Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads :: :: University of Virginia Library

The lad with the bonny blue feather
That bore away jewel and ring;
That struck down Sir Walter de Tracey
Before the proud eyes of the king.
Tawney-yellow his doublet of satin,
His hat was looped up with a stone,
His scarf was a flutter of crimson,
As he leaped like a prince on his roan.

The heralds their trumpets of silver
Blew loud at the multitude's shout;
I saw the brave charger curvetting,
As Richard wound prancing about;
But silent they grew when Sir Tracey
(A gold-mine could scarce glitter more)
Gallop'd into the lists, cold and sullen,
Fool! eyeing the jewels he wore.

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There were diamonds on hat and on feather,
Diamonds from crest unto heel,
Collars of diamonds and sapphires
Hiding the iron and steel.
His housings were silver and purple,
All blazon'd with legend and crest,
But seamed by the sword of no battle,
For Sir Walter de Tracey loved rest.

The lad with the bonny blue feather
Was a page and a gentleman born;
But Sir Walter, a knight of the garter,
Curl'd his thin lip in anger and scorn—
“Shall he who, the lion at Bullen,
Help'd trample the tall Fleur-de-lys,
Compete for the prize of the jewel
With such a mere stripling as this?”

“No, no!” cried the crowd of his varlets,
Waving with velvet and gold,
All shaking their colours and ribbons,
And tossing their banner's fringed fold.
To heighten the insolent clamour,
The drummers, beginning to beat,
Bid the trumpets sound quick for the mounting—
Never sound to my ear was so sweet.

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For the varlets were flocking round Richard,
To hurry him down from his seat;
I saw him look fierce at the rabble,
Disdaining to back or retreat.
That moment the drums and the trumpets
Made all the proud ears of them ring,
As slowly, his cheek flushed with anger,
Rode into the tilt-yard—the King.

Pale grew the lips of the vassals,
Sir Tracey turned colour, and frown'd,
But the people, with scorn of oppression,
Hissed, and the hisses flew round:
Then the king waved his hand, as for silence,
Stamp'd loud on the step of his throne,
And bade the two rivals together
Dismount, and their errors disown.

“Ah! this page is a rival for any,
And fit to break lance with his king;
Let the gallants first meet in the tournay,
And afterwards ride for the ring.”
Dick stood at the feet of the monarch,
And bowed till his plume swept the ground;
Then, clapping on helmet and feather,
Rode into the lists with a bound.

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Sir Walter was silently waiting,
He shone like a statue of gold;
Blue threads of big pearls, like a netting,
Fell over his housings' red fold.
On his helmet a weather-cock glittered,
A device of his errantry showing,
To prove he was ready to ride
Any way that the wind might be blowing.

Dick lifted his eyes up and smil'd,
Oh! it brought the blood hot to my cheek;
I could see from his lips he was praying
That God would look down on the weak.
He seemed to be grown to his saddle,
I felt my brain tremble and reel,
He moved like a fire-ruling spirit,
Blazing from helmet to heel.

The King gave the sign, and the trumpet
Seemed to madden the horses, and drive
Them fast as the leaves in a tempest.
With a shock the tough iron would rive,
Both lances flew up, and the shivers
Leapt over the banners and flags,
As the champions, reining their chargers,
Sat holding the quivering jags.

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Fresh lances! “God's blessing on Dicky!”—
A blast, and in flashes they go!
“Well broken again on his scutcheon!”
Again the wood snaps with the blow.
Alas, for Sir Walter De Tracey!
His spear has flown out of his hand,
Whilst over his bright-gilded crupper
He stretches his length on the sand.

One start! he is up in a moment;
His sword waves a torch in his grasp,
Dick leaps from his foam-covered charger,
And springs with a clash to his clasp.
Sir Walter is shorn of his splendour,
His weather-cock beaten to dust,
His armour has lost all its glitter,
And is dinted with hammer and thrust.

He reels, and Dick presses him sorely,
And smites him as smiths do a forge;
He reels like an axe-stricken cedar—
He falls!—yes!—by God and St. George.
Then, oh, for the clamour and cheering
That rang round the circling ring,
As Dick, his blue feather gay blowing,
Knelt down at the foot of the King!

168

Then the King took the brightest of diamonds
That shone on his fingers that day,
He gave it to bonny Blue Feather,
And made him the Baron of Bray.
Then the varlets bore off their Sir Walter,
The jewels beat out of his chains,
His armour all batter'd and dusty,
With less of proud blood in his veins.

Then they caught his mad froth-cover'd charger,
That had torn off its housings of pearl,
They gathered up ribbons and feathers,
And, downcast, his banner they furl.
I was still looking down on the bearers,
When Dick o' the Diamond sprang in,
And without a good morrow or greeting,
He kissed me from brow unto chin.

169

THE TOWN-GATE.

In the dusky summer evenings,
When the light was growing dim;
The watch from the darkening chamber
Oft heard the distant hymn,
As groups, through the twilight breaking,
Moved over the dry scorched down,
Waving the palm-branch and the staff,
At the sight of the stately town.

Soon, slowly through the dusky gate,
To the light that lay beyond,
Trod all the dusty pilgrims,
Happy as men from bond;
Pointing out tower and steeple
To the boys with the palm-leaf crown,
Chanting the songs of Zion,
To welcome the stately town.

170

The old men, tired and travel-worn,
Were telling tales of home;
Prating of many dangers past,
Of desert or sea-foam.
They sang one hymn together,
Though a few looked sadly down,
The rest with glad flushed faces
Entered the stately town.

In the dark midnights of winter,
Oft came, with bloody plume,
With dinted helm and bleeding horse,
The trooper and the groom;
Red-hot from rout and rally,
“Once they were stricken down,”—
Then spurred, with wild and staring eyes,
Into the stately town.

In the merry April mornings,
The laughing players come;
One blows a pipe and capers,
Another beats a drum:
One bawls out strings of ballads,
And a boy in a woman's gown,
Screams scraps of “dying Juliet,”
As they enter the stately town.

171

With a blaze of cloak and feather,
Of fluttering cloth of gold,
Through the dull white fogs of autumn,
With crimson wreath and fold,
Rode knights unto the tournay,
Trampling over the down,
Grand as a cloud of summer,
Into the stately town.

Driven before the pikemen,
Half-naked, pale, aghast,
Flying like leaves of autumn
Before the chasing blast,
Now hurry bleeding burghers,
Their gashed heads bending down,
Urged on with shouts and curses,
Fast from the stately town.

In the dreadful year of famine,
When black Death moved about,
Three livid, maddened creatures,
With groans and a shrieking shout,
Ran naked through the gateway,
Their shorn heads bandaged down,
From the red-crossed door left open,
To scare the stately town.

172

When bells shook every steeple,
And flags deck'd every roof;
‘Bess’ on a milk-white palfrey,
Trapped with a purple woof,
Smiled, as the pursy alderman,
With the massy keys knelt down;
Then through a flame of cannon
Swept into the stately town.

In a balmy noon of summer,
With clash and shock of drums,
'Midst roar of guns and waving flags,
Hoarse shouts and rabble hums,
The iron Cromwell entered,
His stern eyes looking down,
Not heeding all the pomp and wealth
That filled the stately town.

173

THE KING OF CHAMPAGNE.

I'm all day watching the glow
Of the gold and the crimson wine;
All day watching the amethysts grow
In bunches upon the vine;
All night watching the blood spring out
From the life of the trampled fruit;
All night watching the seething vats
When the cross stars trail and shoot.

I hold the long glass up to the sun,
Seeing the ruby burn,
Marking the dull, dark hue of the wine
To a glistening topaz turn,
When the hidden fire that brings me joy
Steals swift into my brain,
This wine hath the scent of the April shower,
And the glow of the summer rain.

174

I hear the hum of the troubled cask,
And the buzz and rush of the wine,
When the red tide pours in the weltering tun,
And its black beads rise and shine.
I love the tuneful drip, drip, drip,
Of the golden leak of the cask,
As one by one the drops in tune,
Fall in their measured task.

I hear the gurgle and rush
From the long-necked tapering flask,
The flow of jewels that twinkling shine,
Rippling out of the cask.
I sit in the mellow afternoon,
Dozing over my wine,
And hear the voice of the vineyard thrush
Oozing from out the vine;

I hear the roosting chirp of the finch,
In the thick of the dark elm tree;
And the drawling tramp, in the white dust road,
Of the reapers two and three;
And I seem to myself alone with the dead,
In a twilight purgatory,
Till I sit and croon the merry old tune
That I made for Margery.

175

I'm all day watching the rush
Of the column of beads in the glass;
I guard the flow of the silver tap,—
Singing a leisurely mass;
Stirring the wine with a picotee,
Or clove with its velvety red,
And talking of how many years ago
The man who grew them was dead.

I watch the fountain rush
Of the swift, bright bubbles that rise,
Comparing their scent to ladies' breath,
And their glitter to ladies' eyes.
I watch the cream of the snowy foam
Churned from the yellow wines,
And down through the liquor a good long foot,
The gold of the tankards shines.

The scented fire of the Moselle grape,
And the flowery juice of the Hock,
The Virgin's milk—the holiest wine
Of the Rhine-land abbot's stock;
And the tears of Christ, from the lava dust,
Run fluid gold in the cup;
They're things to be drunk with a hymn or a prayer,
And eye-balls turning up.

176

And here I sit, with my cup and my jug,
And my silver tankards three;
This is Annie, and that is Fanny,
And this is Joan, by my knee.
They are my wives and my children dear,
My father and mother and all;
And they are my priests, for I empty each,
In the name of the good St. Paul.

177

SCENES AT A FOUNTAIN.

Here the proud peacock came to spread his fan,
Its emerald lustres and its purple eyes,
The water, then all molten sapphire, caught
The glory of those dyes.

Here the white doves came down to peck and prune,
Like melting snow their mingling shadows fell;
Driven in flapping circles round the elms,
Scared by the clamorous bell.

And here the gold-finch, like a magic bird,
Would perch and sing, unheeded and alone;
Flirting the bright drops from its hazel wings,
Upon the marble stone.

And here the panting stag-hound, worn and weak,
Hurried, to dip its red and frothy tongue;
Sullen, not caring for the rippling fount,
Or for the bird that sung.

178

Mopping and mowing, came the jester quaint,
All red and yellow—ran to splash and dip;
A mad song lurking in his wandering eye—
A mad jest on his lip.

Here came the Queen of Hearts, sweet mistress Anne,
“By Hercules! a most excelling fair!”
So lisped Sir Ague; she spake not—but stooped
To re-arrange her hair.

The fat cook, reeking from his fiery den,
Waddled to rinse his salver and his dish;
Marking, with staring eye of foolish awe,
The gold and silver fish.

The falconer, busy with his bells and straps,
Used here to bathe the bruised wing of his hawk;
Smiling to see the bright eye of the bird—
Marking him strut and stalk.

Here old Sir Richard spurred his hot-plashed steed,
Faint with the scurry of a long day's chase;
A cold frown on his sallow, leaden eye,
So full of pride of race.

