause to chide.
Or if no lesson from this tale you seek,
Let Margarida's tragic story speak
Of one who left his treasure house unbarred,
And its most precious gem without a guard.
And find a moral ere you pause to chide.
Or if no lesson from this tale you seek,
Let Margarida's tragic story speak
Of one who left his treasure house unbarred,
And its most precious gem without a guard.
Oh, hearken then, to have is not to hold,
As ye will learn who hear my tale unfold.
As ye will learn who hear my tale unfold.
Now, their strong sighing woke from his repose
A sleeping cupid cradled in a rose.
The wicked boy, attracted by their sighs,
Stole from his covert to attain his prize.
And while Rossillon hunted on the hill,
Within his home Dan Cupid worked his will.
That tender home a woman's faithful heart,
Whose chainèd portals here were burst apart.
Its sacred chambers he did penetrate,
Where once he went before in holy state.
‘Alack,’ quoth he, ‘thieves entered me before,
A husband's love were lock upon this door.
But since 'tis wide, and hath no guardian here,
Grief comes unchidden, and the constant tear,
I do not love this sorrow in my place,
And with my bow I shall the shade efface.
Sweet mother, speed my arrow on its quest,
To pierce this chaste and most neglected breast;
So Margarida's heart doth not pursue
Her careless lord, while others stay to woo.’
Swift to its mark the reckless arrow sped;
More wild the tears the wounded mortals shed.
But Margarida, as a woman will,
Though tempest tossed, did hold possession still
Of all her senses, so that while she seemed
Blind in her grief, she also sat and dreamed
Of this strange youth, his modesty, his grace,
The tender beauty of his gentle face.
In truth she loved, and loving 'gan to find
This youth's shy looks more pleasing to her mind
Than were Rossillon's bold and savage ways.
And with her lord's downfall there came the praise
Of this sad boy, who was so passing fair.
So will the absent lover ill compare
With him, who by his lady's side will bide
To swear no joy could tempt him from her side.
A sleeping cupid cradled in a rose.
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Stole from his covert to attain his prize.
And while Rossillon hunted on the hill,
Within his home Dan Cupid worked his will.
That tender home a woman's faithful heart,
Whose chainèd portals here were burst apart.
Its sacred chambers he did penetrate,
Where once he went before in holy state.
‘Alack,’ quoth he, ‘thieves entered me before,
A husband's love were lock upon this door.
But since 'tis wide, and hath no guardian here,
Grief comes unchidden, and the constant tear,
I do not love this sorrow in my place,
And with my bow I shall the shade efface.
Sweet mother, speed my arrow on its quest,
To pierce this chaste and most neglected breast;
So Margarida's heart doth not pursue
Her careless lord, while others stay to woo.’
Swift to its mark the reckless arrow sped;
More wild the tears the wounded mortals shed.
But Margarida, as a woman will,
Though tempest tossed, did hold possession still
Of all her senses, so that while she seemed
Blind in her grief, she also sat and dreamed
Of this strange youth, his modesty, his grace,
The tender beauty of his gentle face.
In truth she loved, and loving 'gan to find
This youth's shy looks more pleasing to her mind
Than were Rossillon's bold and savage ways.
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Of this sad boy, who was so passing fair.
So will the absent lover ill compare
With him, who by his lady's side will bide
To swear no joy could tempt him from her side.
While Margarida wept with sore heart-break,
The pitying stranger stood afraid to speak,
Till Cupid grew impatient at the sight,
And set their foolish tremors all to flight.
Amid the leaves he fluted like some bird
Who seeks his mate and sings, all passion stirred.
Then did the youth its tender message know,
And from his heart let its sweet rapture flow.
All that he dare not say he told in song,
Nor did his lady find the tale too long.
And when he ceased, she bade him draw anear,
Boldly to speak, and put aside his fear.
The pitying stranger stood afraid to speak,
Till Cupid grew impatient at the sight,
And set their foolish tremors all to flight.
Amid the leaves he fluted like some bird
Who seeks his mate and sings, all passion stirred.
Then did the youth its tender message know,
And from his heart let its sweet rapture flow.
All that he dare not say he told in song,
Nor did his lady find the tale too long.
And when he ceased, she bade him draw anear,
Boldly to speak, and put aside his fear.
‘Say what thou wilt, O voice of golden thrill,
To her whose tears are handmaid to thy will.’
To her whose tears are handmaid to thy will.’
‘O gracious one,’ the kneeling youth replied—
Then spoke his heart, nor would it be denied—
‘Sweet eyes, sweet lips, sweet lady all so sweet,
Behold thy slave in torment at thy feet.
He must not love, yet loves thee all too well.
Here let him die who dares this tale to tell.
Oh, bring those tears, sweet tears that bade him spake,
To his lone grave some recompense to make
For all he lost in losing thy fair face.
Nor could high Heav'n this happiness replace.’
Then spoke his heart, nor would it be denied—
‘Sweet eyes, sweet lips, sweet lady all so sweet,
Behold thy slave in torment at thy feet.
He must not love, yet loves thee all too well.
Here let him die who dares this tale to tell.
Oh, bring those tears, sweet tears that bade him spake,
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For all he lost in losing thy fair face.
Nor could high Heav'n this happiness replace.’
Thus having said, the youth in silence knelt,
His brow on hand, awaiting banishment.
Then came her voice sweet as an altar bell,
‘I, too, could love’—a moment's stillness fell—
‘So sweet a song. Hast thou then tuned this tale
From some bright lark or some sweet nightingale?’
His brow on hand, awaiting banishment.
Then came her voice sweet as an altar bell,
‘I, too, could love’—a moment's stillness fell—
‘So sweet a song. Hast thou then tuned this tale
From some bright lark or some sweet nightingale?’
‘Nay, lady,’ said the youth, ‘my master dear
Is love himself, who tuned to please thine ear
My very heart, so that its chords will break
Should my bold words thy righteous anger wake.’
Is love himself, who tuned to please thine ear
My very heart, so that its chords will break
Should my bold words thy righteous anger wake.’
Then down he fell, low at her feet again,
As might her spaniel meriting disdain.
But her soft voice spoke comfort, saying slow,
‘Thy words, like little bees that singing go
From some fair flower safe to the distant hive,
Bear honey to my heart, and sweet arrive
To fill the empty place, by hope forgot.
Rise, then, dear youth, and fear remember not.
Sing, golden voice that doth my heart content,
And change this world of tears to merriment.’
As might her spaniel meriting disdain.
But her soft voice spoke comfort, saying slow,
‘Thy words, like little bees that singing go
From some fair flower safe to the distant hive,
Bear honey to my heart, and sweet arrive
To fill the empty place, by hope forgot.
Rise, then, dear youth, and fear remember not.
Sing, golden voice that doth my heart content,
And change this world of tears to merriment.’
‘Here at thy feet,’ the kneeling youth replied,
‘I consecrate my song, so far and wide.
It sings thy praise, O peerless one and dear,
That all for love of thee must pause and hear.
Heart of my song must be thy secret name.
I shall be great, who here so lowly came,
The humble servant at Rossillon's call:
Once did I stand to tend him in the hall,
To bear his weapons, and to hold his steed,
Robe him for state. Oh, slave were I indeed.
Thou raiseth me, so I supreme attained
Love's very throne, where once Rossillon reigned.’
‘I consecrate my song, so far and wide.
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That all for love of thee must pause and hear.
Heart of my song must be thy secret name.
I shall be great, who here so lowly came,
The humble servant at Rossillon's call:
Once did I stand to tend him in the hall,
To bear his weapons, and to hold his steed,
Robe him for state. Oh, slave were I indeed.
Thou raiseth me, so I supreme attained
Love's very throne, where once Rossillon reigned.’
Thus did they twitter, till from their day doze
The shadow children of the night arose,
Swift to elude her call they silent played,
And through the garden arbours peeping strayed.
Here 'mongst the leaves of dainty columbine
A little shadow crept to close entwine
With the long cypress shade. There on the grass,
From some rose-wreathed chain, her sisters pass,
Hand linked in hand, all tremulous to dance,
Till the nocturnal hours, in swift advance,
Rebuke their playing and their aid invite
To spread the spangled canopy of night.
The shadow children of the night arose,
Swift to elude her call they silent played,
And through the garden arbours peeping strayed.
Here 'mongst the leaves of dainty columbine
A little shadow crept to close entwine
With the long cypress shade. There on the grass,
From some rose-wreathed chain, her sisters pass,
Hand linked in hand, all tremulous to dance,
Till the nocturnal hours, in swift advance,
Rebuke their playing and their aid invite
To spread the spangled canopy of night.
While in the bower the lovers whispered still,
A bugle sounded from some distant hill.
And Margarida, with a sudden cry,
Sprang to her feet, ‘Oh, hush, my lord is nigh.
Quick, get thee gone.’ Her cheek grew cold and pale,
That had been happy rose with love's sweet tale.
A bugle sounded from some distant hill.
And Margarida, with a sudden cry,
Sprang to her feet, ‘Oh, hush, my lord is nigh.
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That had been happy rose with love's sweet tale.
‘Must we then part?’ Fear came on Guillem's brow.
‘O Margarida, hast thou heard enough
Of my heart's story? 'Tis first love and young,
Has it then spoken with a faltering tongue?’
Then Margarida raised and softly pressed
His clinging hand upon her panting breast,
With ‘Come again, sweet love, for I have heard
But half thy tale. So be the joy deferred
Of hearing all, in some not distant hour
Again to meet in this most lovely bower.’
So did she go in haste to meet her lord.
But Guillem stayed to kiss the velvet sward,
Where her small feet had passed in their swift flight.
‘O Margarida, hast thou heard enough
Of my heart's story? 'Tis first love and young,
Has it then spoken with a faltering tongue?’
Then Margarida raised and softly pressed
His clinging hand upon her panting breast,
With ‘Come again, sweet love, for I have heard
But half thy tale. So be the joy deferred
Of hearing all, in some not distant hour
Again to meet in this most lovely bower.’
So did she go in haste to meet her lord.
But Guillem stayed to kiss the velvet sward,
Where her small feet had passed in their swift flight.
And when, within the banquet-hall that night,
He stood behind Rossillon's chair, to fill
His cup with wine, he felt his pulses thrill
With tender joy, as though he were betroth
In secret now, so that his master's wrath,
Ta'en from the hunting-field of teasing spear,
Of lagging steed, and swift out-racing deer,
Thrust for his hurt on love's safe shield in vain;
Save Margarida, none could cause him pain.
And Margarida, never did there seem
So sweet a thing to make a poet's dream.
Her shining hair, her rich embroidered dress,
Made him a picture of fair loveliness.
‘What likened she,’ besought the love-sick boy,
‘A golden vessel overful of joy,
A cagèd bird that now had learned to sing,
A drooping flower uplifted by the spring?
Ah, no, too sweet, and all beyond compare,
She Margarida was, and had no share
In earthly beauty, but a thing apart,
The dream-ideal of a poet's heart.’
He stood behind Rossillon's chair, to fill
His cup with wine, he felt his pulses thrill
With tender joy, as though he were betroth
In secret now, so that his master's wrath,
Ta'en from the hunting-field of teasing spear,
Of lagging steed, and swift out-racing deer,
Thrust for his hurt on love's safe shield in vain;
Save Margarida, none could cause him pain.
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So sweet a thing to make a poet's dream.
Her shining hair, her rich embroidered dress,
Made him a picture of fair loveliness.
‘What likened she,’ besought the love-sick boy,
‘A golden vessel overful of joy,
A cagèd bird that now had learned to sing,
A drooping flower uplifted by the spring?
Ah, no, too sweet, and all beyond compare,
She Margarida was, and had no share
In earthly beauty, but a thing apart,
The dream-ideal of a poet's heart.’
Now, had Rossillon's thoughts but travelled home,
Which yet about the distant deer did roam,
To find excuse that still the beast had breath,
Which Count Rossillon's spear had pledged to death,
He else had seen his lady's eyes too bright
For his home-coming, and their secret light
Flash by him till it found a resting-place,
And fell abashed from Guillem's glowing face.
Her cheek too red, beneath his careless kiss,
Her laugh too quick, and all her wifely bliss
Too new, too sudden, from their wedded years,
That else were spent in pettiness and tears.
And he had seen the tender face, so young,
Pale from its bloom; and heard the rippling tongue
To faltering silence go, soon, when he bade
The youth retire. Had his fierce gaze once strayed
To Margarida's eyes, he sure had seen
How quenched the glow where once the flame had been,
As though young Guillem, in his passing, stole
The lamp that lit the windows of her soul.
But Count Rossillon, weary from the day,
Beside his hearth half slumbering soon lay,
And from his chair, with idle hand caressed
The slender hound, now with his fancy blessed;
And Margarida moved her robe aside,
That stayed the beast from favour her denied.
Which yet about the distant deer did roam,
To find excuse that still the beast had breath,
Which Count Rossillon's spear had pledged to death,
He else had seen his lady's eyes too bright
For his home-coming, and their secret light
Flash by him till it found a resting-place,
And fell abashed from Guillem's glowing face.
Her cheek too red, beneath his careless kiss,
Her laugh too quick, and all her wifely bliss
Too new, too sudden, from their wedded years,
That else were spent in pettiness and tears.