179

And here the friar would sit and dip his beads,
Thinking of Jonah and the water world;
Or moralising, on the fallen leaf, when now
Autumn's gold banner furled.

And here the young lord, rosy through his curls,
Came stealthily to swim his gilded boat;
Clapping his hands to see the silver jet,
And rainbow-bubbles float.

Here, too, that dreadful night when ruin fell
Upon the house, those red hands washed the knife;
As from the distant gable came a shriek
From the departing life.

180

THE JESTER'S SERMON.

The Jester shook his hood and bells, and leaped upon a chair,
The pages laughed, the women screamed, and tossed their scented hair;
The falcon whistled, stag-hounds bayed, the lap-dog barked without,
The scullion dropped the pitcher brown, the cook railed at the lout;
The steward, counting out his gold, let pouch and money fall,
And why? because the Jester rose to say grace in the hall!

The page played with the heron's plume, the steward with his chain,
The butler drummed upon the board, and laughed with might and main;

181

The grooms beat on their metal cans, and roared till they turned red,
But still the Jester shut his eyes, and rolled his witty head;
And when they grew a little still, read half a yard of text,
And waving hand, struck on the desk, then frowned like one perplexed.

“Dear sinners all,” the fool began, “man's life is but a jest,
A dream, a shadow, bubble, air, a vapour at the best.
In a thousand pounds of law I find not a single ounce of love:
A blind man killed the parson's cow in shooting at the dove;
The fool that eats till he is sick must fast till he is well;
The wooer who can flatter most will bear away the bell.

Let no man haloo he is safe till he is through the wood;
He who will not when he may, must tarry when he should.

182

He who laughs at crooked men should need walk very straight;
O he who once has won a name may lie a-bed till eight.
Make haste to purchase house and land, be very slow to wed;
True coral needs no painter's brush, nor need be daubed with red.

The friar, preaching, cursed the thief (the pudding in his sleeve).
To fish for sprats with golden hooks is foolish, by your leave—
To travel well—an ass's ears, ape's face, hog's mouth, and ostrich legs.
He does not care a pin for thieves who limps about and begs.
Be always first man at a feast and last man at a fray;
The short way round, in spite of all, is still the longest way.

When the hungry curate licks the knife there's not much for the clerk;
When the pilot, turning pale and sick, looks up—the storm grows dark.”

183

Then loud they laughed, the fat cook's tears ran down into the pan;
The steward shook, that he was forced to drop the brimming can;
And then again the women screamed, and every stag-hound bayed—
And why? because the motley fool so wise a sermon made!

184

THE RIDING TO THE TOURNAMENT.

Over meadows purple flowered,
Through the dark lanes oak-embowered.
Over commons dry and brown,
Through the silent red-roofed town,
Past the reapers and the sheaves,
Over white roads strewn with leaves,
By the gipsy's ragged tent,
Rode we to the Tournament.

Over clover wet with dew,
Whence the sky-lark, startled, flew,
Through brown fallows, where the hare
Leapt up from its subtle lair,
Past the mill-stream and the reeds
Where the stately heron feeds,
By the warren's sunny wall,
Where the dry leaves shake and fall,

185

By the hall's ancestral trees,
Bent and writhing in the breeze,
Rode we all with one intent,
Gaily to the Tournament.

Golden sparkles, flashing gem,
Lit the robes of each of them,
Cloak of velvet, robe of silk,
Mantle snowy-white as milk,
Rings upon our bridle hand,
Jewels on our belt and band,
Bells upon our golden reins,
Tinkling spurs and shining chains—
In such merry mob we went
Riding to the Tournament.

Laughing voices, scraps of song,
Lusty music loud and strong,
Rustling of the banners blowing,
Whispers as of rivers flowing,
Whistle of the hawks we bore
As they rise and as they soar,
Now and then a clash of drums
As the rabble louder hums,
Now and then a burst of horns
Sounding over brooks and bourns,

186

As in merry guise we went
Riding to the Tournament.

There were abbots fat and sleek,
Nuns in couples, pale and meek.
Jugglers tossing cups and knives,
Yeomen with their buxom wives,
Pages playing with the curls
Of the rosy village girls,
Grizzly knights with faces scarred,
Staring through their visors barred,
Huntsmen cheering with a shout
At the wild stag breaking out,
Harper, stately as a king,
Touching now and then a string,
As our revel laughing went
To the solemn Tournament.

Charger with the massy chest,
Foam-spots flecking mane and breast,
Pacing stately, pawing ground,
Fretting for the trumpet's sound,
White and sorrel, roan and bay,
Dappled, spotted, black, and grey,
Palfreys snowy as the dawn,
Ponies sallow as the fawn,

187

All together neighing went
Trampling to the Tournament.

Long hair scattered in the wind,
Curls that flew a yard behind,
Flags that struggled like a bird
Chained and restive—not a word
But half buried in a laugh;
And the lance's gilded staff
Shaking when the bearer shook
At the jester's merry look,
As he grins upon his mule,
Like an urchin leaving school,
Shaking bauble, tossing bells,
At the merry jest he tells,—
So in happy mood we went,
Laughing to the Tournament.

What a bustle at the inn,
What a stir, without—within;
Filling flagons, brimming bowls
For a hundred thirsty souls;
Froth in snow-flakes flowing down,
From the pitcher big and brown,
While the tankards brim and bubble
With the balm for human trouble;

188

How the maiden coyly sips
How the yeoman wipes his lips,
How the old knight drains the cup
Slowly and with calmness up,
And the abbot, with a prayer,
Fills the silver goblet rare,
Praying to the saints for strength
As he holds it at arm's length;
How the jester spins the bowl
On his thumb, then quaffs the whole;
How the pompous steward bends
And bows to half-a-dozen friends,
As in thirsty mood we went
Dusty to the Tournament.

Then again the country over
Through the stubble and the clover,
By the crystal-dropping springs,
Where the road-dust clogs and clings
To the pearl-leaf of the rose,
Where the tawdry nightshade blows,
And the bramble twines its chains
Through the sunny village lanes,
Where the thistle sheds its seed,
And the goldfinch loves to feed,
By the milestone green with moss,
By the broken wayside cross,

189

In a merry band we went
Shouting to the Tournament.

Pilgrims with their hood and cowl,
Pursy burghers cheek by jowl,
Archers with the peacock's wing
Fitting to the waxen string,
Pedlars with their pack and bags,
Beggars with their coloured rags,
Silent monks, whose stony eyes,
Rests in trance upon the skies,
Children sleeping at the breast,
Merchants from the distant West,
All in gay confusion went
To the royal Tournament.

Players with the painted face
And a drunken man's grimace,
Grooms who praise their raw-boned steeds,
Old wives telling maple beads,—
Blackbirds from the hedges broke,
Black crows from the beeches croak,
Glossy swallows in dismay
From the mill-stream fled away,
The angry swan, with ruffled breast,
Frowned upon her osier nest,

190

The wren hopped restless on the brake,
The otter made the sedges shake,
The butterfly before our rout
Flew like a blossom blown about,
The coloured leaves, a globe of life,
Spun round and scattered as in strife,
Sweeping down the narrow lane
Like the slant shower of the rain,
The lark in terror, from the sod,
Flew up and straight appealed to God,
As a noisy band we went
Trotting to the Tournament.

But when we saw the holy town,
With its river and its down,
Then the drums began to beat
And the flutes piped mellow sweet;
Then the deep and full bassoon
Murmured like a wood in June,
And the fifes, so sharp and bleak,
All at once began to speak.
Hear the trumpets clear and loud,
Full-tongued, eloquent, and proud,
And the dulcimer that ranges
Through such wild and plaintive changes;

191

Merry sound the jester's shawm,
To our gladness giving form;
And the shepherd's chalumeau,
Rich and soft, and sad and low;
Hark! the bagpipes squeak and groan—
Every herdsman has his own;
So in measured step we went
Pacing to the Tournament.

All at once the chimes break out,
Then we hear the townsmen shout,
And the morris-dancers' bells
Tinkling in the grassy dells;
The bell thunder from the tower
Adds its sound of doom and power,
As the cannon's loud salute
For a moment made us mute,
Then again the laugh and joke
On the startled silence broke;—
Thus in merry mood we went
Laughing to the Tournament.

192

AN OCTOBER FRUIT PIECE.

Look at the gold fruit hung
Where the robin pruned, carolled, and sung;
Red through the green
Shows the nectarine.
Long has the damson swung,
To its heart the hornet has clung,—
The knell of the year is rung.

No! the plum has a golden wound,
The robin has carolled and pruned;
The wasp it preys,
All the autumn days,
Where the robin has piped and tuned;
Not heeding the dead fruit's wound—
For hours it has piped and tuned.

Though the clouds may fold and furl,
The rooks still gather and swirl,
A thick black swarm
Now the noons are warm,
Careless of ploughman or earl;
Moving in circle and whirl,
While the fire-clouds drift and furl.

193

THE WEAVER AND HIS SHADOW.

Beside a dying woman,
A pale man plied the loom,
The buzz of the wheel and treddle
Filled all the squalid room.
It drowned the groans of the children,—
That loom, with its robe of state;—
Its threads of pink and silver
Shine bright as a coffin-plate,
Whirr—deedle—deedle—deedle,
Gay as a coffin-plate.

Deep, in the thickening twilight,
Another weaver sits;
A grizzly thing of nothing but bones,
Weaving and singing by fits.
His woof is black as a dead man's pall,
And spotted with poor man's tears;
He sings a dirge with the sob of a child,
A tale of passion and fears;
Whirr—deedle—deedle—deedle,
A tale of passion and fears.

194

His thin hands move with a madman's speed,
Though weak for lack of bread;
He chokes to hear the dying groan
Of his wife, who's all but dead.
But the costly robe of the duchess,
The robe of pomp and state,
Must be done this very evening,
Not a moment after eight.
Whirr—deedle—deedle—deedle,
Not a moment after eight.

A thousand swift feet dancing,
Jewels, and silk, and flowers,
Bright smiles of love and greeting,
None there to count the hours;
And, in the midst, the duchess
Moves like a sceptred queen,
With never a thought of coffin or shroud,
Or the strips of the turf so green,
Whirr—deedle—deedle—deedle,
Or the strips of the turf so green.

195

AUTUMN JINGLES.

See the morning dew is dripping,
And the gold skin of the pippin
Shines like metal through the dripping
Of the autumn's crystal dew.
Now the robin's breast grows brighter,
As the apple bough grows lighter,—
Autumn red leaf glowed the brighter,
When the swallow eastward flew.

Every hedge is gemmed with berries,
Rosy red as summer cherries;
Nests of rubies, piles of berries;
What a treasure to the boy!
Now the bramble's quite a study,
With its fruit, half black, half ruddy—
Really, really, quite a study
To the cowherd, food and joy.

196

Now the yellow pear is swaying
On the fading tree that's weighing
Down with all that ceaseless swaying
Of the fruit so rich and sweet.
Every faded vine-leaf dapples,
With a blood-stain, like the apple's,
Green, yet blushing where it dapples;
Falling, bursting at our feet.

Every gust the walnuts rattle,
All the boughs go tittle-tattle,
When the dry shells fall and rattle,
And the leaf comes whirling down.
Golden-globed, the rich plums cover
All the wall; and many a lover
Flocks around that luscious cover,
When the leaves turn crimson brown.

How the brown nuts drop in plenty;
Every shake will bring down twenty;
Husks are splitting; there are plenty
For the squirrel and the mouse.
Now the spider, swift and busy,
Netting dead boughs—tell me, is he
Not by far the one most busy,
Spinneth in the garden-house?

197

THE DANCES OF THE LEAVES.

Now the sky is ever filling, ever filling,
On such dark and rainy eves,
With unwilling, with unwilling
Eddies of the countless leaves.
They are sailing, they are sailing
Round the wet and dripping trees,
Mid the wailing, mid the wailing
Groanings of the dying breeze.
Twisting, twirling, ever swirling
Round the black and matted boughs,
Where the whirling, restless whirling
Rooks do harbour and do house.
Witches' circles, witches' circles
Higher than the leafless tree,
Countless circles, lessening circles,
With a wild, unearthly glee.
Like the madmen, like the madmen,
In a dance around the dead,

207

Mopping, mowing, mopping, mowing,
Round the pale form on the bed.
And the branches creep and shiver,
As they flutter, as they flutter,
From the copsewood to the river,
While the bare woods sigh and mutter.
In a cluster, in a cluster,
From the hollows in the lane;
How they muster, how they muster,
Like the spirits through the rain.
All their pinions, all their pinions,
Black and crimson, brown and gold,
Their dominions, their dominions,
Conquered by the winter cold.
Their procession, their procession
Crowds along the churchyard path;
Their progression, their progression,
Growing swifter as in wrath.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry,
Over heath and yellow broom;
How they scurry, how they scurry,
Like the devils to the doom.
Flying Arabs, flying Arabs,
When the wind comes howling after;
Scattered Caribs, scattered Caribs,
Leaping over roof and rafter.

208

Over paling, over paling,
Through the park and o'er the lawn;
And their railing, and their railing,
Mocks the loud wind's thunder scorn.
Groping blinded, groping blinded,
Through the pine tree's prison bars,
Cruel minded, cruel minded,
By the pale light of the stars.
Up the garden, up the garden,
Where the flowers hang black in flakes,
(Pray for pardon, pray for pardon!)
Like the rags from gibbet stakes.
See the foot-prints, see the foot-prints,
Of death bearers from the doors,
And the white splints, and the white splints,
Of the oak tree on the moors.
Showering, showering, ever showering,
On the bald head of the digger;
Poring, poring, old and poring,
In the grave that's growing bigger.
At the lattice, at the lattice,
Drive the leaves like noisy rain;
In rage that is, in rage that is,
Hating joy and all her train.
Fire-lights flutter, fire-lights flutter,
Round the deep embrasured room.

209

Shadows mutter, shadows mutter,
To the creatures of the gloom.
Hear the cricket, hear the cricket,
Like the spirit of the hearth;
While the wicket, while the wicket,
Shakes in chorus to its mirth.
Up the chancel, up the chancel,
Through the open eastern oriel;
Tombs they cancel, tombs they cancel,
With a sound of grief corporeal.
Then they scatter, then they scatter,
Up the round stairs of the tower,
Where they batter, where they batter,
All man wrought in his brief hour.
And they muffle, and they muffle,
All the deep and clamorous bells.
Then they shuffle, how they shuffle,
Through the room where no one dwells.
Ever wending, ever wending,
Spite of winter's blustering rage,
An unending, an unending,
Sad and weary pilgrimage.
Never resting, never resting,
Till the spring blows soft again,
And the western, and the western
Sky grows azure after rain.

210

Till the cuckoo, till the cuckoo,
Scares the sleeping shepherd boy.
“Willy, look you—Willy, look you,
Flowers break forth for very joy.”
Such the dances, such the dances,
Of the leaves throughout the year;
Seen in trances, seen in trances,
Just as I have written here.

211

THE MILL STREAM.

Circle, circle, swallows circle
Round the willow mead,
And below them, far below them,
Dappled oxen feed;
Where, amid the oat-grass waving,
Bristles up the reed.

Like a troop of frenzied Tartars,
Chasing round the mead,
Every trout deep in the river
Startling by their speed,
Past the golden and the azure
Of the flowering weed.

Turning, wheeling quick in circles,
Swift as desert horse,
How unlike that stately river,
With its changeless course;
Never turning, sad at straying,
From its limpid source.

212

Circling, circling, waving, diving
Round the wavy sallows,
Where the mossy wheel is dipping,
Frothing all the shallows;
And bright, purple, free, and lavish,
Bloom the broad-leaved mallows.

Where the river choked with blossom
Gurgles through the reeds,
Past the moist ooze, dark and sluggish,
Where the otter feeds,
By the blue Forget-me-not,
In the osier meads.

Where the king-fisher sits resting,
By the willowy stream,
And his wings with light of sunset
For a moment gleam;
Chased by every glossy swallow,
As day scares a dream.

When the cows flock to the milker,
Shadow'd in the stream,
And the swallows have ceased circling,
Saving, in their dream;
And the purple flowers no longer
In the shallows gleam.

213

See the mossed roots of the willows
Creep to drink the stream,
Circling, winding, creeping, writhing,
Like a fever dream;
And along the distant high-road,
Jogs the jingling team.

Still from corn slopes, brown and golden,
Comes a distant laugh,
Where among the half-cut barley,
Reapers shout and quaff:
Half the earth is now in sunshine,
And in shadow half.

Liquid azure flows the river,
Through the sunny mead,
Where dark shadows chase the gleaners,
With the spirits speed;
On the paths, that by the river,
To the village lead.

Mark the broad leaves of the lily,
'Neath the current gleam,
Part disclosed, and partly hidden
(Faces in a dream);
Every breeze blows dark the ripple
On the twinkling stream.

214

Where the tide seems still to linger,
By the flags in rank,
And the blue flower of remembrance,
Blooms upon the bank;
Every little nodding blossom,
With eve's dew is dank.

There the dark weeds float and waver,
With the moving stream,
Beckoning like spectral fingers,
Warning us in dream;
And beneath them silver flashing
Lurking fishes gleam.

There the river toileth slowly,
Where the willow's drooping;
Through the marshy, reedy meadow
All the steers are trooping;
In the shadow of the hawthorn
The herd-boy is whooping.

Through the distant meadows ranging,
Rambles on the stream,
Creeping in a line of silver,
(Love-thought through a dream;)
You may track it 'mid the fallows,
By that silver gleam.

215

When the sky is red with sunset,
Crimson every cloud,
And the river fiery flowing,
With a lustre proud;
There, as moths around a taper,
Gay the swallows crowd.

When the gnats the river dimple,
As with spots of rain,
Weaving round their twining circles,
Humming each his strain:
There, like hawks around the sparrows,
Swallows flock amain.

216

THE MONKS OF ELY.

[_]

[It is recorded in an old chronicle, that as a certain Saxon king was returning from a victory, and rowing past the towers of Ely, he bade his oarsmen rest for a moment, that he might hear the holy chants of the monks.]

Past the stately towers of Ely
Row King Canute and his Thanes,
Where the saints and where the martyrs
Moulder in the sun and rains;
Twice a hundred burning summers
Have shone full upon those panes.
“Row ye slowly past the abbey,
Softer, softer, O ye Thanes.”

Hark! the holy brothers' hymn,
From the cloister dark and dim—
Like the death-prayer of a saint,
Comes the murmur low and faint,

217

Walking not the swallow's young,
In the belfry turret hung;
Where like flinty mountain peak,
Yonder towers blue heaven seek,
And as swift as jet of fire,
Leaps towards the clouds the spire.

“All the dyes of Paradise
Bloom unfading in each pane;
Perfumes of eternal April
On the marble pavements rain,
Like a temple from the ocean,
From those seas of golden grain,
Rise the turrets; steer then softly
Past the twilight porch again.”

Stately as the mountain's height,
Rise the towers in sun and light,
Though they laugh to scorn the thunder,
That doth howl and mutter under,
Yet they shelter safe and warm,
From the wind and from the storm,
Where the massy bells are swung,
The wild dove and her white young,
In the battlement so high,
When the hurricane is nigh.

218

“All day long from yonder turret,
Murmur birds their ceaseless psalm;
All night long the convent garden,
Fragrant with the breath of balm,
Echoes with the bird rejoicing,
Like a martyr with his palm.
Row then softly, may the angels
Shield us all from sin and harm.”

Like a silver frothing fountain,
The carved pinnacles are mounting,
All is dark and dusk within,
O'ershaded, as man's life, with sin,
Chequered with the dreadful gloom
Of the very day of doom,
Barr'd with all the light and shade
That on life itself is laid,
Light comes only through the pane,
Blazon'd with Christ's crimson stain.

“Past the solemn towers of Ely,
Slowly floats the royal galley;
Past the corn slopes and the meadows,
Past the holt, and moor, and valley,
Where the weary reapers resting,
With their laughing children dally;

219

Row then softer, O my vassals,
Past the orchard, through the valley.”

Round those niches long ago,
Did the stone-flowers bud and blow,
Now in frost and snow and rain,
Mouldering to earth again,
So man's hopes do all decay,
As the rose melts into clay.
Yet God's praises do not cease,
Nor the flowers of earth decrease;
Earth is just as full of sun,
As ere death had yet begun.

“Though we've passed the towers of Ely,
Still I hear the chant within,
Faint as whisper in the bosom,
Warning one of shame and sin,
Like the lark's voice o'er a city,
Spite of all the war and din.
Softly row our gilded galley,
Till the monks have hush'd within.”

220

THE JOCKEY'S SONG.

“His eye, which scornfully glisteneth like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.”
Shakspere's Venus and Adonis.

There's the saddling-bell ringing—a death peal for some;
Bring old Galloper out, and come, jockey lad, come—
There's devil about him, there's fire in his eye;
Where there's blood in the “cretur” the courage runs high.

Draw his clothes gently off; 'gad, see the thing shine—
No rose leaf is softer, no satin so fine;
See the veins, how they branch on the dark, glossy skin—
Good signs of the pluck and the mettle within.

221

How the trainer and backer look on him the while,
As you would on a child, with a pat and a smile;
For the horse knows to-day he must prove himself best,
As well as I know the sun sets in the west.

Bring him on through the crowd, while the wrappers I doff;
Though sleek as a judge when his clothing's thrown off,
Ere an hour has gone past, in a ditch I may lie,
And this broken-backed jade by his rider may die.

They are clearing the course, give a leg, with a bound,
Pull that girth a bit tighter, I mustn't to ground;
We had need of firm seat when we fly through the air:
'Gad the people are thronging around like a fair.

“More power to yer elbow.”—“Good luck t'ye Jack;
Success to yer name, and I wish you well back.”
The bell has done ringing, for a breathing I start;
There's time for a warming before the boys part.”