And he had seen the tender face, so young,
Pale from its bloom; and heard the rippling tongue
To faltering silence go, soon, when he bade
The youth retire. Had his fierce gaze once strayed
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How quenched the glow where once the flame had been,
As though young Guillem, in his passing, stole
The lamp that lit the windows of her soul.
But Count Rossillon, weary from the day,
Beside his hearth half slumbering soon lay,
And from his chair, with idle hand caressed
The slender hound, now with his fancy blessed;
And Margarida moved her robe aside,
That stayed the beast from favour her denied.
And thus thrust forth she lingered all forlorn
Till in the night, through open casement borne,
A lovely song came sighing on the air.
Pale Margarida trembled in her chair.
She thought, ‘Love wakes within his cradling rose,
And with his breath a tender message blows
To one held dear.’ Rossillon's heavy eyes
Lit for a moment to a pleased surprise.
‘Who sings so sweet?’ and Margarida said,
‘'Tis but young Guillem.’ Then she drooped her head,
Lest he should see the flame upon her cheek.
But Count Rossillon did but slumber seek,
And ere she answered slept within his place.
Lone Margarida watched his sleeping face.
‘O eyes,’ she said, ‘that find in me no joy,
Chill lips that speak my dreams to e'er destroy,
Cold heart wherein I wake no passion beat,
Deaf ears that find my coming never sweet,
Strong hands that hold my pulsing body bound
To share their chance caresses with the hound,
Sleep on, sleep on,’ and then she softly wept,
Till to her ears the gentle singing crept.
Till in the night, through open casement borne,
A lovely song came sighing on the air.
Pale Margarida trembled in her chair.
She thought, ‘Love wakes within his cradling rose,
And with his breath a tender message blows
To one held dear.’ Rossillon's heavy eyes
Lit for a moment to a pleased surprise.
‘Who sings so sweet?’ and Margarida said,
‘'Tis but young Guillem.’ Then she drooped her head,
Lest he should see the flame upon her cheek.
But Count Rossillon did but slumber seek,
And ere she answered slept within his place.
Lone Margarida watched his sleeping face.
‘O eyes,’ she said, ‘that find in me no joy,
Chill lips that speak my dreams to e'er destroy,
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Deaf ears that find my coming never sweet,
Strong hands that hold my pulsing body bound
To share their chance caresses with the hound,
Sleep on, sleep on,’ and then she softly wept,
Till to her ears the gentle singing crept.
‘O Margarida, sweet beyond compare,
My eyes close not because they found thee fair,
My ears attuned but for thy step alone,
My poor heart slain, that calls thee not its own.
Come, Margarida,’ then the whisper left
A sigh of one whose hope was all bereft.
Alack! who would not two such loves contrast,
Quick Margarida through the window passed,
While Count Rossillon in his sleep caressed
The hound's sleek head that on his knee did rest.
My eyes close not because they found thee fair,
My ears attuned but for thy step alone,
My poor heart slain, that calls thee not its own.
Come, Margarida,’ then the whisper left
A sigh of one whose hope was all bereft.
Alack! who would not two such loves contrast,
Quick Margarida through the window passed,
While Count Rossillon in his sleep caressed
The hound's sleek head that on his knee did rest.
II
The Cruel End of the Lovers' Tale
How quick breeds scandal. In some danksome place
She builds her nest of shame and sore disgrace,
There rears her brood, swift flying far and wide
For all her loathsome nestling to provide,
And whispered words from off some careless tongue
She plucks to bear to her unfeathered young.
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Deep from the dust she snatches in her greed.
Soon from their home, hate, jealousy, despair,
Fly forth, within their turn to nest, and bear
Their evil brood of torture, crime, and death,
To blight the heart that meets their noisome breath.
What heard Rossillon, riding through the wood,
Of this dark bird that fed her horrid brood
Close on his path; that made him turn and stay
His restless steed upon young Guillem's way.
‘How now, fond youth, my Guillem, all so pale,
Lone dost thou sigh as doth the nightingale;
Who, while all gentle birds have stayed their flight,
Still cries his passion to the silent night.
'Tis sure love's way that makes a man to go
A wanderer when nocturnal breezes blow.
Nor in lone branches builds the bird of fame,
He seeks the crowd, who wooes immortal name.
Not on the road where valour boldly rides,
Nor on the hill where glory safe abides,
Do thy feet press, but on the silent path
Within the secret wood, that nature hath
Made for her children her green veiling through,
For those who fly, and those who would pursue.
Here, in this place where only those abide
Who creep in fear, or in their terror hide,
Or pass soft-footed to some wanton play,
Or mid the leaves do wage a gory fray,
What doth thou, then, in this remote recess,
Who should be captor of sweet loveliness?
Why let thy sighs all unrequited go,
Since gentle ears were vanquished by their woe?
Where hides thy love, this most elusive she?
Come, speak, poor bondsman to love's cruelty.’
Of this dark bird that fed her horrid brood
Close on his path; that made him turn and stay
His restless steed upon young Guillem's way.
‘How now, fond youth, my Guillem, all so pale,
Lone dost thou sigh as doth the nightingale;
Who, while all gentle birds have stayed their flight,
Still cries his passion to the silent night.
'Tis sure love's way that makes a man to go
A wanderer when nocturnal breezes blow.
Nor in lone branches builds the bird of fame,
He seeks the crowd, who wooes immortal name.
Not on the road where valour boldly rides,
Nor on the hill where glory safe abides,
Do thy feet press, but on the silent path
Within the secret wood, that nature hath
Made for her children her green veiling through,
For those who fly, and those who would pursue.
Here, in this place where only those abide
Who creep in fear, or in their terror hide,
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Or mid the leaves do wage a gory fray,
What doth thou, then, in this remote recess,
Who should be captor of sweet loveliness?
Why let thy sighs all unrequited go,
Since gentle ears were vanquished by their woe?
Where hides thy love, this most elusive she?
Come, speak, poor bondsman to love's cruelty.’
Then Guillem spoke, and in his sore distress
Forgot all save his heart's lone barrenness.
‘As doth each bird, wise with the mating spring,
I well do love, and therefore must I sing.
As sighs the nightingale, with breast to thorn,
In the lone night for joys for e'er unborn.
Lest guilt should claim a hideous motherhood.
So I despair, since none can bring me good.’
Forgot all save his heart's lone barrenness.
‘As doth each bird, wise with the mating spring,
I well do love, and therefore must I sing.
As sighs the nightingale, with breast to thorn,
In the lone night for joys for e'er unborn.
Lest guilt should claim a hideous motherhood.
So I despair, since none can bring me good.’
Still Count Rossillon with his captive plays,
Fixed on his face a fierce suspicious gaze.
‘How now, pale scholar at love's school,’ he cries.
‘But name thy fair, for thee I'll win the prize.’
Half from its sheath his dagger sharp he drew,
When white and wan the cheek of Guillem grew.
‘Oh, list, my lord,’ the youth all falt'ring said,
‘To my despair, and then in pity shed
My poor heart's blood, lest it in grief expire
For ill-advisèd love and fond desire.
Look kindly, then, O gentle lord, on one
Who hath grown blind in worshipping the sun,
And in his darkness, groping on his way,
Lost his sure path, and for a while did stray.’
Fixed on his face a fierce suspicious gaze.
‘How now, pale scholar at love's school,’ he cries.
‘But name thy fair, for thee I'll win the prize.’
Half from its sheath his dagger sharp he drew,
When white and wan the cheek of Guillem grew.
‘Oh, list, my lord,’ the youth all falt'ring said,
‘To my despair, and then in pity shed
My poor heart's blood, lest it in grief expire
For ill-advisèd love and fond desire.
Look kindly, then, O gentle lord, on one
17
And in his darkness, groping on his way,
Lost his sure path, and for a while did stray.’
Then Guillem paused, for in Rossillon's eyes
He saw the crimson flame of murder rise,
And was afraid, in sooth, to tell his tale.
No true repentance here would aught avail,
But bitter jealousy with poisoned dart
Would pierce his own and Margarida's heart.
Therefore he stayed the valour of his tongue,
And from his lips in honied accents sung
A tale of love that was but half his own,
Of some sweet lady who had made him moan.
He saw the crimson flame of murder rise,
And was afraid, in sooth, to tell his tale.
No true repentance here would aught avail,
But bitter jealousy with poisoned dart
Would pierce his own and Margarida's heart.
Therefore he stayed the valour of his tongue,
And from his lips in honied accents sung
A tale of love that was but half his own,
Of some sweet lady who had made him moan.
‘When God created Eden, He inclined
To wish some fairer thought for Heav'n designed,
Than beast, or bird, or flower, or branching tree,
To hold the soul that He desired to be.
So God made man, and with him not content,
To mould some fairer image o'er him bent.
He took the red of rose, the lily's white,
The beech-nut's brown, and the soft blue of night,
And all the perfumed breath of paradise,
To make a creature fair to meet His eyes.
And so came woman, who, for her disgrace
Fell from the glory of that sacred place.
Yet oft, though forth this woman went accurst,
A mould is made as lovely as the first
That in God's garden to perfection came.
And one sweet shape hath Margarida's name,
And Agnes one, her sister passing fair;
Her do I love, and, with a lover's fear,
Fly from her side, when fain I would be near.’
To wish some fairer thought for Heav'n designed,
Than beast, or bird, or flower, or branching tree,
To hold the soul that He desired to be.
So God made man, and with him not content,
To mould some fairer image o'er him bent.
He took the red of rose, the lily's white,
The beech-nut's brown, and the soft blue of night,
And all the perfumed breath of paradise,
To make a creature fair to meet His eyes.
And so came woman, who, for her disgrace
Fell from the glory of that sacred place.
Yet oft, though forth this woman went accurst,
A mould is made as lovely as the first
18
And one sweet shape hath Margarida's name,
And Agnes one, her sister passing fair;
Her do I love, and, with a lover's fear,
Fly from her side, when fain I would be near.’
‘If this be true,’ the fierce Rossillon said,
‘That this shy maid doth shun the marriage-bed,
I'll speak her fair; for to thee be the blame,
'Tis the bold hunter spears the swiftest game.
Out on thee, fool, who, pleading for a kiss,
Would urge the modest maid request the bliss,
And thus offend her for her virtue's sake—
Less than she longed to give he feared to take.
Then, Guillem, rise, and lift thy pallid cheek
From dew-wet grass some sweeter rest to seek
On thy love's breast. Come, lest in fond desire
She die at home, as thou wouldst here expire.’
‘That this shy maid doth shun the marriage-bed,
I'll speak her fair; for to thee be the blame,
'Tis the bold hunter spears the swiftest game.
Out on thee, fool, who, pleading for a kiss,
Would urge the modest maid request the bliss,
And thus offend her for her virtue's sake—
Less than she longed to give he feared to take.
Then, Guillem, rise, and lift thy pallid cheek
From dew-wet grass some sweeter rest to seek
On thy love's breast. Come, lest in fond desire
She die at home, as thou wouldst here expire.’
Loud in the woods Rossillon's laughter rung,
And echoed long the purple shades among.
But Guillem went beside him, wan with fear
And hopes, all fugitive as he drew near
The castle where sweet Agnes now did dwell.
Loud at their feet the clanging drawbridge fell
As they passed through, and up the winding stair.
Lone in her chamber found young Agnes there,
With two white doves she played, and bid them fly
From her soft shoulder as came Guillem nigh,
And fierce Rossillon laughing in his beard.
Then drew she back of this strange pair afeard.
And echoed long the purple shades among.
But Guillem went beside him, wan with fear
And hopes, all fugitive as he drew near
The castle where sweet Agnes now did dwell.
Loud at their feet the clanging drawbridge fell
As they passed through, and up the winding stair.
Lone in her chamber found young Agnes there,
With two white doves she played, and bid them fly
From her soft shoulder as came Guillem nigh,
19
Then drew she back of this strange pair afeard.
‘And hast thou brought some evil tidings here,
O Count Rossillon, of my sister dear?
Red is thy cheek, as Guillem's is too white.
Speak, else my heart must perish of its fright.’
‘Nay,’ laughed Rossillon, ‘'tis not grief who flies
To greet thee now, but love himself who cries
“Sweet, give me peace and respite after pain,
Say dost thou love, or must I pine in vain?”
This hapless lover did I find astray;
In the lone woods he sang his roundelay.
Then the dark earth embraced, and left his tear
On the brown leaves and grasses long and sear.
Him did I lead from out that shady place,
And bade him seek the sunshine of thy face.
So am I red and somewhat scant of breath,
Lest this poor youth should die a hapless death.
See thou his pallid cheek, his sunken eyes.
Say that thou lovest not, and say he dies.’
O Count Rossillon, of my sister dear?
Red is thy cheek, as Guillem's is too white.
Speak, else my heart must perish of its fright.’
‘Nay,’ laughed Rossillon, ‘'tis not grief who flies
To greet thee now, but love himself who cries
“Sweet, give me peace and respite after pain,
Say dost thou love, or must I pine in vain?”
This hapless lover did I find astray;
In the lone woods he sang his roundelay.
Then the dark earth embraced, and left his tear
On the brown leaves and grasses long and sear.
Him did I lead from out that shady place,
And bade him seek the sunshine of thy face.
So am I red and somewhat scant of breath,
Lest this poor youth should die a hapless death.
See thou his pallid cheek, his sunken eyes.
Say that thou lovest not, and say he dies.’
Then looked fair Agnes proudly and all pale
In dire offence to hear this tatler's tale,
And saw poor Guillem's bent and humbled head,
His piteous eyes, and there his story read;
And for her sister's sake, and for his pain,
Vowed that she loved—if he did love again.
She laid her slender fingers, soft and white,
On Guillem's hands, still clenched in their affright.
And he, poor youth, did hold them to his heart,
And kiss them oft with all a lover's art.
So Count Rossillon, watching from his place,
Saw but love's message writ on each young face.
Soon with content he sprang upon his steed,
And home did hie, from his suspicions freed.
In dire offence to hear this tatler's tale,
And saw poor Guillem's bent and humbled head,
His piteous eyes, and there his story read;
And for her sister's sake, and for his pain,
Vowed that she loved—if he did love again.
She laid her slender fingers, soft and white,
On Guillem's hands, still clenched in their affright.
20
And kiss them oft with all a lover's art.
So Count Rossillon, watching from his place,
Saw but love's message writ on each young face.
Soon with content he sprang upon his steed,
And home did hie, from his suspicions freed.
When fair that night the banquet-hall was spread
For many an honoured guest, Rossillon said,
‘Now when the wine doth make our hearts on fire,
I'll tell a tale of love and young desire.’
He, nothing loth, responded to their cries,
All in a piteous voice with lovers' sighs
Told how lamenting lone young Guillem stood
And cried his sorrows to the list'ning wood.
‘In faith,’ quoth he, ‘I thought that some foul snare
Tore at the vitals of a tortured hare,
Or that some bird, sore wounded, found its death,
And shrieked its anguish with half-human breath.
Quick did I urge my charger to his speed,
And saw poor Guillem weeping in his need.
“And is,” said I, “thy love so far from here,
That such loud sorrow must assail her ear?
Come, Guillem, leave the birds to their sweet rest,
And sooth this sorrow on thy lady's breast.”’
For many an honoured guest, Rossillon said,
‘Now when the wine doth make our hearts on fire,
I'll tell a tale of love and young desire.’
He, nothing loth, responded to their cries,
All in a piteous voice with lovers' sighs
Told how lamenting lone young Guillem stood
And cried his sorrows to the list'ning wood.
‘In faith,’ quoth he, ‘I thought that some foul snare
Tore at the vitals of a tortured hare,
Or that some bird, sore wounded, found its death,
And shrieked its anguish with half-human breath.
Quick did I urge my charger to his speed,
And saw poor Guillem weeping in his need.
“And is,” said I, “thy love so far from here,
That such loud sorrow must assail her ear?
Come, Guillem, leave the birds to their sweet rest,
And sooth this sorrow on thy lady's breast.”’
Rossillon paused, and Margarida grew
White as the rose that peeped the window through.
Beneath the board she let her slim hands fall,
Lest their pale fear be visible to all,
And her quick fingers plucked in their distress
The gold embroidery of her silken dress.
But when Rossillon, merry with his tale,
Laughed, ‘Soon I with young Guillem did prevail
To bring his woe to his dear lady's feet,
Where soon he knelt her pity to entreat.
His famished kisses did her small hand glove,
When I did go, and leave them to their love.’
More loud than all young Margarida laughed,
And to this love right willingly she quaffed,
But on her cheek scorn's passion-flower was born,
Flushed as the cloud that ushers in the morn,
And from each eye a crystal drop out-flows,
Clear as the dew that sparkles on the rose.
Was Guillem false, then were no lovers true,
And Cupid's favours but the bitter rue
That she would wear no longer in her heart.
Soon from the board she went and walked apart
To where young Guillem stood alone, forgot
By all save she, and wept, ‘Thou lovest not.’
And Guillem cried, ‘Why dost thou doubt this love
That holds thee dearer than the saints above,
Who for the sorrows of thy piteous youth
Had slain for thee his honour and his truth?’
Then Margarida, fearful of his frown,
Hid jealous eyes beneath long lashes brown,
And leaned towards him, in a little voice
Spoke soft to make his chidden heart rejoice.
‘Then thou, my Guillem, thou shalt sing for me
What thou didst chant beneath the greenwood tree.
If that dear song were tuned for me alone,
Oh, let me make the melody my own.
Or, must I seek within that green recess,
Where all alone thou didst thy love confess,
From bud to blossom, and from leaf to bower,
Shake the wild bell of every forest flower,
To loose the captive echo of thy song?
Since it is mine, it must to me belong.’
And then, half tearful and half full of glee,
Went Margarida, her last guests to see
Safe to their saddles, and to say God-speed,
As each gay gallant leaped upon his steed.
White as the rose that peeped the window through.
21
Lest their pale fear be visible to all,
And her quick fingers plucked in their distress
The gold embroidery of her silken dress.
But when Rossillon, merry with his tale,
Laughed, ‘Soon I with young Guillem did prevail
To bring his woe to his dear lady's feet,
Where soon he knelt her pity to entreat.
His famished kisses did her small hand glove,
When I did go, and leave them to their love.’
More loud than all young Margarida laughed,
And to this love right willingly she quaffed,
But on her cheek scorn's passion-flower was born,
Flushed as the cloud that ushers in the morn,
And from each eye a crystal drop out-flows,
Clear as the dew that sparkles on the rose.
Was Guillem false, then were no lovers true,
And Cupid's favours but the bitter rue
That she would wear no longer in her heart.
Soon from the board she went and walked apart
To where young Guillem stood alone, forgot
By all save she, and wept, ‘Thou lovest not.’
And Guillem cried, ‘Why dost thou doubt this love
That holds thee dearer than the saints above,
Who for the sorrows of thy piteous youth
Had slain for thee his honour and his truth?’
Then Margarida, fearful of his frown,
Hid jealous eyes beneath long lashes brown,
And leaned towards him, in a little voice
22
‘Then thou, my Guillem, thou shalt sing for me
What thou didst chant beneath the greenwood tree.
If that dear song were tuned for me alone,
Oh, let me make the melody my own.
Or, must I seek within that green recess,
Where all alone thou didst thy love confess,
From bud to blossom, and from leaf to bower,
Shake the wild bell of every forest flower,
To loose the captive echo of thy song?
Since it is mine, it must to me belong.’
And then, half tearful and half full of glee,
Went Margarida, her last guests to see
Safe to their saddles, and to say God-speed,
As each gay gallant leaped upon his steed.
And as her guests went riding through the night,
They did discuss, with shameful appetite,
Young Margarida's eyes, her neck, her hair,
Vowed her too slender, or too lily fair.
One called her cold, and one with laughter said,
‘But rumour talks,’ and then his jesting fled.
He muttered in his beard, and, scowling went,
Because the banquet did not him content.
And one, who, riding, followed hindermost,
Spoke words that smote the honour of his host,
Because the wine his taste did all displease.
Thus did they go, nor did their laughter cease,
When 'gan a nightingale in heart's delight
To praise the splendour of the summer night,
Nor when the moon unwound her golden horn
To hang above the cradle of the morn.
They did discuss, with shameful appetite,
Young Margarida's eyes, her neck, her hair,
Vowed her too slender, or too lily fair.
One called her cold, and one with laughter said,
‘But rumour talks,’ and then his jesting fled.
He muttered in his beard, and, scowling went,
Because the banquet did not him content.
And one, who, riding, followed hindermost,
Spoke words that smote the honour of his host,
Because the wine his taste did all displease.
Thus did they go, nor did their laughter cease,
When 'gan a nightingale in heart's delight
23
Nor when the moon unwound her golden horn
To hang above the cradle of the morn.
Fair Margarida soon her guests forgot,
In happy dreams she all remembered not
Save her heart's love, and, as she smiling slept,
Beside her bed two phantom visions crept,
Grey Time and Death, to count her failing hours.
But Margarida walked amidst the flowers
Of all her joys in sleep's enchanted land,
Nor knew that night would drive her from that strand,
Where she would come no more, and yet she smiled,
Safe in her slumber as a little child.
In happy dreams she all remembered not
Save her heart's love, and, as she smiling slept,
Beside her bed two phantom visions crept,
Grey Time and Death, to count her failing hours.
But Margarida walked amidst the flowers
Of all her joys in sleep's enchanted land,
Nor knew that night would drive her from that strand,
Where she would come no more, and yet she smiled,
Safe in her slumber as a little child.
Then from the wood, as nightingale ne'er sung,
A hymn of love upon the silence rung
Its silver circle of outspreading sound,
Till Margarida's dreaming ear it found.
'Twas Guillem, who, beneath some spreading tree,
Let all the rapture of his passion free.
To bid his lady's doubting heart rejoice,
He called the choir of his dulcet voice,
And let each note on its fond mission fly.
The tender treble, in a joyful cry
Beside her ear, did timidly repeat
He held his serfdom at his lady's feet.
But chiming bass did hold himself the king,
And bade her to his throne her favours bring.
While thus he sung, all in his youthful power,
Death told the moments of his passing hour.
A hymn of love upon the silence rung
Its silver circle of outspreading sound,
Till Margarida's dreaming ear it found.
'Twas Guillem, who, beneath some spreading tree,
Let all the rapture of his passion free.
To bid his lady's doubting heart rejoice,
He called the choir of his dulcet voice,
And let each note on its fond mission fly.
The tender treble, in a joyful cry
Beside her ear, did timidly repeat
He held his serfdom at his lady's feet.
24
And bade her to his throne her favours bring.
While thus he sung, all in his youthful power,
Death told the moments of his passing hour.
Within the hall Rossillon idle cast
His belt aside, still smiling at the last
Guest's parting quip, and from the leather fell
A jewelled knife, that chimed like some sweet bell.
‘What wouldst thou speak? then whisper unafraid’—
And in his hand he raised the shining blade;
‘And wouldst thou warn me of some secret foe,
Some runagate, whom thou wouldst fain lay low?’
Rossillon laughed, and ere his laughter died,
He heard young Guillem's song that soared and sighed,
A song of love upon the balmy night.
And on Rossillon's cheek the red grew white,
And then he spoke no more, but up the stair
Crept soft, and Margarida, unaware
Of his fierce eyes, beside the casement bent
Her slender body in its good content.
Oft would she raise her little hands on high,
As though to hold the music passing by;
Oft sighed to dream each note that soared so fair
Should blend, dissolve into the upper air.
His belt aside, still smiling at the last
Guest's parting quip, and from the leather fell
A jewelled knife, that chimed like some sweet bell.
‘What wouldst thou speak? then whisper unafraid’—
And in his hand he raised the shining blade;
‘And wouldst thou warn me of some secret foe,
Some runagate, whom thou wouldst fain lay low?’
Rossillon laughed, and ere his laughter died,
He heard young Guillem's song that soared and sighed,
A song of love upon the balmy night.
And on Rossillon's cheek the red grew white,
And then he spoke no more, but up the stair
Crept soft, and Margarida, unaware
Of his fierce eyes, beside the casement bent
Her slender body in its good content.
Oft would she raise her little hands on high,
As though to hold the music passing by;
Oft sighed to dream each note that soared so fair
Should blend, dissolve into the upper air.
So Margarida, wrapped in fond desire,
Saw not Rossillon's frown and eyes of fire,
Knew not that by her side stood Time and Death,
And Murder, panting with his poisoned breath.
And as Rossillon soft crept down the stair,
These three most awful shapes pursued him there,
Held to his hands, and whispered by his ear,
Till to young Guillem's side he drew anear,
And ere the startled youth could stay his song,
Plunged in his side his dagger keen and long.
Nor did he stay on this sad sight to gaze,
As one might look in pity and amaze,
Who had his jealous anger chidden dumb
To see so much young loveliness succumb.
Saw not Rossillon's frown and eyes of fire,
25
And Murder, panting with his poisoned breath.
And as Rossillon soft crept down the stair,
These three most awful shapes pursued him there,
Held to his hands, and whispered by his ear,
Till to young Guillem's side he drew anear,
And ere the startled youth could stay his song,
Plunged in his side his dagger keen and long.
Nor did he stay on this sad sight to gaze,
As one might look in pity and amaze,
Who had his jealous anger chidden dumb
To see so much young loveliness succumb.
Long on her bed did Margarida toss,
Bereft of joy, for that sweet song, whose loss
Did come so swift, and in some sudden way
She wot not of. Full oft she leaned to pray,
And oft to weep. And when at dawn she went
To walk beside the tower's high battlements
She heard a step upon the winding stair,
And ‘Guillem’ cried, and then Rossillon came,
And on her brow he saw the flush of shame.
‘O sweet,’ he said, ‘thou art so pale and white,
Didst thou not rest through all the weary night?
It was in truth made noisy by some bard,
Who for his lady fair had such regard
That he could nought but trill, and troll, and sigh,
Till dawn crept all reluctant to the sky.’
Then Margarida raised her shame-bowed head,
‘I heard a little song,’ she trembling said;
‘But oh, it did not stay me from my sleep.’
—She turned aside lest he should see her weep.
‘My Margarida doth pretend but ill.
Who would deceive, must lie with right good-will.
Thy paling cheek, thy dim and distant gaze,
Doth fill my heart with pity and amaze.
So I have vowed that here shall rest thee, sweet,
With all the world, as should be, at thy feet.
And here I, too, all kindly for thy sake,
Have made a dish of which thou must partake.’
Bereft of joy, for that sweet song, whose loss
Did come so swift, and in some sudden way
She wot not of. Full oft she leaned to pray,
And oft to weep. And when at dawn she went
To walk beside the tower's high battlements
She heard a step upon the winding stair,
And ‘Guillem’ cried, and then Rossillon came,
And on her brow he saw the flush of shame.