222

“Hurrah for Stripe Jacket!”—“My whip there, my spur;
'Tis as sharp as the spike of that wild prickled bur.”
They're coming—good fellows as ever strode horse;
Ah! there's mother and Bobby, and Susan, of course.

“Hallo, Jack, boy!”—“Hey, Nat, there.”—Ah! Scott, man, there's fun
In hand for some three of us ere we have done.
We start altogether, but I'll bet thee a crown
Ere that swinger is past there'll be half of us down.

“I shall win in a canter,—I'll bet you a five
I'll be neck with the bay,” ay, but tush, man alive.
A drop of the flask ere we start, is the thing
To keep up the glow on the top of the skin.

The starter, lads, comes with his flag—have a care;
How deep is his voice, with his, “All ready, there?”
Light hand on the bridle, bold eye, and foot steady,
Loud the chorus responsive, “We're ready—ay, ready.”

223

There's a rasping good fence, and a slapping wide brook,
And a bullfinch, a leap that, I swear by the book,
Will take all the blood.—There's a start—clear the way!
They're—no!—God be with them!—they're off—they're away.

Bound, swift as the roe-deer, my brown one, my pride;
Put your feet down together, make sure of your stride.
I'll stick to your back as the rattler you clear;—
Hurrah! here it comes, and not one jockey near.

Well done! without clipping, no wild deer could fly
So sure, nor so swift, nor so true, nor so high.
No wild deer, though winged by the cry of the hound,
Such a rasper as that could have cleared at a bound.

There are hoofs sounding hollow not far from my back;
Blue cap and the chestnut are fast on our track.

224

He is up—there's another, and one far behind,—
To catch us, he need borrow speed from the wind.

There's the burst that leads on to the rail and the brook;
Drive fast, without thought, without word, without look.
One bound and we're over, I hear the hurrah
Grow faint, with a sound that comes borne from afar.

One's down, and the jock a good spinner is thrown;
'Tis Nat, and the fellow is not left alone;
The third scrambles through on the bright chestnut horse;
But the fourth has turned tail, and has swerved from the course.

He has passed me—confusion!—upon him I gain,
Drive the spur, ply the whip fast, and slacken the rein.
Old Galloper's come of good kith and good kin,
But the foam from his mouth falls like snow on his skin.

225

We charge three at the fence, Yellow Jacket is hurled,—
Like a stone from a sling from his saddle he's whirled.
With a thigh-bone all splintered, he crawls from the track;
We've no time to speak comfort, no time to look back.

We charge three at the fence, the black mare's gone lame,
With a thundering crash on the hurdle she came;
Poor cripple! scarce fit for the bone-knacker's knife,
She limps from the race-course—he's ruined for life.

They tail off, and we two are sharp at it again,
He's straining each sinew, and muscle, and vein.
But I'll wait on him now, 'long the flat, up the hill;
I pass him—the beggar! he gains on me still.

I can hear from the stand the glad thousands that cheer;
Once over that fence, and the winning-post's near.

226

“Here they come!” “Here they are!” and away they are gone;
We fly over the fence, past the thick of the throng.

Ply the whip, drive the spur, lean forward, my lad,
With wild staring eye, like a fellow that's mad.
Neck and neck—one stride further, hurrah! it is done:
“He will win,” he is winning—“yes! Old Galloper's won.”

There is waving of hats, what a roar they give out.
As they rise to a man, with a heart-thrilling shout;
I patted Old Galloper leaping to the ground,
I felt giddy with joy at the echo around.

There is foam on his skin, on my spur there is blood,
But his wind is as sure, and his mettle as good,
And his eye is as bright, and his courage as stout,
As when wing'd at the start by the burst of the shout.

227

I AND THEE.

As the wild flower to the wild bee,
As the lark to the sunny cloud,
As the wild bird to the wild sea,
So am I to thee.
Be not then so proud,
Though with beauty's majesty
Thou art rich endowed.

The lark toils up to the sun,
The stream toils on to the sea,
The rills to the river run
Resting never a one,
As I run to thee.
Frown not then nor mock at me,
As you have begun.

228

WELLAWAY!

Ah, wellaway!
Slowly through the cold hard clay
Doth the corn-blade make its way,
Groping blindly for the day—
Wellaway!

Slowly, without song or sound,
Through the frozen meadow ground,
Do the flowers creep up to-day—
Wellaway!

Slowly does the spring unfold
All her wealth and joy untold,
Slow to marshal her array—
Wellaway!

229

Slowly, slowly, one by one,
Do the wild birds greet the sun,
Though it shine so very gay—
Wellaway!

Slowly does the winter pass;
More of rain and cold, alas!
Ere we see the summer ray—
Wellaway!

Long shall blow the winter blast,
Long before its rage hath passed,
Changing to the breeze of May—
Wellaway!

230

WINTER MOONLIGHT.

Softly falls the silver rain, through the boughs that shade the lane,
On the white pools and the dead leaves that lie matted blackly there;
Deepest night's soft lambent fire burns upon yon stately spire,—
In the distant fallow glitters, like a marsh-light, the ploughshare.

All the sky is clear and blue, keen the fleecy cloudlets through
Shine the stars, that sparkle frosty mid the grey drift rippling white,
Heap'd like mountains vapour hidden, change the white clouds, at God's bidding,
Into countless bands of angels, guarding earth and heaven by night.

231

The great archangel of the sky seems to guide them as they fly,
Every white flint on the dark clod glimmers whiter to the moon;
All the voices of the dead are around us as we tread,
Voices that are with us ever, night and morning, late and soon,

Clear the dew-drops crystalline glitter as the moon-beams shine,
Bright the stubble crisp and frosty glints into the azure light,
Now the clouded moon is brightening, and the long drear road is whitening,
Now the wind, in gusty billows, tries to rend the chains of night.

Silver flaming on the wall, pale-winged, wavering moonbeams fall,
Like the strange, unearthly shadows of a guardian angel's face,
Very strange and very holy, striking awe in us and wholly,
As a benediction coming to the dark and lonely place.

232

Then the silver shadows waver, very weird in their behaviour,
Blue and amber is the sky where their white-flamed glory falls,
Low-voiced winds are in the boughs, all around the sleeping house,
Waving up the ancient pictures and the hangings on the walls.

Heavy branches bent and bowing, now and then a distant lowing
From the meadow cold and silent, from the pasture hushed and still;
All the chamber windows barred, and the frosted casements starred
With the blurrings of death's finger, very palsied, very chill.

Now the pale dim golden cloud doth the moon a moment shroud,
Now the sky is white and fleecy, veined with soft and vapoury blue.
Throbbing holy, deep and tender as the eyes of maiden slender,
When a youth looks down into them, and sees child-love peeping through.

233

While without earth lies so holy, silent, calm—as pale and lowly,
As a virgin abbess kneeling at a lonely midnight shrine,—
All is not asleep within, there are wakers flushed with sin,
Fevered eyes that, in the night lamp, like a jewelled idol's shine.

Now within a thousand houses sin, (and lust her sister,) rouses,
Pallid faces hard and cruel watch sick men who calmly sleep;
Joy lies down worn pale with pleasure, and the miser dreams of treasure,
While Grief sits awake, and listens to her children as they weep.

Spendthrifts, count the throbs of breath, curse the slow, delaying death,
Rub the dusty-hoarded jewels in the long-locked cabinet,
Weigh the massy silver spoons, or play slow but merry tunes
On the gittern, while they finger the rich ruby carcanet.

234

Yet without is fairy land, blue waves on a silver strand
Break with music that we feel, but we strive in vain to hear;
All the dark shapes on the lawn dance and bend until the dawn,
Like a pale avenging angel, calmly rising, doth appear.

Where the dead and bleached pine on the hill doth ghastly shine,
By the valley and the way-post and the Dead man's broken cross,
Soft the snow slopes bare and cold, to the long and barren wold,
Where the boughs, like madmen praying, dark against the white sky toss.

Now the pious child awaking is with holy awe o'ertaken,
As he sees two fiery eye-balls shining on him through the dark;
But he knows from the Evangels, that a pair of blessed angels
Watch our slumbers, as the pilot does the tempest-wildered bark.

235

Cold the moonlight's silver dew falleth a soft balm to few,
Yet to all men bringeth opiates—deep forgetfulness and rest;
Shed thy blessings on me worn with the fever of self-scorn,
With my aching brain o'erlaboured, and my ever-bruised breast.

See in yonder forest glade, where the boughs a twilight made,
The slant moonbeam gloweth brighter for the darkness it pierced through,
So, dear Jesus, grant my life, though with storm and darkness rife,
May have radiant breaks of dawning and some moonlit moments too.

236

THE ANGELS IN THE GARRET.

In the garret shone the lustre
Of the daylight red and brazen,
Merry motes like fairies gather
In a multitude amazing;
Slanting sunbeams, angel ladders,
Join the cloud unto the garret;
For no window stops the sunlight,
Even though you shut and bar it;
Golden winged, the holy sunbeams
Hasten to the poet's chamber,
Where the rats the whole night clamber,
Long ere light burns on the pane;
Finding what the lord of it,
With his genius and his wit,
Sought for all the day in vain.

Cruel sunbeams, evil angels,
Flashing light upon his brain;

237

From his dreams of love and heaven,
Just as the loud bells struck seven,
Blazed your glory on the pane,
Calling him to earth again.
He was walking on a terrace
Rich with orange-trees in flower,
Tall beside him rose a palace,
When he heard the fatal hour.
He was pacing down a forest,
Ringing with the bugle peal;
He was slaying a magician
With a skin of stony steel.
He was traversing a desert,
Barren waste of orange sand;
Or was leaping in a shallop,
Steering by an unseen hand.
He was clouded on the Brocken,
Dancing with blue withered witches;
And but now old Abon Hassan
Left him his unnumbered riches.
Right before him rose Damascus,
Every minaret a star,
Then he rubbed his eyes, and found
He was passing Temple Bar;
He was diving down—a kiss
From a mermaid fair to win;

238

He stood by the boiling Maelstrom,
Leaping fierce and swift within;
In a crater he was seeking
Molten gold 'mid Hecla's ice;
Then he was a turbaned Persian,
Driving camel-loads of spice.

He was Amadis the Lion,
Breaking lances, splitting shields;
He was waving shattered banners
On victorious battle-fields.
He was one of the three hundred
Dying underneath the rock;
While the Persians still were reeling
With the fury of that shock.
He was driving brazen galleys
O'er the wave of Salamis;
He was bending over maiden
Spell-bound in the “House of Bliss.”

He rode with the clans of Timour,
Wrapped in furs and fragrant silk;
He bestrode a sable charger,
Trapped in housings white as milk.
He beheld the Temple burning,
And the red cloud raining fire;

239

He knelt down and prayed to Titus
For the priest, his aged sire.
He was slinging heads of Pagans
To his bloody saddle-bow;
He was striking at the lilies
On the plain of Cressy now.