‘O sweet,’ he said, ‘thou art so pale and white,
Didst thou not rest through all the weary night?
It was in truth made noisy by some bard,
Who for his lady fair had such regard
That he could nought but trill, and troll, and sigh,
Till dawn crept all reluctant to the sky.’
Then Margarida raised her shame-bowed head,
26
‘But oh, it did not stay me from my sleep.’
—She turned aside lest he should see her weep.
‘My Margarida doth pretend but ill.
Who would deceive, must lie with right good-will.
Thy paling cheek, thy dim and distant gaze,
Doth fill my heart with pity and amaze.
So I have vowed that here shall rest thee, sweet,
With all the world, as should be, at thy feet.
And here I, too, all kindly for thy sake,
Have made a dish of which thou must partake.’
He struck his hands, and from a secret door
A page came forth, and in his arms he bore
A covered dish, that Count Rossillon set
By Margarida on the parapet.
‘What meat is this?’ Soft Margarida laid
Her hand upon the boy, for, all afraid,
She feared to stay so lone on that high place
With fierce Rossillon. Then the youth's white face
And shaking hands did make her cry aloud
In her swift terror. Low the pale youth bowed
And ran to hiding in some secret spot,
And Margarida knew he'd aid her not.
And then she stood to meet Rossillon's eyes,
Fierce in their hate beneath their feigned surprise
At her strange fears, since he but bade her eat.
‘What dost thou ail, my Margarida sweet?
Come, try this dish I did myself prepare
For thy dear fancy. Pray you, think it fair.’
A page came forth, and in his arms he bore
A covered dish, that Count Rossillon set
By Margarida on the parapet.
‘What meat is this?’ Soft Margarida laid
Her hand upon the boy, for, all afraid,
She feared to stay so lone on that high place
With fierce Rossillon. Then the youth's white face
And shaking hands did make her cry aloud
In her swift terror. Low the pale youth bowed
And ran to hiding in some secret spot,
And Margarida knew he'd aid her not.
And then she stood to meet Rossillon's eyes,
Fierce in their hate beneath their feigned surprise
At her strange fears, since he but bade her eat.
‘What dost thou ail, my Margarida sweet?
27
For thy dear fancy. Pray you, think it fair.’
Thrice Margarida's hand did hover white,
Like some shy moth all fearing to alight,
Above the dish, and then drew back afraid.
Thrice did she sigh her Guillem to upbraid,
Who left her so in fear and lone disgrace
To brave the frenzy on Rossillon's face.
‘Wilt thou forgive?’ she did repentant cry,
‘Since from this poisoned dish I sure must die.’
‘Nay, Margarida, thou dost all mistake,’
Rossillon said. ‘If this thou dost partake,
Thou sure wilt find it of all dishes sweet.
Come, lest I weary, let me see thee eat.’
And from the dish the clanging cover flew
Beneath his hand. What horror came to view!
The leaf-brown hair that hung in ringlets long,
Those paling lips still parted for their song,
Those eyes, so dim, that seemed on her to gaze.
Loud Margarida shrieked in her amaze.
Like some shy moth all fearing to alight,
Above the dish, and then drew back afraid.
Thrice did she sigh her Guillem to upbraid,
Who left her so in fear and lone disgrace
To brave the frenzy on Rossillon's face.
‘Wilt thou forgive?’ she did repentant cry,
‘Since from this poisoned dish I sure must die.’
‘Nay, Margarida, thou dost all mistake,’
Rossillon said. ‘If this thou dost partake,
Thou sure wilt find it of all dishes sweet.
Come, lest I weary, let me see thee eat.’
And from the dish the clanging cover flew
Beneath his hand. What horror came to view!
The leaf-brown hair that hung in ringlets long,
Those paling lips still parted for their song,
Those eyes, so dim, that seemed on her to gaze.
Loud Margarida shrieked in her amaze.
‘Thou dost not like the dish. Why dost thou fear?
I could have sworn no other thing so dear
As this to thee, which I did all prepare.’
Then Margarida, in her mad despair
Snatched to her breast her sin's most awful fee.
‘So well I love what thou hast tended me,
That I shall ask no more,’ and then she sprung
From the rude battlement, and screaming flung
Her soul unshriven to its certain death,
And her young body, that with dying breath
Called still on him, whose sad immortal shade
She must not meet to comfort or to aid,
Since both did die without repentance sore.
So ends my tale of the fierce days of yore.
Then did the agèd minstrel cease to play
I could have sworn no other thing so dear
As this to thee, which I did all prepare.’
Then Margarida, in her mad despair
Snatched to her breast her sin's most awful fee.
‘So well I love what thou hast tended me,
28
From the rude battlement, and screaming flung
Her soul unshriven to its certain death,
And her young body, that with dying breath
Called still on him, whose sad immortal shade
She must not meet to comfort or to aid,
Since both did die without repentance sore.
So ends my tale of the fierce days of yore.
On his bright harp, but let his fingers stray
Soft on the strings that murmured 'neath his hand
In some low whisper he did understand.
At Christmas in the Baron's hall,
The guests no longer held in thrall
By the old harper's tragic lay,
Laughed, ‘Love is young, and he must stray;
Let him not lead, but thou command
And take the truant by the hand.’
Then did each gallant bold advance
To lead his lady to the dance,
And soon in stately minuet
They did the piteous tale forget.
But lone the Baron sat and sighed,
Still by the hearth, all deep and wide,
Watched where his lady weeping pressed
Against the window facing west.
29
His bent grey head, as though afraid
Again to see her wistful eyes,
And her fair youth, and hear her sighs.
And as he sat there sudden came
A whispered voice that called his name.
All slow there crept beside his chair,
His weeping lady, kneeling there.
30
THE LITTLE WHITE RABBIT
‘May I go to the field,’ said the little white rabbit,
‘Where the corn grows sweet and high?’
‘Is there aught on the stile,’ said the old, old mother,
‘Or what do I there espy?’
‘Where the corn grows sweet and high?’
‘Is there aught on the stile,’ said the old, old mother,
‘Or what do I there espy?’
‘'Tis a shepherd's lad, but he dreams in his place,
And he will not rise to slay.’
‘Oh, do not trust to an idle hand,
So stay, my little one, stay.’
And he will not rise to slay.’
‘Oh, do not trust to an idle hand,
So stay, my little one, stay.’
‘There comes one now,’ said the little white rabbit,
‘Through the corn so sweet and high.’
‘And so there are two,’ laughed the old, old mother,
‘And you dare not pass them by.’
‘Through the corn so sweet and high.’
‘And so there are two,’ laughed the old, old mother,
‘And you dare not pass them by.’
‘'Tis a farmer's lass, and she sings as she comes,
And she smiles upon her way.’
‘Is she young, is she fair, as she lilts her song?
Now say, my pretty one, say.’
And she smiles upon her way.’
‘Is she young, is she fair, as she lilts her song?
Now say, my pretty one, say.’
‘She is gold as the field,’ said the little white rabbit,
‘Where the sun all day doth lie;
She is fair as the snow is, my old, old mother,
And grey as the mist her eye.’
‘Where the sun all day doth lie;
She is fair as the snow is, my old, old mother,
And grey as the mist her eye.’
31
‘If the lass be fair, as you say that she be,
With her hair like the setting sun—
Oh, he never will wait to look on you,
So run, my little one, run.’
With her hair like the setting sun—
Oh, he never will wait to look on you,
So run, my little one, run.’
32
THE TWO NESTS
The wise thrush, the wise thrush, she choseth well her tree,
Made her nest in the laurel's leafy shade.
But the foolish young girl, all laughing in her glee,
She built on a reed that all winds swayed,
She built on a reed that swung and swayed.
Made her nest in the laurel's leafy shade.
But the foolish young girl, all laughing in her glee,
She built on a reed that all winds swayed,
She built on a reed that swung and swayed.
The wise thrush, the wise thrush, she crouchèd on her nest,
When the hawk in the clouds hunted nigh,
But the foolish young maid did sing in soft request
He pass not unpraised her nestlings by,
Her gentle hopes and pretty dreaming by.
When the hawk in the clouds hunted nigh,
But the foolish young maid did sing in soft request
He pass not unpraised her nestlings by,
Her gentle hopes and pretty dreaming by.
The wise thrush, the wise thrush, she lingered and she spied
A safe flight her fledgelings to gain,
But the foolish young girl, all careless in her pride,
Found her pretty ones were scattered and were slain,
In her ravished heart her pretty ones were slain.
A safe flight her fledgelings to gain,
But the foolish young girl, all careless in her pride,
Found her pretty ones were scattered and were slain,
In her ravished heart her pretty ones were slain.
33
The wise thrush, the wise thrush, she drowsèd at her ease
While her nestlings did pipe on the tree.
But the foolish young maid could not her grief appease,
For her dying hopes were pitiful to see,
Oh, pitiful her perished dreams to see.
While her nestlings did pipe on the tree.
But the foolish young maid could not her grief appease,
For her dying hopes were pitiful to see,
Oh, pitiful her perished dreams to see.
34
THE THREE TREES
The oak is a brave tree that groweth in the wood—
The oak, and the pine, and the aspen tree—
Strong his mighty timbers, that have the years withstood,
Safe he carries the sailor on the sea,
Through the storm and through the stress of the sea.
The oak, and the pine, and the aspen tree—
Strong his mighty timbers, that have the years withstood,
Safe he carries the sailor on the sea,
Through the storm and through the stress of the sea.
The pine in his armour groweth straight and tall,
As he fights in the grapple of the gale.
In his strength all gentle he bends, but will not fall,
High he lifts for the ship her flowing sail,
Strong he holds the fierce plunging of the sail.
As he fights in the grapple of the gale.
In his strength all gentle he bends, but will not fall,
High he lifts for the ship her flowing sail,
Strong he holds the fierce plunging of the sail.
But the aspen, the aspen that groweth in the wood,
He quivers and he trembles in the shade.
For mem'ry of a voice that saith the holy rood
From the thick of his bough was formed and made,
From his timber the cruel cross was made.
He quivers and he trembles in the shade.
For mem'ry of a voice that saith the holy rood
From the thick of his bough was formed and made,
From his timber the cruel cross was made.
Oh, I would I were the oak that groweth in his pride—
The oak, and the pine, and the aspen tree,
Shading merry children beneath his branches wide;
Here the outcast is comforted and free,
The weary sleep from all their bondage free.
The oak, and the pine, and the aspen tree,
Shading merry children beneath his branches wide;
Here the outcast is comforted and free,
The weary sleep from all their bondage free.
35
Oh, I would I were the pine that groweth straight and tall,
He is strong in the grapple of the gale.
Gentle in his strength, he will not bend nor fall,
As he holds to the wind the flowing sail.
How glad the eyes that watch the coming sail!
He is strong in the grapple of the gale.
Gentle in his strength, he will not bend nor fall,
As he holds to the wind the flowing sail.
How glad the eyes that watch the coming sail!
But I am as the aspen that groweth in the wood,
And shivers and trembles in the shade.
For mem'ry of a voice that saith the holy rood
By such as you was fashioned and was made,
By such as ye the cruel cross was made.
And shivers and trembles in the shade.
For mem'ry of a voice that saith the holy rood
By such as you was fashioned and was made,
By such as ye the cruel cross was made.
36
IN THE CARLYLE HOUSE, CHELSEA
Up the steep stair they clatter to each room,
In whispered merriment they pierce the gloom
Of Time's sweet mercy, who with his grey sheet
Did seek in vain to stay their restless feet.
Their peeping eyes and prying fingers' thrust
Disturb Death's shroud and wanton in the dust.
In whispered merriment they pierce the gloom
Of Time's sweet mercy, who with his grey sheet
Did seek in vain to stay their restless feet.
Their peeping eyes and prying fingers' thrust
Disturb Death's shroud and wanton in the dust.
Here, swift as hawks that scenting from on high
Some quiv'ring morsel leave the smiling sky,
They pounce on these old letters 'neath the glass,
Swooping to look, they linger loth to pass;
From this sad reading rise to arbitrate
The secret of domestic love or hate;
And with some heat discuss when they surprise
Some tender message meant for other eyes.
Some quiv'ring morsel leave the smiling sky,
They pounce on these old letters 'neath the glass,
Swooping to look, they linger loth to pass;
From this sad reading rise to arbitrate
The secret of domestic love or hate;
And with some heat discuss when they surprise
Some tender message meant for other eyes.
Grey beard, young cheek, they linger long to look.
His pipe! his bed! his pencil! or his book!
Her picture! purse! with laughter some one sees
The little basket for her household keys.
Those keys, which should that mistress hand arise
Would shut this sanctum from these prying eyes,
And double-lock the secret of this hearth
From hyperbolic cant and noxious mirth.
His pipe! his bed! his pencil! or his book!
Her picture! purse! with laughter some one sees
The little basket for her household keys.
Those keys, which should that mistress hand arise
Would shut this sanctum from these prying eyes,
And double-lock the secret of this hearth
From hyperbolic cant and noxious mirth.
37
And I, who passed in pleased experiment
To leave no nook unsought, but eager went
In this ghost-haunted house without a fear,
Pricked every shadow lest it hide a tear.
Laughed in that room built by a builder's skill
To circle silence. Let my pulses thrill
To know ‘here did he stand where my foot falls
And spoke to that great world shut from these walls.’
To leave no nook unsought, but eager went
In this ghost-haunted house without a fear,
Pricked every shadow lest it hide a tear.
Laughed in that room built by a builder's skill
To circle silence. Let my pulses thrill
To know ‘here did he stand where my foot falls
And spoke to that great world shut from these walls.’
And I, who went all eager as the rest,
Joined in their curious prying or their jest,
Grew soon aweary—or perhaps ashamed—
Leaned to the window—found a picture framed
So sweet, so sudden! that my pulses knew
How sad the haunted place I had come through.
Joined in their curious prying or their jest,
Grew soon aweary—or perhaps ashamed—
Leaned to the window—found a picture framed
So sweet, so sudden! that my pulses knew
How sad the haunted place I had come through.
So quick they leaped to meet this gentle sight,
A little maid with tresses plaited bright
Within a neighbour's garden planting seeds:
Intent, demure, she pulled the unsightly weeds,
With fond maternal air a place she found
And laid her precious bulbs within the ground.
And this the picture that within my heart
I do encourage most to hold a part
In all that's treasured of remembered ways
Which memory brings in solitary days.
A little maid with tresses plaited bright
Within a neighbour's garden planting seeds:
Intent, demure, she pulled the unsightly weeds,
With fond maternal air a place she found
And laid her precious bulbs within the ground.
And this the picture that within my heart
I do encourage most to hold a part
In all that's treasured of remembered ways
Which memory brings in solitary days.
Nor shall I dream of this old house, nor go
In through its silent shadows to and fro
To praise the genius that once sheltered here,
Or for love's disillusion drop a tear.
Nor ponder by the letters 'neath the glass,
But to the open casement quick shall pass.
In through its silent shadows to and fro
38
Or for love's disillusion drop a tear.
Nor ponder by the letters 'neath the glass,
But to the open casement quick shall pass.
There from the house of what has been to gaze
On Spring, on love, on youth, on hope, who plays
Within the neighbour's garden sowing seeds.
Intent, demure, she pulled the unsightly weeds,
And with a quaint maternal air she found
Place for her golden bulbs within the ground.
On Spring, on love, on youth, on hope, who plays
Within the neighbour's garden sowing seeds.
Intent, demure, she pulled the unsightly weeds,
And with a quaint maternal air she found
Place for her golden bulbs within the ground.
39
THE ROBIN
All day and every day,
Upon a hawthorn spray,
Early and late,
A redbreast robin sings,
And flirts his nut-brown wings,
Beside my gate.
Upon a hawthorn spray,
Early and late,
A redbreast robin sings,
And flirts his nut-brown wings,
Beside my gate.
A hawk hangs in the sky,
A weasel low doth spy
From out the grass,
This bird that had no care
Pipes sweet his happy prayer
To all who pass.
A weasel low doth spy
From out the grass,
This bird that had no care
Pipes sweet his happy prayer
To all who pass.
All night and every night,
He, hidden from our sight,
Awaits the morn;
The seeking owl swoops low,
The evil rat doth go
Beneath the thorn.
He, hidden from our sight,
Awaits the morn;
The seeking owl swoops low,
The evil rat doth go
Beneath the thorn.
But redbreast robin sings,
Flirting his nut-brown wings,
When dawn is here.
Upon a hawthorn spray
He sings of holiday,
And hath no fear.
Flirting his nut-brown wings,
When dawn is here.
40
He sings of holiday,
And hath no fear.
All day and every day
I seek his prayer to say
And understand,
Because the hawk that flies,
The stoat who hides and spies,
Leave me unmanned.
I seek his prayer to say
And understand,
Because the hawk that flies,
The stoat who hides and spies,
Leave me unmanned.
And in the dark of night
The owl in silent flight
Will swoop and dart,
The evil rat doth creep
When comes reluctant sleep,
To tear my heart.
The owl in silent flight
Will swoop and dart,
The evil rat doth creep
When comes reluctant sleep,
To tear my heart.
But redbreast robin sings,
And shakes his dew-wet wings,
Nor sighs, ‘Alas.’
This bird that had no care
Pipes forth his happy prayer
To all who pass.
And shakes his dew-wet wings,
Nor sighs, ‘Alas.’
This bird that had no care
Pipes forth his happy prayer
To all who pass.
41
UNREST IN AUTUMN
Beside my window sighs the last lone rose,
Saying, ‘Alas! farewell! Youth's all but dead.’
Like some sweet spirit waiting for the close,
Her perfume hovers round her drooping head.
Saying, ‘Alas! farewell! Youth's all but dead.’
Like some sweet spirit waiting for the close,
Her perfume hovers round her drooping head.
There sings a bird the yellow leaves among,
Saying, ‘Good-bye! The world is fair to roam.
Here Winter comes; the last glad song is sung.
Art thou content to linger still at home?’
Saying, ‘Good-bye! The world is fair to roam.
Here Winter comes; the last glad song is sung.
Art thou content to linger still at home?’
Beside my chair one came in hot unrest,
Crying, ‘Farewell! The waters call for me,
Out on the waves—thou knowest no life so blest,’
—And I was born beside a troubled sea.
Crying, ‘Farewell! The waters call for me,
Out on the waves—thou knowest no life so blest,’
—And I was born beside a troubled sea.
One came to sigh, and whisper of the heights,
Saying ‘Good-bye! For in my heart there trills
A hunter's joys, to thee unknown delights,’
—And I did play upon the purple hills.
Saying ‘Good-bye! For in my heart there trills
A hunter's joys, to thee unknown delights,’
—And I did play upon the purple hills.
Blown to my window see the white rose break,
And falling cry, ‘Too late, my hours are told.’
Still trills the bird, ‘How wide the world to seek.’
Ah, God! Ah, God! And I am growing old.
And falling cry, ‘Too late, my hours are told.’
Still trills the bird, ‘How wide the world to seek.’
Ah, God! Ah, God! And I am growing old.
42
TO A SLEEPING MAID
Oh! do not rudely wake her, nor reproach
Those pulsing limbs for this hostility
To timid life, that cast in death-like way
What he had moulded for his ecstasy.
Those pulsing limbs for this hostility
To timid life, that cast in death-like way
What he had moulded for his ecstasy.
Nay! rather pity one so keen to leave
For swift oblivion that alluring world,
Whose morning sun doth seek with gentle breath
To lift the lashes on her soft cheek curled.
For swift oblivion that alluring world,
Whose morning sun doth seek with gentle breath
To lift the lashes on her soft cheek curled.
Sleep! enemy of life, and jealous foe
Of this earth's joys, now holds her to his kiss.
Then let her lie; hers is a goodly choice
That finds in dreams a world more fair than this.
Of this earth's joys, now holds her to his kiss.
Then let her lie; hers is a goodly choice
That finds in dreams a world more fair than this.
43
THE AWAKENING
Once she woke to fairyland,
Now she wakes to grief,
All the golden days are gone,
Lost by time—the thief.
Now she wakes to grief,
All the golden days are gone,
Lost by time—the thief.
Once she sprang to meet the dawn,
Now so loth to rise;
She to greet the coming day
Opens heavy eyes.
Now so loth to rise;
She to greet the coming day
Opens heavy eyes.
Singing bird and budding trees,
Bloom of rose unfurled,
All her hopes are far from these,
In the under-world.
Bloom of rose unfurled,
All her hopes are far from these,
In the under-world.
What for her the upper-earth?
Lone she wanders here.
Silent in the underground
They who held her dear;
Lone she wanders here.
Silent in the underground
They who held her dear;
In the happy night they rise,
Each belovèd face;
Phantoms circling by her couch
Hold her in embrace.
Each belovèd face;
Phantoms circling by her couch
Hold her in embrace.
44
See! she springs to meet the day,
Up with eager breath,
Then remembering, prays for sleep,
Sleep so like to death.
Up with eager breath,
Then remembering, prays for sleep,
Sleep so like to death.
45
THE GYPSIES' ROAD
I shall go on the gypsies' road,
The road that has no ending;
For the sedge is brown on the lone lake side,
The wild geese eastward tending.
The road that has no ending;
For the sedge is brown on the lone lake side,
The wild geese eastward tending.
I shall go as the unfettered wave,
From shore to shore, forgetting
The grief that lies 'neath a roof-tree's shade,
The years that bring regretting.
From shore to shore, forgetting
The grief that lies 'neath a roof-tree's shade,
The years that bring regretting.
No law shall dare my wandering stay,
No man my acres measure;
The world was made for the gypsies' feet,
The winding road for pleasure.
No man my acres measure;
The world was made for the gypsies' feet,
The winding road for pleasure.
And I shall drift as the pale leaf strayed,
Whither the wild wind listed,
I shall sleep in the dark of the hedge,
'Neath rose and thorn entwisted.
Whither the wild wind listed,
I shall sleep in the dark of the hedge,
'Neath rose and thorn entwisted.
This was a call in the heart of the night,
A whispering dream's dear treasure.
‘The world was made for the nomads' feet,
The winding road for pleasure.’
A whispering dream's dear treasure.
‘The world was made for the nomads' feet,
The winding road for pleasure.’
46
I stole at dawn from my roof-tree's shade,
And the cares that it did cover;
I flew to the heart of the fierce north wind,
As a maid will greet her lover.
And the cares that it did cover;
I flew to the heart of the fierce north wind,
As a maid will greet her lover.
But a thousand hands did draw me back
And bid me to their tending;
I may not go on the gypsies' road—
The road that has no ending.
And bid me to their tending;
I may not go on the gypsies' road—
The road that has no ending.
47
THE CALLING MOTHERLAND
On the lone height of some untrodden hill
The shadowy mother goes,
Calling, calling;
Grief hath her eyes, her cheek is wan and chill
As winter snows
On the far height of some untrodden hill.
The shadowy mother goes,
Calling, calling;
Grief hath her eyes, her cheek is wan and chill
As winter snows
On the far height of some untrodden hill.
The four strong winds take up her voice and fly
The circling world around,
Calling, calling;
The northern gale goes forth with sudden cry—
Tempestuous sound;
The four strong winds take up her voice and fly.
The circling world around,
Calling, calling;
The northern gale goes forth with sudden cry—
Tempestuous sound;
The four strong winds take up her voice and fly.
Where the wan wave leaps lone beneath the moon
The west wet winds will roam,
Calling, calling;
Where southern breezes stir some far lagoon
The ships sail home,
Where the wan wave leaps lone beneath the moon.
The west wet winds will roam,
Calling, calling;
Where southern breezes stir some far lagoon
The ships sail home,
Where the wan wave leaps lone beneath the moon.
Through the grey clouding of the silent night
Her wandering children rise,
Calling, calling;
Homeward they turn like birds of weary flight,
With longing eyes,
Through the grey clouding of the silent night.
Her wandering children rise,
Calling, calling;
48
With longing eyes,
Through the grey clouding of the silent night.
I see them come on slow and wounded wing.
Where snows unmelting lie,
Calling, calling;
From the far south, where lives no ending spring,
Nor summers die,
I see them come on slow and wounded wing.
Where snows unmelting lie,
Calling, calling;
From the far south, where lives no ending spring,
Nor summers die,
I see them come on slow and wounded wing.
From the far heights upon the gypsies' road
They hear her distant voice,
Calling, calling;
Where the grey camel groans beneath his load
They hear, rejoice,
From the far heights upon the gypsies' road.
They hear her distant voice,
Calling, calling;
Where the grey camel groans beneath his load
They hear, rejoice,
From the far heights upon the gypsies' road.
Once they went forth all full of hope and joy,
They would not heed her cry,
Calling, calling.
Their glad young hearts Time met to soon destroy;
They come to die;
Once they went forth all full of hope and joy.
They would not heed her cry,
Calling, calling.
Their glad young hearts Time met to soon destroy;
They come to die;
Once they went forth all full of hope and joy.
She draws them home, and holds them to her heart,
Like children put to sleep;
Calling, calling,
On those far others who are still apart,
Who wandering weep;
She draws them home, and holds them to her heart.
Like children put to sleep;
Calling, calling,
On those far others who are still apart,
Who wandering weep;
She draws them home, and holds them to her heart.
49
She lays them down in their deep beds to rest,
With coverlet of green,
Calling, calling.
Do they not join in her enduring quest,
Her piteous keen,
Who lie so still in their cold graves to rest?
With coverlet of green,
Calling, calling.
Do they not join in her enduring quest,
Her piteous keen,
Who lie so still in their cold graves to rest?
Across the world her voice comes crying still,
One exile's heart to break,
Calling, calling.
Ah! calling, too, from out their graves so chill.
The lone dead speak.
Across the world dear voices calling still.
One exile's heart to break,
Calling, calling.
Ah! calling, too, from out their graves so chill.
The lone dead speak.
Across the world dear voices calling still.
52
THE GOLDEN APPLE
She saw on the far bank a golden apple,
A glowing apple, poor little Eve,
Between ran the river so darkly dapple,
By sunshine land she was loth to leave.
A glowing apple, poor little Eve,
Between ran the river so darkly dapple,
By sunshine land she was loth to leave.
She looked, and she longed, till the fruit forbidden
Became the quest of her heart's desire,
So she sought at last for the knowledge hidden
Within the red of its secret fire.
Became the quest of her heart's desire,
So she sought at last for the knowledge hidden
Within the red of its secret fire.