From the realms of Charlemagne,
From the tangled vines of Spain,
From the land of Oberon,
In the dreamy days by-gone;
From a crowd of dead men's faces,
In the old-remembered places.
From a softly murmured name,
From a black sky edged with flame;
O'er a damp stone where there grew
Nettles; even weeds were few.
From such bliss, and from such pain,
Came he back to earth again.

From a Sultan's cedar palace,
Where the black mutes bear the chalice,
In their ghastly eyes a hope,
Feet as swift as antelope.
From the chamber of the bell,
Where the sexton loves to dwell;

240

Where the chancel all below
With sky colours is a-glow.
From the chapel underneath,
Fretted by the salt wind's teeth,
To his home, with throb of pain,
Came the poet back again.

He was couching with the Caffre,
Deep amid the giant reeds,
Watching for the wounded lion
By the red pool where he feeds.
By the blood-drops on the branches
He was following a bear,
Cold above him hung the snow peaks,
Far below the earth spread fair.
From all these, with start of pain,
Came the poet back again.

From the dungeon of the abbey
Rising, lost in the midnight,
Watching from the far-off altar,
Slowly creep a speck of light.
From the stony figure waking
From his long sleep on the tomb,
When the moon was swiftly breaking
From her prison house of gloom.

241

When the ghostly choir was singing
Dirges to the long since dead,
With a black hood solemn muffled,
Or a white shroud on each head.—
From such scenes of fear and pain
Came the poet back again.

From the sound of smitten steel,
Through a roll of muffled wheel;
From a father's dying curse,
From deep blasphemies, or worse;
From the one word ne'er forgot,
From the echo of the clot,
Falling on the coffin-plate;
From the death sob heard but late—
From such agonies of pain
Came the poet back again.

242

THE BELFRY TOWER.

The belfry tower is old and strong—
God knows it hath been builded long—
For some cold hand has carved well,
Just over 'gainst the tenor bell,
And underneath the window grate,
Thirteen hundred forty-eight.

Long dead are those whose cross and sign,
And baptism of splashing wine,
Blessed the old bells, whose silver chime
Has never ceased from that same time.
Still sound they swing the whole of the eight
As in thirteen hundred forty-eight.

243

Their broad hearts yet remain unbroken,
Firm and sound be this the token:
Hope and joy, and love and death
Are still vibrating in their breath,
Floating from the turret's state
As in thirteen hundred forty-eight.

They have tolled for the parting soul,
Or ere the sexton turned the moul;
Gladly greeted many a bride,
Welcomed children born to pride;
Have been still the voices of mute fate
From thirteen hundred forty-eight.

The monks are dead who blessed the bells,
The proud lord in a small grave dwells;
His child has grown to man and died,
Adulteress became the bride;
Yet still the belfry rears its state
As in thirteen hundred forty-eight.

244

THE OLD FISHERMAN'S LAMENT.

[_]

[I remember once, at a Cornish fishing-town, seeing an old fisherman sitting, on a sunny afternoon in August, upon a broken boat that lay deeply imbedded in the hot, dry, soft, crumbling sand. The old man was almost in his dotage, and was mumbling inarticulate words to himself, as he looked, with a vacant and sorrowful stare, at the advancing waves that ran swiftly up to his feet.]

The old man listens to the sea;
“Ye waves! ye stole my child from me!”
The hoarse waves splashing ceaselessly,
Roar at his feet, with a restless glee.

“Ye waves! ye stole my child from me!
Many miles hence, on the Northern sea,
By the Silver Pits, where the scud blew free,
By the shoal where the dead men wait for me.”

245

“Ye waves! ye stole my child from me!
Blue was his eye, and his glance was free,
I pray to the holy Trinity,
That I may rest where my son may be.

“The waves bring presents of agatrie,
And lay at my feet; but I and ye
Are foes,—go back, and a lullaby
Sing like a dirge where the dead men be.

“I cannot fish; for I know the sea
Feeds on the drowned, in the shoals that be—
Rushing together the wreck to see,
Like devils, when hell's gates open free.

“Yellow his hair, and he looked at me
When the planks stove in, and I seemed to be
Newly in heaven, and thought to see
The throne, the Lamb, and the Trinity.

“White was his brow, as white to me
As the angel wings that the good men see;
I heard him pray, O mother! for thee,
When the choking waves swept over me.”

246

LA TRICOTEUSE.

The fourteenth of July had come,
And round the guillotine
The thieves and beggars, rank by rank,
Moved the red flags between.
A crimson heart, upon a pole,—
The long march had begun;
But still the little smiling child
Sat knitting in the sun.

The red caps of those men of France
Shook like a poppy field;
Three women's heads, with gory hair,
The standard bearers wield.
Cursing, with song and battle hymn,
Five butchers dragged a gun;
Yet still the little maid sat there,
A-knitting in the sun.

249

An axe was painted on the flags,
A broken throne and crown,
A ragged coat, upon a lance,
Hung in foul black shreds down.
“More heads!” the seething rabble cry,
And now the drum's begun;
But still the little fair-haired child
Sat knitting in the sun.

And every time a head rolled off,
They roll like winter seas,
And, with a tossing up of caps,
Shouts shook the Tuileries.
Whizz—went the heavy chopper down,
And then the drums begun;
But still the little smiling child
Sat knitting in the sun.

The Jacobins, ten thousand strong,
And every man a sword;
The red caps, with the tricolors,
Led on the noisy horde.
“The Sans Culottes to-day are strong,”
The gossips say, and run;
But still the little maid sits there
A-knitting in the sun.

250

Then the slow death-cart moved along;
And singing patriot songs,
A pale, doomed poet bowing comes
And cheers the swaying throng.
O when the axe swept shining down
The mad drums all begun,
But smiling still, the little child
Sat knitting in the sun.

“Le marquis'”—linen snowy white,
The powder in his hair,
Waving his scented handkerchief,
Looks down with careless stare.
A whirr, a chop—another head—
Hurrah! the work's begun;
But still the little child sat there
A-knitting in the sun.

A stir, and through the parting crowd,
The people's friends are come;
Marat and Robespierre—“Vivat!
Roll thunder from the drum.”
The one a wild beast's hungry eye,
Hair tangled—hark! a gun!—
The other kindly kissed the child
A-knitting in the sun.

251

“And why not work all night?” the child
Said, to the knitters there.
O how the furies shook their sides,
And tossed their grizzled hair.
Then clapped a bonnet rouge on her,
And cried—“'Tis well begun!”
And laughed to see the little child
Knit, smiling, in the sun.

252

THE MASKED BALL.

(Assassination of King Gustavus of Sweden.)

A whirl of masks and dominos,
Mixed yellow, poppy, blue;
The dance went linked and winding,
As dances love to do.
In mellow thunder groaned the bass,
Clear, bird-like, chirped the flute;
And, whispering on the alcove bench,
The lover pressed his suit.

Flutters of blue and crimson,
Rustles of ribbon and silk,
The masks as black as midnight's brow,
The satin white as milk;
Such dark eyes reading others,
Such blue eyes dim with love,
As round and round the dance moved on,
And red drums beat above.

253

Such soft cheeks glowing crimson,
Where spring and summer meet;
Such hands as soft to the grateful touch
As the down on the ermine's feet.
The dancers moved as swift and gay
As leaves the west winds drive,
The sound and the buzz of voices
Hummed like a new-formed hive.

A stir and cadence swelling high,
Soft murmurs sinking low,
And next a rush of strong-winged sounds,
That eddy to and fro—
Then from this wild abyss rose up
A song that cleft the air,
As from a rent cloud springs the lark
When winter skies grow fair.

'Tis Christmas, and the palace feast
Has reached the crowning joy;
The Chancellor, his care laid by,
Has grown again a boy.
The King, conspicuous o'er the rest,
Moved in a crimson mask,
Dressed as the prince of evil
Bent on a courtly task.

254

A swirl of silken trains and scarves,—
Yes! laughter from the throne—
A speck of fire that lit the place,
A shot, and then a groan.
A thousand faces turned to stare
Through fumes that round them cling,
When loud a voice cries—“Bar the doors—
The pale face shot the King!”

255

THE WHISPER IN THE MARKET-PLACE.

The wind brings now and then a gust
Of harvest mirth into the town,
When sudden clouds of whitening dust
Come sweeping o'er the stubble brown:
The bees are silent in their hive,
The swallows sleep within their nest,
Careless of all the winds that strive
To quench the sun-flame in the west.

The flowers that cluster o'er the thatch
Are closed, but all the scent of noon
Creeps through the doors when lifted latch
Gives entrance to the light; the moon
Spreads silvering o'er the dial's face,
Where saints guard round the old church porch,
Beside yon gabled market-place,
The sun has scarcely ceased to scorch.

256

The farmer counts the golden heaps
Of his new-gathered summer corn;
His honest heart in gladness leaps
As he froths up the drinking-horn;
And when the reapers shout together,
He brims each cup with barley juice,
And, merry as the harvest weather,
Will suffer none to make excuse.

The hunter, with a well-gloved finger,
Frets playfully his fluttering hawk;
And far behind the strong hounds linger,
While at his feet the mastiffs stalk.
“Good e'en” to all the market folk
Comes gladly from his laughing mouth;
The hooded girls his cheerful joke
Love, as the spring flowers do the south.

The children at the churchyard gate
On noisy games are all intent,
Nor raise their eyes, though by, in state,
A burgher to the council went;
But grief disturbs them now and then,
When screams the shrill voice of the dame:
They swear if they can once grow men,
They would not stir though father came.

257

The smith is toiling in his shed—
Bright shines the flame through rift and chink—
The fire upon the anvil red
Waves up but down again to sink;
And firm, as if for life and death,
That sturdy arm smites hot and fast,
And all the while the bellows' breath
Fans up the roaring stithy blast.

The ceaseless sparkles star the room,
Bright horse-shoes glimmer from the roof,
And, Cyclops-like, through dark and gloom,
Wild heads bend round the charger's hoof.
The smith upon his hammer rests,
And listens to the tailor's news;
Strong-armed, with broad and brawny chest,
His cheeks rich tanned with motley hues.

The tailor leans upon the hatch,
His shuffling slippers on his feet,
His gossip voice by fits you catch
Between the hammer's ceaseless beat;
His threaded needle in his hand,
His scissors peeping from his pouch,
A roll of patterns in his band,
The busy craftsman all avouch.

258

The miller by his mill-dam stands,
And listens to the burring wheel,
Rubbing with glee his floury hands,
For last night rose the price of meal.
The snowy tide that rushes down
Floods with a silver stream his purse;
He chinks his gold when poor men frown,
And counts it when the townsmen curse.

Two lovers by the distant bridge
Watch the swift stream that wanders under,
Where massy pier and greystone ridge
Cleave the clear-flowing tide asunder;
You hear the mill-throb now and then
In spite of all the buzz within,
The miller shouting to his men,
While the white roof is vibrating.

The landlord stands beneath his sign,
That far above him groans and creaks;
He's counting up the jugs of wine
Drunk for the last half-dozen weeks.
Behind him stands the crafty groom,
Stealing from willing maid a kiss;
Cups rattle in the latticed room—
To landlord's ear the sound is bliss.