Then he came, her love, to the bank forsaken,
Called her thrice, by the river of fear,
‘Since you for my wish from the branch have taken
The fruit forbidden, I hold you dear.’
Called her thrice, by the river of fear,
‘Since you for my wish from the branch have taken
The fruit forbidden, I hold you dear.’
And he cried, ‘Come back from the fatal water.
I'll give you a robe of silver sheen.’
But she smiled full wan as he vain besought her.
The twisting river ran cold between.
I'll give you a robe of silver sheen.’
But she smiled full wan as he vain besought her.
The twisting river ran cold between.
‘I will give you a ring for your hand so slender,
So tears no longer your shame shall be.’
Now her weak voice came to him low and tender,
‘Be kind to all maids for thought of me.’
So tears no longer your shame shall be.’
Now her weak voice came to him low and tender,
‘Be kind to all maids for thought of me.’
53
All quick to his feet came a dark wave throwing
The apple red with its secret fire,
That held deep hid in its gold heart glowing
The fruit of evil and good desire.
The apple red with its secret fire,
That held deep hid in its gold heart glowing
The fruit of evil and good desire.
Then he held it safe from the chill tide's pleasure,
And he drew it close in his arm full fair.
A smiling babe was his lost love's treasure,
With gloss of gold on his ruddy hair.
And he drew it close in his arm full fair.
A smiling babe was his lost love's treasure,
With gloss of gold on his ruddy hair.
54
TO A WOUNDED BIRD
Thou shalt feel no more the wind on thy wing,
Nor float on the breath of the breeze;
Thou shalt drowse no more on the blossoming branch
'Neath the lullaby song of the trees.
Nor float on the breath of the breeze;
Thou shalt drowse no more on the blossoming branch
'Neath the lullaby song of the trees.
Thou shalt seek no more in the green of the year
Thy love and thy heart's desire;
Thou shalt mate no more in the scent of the thorn,
Nor nest in the dark of the brier.
Thy love and thy heart's desire;
Thou shalt mate no more in the scent of the thorn,
Nor nest in the dark of the brier.
Thou hast fought thy last in the joy of the storm,
The clouds shall not hide thee again.
What is left thee now but to creep in the grass
Thy maimed wings uplifting in vain.
The clouds shall not hide thee again.
What is left thee now but to creep in the grass
Thy maimed wings uplifting in vain.
Thou art done with love, and from hope out-thrown,
Yet I succour thy life's brief hour,
For it may be that He Who has marked thy fall
Shall deal with me so in His power.
Yet I succour thy life's brief hour,
For it may be that He Who has marked thy fall
Shall deal with me so in His power.
For I, too, have fought in the joy of the storm
With a strong and a passionate wing,
I have flown star high in the clear of the night
And loved in the green of the spring.
With a strong and a passionate wing,
I have flown star high in the clear of the night
And loved in the green of the spring.
55
I shall rise no more from the cold of the ground,
Where I creep with a wounded breast,
Yet it may be that He Who has marked thy fall
Shall hold me as dear as the rest.
Where I creep with a wounded breast,
Yet it may be that He Who has marked thy fall
Shall hold me as dear as the rest.
56
AN EPITAPH
Here a gentle poet lies,
Hurt to death by stinging flies.
Hush thy laughter, whisper low.
Hurt to death by stinging flies.
Hush thy laughter, whisper low.
He hath more joy in the swift flight
Of some shy star that flew the night,
Than all thy laughter e'er could know.
Of some shy star that flew the night,
Than all thy laughter e'er could know.
If thou hadst tears to welcome grief,
The sharpest arrows in her sheaf
Found in his pitying breast their home.
The sharpest arrows in her sheaf
Found in his pitying breast their home.
He knew the swift bee's wandering way,
The music of its roundelay,
Its city sweet of honeycomb.
The music of its roundelay,
Its city sweet of honeycomb.
The little leaves' soft melody,
That whisper on the secret tree,
Gave to his song its mystic tune.
That whisper on the secret tree,
Gave to his song its mystic tune.
His path was on the gypsies' road.
On the high hills he held abode,
His lamp the shimmering moon.
On the high hills he held abode,
His lamp the shimmering moon.
57
Down to the valley did he spring,
To share the treasures he did bring
Within the casket of his heart.
To share the treasures he did bring
Within the casket of his heart.
A glimpse was here of heaven's blue,
Tears for thy grief and laughter too.
To all he fain would give a part,
Tears for thy grief and laughter too.
To all he fain would give a part,
So when they saw a bird or flower,
They too would know the poet's hour,
And from their lips his song would flow.
They too would know the poet's hour,
And from their lips his song would flow.
But in the vale the stinging flies
Hurt him to death. Now cold he lies!
Hush thy laughter, whisper low.
Hurt him to death. Now cold he lies!
Hush thy laughter, whisper low.
58
SPRING COMES!
The little birds, they do not heed nor care.
The ungracious wind, the branches sear and bare,
The sleety burden of the jaundiced skies
Bring them no mourning, for the birds are wise.
The ungracious wind, the branches sear and bare,
The sleety burden of the jaundiced skies
Bring them no mourning, for the birds are wise.
Though from their beak the stolen feather falls,
Snatched where a rude and wintry blast appals,
Outside my window, near the frosted pane,
The sparrow builds his scattered nest again.
Snatched where a rude and wintry blast appals,
Outside my window, near the frosted pane,
The sparrow builds his scattered nest again.
The blackbird tunes storm-swung, on leafless tree
The thrush chants forth his matchless melody,
And from the ground, where famished grasses lie,
The lark springs singing to the threat'ning sky.
The thrush chants forth his matchless melody,
And from the ground, where famished grasses lie,
The lark springs singing to the threat'ning sky.
What faith is this that bade them understand
The winter slain in winter-stricken land!
What hope is here that carols forth in praise
The coming beauty of the summer days!
The winter slain in winter-stricken land!
What hope is here that carols forth in praise
The coming beauty of the summer days!
And thou, within the storm, and most forlorn,
Whipped by the winds and by the tempest torn,
Hast thou no promise from the list'ning skies?
The birds have heard it—and the birds are wise.
Whipped by the winds and by the tempest torn,
Hast thou no promise from the list'ning skies?
The birds have heard it—and the birds are wise.
59
THE PIPER ON THE HILLS
A CHILD'S SONG
There sits a piper on the hill
Who pipes the livelong day,
And when he pipes both loud and shrill,
The frightened people say:
‘The wind, the wind is blowing up,
'Tis rising to a gale.’
The women hurry to the shore
To watch some distant sail.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.
Who pipes the livelong day,
And when he pipes both loud and shrill,
The frightened people say:
‘The wind, the wind is blowing up,
'Tis rising to a gale.’
The women hurry to the shore
To watch some distant sail.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.
But when he pipes all sweet and low,
The piper on the hill,
I hear the merry women go
With laughter, loud and shrill:
‘The wind, the wind is coming south,
'Twill blow a gentle day.’
They gather on the meadow-land,
To toss the yellow hay.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing south to-day.
The piper on the hill,
I hear the merry women go
With laughter, loud and shrill:
‘The wind, the wind is coming south,
'Twill blow a gentle day.’
They gather on the meadow-land,
To toss the yellow hay.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing south to-day.
60
And in the morn, when winter comes,
To keep the piper warm,
The little Angels shake their wings
To make a feather storm:
‘The snow, the snow has come at last!’
The happy children call,
And ‘ring around’ they dance in glee,
And watch the snowflakes fall.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Has spread a snowy pall.
To keep the piper warm,
The little Angels shake their wings
To make a feather storm:
‘The snow, the snow has come at last!’
The happy children call,
And ‘ring around’ they dance in glee,
And watch the snowflakes fall.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Has spread a snowy pall.
But when at night the piper plays,
I have not any fear,
Because God's windows open wide
The pretty tune to hear;
And when each crowding spirit looks,
From its star window-pane,
A watching mother may behold
Her little child again.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
May blow her home again.
I have not any fear,
Because God's windows open wide
The pretty tune to hear;
And when each crowding spirit looks,
From its star window-pane,
A watching mother may behold
Her little child again.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
May blow her home again.
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THE CARELESS LAD
The careless lad went through the wood,
Leaped the retarding gate,
And whistled thrice unto his dog,
Who strayed behind so late.
Leaped the retarding gate,
And whistled thrice unto his dog,
Who strayed behind so late.
And then he turned him to the north,
To find the trodden way,
And there he saw a pretty child
Who on his path did play.
To find the trodden way,
And there he saw a pretty child
Who on his path did play.
‘Come hither now, my little maid,
Come hither now to me,
And tell me of a fair young girl
Called Mary Margarie.’
Come hither now to me,
And tell me of a fair young girl
Called Mary Margarie.’
‘Oh, would you seek poor Margarie,’
The little maid replied.
She took him by the strong right hand,
And hurried by his side.
The little maid replied.
She took him by the strong right hand,
And hurried by his side.
The careless lad he turned him east,
And then he turned him west,
Until he passed a withered crone,
Who beat upon her breast.
And then he turned him west,
Until he passed a withered crone,
Who beat upon her breast.
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‘Why do you weep, you ancient one,
Why do you weep and sigh?’
‘'Tis for poor maiden Margarie,
Who now is like to die.’
Why do you weep and sigh?’
‘'Tis for poor maiden Margarie,
Who now is like to die.’
The careless lad sang up the hill,
And then he whistled down,
And there he passed a laden man
Who hurried from the town.
And then he whistled down,
And there he passed a laden man
Who hurried from the town.
‘Where do you take so great a load,
That makes you groan in pain?’
‘A gift for poor maid Margarie,
To make her smile again.’
That makes you groan in pain?’
‘A gift for poor maid Margarie,
To make her smile again.’
The careless lad went through the mead
With laughter loud and sweet,
And there he saw a shining stream
That trickled by his feet.
With laughter loud and sweet,
And there he saw a shining stream
That trickled by his feet.
‘Now tell to me, my pretty child,
That at my side doth run,
What makes this little stream to go
Where never there was one?’
That at my side doth run,
What makes this little stream to go
Where never there was one?’
‘Maid Margarie doth lie all day,
She neither laughs nor cries.
Here flow her mother's tears,’ she said,
‘That fall from her sad eyes.’
She neither laughs nor cries.
Here flow her mother's tears,’ she said,
‘That fall from her sad eyes.’
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The careless lad he leaped the stream,
And danced across the mead,
And lone he left the pretty child,
Who could not dare his speed,
And danced across the mead,
And lone he left the pretty child,
Who could not dare his speed,
And when he reached the lonely cot,
Where Margarie did dwell,
He boldly pulled upon the latch,
And struck the white lintel.
Where Margarie did dwell,
He boldly pulled upon the latch,
And struck the white lintel.
And thrice his careless shoulder pushed
Upon the oaken door.
‘Now, what is this that holds so strong,
That never held before?’
Upon the oaken door.
‘Now, what is this that holds so strong,
That never held before?’
‘Pale Mary Margarie doth lie
Beneath some fairy charm.
It is her father's heart that holds
To keep her safe from harm.’
Beneath some fairy charm.
It is her father's heart that holds
To keep her safe from harm.’
The careless lad he laughed full long,
Full loud and long laughed he.
‘What pother is all this,’ he said,
‘Where need no pother be.’
Full loud and long laughed he.
‘What pother is all this,’ he said,
‘Where need no pother be.’
And then he turned him to the south,
And then he turned him east,
And thrice he whistled to his dog,
To chide the lagging beast.
And then he turned him east,
And thrice he whistled to his dog,
To chide the lagging beast.
64
And thrice he whistled to his dog,
And once to Margarie;
Swift rose she from her snow-white bed,
Where all alone lay she.
And once to Margarie;
Swift rose she from her snow-white bed,
Where all alone lay she.
She sprang from off her narrow couch,
All laughing in her glee,
And pushed upon the oaken door,
That swung to set her free.
All laughing in her glee,
And pushed upon the oaken door,
That swung to set her free.
The careless lad went through the wood,
And leaped the moss-grown gate,
And thrice he whistled to the thrush
Who sung beside his mate.
And leaped the moss-grown gate,
And thrice he whistled to the thrush
Who sung beside his mate.
And thrice he whistled to his dog,
A laggard beast was he.
And once he whistled low and sweet
To Mary Margarie.
A laggard beast was he.
And once he whistled low and sweet
To Mary Margarie.
She stepped across the little stream
That through the mead did wind,
And followed close the careless lad,
Who never looked behind.
That through the mead did wind,
And followed close the careless lad,
Who never looked behind.
65
THE WIND
Is it some shade from Paradise,
Shut down beneath the clouding skies,
This wandering voice that ever cries
In its pathetic sweetness?
Shut down beneath the clouding skies,
This wandering voice that ever cries
In its pathetic sweetness?
Some loving soul that, leaning far
To earth, where its lost treasures are,
Fell from the casement of its star
In meteoric fleetness.
To earth, where its lost treasures are,
Fell from the casement of its star
In meteoric fleetness.
Lost Heaven, perchance to kiss a curl
Tossed by some weeping boy or girl,
Whose hapless tears its heart did twirl,
'Mid Empyrean praying.
Tossed by some weeping boy or girl,
Whose hapless tears its heart did twirl,
'Mid Empyrean praying.
The rugged fir in Alpine blast
Holds, too, the magic music fast,
And mystic shadows round me cast
In its majestic swaying.
Holds, too, the magic music fast,
And mystic shadows round me cast
In its majestic swaying.
Is it some sylvan sprite who strays
And seeks for lost Arcadian days,
Who, 'midst the moving branches plays
His pipe's dolorous measure?
And seeks for lost Arcadian days,
Who, 'midst the moving branches plays
His pipe's dolorous measure?
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Or some lone Ariel, still unbound,
Who fills the tossing woods with sound,
Forgotten on the Upper Ground,
For necromantic pleasure?
Who fills the tossing woods with sound,
Forgotten on the Upper Ground,
For necromantic pleasure?
I hear the whispering music played
Within the laurels' glossy shade;
Is it some Daphne, still afraid,
In arborescent hiding?
Within the laurels' glossy shade;
Is it some Daphne, still afraid,
In arborescent hiding?
And, too, the sea's continued roar
Flings soft the magic sound ashore,
Where breaks the wave in passion sore,
And serpentinial gliding.
Flings soft the magic sound ashore,
Where breaks the wave in passion sore,
And serpentinial gliding.
Is it some Siren who hath pressed
A beating heart to her cold breast,
Who calls that lover, long at rest
In this tempestuous sighing?
A beating heart to her cold breast,
Who calls that lover, long at rest
In this tempestuous sighing?
The seas that shake the yellow sand,
The waving trees, the sylvan land,
This vagrant voice well understand,
And whisper to its crying.
The waving trees, the sylvan land,
This vagrant voice well understand,
And whisper to its crying.
Oh! wandering voice that brings unrest,
My human soul had half oppressed,
The pagan spirit in my breast,
That answered to thy fashion!
My human soul had half oppressed,
The pagan spirit in my breast,
That answered to thy fashion!
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What is thy message, could I seek
From thrall of this sad soul to break?
And if this pagan heart could speak,
What answer to thy passion?
From thrall of this sad soul to break?
And if this pagan heart could speak,
What answer to thy passion?
68
BY THE SEA
Last night a hand on my window tapped,
A voice came out of the sea,
‘Awake, awake, thou dreamer, wake,
And open thy door to me!’
A voice came out of the sea,
‘Awake, awake, thou dreamer, wake,
And open thy door to me!’
What music this that so long was still,
What hand that I thought was cold?
‘Come in, sweet ghost, from thy lonely bed,
For my longing arms to hold.’
What hand that I thought was cold?
‘Come in, sweet ghost, from thy lonely bed,
For my longing arms to hold.’
I freed my door from the bolt and bar,
And the slow tears came to me,
For I heard no sound, save the tapping rain
And the moan of the rising sea.
And the slow tears came to me,
For I heard no sound, save the tapping rain
And the moan of the rising sea.
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THE BREAKAGE
In the grey and dusty morn,
Dreaming Jane arose,
And from silent room to room
With her duster goes.
Dreaming Jane arose,
And from silent room to room
With her duster goes.
Slipping 'neath her sleepy hand
Falls a china cup,
Once a queen in ancient days
From its brim did sup.
Falls a china cup,
Once a queen in ancient days
From its brim did sup.
Long it stood upon the shelf,
Rare and lovely thing,
What a little push did all
This destruction bring.
Rare and lovely thing,
What a little push did all
This destruction bring.
Tears nor sore repentance now
Can its charm replace,
Jane hides weeping by the door,
Lone in her disgrace.
Can its charm replace,
Jane hides weeping by the door,
Lone in her disgrace.
To her feet a letter flies
From the broken cup,
Stained with many easy tears,
Swift she picks it up.
From the broken cup,
Stained with many easy tears,
Swift she picks it up.
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‘Gone, forever, gone, forgive,’
Reads she, without care
For the wreckage that was here
With the china ware.
Reads she, without care
For the wreckage that was here
With the china ware.
Sudden from the silent house
Comes a child's loud cry,
Fear and anger at his heart
Find no fond reply.
Comes a child's loud cry,
Fear and anger at his heart
Find no fond reply.
Now upon the creaking stair
A heavy foot doth fall,
And the waiting echoes lift
A hoarse and bitter call.
A heavy foot doth fall,
And the waiting echoes lift
A hoarse and bitter call.
Wide-eyed Jane did take her broom
To brush the pieces up.
‘Now she'll never know,’ she said,
‘I broke the china cup.’
To brush the pieces up.
‘Now she'll never know,’ she said,
‘I broke the china cup.’
71
THE OLD PROFESSOR
See, there he goes, a-pulling his long beard;
With frowning brow, and far and absent gaze,
On his bowed head the dust of time's grey years,
And on his parchment cheek life's score of days.
With frowning brow, and far and absent gaze,
On his bowed head the dust of time's grey years,
And on his parchment cheek life's score of days.
He doth not hear the lark in worship swing
Up God's blue stairs the incense of his song;
Nor sees the daffodil that like a bell
On some tall spire sways in a faint ding-dong.
Up God's blue stairs the incense of his song;
Nor sees the daffodil that like a bell
On some tall spire sways in a faint ding-dong.
Who hath his heart enchanted? Who his soul?
Since by his side his mate forgotten goes,
She once so fair now chilled by autumn's breath,
And on her cheek the last pale summer rose.
Since by his side his mate forgotten goes,
She once so fair now chilled by autumn's breath,
And on her cheek the last pale summer rose.
Oh! see, that wistful lamp within her eyes,
That beacon flame that once so bright did burn,
Now frail, now dim, yet faithful still it shines,
In hope some day the traveller shall return.
That beacon flame that once so bright did burn,
Now frail, now dim, yet faithful still it shines,
In hope some day the traveller shall return.
Beside him walks the one child of his home,
Half leaning to the world that calls her fair,
Half yielding to his arm. Her young shy eyes
Ask what hath love to offer for her share?
Half leaning to the world that calls her fair,
Half yielding to his arm. Her young shy eyes
Ask what hath love to offer for her share?
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He hath not seen this tender bud unfold
From baby beauty to this perfect bloom,
But ever went through all her lovely years
With absent eyes and brow of frowning gloom.
From baby beauty to this perfect bloom,
But ever went through all her lovely years
With absent eyes and brow of frowning gloom.
He had not paused through all her childish days
To fold that laughing spirit to his heart.
Who charmed him thus? what witch or wizard held
Those living hours from all his world apart?
To fold that laughing spirit to his heart.
Who charmed him thus? what witch or wizard held
Those living hours from all his world apart?
See, there he goes a-pulling his long beard.
Poor, stricken thing, cursed by some fairy spell,
To shrink from love and laughter, bird and flower,
Within the shadowy past to brood and dwell.
Poor, stricken thing, cursed by some fairy spell,
To shrink from love and laughter, bird and flower,
Within the shadowy past to brood and dwell.
There like some moth to feed upon the shroud
Of fair Egyptian queen, or from the scroll
Of ancient writ to creep like some poor worm.
He hath forgot he hath a human soul.
Of fair Egyptian queen, or from the scroll
Of ancient writ to creep like some poor worm.
He hath forgot he hath a human soul.
See, there he stays by yonder ruined church,
The sunshine of the spring on his grey head;
How keen his gaze, how quick his eager smile;
He finds his pleasures mid forgotten dead.
The sunshine of the spring on his grey head;
How keen his gaze, how quick his eager smile;
He finds his pleasures mid forgotten dead.
And there his mate, all patient by the wall,
Sees his rare joy, and smiling is content.
And there his child, with eyes in wonder raised,
Seeks the high lark in God's clear element.
Sees his rare joy, and smiling is content.
And there his child, with eyes in wonder raised,
Seeks the high lark in God's clear element.
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THE HERETIC IN THE TEMPLE
Lone did I go within the ancient place,
With hushèd voice, and slow and reverent tread;
While on the walls my wondering eyes in awe
Did learn the glories of the mighty dead.
With hushèd voice, and slow and reverent tread;
While on the walls my wondering eyes in awe
Did learn the glories of the mighty dead.
The sculptured stones here pictured well the pride
Of their great king, his wars, his victories;
There, with his club he smites a thousand foes,
Here, kneels to Ammon 'neath the sacred trees.
Of their great king, his wars, his victories;
There, with his club he smites a thousand foes,
Here, kneels to Ammon 'neath the sacred trees.
There in procession walks, and here doth ride
With poisèd spear in fury to the chase;
Here, counts the severed hands of Libians dead,
There, storms the fortress of a Hittite race.
With poisèd spear in fury to the chase;
Here, counts the severed hands of Libians dead,
There, storms the fortress of a Hittite race.
‘Dost sleep, Rameses, in the underworld,
Forgot, unhonoured, 'mid the countless dead,
Or bowest still in kingly consequence,
To ghostly subjects, thy unconquered head?
Forgot, unhonoured, 'mid the countless dead,
Or bowest still in kingly consequence,
To ghostly subjects, thy unconquered head?
‘These noble walls, white pages of thy past,
Where once thy living eyes so often gazed
As mine to-day; if Isis so inclines
Canst thou still see—rejoicing in their praise?
Where once thy living eyes so often gazed
As mine to-day; if Isis so inclines
Canst thou still see—rejoicing in their praise?
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‘How counts it for thee in the underworld
If thou but sleepest, to this glory blind?
If thou dost walk amid the shadowy dead,
How holdest all that thou hast left behind?’
If thou but sleepest, to this glory blind?
If thou dost walk amid the shadowy dead,
How holdest all that thou hast left behind?’
And while I spoke there came a little voice
From where the crown of Rameses did rest
Upon the carven brow, and ‘Cheep!’ it cried,
And as I stared a sparrow stood confessed.
From where the crown of Rameses did rest
Upon the carven brow, and ‘Cheep!’ it cried,
And as I stared a sparrow stood confessed.
No eagle here of Jove's Celestial Brood,
To comment on the tragedy of thrones,
Nor dove of Venus, loosed from her fair breast,
To croon its pity by the crumbling stones.
To comment on the tragedy of thrones,
Nor dove of Venus, loosed from her fair breast,
To croon its pity by the crumbling stones.
Nor from the desert did some lone wolf prowl,
To keen upon the mystery of time,
Untamed, unchanging, from the slipping sands,
He, with his ancient lineage, still sublime.
To keen upon the mystery of time,
Untamed, unchanging, from the slipping sands,
He, with his ancient lineage, still sublime.
A house-top sparrow this, that dared to speak,
With pert indifference on the fate of power,
From pale decay of old magnificence,
And ‘Cheep!’ he cried from out his nesting bower.
With pert indifference on the fate of power,
From pale decay of old magnificence,
And ‘Cheep!’ he cried from out his nesting bower.
‘Thou hand's-hold of brown feathers, thou dost speak
Most wisely now, for in this ancient place
Who reads not here man's pomp and pride and fall,
The swift oblivion of a splendid race?’
Most wisely now, for in this ancient place
Who reads not here man's pomp and pride and fall,
The swift oblivion of a splendid race?’
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‘Rameses, King! dead as thy gods are dead,
See, here I kneel, unshadowed by thy might,
Nor fear thy guardians of the underworld,
A Higher Host has put their shades to flight.
See, here I kneel, unshadowed by thy might,
Nor fear thy guardians of the underworld,
A Higher Host has put their shades to flight.
‘For me, the promises of earth and sky,
The golden heavens, shimmering afar,
Death, resurrection, and the angels hold
The Gates of Paradise for me ajar.’
The golden heavens, shimmering afar,
Death, resurrection, and the angels hold
The Gates of Paradise for me ajar.’
Then, by the crown of Rameses, the king,
The sparrow fed its mate, then came to peep,
‘How dost thou hold the Christian promise, then,
Thou soulless one?’ and ‘Cheep!’ it answered, ‘Cheep!’
The sparrow fed its mate, then came to peep,
‘How dost thou hold the Christian promise, then,
Thou soulless one?’ and ‘Cheep!’ it answered, ‘Cheep!’
Then sudden fell the dusk in that swift way
It hath in Eastern skies, and shone the stars,
And slow the dead moon swung across the skies,
And crimson flamed the dying planet Mars.
It hath in Eastern skies, and shone the stars,
And slow the dead moon swung across the skies,
And crimson flamed the dying planet Mars.
I struck the moaning camel to its pace,
Once did he trip upon some mummied thing
That from the ground did seem to force its way,
Out from the past and Time's enfolding wing.
Once did he trip upon some mummied thing
That from the ground did seem to force its way,
Out from the past and Time's enfolding wing.
Sharp to my face a grey blown handful came
Of the enduring sand that east and west
Creeps ever on, so slow, but yet so sure,
Across the world, in its death-seeking quest.
Of the enduring sand that east and west
Creeps ever on, so slow, but yet so sure,
Across the world, in its death-seeking quest.
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THE FREEBORN
God made the man and bid him multiply,
Replenish the green earth, nor break the die
Made by His hand; Man hearing understood.
He loved His work and held His labour good.
Replenish the green earth, nor break the die
Made by His hand; Man hearing understood.
He loved His work and held His labour good.
And wherefore then does this poor mortal stand,
And hold his starving children hand in hand,
Beside his mate? the tree where his fruit hung
So torn, so blighted, yet its years are young.
And hold his starving children hand in hand,
Beside his mate? the tree where his fruit hung
So torn, so blighted, yet its years are young.
Him one might see with horror and amaze
To find man's eyes should hold such famished gaze!
Has Heaven not more anguish at the sight,
His brothers pass sans pity at his plight?