259

The miller on the purple down
Is listening to the rising wind
Sweep headlong on toward the town;
He knows enough has stayed behind
To drive the sails and turn the wheel;
The creaking stone from every plank
Shakes off the white dust of the meal
Upon the sacks, ranged there in rank.

The fisher by the river-side
Has watched all day the buoyant float,
Though skies grow flushed with crimson pride,
His changeless eye no beauties note.
In melancholy, lonesome sport
Gazes like beauty in a glass;
His glittering spoil but newly caught
Lies writhing by him on the grass.

Far up the rocky mountain stream
The hunter watches for the deer;
Through golden boughs the waters gleam,
The leaf upon the oak is sere;
The foam lies white in rocky nooks
Beneath the boughs all red and brown,
And through a cleft you see the brooks
Babble together to the town.

260

The page from castle parapet
Looks o'er the orchards in the vale,
Sees in the woods the crimson globe
Flame bright upon the distant sail.
And far beneath the lichened wall
The distant river glides away;
The wind that rends the poplars tall
Stays with the flowers to kiss and play.

The breeze that stirs his bonnet's plume,
And dallies with the castle flag,
Sheds round the rich man's hall perfume,
Yet strips the beggar of his rag.
The vane upon the old church tower
Shines like a star above the trees;
O'er gabled roof the sounding hour
To weary reapers bringing ease.

The fisher's boat is in the bay,
And rocking by the weedy shore;
His shouting children leap and play,
And bid the hush'd waves louder roar.
The gulls scream floating round the crag,
The breakers whiten all the reef,
The sea-bird, poised upon the jag,
Fills the grey air with shrieks of grief.

261

A sudden gloom fills all the town,
The wind comes sighing o'er the moors,
And wandering, moaning up and down,
Shakes with its trembling hand the doors,—
When slowly through the market-place
A stranger rode, but spoke to none;
A broad hat darkened all his face,
He never looked up at the sun.

The dealers stopped to stare and gaze,
The children ceased to talk and play;
On every gossip's face amaze,
In every mother's eye dismay;
The matrons at the open pane
Stayed all at once their spinning-wheels,
The old wife hushed her wise old saying,
The threads ceased running from the reels.

A whisper through the long street ran—
It spread through all the market-place;
The cobbler turned his ready ear
Unto the tailor's earnest face;
Both mouths pursed up, and eyes half closed,
Afraid to let the secret out;
The deaf man stared, half angry, posed,
For none into his ear would shout;

262

The pilgrim, by the way-side cross,
Ceased half unsaid his votive prayer;
The knight pulled up his weary horse,
The ploughman staid his glittering share;
The miller stops the noisy mill,
The ringers in the belfry rest,
All through the valley to the hill
Bear down the rain-clouds from the west.

Another year—the tall grass grew,
And seeded in the open street;
At noon unmelted lay the dew,
In spite of all the parching heat;
The smith's red fire has long gone out.
A mournful silence fills the mill,
You cannot hear the reapers shout,
The very tailor's tongue is still.

263

THE HORN OF ULPHUS.

[_]

[The horn of Ulphus, a Saxon chief, is still preserved in the sacristy of York Minster. It is of immense size, and is probably the tip of an elephant's tusk. It is curiously carved, and has become from age of a rich mellow colour. Ulphus is said to have filled it full of wine when he presented his lands, kneeling at the high altar, and as he rose drained it at a draught to the honour of St. Peter. We have, by a fair poetical license, supposed it to have been used at civic banquets by the monarchs who have at various times visited the northern capital. The Horn, we may add, is undoubtedly of Eastern origin; and, if not brought from Antioch by some Roman proconsul, may have been part of a crusader's spoil at Acre or Damietta.—York Cathedral is dedicated to St. Peter.]

Bearded kings have drained thee oft,
'Mid the reapers in the croft;
Slaves have frothed thee for the Cæsar,
Watching in the glebe the leaser.

264

Round the torch-lit raven banner.
Waiting like the Jews for manna,
Sat the Danes, and mixed up
Hubba's blood in Ulpha's cup.

Vowing, by their sable raven,
They would slay the Saxon craven,
And the hare should crouch and breed,
Where the Seven Princes feed.

Next the mailed Norman came,
Fast before him burnt the flame,
Pestilence his herald fleet,
Famine shivering at his feet.

Where his charger's red feet trod,
Barren grew the blighted sod,
All before him sweet and fair,
All behind him scorch and bare.

Brimming full the swart crusader,
Pledged in thee the turbaned trader,
When he sheathed his broken brand,
By Damascus' burning sand.

When the proud Plantagenet
With the Dame of Cyprus met,
He before the Virgin's shrine,
Filled thee full of Gascon wine.

265

Grimly swore by lady's love,
By her mantle, brooch, and glove,
For her sake he'd snap a lance
In the very heart of France.

Scarce a year had passed away,
John came scowling from the fray,
Prodigals and jesters all,
Held at York their festival.

Portly abbot all askance,
Trembled at his wily glance,
When he saw the altar plate
Glitter through the cloister grate.

Wounded Stephen sorely spent
With the jostling tournament,
Swearing 'twas a kingly cup,
Bade his jester take a sup.

Edward, travel-worn and hot,
From his foray on the Scot,
Cried for wine his thirst to stanch,
“Wallace, Wallace! ma revanche.”

Faint and pale the wounded king
Dipped thee in St. Peter's spring,
As through aisle and chapel dim,
Came the pealing battle hymn.

266

Henry, fresh from Agincourt,
Held thee up aloft in sport,
Bade an archer at a gulp,
Drain thee without aid or help.

She of Anjou, full of scorn,
Raised unto her lips this horn,
As she leapt upon her barb,
All a man but for the garb.

Sleepless Richard called for thee,
Cursing the sweet Litany,
As it rose like a perfume,
From St. Peter's holy tomb.

Henry swore to courtier pliant,
Thou wert goblet for a giant;
Poured the last drop on the stones,
Vowing by A'Becket's bones,

Not a lord in all his train,
Such a cup as that could drain;
Then he shouted for the chalice,
From the shrine of good St. Alice.

Rowley and his clustering fair,
Perfumes tossing from their hair,
Laughed as with a pouting lip;
Every beauty took a sip.

The King of Scotland taken prisoner by Queen Philippa.

267

THE DEIL AMANG THE LESLIES.

[_]

[I have read somewhere an old Scotch tradition of a young Highland Romeo, who came in disguise to a banquet given by the chieftain of a hostile house, with the intention of carrying off, like a second Lochinvar, the lady of his love, the daughter of his father's enemy, He was discovered by his mask falling off as he led up the first dance, but instantly drawing his dagger and, continuing the measure, he passed up the ranks of the bystanders, stabbing them right and left, and eventually making his escape unscathed from the terror-stricken serving-men. I have ventured to heighten the story, and to complete the abduction. I believe there is a piper's tune still existing, called, “The devil among the Leslies,” which commemorates this dance of death. I have laid the scene, as to manners and dress, about the reign of James VI. The reader must imagine the young ‘brave’ now grown old, relating the daring adventure of his youth to a friend. I thought the personal relation would give the poem a more lively and dramatic air.]

How this dagger blade is rusted,
Never bright since when I thrust it

268

Right up to the dudgeon hilt
(See such scenes thou never wilt),
Long ago in banquet hall,
When I gaily led the Brawl,
Into one the Leslie trusted!

As I smiling led the Brawl,
Stout I then was, gay and tall;
There were fiddlers, there were harpers,
There were drinkers, there were sharpers,
There were dicers, all intent
On the way the black spots went,
Little thinking how within
They were spotted thick with sin;
And behind them sneered the carpers.

I, black-mask'd, and rich bedight,
Opened the gay ball that night,
Danced the Pavin's solemn measure,
With the sweet one, my heart's treasure,
'Till the music 'gan to vary,
Then we tripped in a Canary,
And I pressed her hand so white.

269

As the Laird of Inverary
Followed up the swift Canary.
Whispered I, but soft and low,
“I am one that ye should know.”
As I led her to her seat,
Fell my mask off at her feet.
How he stared, young Inverary!

I, disdaining to retreat,
Hurled at him a gilded seat,
Then drew sword, and placed my back
'Gainst the wall, as frowning black,
Flocked around me the retainers.
Fools! by death they'd be no gainers.
Then swooned at my side my sweet.

This did many faces sadden,
I, forsooth, it seemed to madden,
Fast as murmurs spread around,
I leapt onward with a bound,
Clove a gallant to the middle,
Ere they could read right the riddle—
Sight of blood my eyes did gladden.

Ere they could read right the riddle,
Ere the fiddler hushed his fiddle,

270

In their chieftain's plaided breast
This good knife of mine did rest.
Broadsword bare, and Highland dirk,
On that night did bloody work,—
Helped them to unfold the riddle.

How the fiddlers, and the harpers,
All the jesters, and the carpers,
Crowded round to see the blow
That should slay the daring foe;
How the singers, pale with fright,
Dropped their wine-cups on that night,
And their cards—flung down the sharpers.

In my plaid I caught their blades,
Flaring torches flung red shades,
Jewels on each brawny chest
Splintered east and splintered west,
And the guests fled all away
When they saw the growing fray,
Little 'customed to such raids.

Half the women fled away,
Like the new-fledged doves in May;
How their silken dresses fluttered,
How the greybeards frowned and muttered,

271

Every varlet seized his pike.
But I slew ere they could strike,
For they loved not that grim play.

Roaring huntsman urged fierce tyke
To leap on me; shaft of pike
Pinned him howling to the floor.
Then arose a wild uproar,
And I hewed a bloody path,
Through wild wardens, black with wrath,
As they shouted, “Bar the door.”

Felling swift the bungling boor,
As he strove to bar the door,
Leapt I as a wounded stag
Does from thicket on to crag;
Bleeding, fainting, but at bay,
So turned I on their array,
As a lion on the Moor.

Then sore wearied with the fray,
Scowling at the knaves' array,
I put bugle-horn to mouth;
Quick from east, and north, and south,
Poured my clansmen, slogan shouting,
And began, swords drawn, their flouting,
As they cleared for me a way.

272

O to see the flight and routing,
At the terror of that shouting,
Target cloven, bullets singing,
Steel blade on steel skull-cap ringing,
Axes splintering, oak-plank crashing,
Red rain on the portal splashing,
Howling, yelling, screaming, flouting.

I fought on into the hall,
Where so late I led the Brawl,
And I bore the maiden trembling,
Eyes bent down, in sweet dissembling.
How her little heart was beating,
As I clasped her round—the sweeting,
And far distant from the fray,
Kissed each tear of pearl away.
Kissed her brow, and mouth, and all.

A favourite dance of the Elizabethan age; as were also the Canary and the Pavin; the one slow and stately, the other quick and lively.

273

THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY.

(Told on a bench outside the Invalides.)