To find man's eyes should hold such famished gaze!
Has Heaven not more anguish at the sight,
His brothers pass sans pity at his plight?
That withered hand, did it not grasp a sword
To keep ungrateful Empire's hope restored?
And if not this, at least it helped to raise
Stone upon stone within her cities' maze.
To keep ungrateful Empire's hope restored?
And if not this, at least it helped to raise
Stone upon stone within her cities' maze.
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He does but ask to toil within the span
Of that brief time allotted here to man.
He is no drone to fatten in the hive,
He asks but work to keep himself alive.
Of that brief time allotted here to man.
He is no drone to fatten in the hive,
He asks but work to keep himself alive.
What shall he do, oh! wretched, hapless wight,
Or whither turn to face the coming night?
Unwanted, workless, half with hunger slain,
He through each child doth feel another pain.
Or whither turn to face the coming night?
Unwanted, workless, half with hunger slain,
He through each child doth feel another pain.
Those eyes he meets as hopeless as his own,
Save love whose every beauty is out-thrown.
His cheerless mate who shivers by his side,
Was she not fair when she became his bride?
Save love whose every beauty is out-thrown.
His cheerless mate who shivers by his side,
Was she not fair when she became his bride?
In their sweet wooing did those lips not smile,
Those dull eyes light, that bosom pant the while,
And is that long-forgotten joy all spent,
Has hunger stormed love's very battlement?
Those dull eyes light, that bosom pant the while,
And is that long-forgotten joy all spent,
Has hunger stormed love's very battlement?
Go forth replenish—fruit and multiply,
As God hath said, where does the failure lie?
This little circle of a home outcast,
Man, wife, and babes to face want's evil blast.
As God hath said, where does the failure lie?
This little circle of a home outcast,
Man, wife, and babes to face want's evil blast.
The very beast beside its starving brood
Will limb from limb his brother tear for food.
But this poor wretch lifts no ungentle hand
Against the powers that hold his soul unmanned.
Will limb from limb his brother tear for food.
But this poor wretch lifts no ungentle hand
Against the powers that hold his soul unmanned.
85
See how they go along the glitt'ring street,
A piteous band, with slow and dragging feet,
Mud spattered by each swift and splendid coach,
That hardly deigns to warn of its approach.
A piteous band, with slow and dragging feet,
Mud spattered by each swift and splendid coach,
That hardly deigns to warn of its approach.
Held up at last by Law's compelling arm,
See how the children weep in their alarm;
As well they may, for, trembling 'neath the shock,
The wretched crew are hurried to the dock.
See how the children weep in their alarm;
As well they may, for, trembling 'neath the shock,
The wretched crew are hurried to the dock.
Has that poor mother, then, in her despair
Stole for her crying babes a little share
Of those fine things the shining windows show?
Or has the man, made savage by their woe,
Stole for her crying babes a little share
Of those fine things the shining windows show?
Or has the man, made savage by their woe,
Leaped forth to snatch, with fingers hunger-cold,
From some white throat its circling chain of gold?
Or plucked a jewel from some pretty ear
That all his children's crying would not hear?
From some white throat its circling chain of gold?
Or plucked a jewel from some pretty ear
That all his children's crying would not hear?
What is the crime? What brings them, then, to this,
The huddled cry, the sobbing farewell kiss,
The prison cell, one month of labour hard,
For these two souls who were from labour barred?
The huddled cry, the sobbing farewell kiss,
The prison cell, one month of labour hard,
For these two souls who were from labour barred?
Who did but plead to live life's little span?
The shiv'ring woman and the famished man.
What was the crime that tore each hand apart?
The crying children from their mother's heart.
The shiv'ring woman and the famished man.
What was the crime that tore each hand apart?
The crying children from their mother's heart.
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What crime but this, else would his poor babes die,
He begged for bread, his brothers passing by,
Nor did he then demand his right to live,
But only prayed for Christ's sweet sake to give.
He begged for bread, his brothers passing by,
Nor did he then demand his right to live,
But only prayed for Christ's sweet sake to give.
Death's friendly hand, how timid, he declined,
They would not die, since hearts he held were kind,
But he forgot the Law had no heart-beat,
When he did beg his life upon the street.
They would not die, since hearts he held were kind,
But he forgot the Law had no heart-beat,
When he did beg his life upon the street.
He must not steal, his blood he dare not shed,
He has no work, he may not beg his bread.
Trapped by the law, oh, Justice, answer true!
When this free man comes forth, what must he do?
He has no work, he may not beg his bread.
Trapped by the law, oh, Justice, answer true!
When this free man comes forth, what must he do?
‘The Prisoners were charged with begging, and using their two children to induce alms-giving. . . . The case was a pitiable one, both defendants being destitute and famished. . . . The man, who mentioned that he had served in the South African war, said that it was either begging or stealing for them. . . . Nothing was known against the couple, who, however, were sentenced by the magistrate to a month's hard labour each. . . .’ —Daily Paper.
87
THE PAUPER
It dawned a morn to make a heart despair,
East was the wind and chill the April air.
No beast was out save one poor starveling hound,
Who for his supper nosed the muddy ground.
East was the wind and chill the April air.
No beast was out save one poor starveling hound,
Who for his supper nosed the muddy ground.
Beside the river, where its sluggish length
Did darkly coil and twist in wat'ry strength
Beneath the Minster Bridge, then smoothly ran
In unobstructed course, there slept a man.
Did darkly coil and twist in wat'ry strength
Beneath the Minster Bridge, then smoothly ran
In unobstructed course, there slept a man.
Forlorn and ragged, destitute and old,
Where gentle sleep had hushed him in her hold;
From his desire for the Thames' chill breast,
She drew him down and lulled him into rest.
Where gentle sleep had hushed him in her hold;
From his desire for the Thames' chill breast,
She drew him down and lulled him into rest.
The starveling hound, in misery extreme,
Crept up to share the shadow of his dream,
And gave the cheek, low resting on a stone,
The only kiss that cheek had ever known.
Crept up to share the shadow of his dream,
And gave the cheek, low resting on a stone,
The only kiss that cheek had ever known.
Nor did sweet sleep forget for one brief span
To bless the hound as she had blessed the man,
For on each face there dwelt supreme content;
Perchance, to some Elysian fields they went.
To bless the hound as she had blessed the man,
For on each face there dwelt supreme content;
Perchance, to some Elysian fields they went.
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The starveling hound did lie with twitching feet,
And tail slow wagging on the muddy street;
The outcast man flung forth a circling arm,
To hold the brute, or some sweet dream, from harm.
And tail slow wagging on the muddy street;
The outcast man flung forth a circling arm,
To hold the brute, or some sweet dream, from harm.
And so they lay, forgot by all save sleep,
Beside the river passing dumb and deep;
There by the bridge beneath the Minster towers
That held the mighty city's numbered hours.
Beside the river passing dumb and deep;
There by the bridge beneath the Minster towers
That held the mighty city's numbered hours.
Through fair Elysian fields they joyous ran,
The starveling hound beside the outcast man;
But came the Law, with rough, unkindly hand,
To thrust them forth from their dream fairyland.
The starveling hound beside the outcast man;
But came the Law, with rough, unkindly hand,
To thrust them forth from their dream fairyland.
It bid the man go forth in the chill night,
But kept the dog in pity for its plight.
Moved on once more, he went his weary round,
And in his soul desired to be the hound.
But kept the dog in pity for its plight.
Moved on once more, he went his weary round,
And in his soul desired to be the hound.
In endless tramp he did the day endure,
And came at eve before the workhouse door,
And there, in doubt and hesitation, stayed,
Like one who from his doom creeps back afraid,
And came at eve before the workhouse door,
And there, in doubt and hesitation, stayed,
Like one who from his doom creeps back afraid,
From each broad window looked an agèd face,
With longing eyes that held in dim embrace
The busy street from which they were apart,
Old men who looked and longed with aching heart.
With longing eyes that held in dim embrace
The busy street from which they were apart,
Old men who looked and longed with aching heart.
89
Builders of cities these, well might they look,
As doth a writer who hath writ his book
And looks with love upon the printed page!
But these poor workers never shared the wage.
As doth a writer who hath writ his book
And looks with love upon the printed page!
But these poor workers never shared the wage.
Those shaking hands, now raised their brow to shade,
A thousand lives oft leant to them for aid;
They set the city's pulse to throb and flow,
The ships upon the waters forth to go,
A thousand lives oft leant to them for aid;
They set the city's pulse to throb and flow,
The ships upon the waters forth to go,
The wheels to turn, the churches' bells to sound,
They drew ripe corn from the reluctant ground.
Poor crippled hands, now raised their eyes to shade,
Those weary eyes that watched the man afraid,
They drew ripe corn from the reluctant ground.
Poor crippled hands, now raised their eyes to shade,
Those weary eyes that watched the man afraid,
Who stood reluctant by the workhouse gate.
Poor eyes, poor hands, they seem to him to wait—
For what save death: and then the pauper's grave,
More swift, more kind, the flow of Thames' dark wave.
Poor eyes, poor hands, they seem to him to wait—
For what save death: and then the pauper's grave,
More swift, more kind, the flow of Thames' dark wave.
Once more he stood by grey Westminster towers,
And heard the chime toll forth man's passing hours.
And here again he courted death, and went
With joyous speed to that chill element.
And heard the chime toll forth man's passing hours.
And here again he courted death, and went
With joyous speed to that chill element.
His weary head, ah! never did it rest
Upon so soft or so belov'd a breast;
From it he drew a measure, long and deep,
The welcome draught to bring him rest and sleep.
Upon so soft or so belov'd a breast;
From it he drew a measure, long and deep,
The welcome draught to bring him rest and sleep.
90
He almost had forgot age, grief, and cold,
The numbing hunger that did him enfold,
When came the Law, with rough unkindly hand,
And bore the wretched body back to land.
The numbing hunger that did him enfold,
When came the Law, with rough unkindly hand,
And bore the wretched body back to land.
And chid him sore for daring to aspire
To end a life that no one did desire,
So let him go; it thought him well content
To be indulged with short imprisonment.
To end a life that no one did desire,
So let him go; it thought him well content
To be indulged with short imprisonment.
Left him reluctant by the workhouse gate.
It opens, clangs. He is within to wait,
For what, save death: and then the pauper's grave,
More swift, more kind, the flow of Thames' dark wave.
It opens, clangs. He is within to wait,
For what, save death: and then the pauper's grave,
More swift, more kind, the flow of Thames' dark wave.
91
FAITH
I hear the thrush and blackbird sing,
And blackbird sing.
Their honied voices wake the sleeping spring,
The slothful spring,
And as each lovely note sighs forth and soars,
Green to the bough doth come and bloom restores
The earth from mourning for the year at rest.
She holds the golden babe upon her breast,
The new-born spring, the waking spring.
And blackbird sing.
Their honied voices wake the sleeping spring,
The slothful spring,
And as each lovely note sighs forth and soars,
Green to the bough doth come and bloom restores
The earth from mourning for the year at rest.
She holds the golden babe upon her breast,
The new-born spring, the waking spring.
Their glorious tune I dare not hear,
I dare not hear.
Nor April's flower behold without a tear,
Without a tear.
And friends soon come to beat upon my door,
With ‘Open wide thy casement, for before
Was never spring so fair nor song so sweet.’
I push the bolt, and to my heart repeat,
‘I dare not hear, I dare not hear.’
I dare not hear.
Nor April's flower behold without a tear,
Without a tear.
And friends soon come to beat upon my door,
With ‘Open wide thy casement, for before
Was never spring so fair nor song so sweet.’
I push the bolt, and to my heart repeat,
‘I dare not hear, I dare not hear.’
And comes a child to call upon my name,
Taps on the pane,
‘Oh, look thou forth and listen, ne'er again,
Oh, ne'er again
Shall thrush and blackbird sing as now they tune
Their voice in chorus for the birth of June.’
Swift from my window wide I lean and cry—
What to his curious elders I deny—
And speak my pain, and speak my pain.
Taps on the pane,
‘Oh, look thou forth and listen, ne'er again,
Oh, ne'er again
94
Their voice in chorus for the birth of June.’
Swift from my window wide I lean and cry—
What to his curious elders I deny—
And speak my pain, and speak my pain.
‘The blackbird's song, how can I hear,
How can I hear,
When he who held their singing ever dear,
Who held it dear,
Sleeps sound though all the golden thrushes sing.’
Thus to the child still idly loitering
I weeping said, and he did make reply—
‘How can he hear, when thou dost sob and cry;
How can he hear; how can he hear?’
How can I hear,
When he who held their singing ever dear,
Who held it dear,
Sleeps sound though all the golden thrushes sing.’
Thus to the child still idly loitering
I weeping said, and he did make reply—
‘How can he hear, when thou dost sob and cry;
How can he hear; how can he hear?’
Oh, little child, who would not me deceive,
Thou dost believe
That his dear spirit still to earth doth cleave,
Doth cling and cleave,
And in the glory of the earthly air
Finds gladness yet, and still can take a share.
Nor lies he soulless in eternal sleep.
I fling my casement wide, no more to weep,
I must believe, I will believe.
Thou dost believe
That his dear spirit still to earth doth cleave,
Doth cling and cleave,
And in the glory of the earthly air
Finds gladness yet, and still can take a share.
Nor lies he soulless in eternal sleep.
I fling my casement wide, no more to weep,
I must believe, I will believe.
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