'Twas the day beside the Pyramids,
It seems but an hour ago,
That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares,
Returning blow for blow.
The Mamelukes were tossing
Their standards to the sky,
When I heard a child's voice say, “My men,
Teach me the way to die!”

'Twas a little drummer, with his side
Torn terribly with shot;
But still he feebly beat his drum,
As though the wound were not.
And when the Mameluke's wild horse
Burst with a scream and cry,
He said, “O men of the Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!

274

“My mother has got other sons,
With stouter hearts than mine,
But none more ready blood for France
To pour out free as wine.
Yet still life's sweet,” the brave lad moaned,
“Fair are this earth and sky;
Then, comrades of the Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!”

I saw Salenche, of the granite heart,
Wiping his burning eyes—
It was by far more pitiful
Than mere loud sobs and cries.
One bit his cartridge till his lip
Grew black as winter sky,
But still the boy moaned, “Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!”

O never saw I sight like that,
The sergeant flung down flag,
Even the fifer bound his brow
With a wet and bloody rag,
Then looked at locks and fixed their steel,
But never made reply,
Until he sobbed out once again,
“Teach me the way to die!”

275

Then, with a shout that flew to God,
They strode into the fray;
I saw their red plumes join and wave,
But slowly melt away.
The last who went—a wounded man—
Bade the poor boy good-bye,
And said, “We men of the Forty-third
Teach you the way to die!”

I never saw so sad a look
As the poor youngster cast,
When the hot smoke of cannon
In cloud and whirlwind pass'd.
Earth shook, and Heaven answered:
I watched his eagle eye,
As he faintly moaned, “The Forty-third
Teach me the way to die!”

Then, with a musket for a crutch,
He limped unto the fight;
I, with a bullet in my hip,
Had neither strength nor might.
But, proudly beating on his drum,
A fever in his eye,
I heard him moan “The Forty-third
Taught me the way to die!”

276

They found him on the morrow,
Stretched on a heap of dead;
His hand was in the grenadier's
Who at his bidding bled.
They hung a medal round his neck,
And closed his dauntless eye;
On the stone they cut, “The Forty-third
Taught him the way to die!”

'Tis forty years from then till now—
The grave gapes at my feet—
Yet when I think of such a boy
I feel my old heart beat.
And from my sleep I sometimes wake,
Hearing a feeble cry,
And a voice that says, “Now, Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!”

277

THE CATHEDRAL BUILDER.

Now is my building founded,
Complete to the crowning stone,
That sharp, keen top of the lance-like spire,
That rises tapering like a fire,
Where the noisy daw in his turn may build,
And call his nest his own.

For scarce the loudest note of the choir
Will reach that blue serene;
Yet his home will shake at the roar of the bell,
The soaring chants between;
O there he'll chatter, and feed, and sit,
Not caring for abbot or queen.

I've dug the crypt for darkness;
The aisle the red lights pave,
Without is the twilight cloister,
Here the sun-flooded nave,
And within is the choir for prayer and praise,
With its chapel for my grave.

278

They tell me I've jostled Christ aside
With my image and my tomb;
But may the angels blot my name
At the dreadful day of doom,
If I wished for praise—I love not praise
From king, or priest, or groom.

Yet 'tis a stately building,
And like a crystal wall
Rises the great west window—
A missal leaf that's all—
So says my sneering rival,
Who twits me from Saint Paul.

Last night I saw the angels,
Just like a flock of doves,
Come down to bless the building,
For God such temples loves—
A richer pile than Solomon's
Is this where dwell the doves.

I've cut no boastful legend—
The nun's walk underneath—
No shields to blaze with quenchless fire
In windows. Why then, s'death—
Why should they grudge me grave room,
The altar-floor beneath.

279

Have I not saints by dozens
Around the chapter room—
The twelve, the four, the martyrs,
And all to guard my tomb?—
With lines of singing angels
To rise through light and gloom?

Who says this pile of marble
Is vanity throughout?
Do not the crowned confessors
Guard all the porch about?
Then, as the viper lives to sting,
Let these, my mockers flout.

Yes, it is hard for thirty years
To hew and chip the stone—
To fix the rainbow in the glass—
To build the saints a throne;
And then for sneering monks to grudge
A grave within one's own.

It is a costly work of mine,
This prison-house of song,
With underneath the sainted dead,
Above, the angel throng,
And everywhere the shecinah
Of incense all day long.

280

Vibrate with music night and day,
Ye organ-pipes of gold;
Let the tall roof shake with the psalms
And voices manifold,
When the deep thunder of the bass
Shall echo strong and bold!

Then let the mass sound long and loud—
The psalm go echoing up—
Theirs be the liquor and the wine,
Be mine the graven cup—
Now I have thought the matter out
I can contented sup.

281

HARVEST RHYMES.

When the red, ripe wheat is flowing, billow-blowing like a sea,
When the reapers call each other, early mornings on the lea;
When the poppies burn in scorn of the pale light of the dawn,
And the corn-flower tells its sorrow to its love, the kingly bee.

Now through soft mists cloudy purple rise the firtrees one by one,
Now the broad disks of the wheat-fields blaze like gold shields in the sun;
The cattle low, the breezes blow, and the sickles glitter keen,
Ruddy faces moving eager, glistening steel by flashes seen.

282

This fair earth is slowly fashioned from dead lilies, so they say,
Withered roses, honied pleasures, all a-bloom but yesterday;
So life's fashioned—rendered fertile by its long corrupted joy,
Watered by the tears of childhood and the weeping of the boy.

Heaven's hermit, high and lonely, soaring as none other can—
Praising with a simple music raining on the husbandman;
Over plough, and corn, and reaper, golden stubble, fallow grey,
Springs the lark, and craves a blessing on the coming harvest day.

Poet of the upper air, never knowing human care,
Happy as a new-crowned angel in thy sanctity of song,
Glad in summer and in autumn, in the frost and in the sun,—
What a lesson for the worldling, fainting ere he's well begun.

283

THE SMITH'S CHORUS.

Give us a hand, my mate,
Are we not fellows?
Have we not twenty years
Toiled at these bellows?
Have we not, hand and hand,
Smitten together;
Now with a thunder stroke,
Now with a feather?

Seen the sparks, streaming up,
Iron turn vapour—
Laughed as the bar of steel
Dripped like a taper;
Moulded the leadlike clay,
Plying the bellows,
Then, Roger, take my hand,
Are we not fellows?

284

THE TWO MUSICIANS AFTER THE OPERA.

Well, Panormo, caro mio, now we're snug and warm at home,
And so still the sable city crowned by the majestic dome,
Let us sit, and in the embers shape our old dear street at Rome.

That allegro—how it chafed one!—was not taken quick enough;
Herr Conductor, though so nimble, isn't of the sterling stuff;
And that basso, though I say it, is, per Bacco, rather gruff.

285

Still, my eyes ache with the glitter of those thousand streets of lamps;
Through my limbs creeps all the chillness of this London's fogs and damps;
Only hear below our window that dull policeman's measured tramps!

In the distance, low and muffled, like a glutted wild beast's roar,
Comes the murmur of this London, like the surge on Lidos' shore:
How unlike the Roman midnights, Giacomo, in days of yore!

Sometimes, when the curtain's lifting, I forget my violin,
Almost hoping that the Duomo and the glories hid within
Will rise to me—then I stare at gas, at people, shut my eyes, and so begin.

And, Panormo, caro mio, but for power of looking back,
Shouldn't you and I, amigo, pine away, amid these black
Seas of mud and skies of vapour—not like Alban air, good lack!

286

Tides of faces, stone and iron, driving on unto the 'change;
How that scherzo through my fancy will persist to flit and range!
Hand my violin, Panormo, this staccato's new and strange.

O this London! dear amigo, think of Roma and its hills,
Pillar, statue, palace, gardens, all the marble fountain rills.
How that young soprano's roulade through my old brain shakes and trills!

See St. Peter's world of columns, altars, shrines, and miles of roof;
Dome, a universe of colour: never shall the Austrians' hoof
Blood-print Roma—no, Panormo, even though kings keep aloof.

Good night, caro mio, you have half a mile to walk.
I must sit up till the dawning, at this piece of Clapperchalk;
All the long laid ghosts of childhood will around my candle stalk.

287

I shall dream of stately Corso, where the blood-red coaches roll,—
Of the dim and painted chapels, where they pray for dead men's soul;
Then wake up at roar of London, and the cabs that grind and roll.

One more glass, amigo mio; break your pipe before you go.
Life is brittle—who can tell us when the black hand strikes the blow?
That?—O that is laudanum mixture; I've been rather weak and low.

288

HOGARTH'S NOTES ON HIS THUMBNAIL.

(After a morning's walk)

My notes—those white lips faintly pressed
Close to a dusty window pane,
The red eyes staring through the rain.

The sudden glare of tavern cheat,
When the fool's eyes were turned away—
Just lightning in a summer's day.

The spendthrift staring through the blind
At a tall glass of curdling wine;
Soon will the father froth and pine.

The puzzled, anxious, wondering gaze
Of wife, on husband's fist intent,
Thinking it but a jest he meant.

The viper eyes, so red and pinched,
Of the dwarf that tried to stab the man
In the bar of the “Goose and Frying-pan.”

The surgeon's look who raised the cloth
From dead man's face, so hard and cold;
His scowl when he replaced the fold.

289

OCTOBER DUSK.

O the saffrons and the purples of the wild October eves,
When the gold of autumn withers, and the wind plucks off the leaves.

When the grey drifts slowly deepen, losing all their inward light,
When the dark night, dull and leaden, presses on the dimming sight.

Cold the last night's rain is lying in the furrows bright and still,
Glistening in between the ridges, that the dead leaves choke and fill.

Ghastly glimmers, of weird whiteness, streak between the ashen grey,
Clefts of crimson, pale green lustres, bar the shroud of dying day,

290

Like the rags of purple splendour, dropping from a mummy king—
Now the night wind, rising slowly, moans, blaspheming God and spring.

Stifling darkness, black and solid, gathers round the dim, white road,
Damp oppression, as of evil, crushing man beneath the load.

Still from dead leaves in the silence now and then a twitter's borne,
As of lone bird chilled, yet dreaming of the April and the dawn.

291

THE RIDE TO THE SHRINE.

First the herald's gilded show;
How the lusty trumpets blow!
Then the merchants, rank and file,
Next the nuns that pray and smile;
Then the strong knights in their mail,
Banner blowing like a sail,
Gilded housings shining out
Through the dust that wraps the rout;
So our band of pilgrims went
To A'Becket's shrine in Kent.

Shields that with their burn and blaze
All the peasants' eyes amaze;
Starred and tongued with herald gold,
Blood-red crosses manifold,
Bars of azure, spots of sable,
Scutcheons gay with scroll and label,
Silver tears on purple field,
Crimson lattice, azure shield,

292

Bezants, each one like a sun,
From the Moslem Sultans won;
So our band of sinners went
To the holy shrine in Kent.

Rare devices, strange and quaint,
As the king-at-arms can paint;
Broken daggers, dripping gore,
Eagles chained that cannot soar;
Bleeding hart and wyvern's wing;
Viper with his poison sting;
Griffin with the golden scale,
Dragon with the emerald mail;
Tiger-cat with gory tongue,
Bear that to the pine tree clung:
So in stately guise we went
Flaunting to that shrine in Kent.

Legends, too, so full of pride,
Blazoned letters, bright and wide;
On one pennon, blowing free,
“Strike” 's the only word I see;
“Try me,” in defiance writ—
There was lion's wrath in it;
“I may break, but never bend,”
On a flag from end to end.

293

“God alone,” another bore
On the tabard that he wore.
So in knightly garb we went,
Tramping to the shrine in Kent.

Then the abbot with his ring,
And the white-clad boys that sing;
Monks in grey, and friars in black,
Shouting chorus at his back.
Then the crosier, gold and stately,
Born aloft and held sedately;
Fuming incense, tossed and flung,
From the silver censers swung.
Mitres shining with the gem,
Marked the bishops each of them,
As the band of sinners went
Ambling to the shrine in Kent.

Blubber lip and leering eye,
Downcast face that blushes dye;
Lolling tongue, and brutal jaw,
Wrinkled foreheads full of law.
Sallow visage, envy wrung,
Where the sweat-drops clammy hung;
Hypocrite! among the rest,
Fat hands clasped upon his breast.

294

Then the coward's writhing face,
Looking round as from a chase,
Next him, with a sullen mouth,
Burning eyes, all red with wrath,
Came a murderer fresh from guilt,
With his red hand on his hilt:
So the sinners mocking went
To Saint Thomas' shrine in Kent.

Lust was there with full-ringed eye,
With his ready start and sigh;
Avarice thinking of the bond,
Never of the man it wronged;
Gluttony, with peeping eyes
Never lifted to the skies;
Anger, hot and vexed of face,
Pulling at his doublet lace;
Stealthy slander eager eyed,
Pressing to his patron's side;
There were lovers joining lips,
Caring not, though sun eclipse:
So the motley sinners went
Praying to the shrine in Kent.

Anger's stern and stony stare,
Shooting lip, and scornful glare;

295

Vanity's light, fickle gaze;
Wonder gaping with amaze;
Pride that's trying to look meek,
Treble chin and double cheek,
Mouth with black teeth all awry,
Waxen skin and blood-shot eye.
Bright eyes all athirst for sin,
Rose-leaf velvet soft the skin,
Hands would turn a lily grey,
Were a lily in the way:
So the ladies smiling went
To A'Becket's shrine in Kent.

Some were singing David's psalms,
Others holding hats for alms;
Some, with broken sobs and faint,
Praying to a road-side saint;
Others doling out a creed,
(Every line they touch a bead);
Friar, with rope about his waist,
By the horsemen sturdy paced;
While the abbot, silken clad,
Ambled on his glossy pad,
Playing with his gilded rein,
With his jewels and his chain:
So the mocking sinners went
To the holiest shrine in Kent.

296

THE SHADOW HUNT.

Brighter, lighter, ever whiter, bloomed the moonshine on the road,
Fresh and blue the welkin grew, and on we beggars strode,
As fast and free the wind with glee seemed pushing at our load.

Over meadow moved our shadow—two long shadows, black and tall,
Flat and hollow, still they follow like two spirits at our call,
Fast o'er the path as if in wrath, long and boding on the wall.

“Death and time” we sang in rhyme, “wait upon us at our beck;
We've no castle, serf, or vassal, we both land and money lack,
Yet no varlet, clad in scarlet, could more serf-like join our track.”

297

“Hush!” said Davus; “Jesu save us—look behind, and cross your breast;”
Then half trembling, but dissembling, laughing turned, I looking west,
Saw three shadows o'er the meadows move slow through the trees at rest.

“One for me, and one for thee, but this third one comes from Hades,”
Said my fellow, turning yellow, “Tell me, brother, whence this shade is;”
Then he laughs, and both our staffs seizes, screaming, “Virgin aid us.”

A tree beneath, with clenchen teeth, fell my friend as in a swoon,
Then I, dragging, cursed his lagging, turned his white face to the moon,
But he cried, and shrieked, and died, just as night was at its noon.

A grave I dug, and warm and snug left him under the oak tree,
Alone and sad, but double clad, singing through the litany;
On I hurry o'er me scurry white clouds with a windy glee.

298

Heart not sinking, little thinking, suddenly I turned to look;
On the meadows moved three shadows, then my cloak I rent and shook,
Praying, groaning, ruin owning, swift I leaped across a brook.

“Death and hell,” I cried, “are fell; my sin casts its shadow, too;
Saint and devil, good or evil, why a beggar thus pursue?”
Still they follow over hollow, loud the night wind shrieking blew.

As I swoon, the dull, red moon sinks down headlong in a cloud;
I sobbed and groaned, and wept and moaned, in dream I screamed aloud,
But I woke, blue day had broke, and from off me dropped the shroud.

A mile and more the skylarks soar, and the corn rolled like a sea;
Through the dawning of that morning, I could hear, through hedge and tree,
O'er the tillage, from a village, voices chanting litany.

299

GONE!

Some day, a friend shall, whispering low,
Ask for me at the muffled door,
Hushing the humming of a song,
As one shall answer, “He is gone.”

Then duns shall creep on stealthy foot,
Peering about the half-shut gate;
And when they push in rough and strong,
Then one shall answer, “He is gone.”

Yes, kinsmen from a distance come
Hearty and eager to the door,
Shall, after waiting cold and long,
Hear the hushed answer, “He is gone.”

300

THE DEAD KING'S TOILETTE.

(Edward VI.)

Two crones, their lean hands shaking,
Stood by a plume-deeked bed,
Gazing without a tear or sob,
On the sheet that covered the dead.
“A pleasant corpse,” the eldest croaked,
“As ever died in spring;
Yea, by the mass! what a jest to think
That this poor boy was a king!”

The bed was hung with cloth of gold,
Worked over with stars and crowns;
Yet still the crones sat there and talked,
Not heeding royal frowns.
“A pleasant corpse,” still one would cry,
“As ever died in spring.
Oh! by the mass! what a jest to think
That this poor soul was a king!”

301

Oh! what an eager, curious art,
The crones by turns displayed!
Working the linen in pleats and frills,
And the flannel in fold and braid.
“A pleasant corpse,” still one would screech,
“As ever died in spring.
Now, by the mass! what a jest to think
That this poor soul was a king!”

302

THE CITY OF THE CLOUDS.

I spent a summer afternoon,
In the city of the clouds;
I had laid dead hopes away,
Quiet and silent in their shrouds;
When I heard the harpers play,
In the city of the clouds.

Golden skies of endless June
Roofed the city of the clouds;
Underneath the banquet hall,
Lay my dead hopes in their shrouds,
Silent and forgot by all,
In the city of the clouds.

How they pressed me by the hand,
In the city of the clouds;
How they kissed my lip and brow,
As those used who sleep in shrouds,
How they pledged me with a vow,
In this city of the clouds.

303

Suddenly the air grew black,
Round the city of the clouds.
As I looked each guest grew pale
As the dead who lay in shrouds.
Lightning-pierced, it fell to mist,
All my city of the clouds.

304

THE MAD PILGRIM'S DREAM.

Under a palm in Galilee,
Hearing the whispers of the sea,
A vision showed itself to me.

They bring me to a sultan's tent,
My shaven head is bowed and bent,
My golden robe is torn and rent.

I toss the desert sands about,
The silken eunuchs scream and shout,
I kneel and let them mock and flout.

I curse them and their prophet too,
And then the mad sultan dagger drew,
And on me like a panther flew.

I rub my ring—I am alone;
Over my head the vulture's flown,
That bore me from the tyrant's throne.

305

The Nile flows softly by my side,
The palm trees whisper—then I cried,
“O Lord, methinks I'd better died!”

Against the rosy evening sky,
The doves bound all to Cairo fly;
“O had I wings like them!” I cry.

I down the yellow river float,
In Egypt's mummy coffin boat;
Of what grave-plunder should I note?

I dig beneath the tamarisk,
Under the shattered obelisk,
Graven with planet and with disk.

I found the buried Pharoah's robe,
His serpent crown and golden globe,
I threw away my ragged tobe.

I leapt into the coffin craft,
Tears from the funeral urn I quaffed,
I wept, and then I rose and laughed.

I passed an iceberg all a-shine,
With flashing purple lights of wine,
With diamond lustre hyaline.

I floated to a sandy beach,
A dead man hailed me—but his speech
Was low, his hand I could not reach.

306

The winged Tartar horsemen came,
And bore me in a gust of flame
Through burning cities, till so tame

My wild horse grew, it licked my hand,
And watched me on the desert sand;—
I struck the gates of Samarcand.

I saw black tents spread everywhere,
Neighings that shook the icy air,
The green corn rising thick and fair.

Bright in the distance China lay,
Pagoda's tinkling bells I may
Scarce hear—I see the wall's array.

The silk-robed men with peacock plumes,
Fair, golden coats—and now there looms
A city grand with marble tombs.

Great domes, and minarets, and towers;
'Tis Delhi!—priests proclaim the hours,
And call to prayers; but we are Giaours.

Our horse-tail standards swept along,
With cymbal and barbaric song,
I was the leader of the throng.

The elephants, ten thousand, came
Like moving mountains, eyes of flame,
And all—this Bajazet to tame.

307

They shout, and call me Tamerlane,
I ride o'er smoking Samarcane,
And brain the idol of the fane.

I burst the bubble god, and out
Leap countless bezants round about;
The bowing millions cry and shout.

Now Moussul and the East is mine,
From where great Baldac's turrets shine,
To Yang-fu, and the proud Nan-ghine.

I mount the Caliph's seat, and tread
The conqueror's vintage gory red;
The kings pray to me for their bread.

They bring me spices, gold, and gems,
I bruise the Syrian diadems,
My Tartar horse the world o'erwhelms.

From Cush to snowiest Himaleh,
To Ceylon and its bluest bay,
Red idols strewed my chariot way.

My crimson banners dim the sun,
The stars, my heralds, chase and run,
Hailing me lord, the sovereign one.

They bring me spice and ivory,
With falcons, stately, from the sea,
And frankincense from far Nanjee.

308

I fell asleep within my tent,
As on to conquer Balkh I went;
I woke, and all my pride was rent.

My horse lay smitten by the wind,
Before, beside me, and behind,
No living creature could I find.

One camel only calmly fed,
I leaped upon him, and his head
Turned round to see the heaps of dead.

Three days and nights I wandered on;
Like fire above me burnt the sun,
My bag of rice was long since gone.

The parrots screamed, and like a flame,
Flamingoes through the silence came;—
Another land, and yet the same.

The peasant sows his melon seed,
The goats beside him crop and feed,
I heard the child the Koran read.

Then desert strewn with pilgrim's bones,
Rich perfumes, and the Indian stones,
Lost treasures from the distant zones.

I trod the gems to dust, my blood
Was fevered: “Take this gold for food,”
I cried, and gnawed the cedar wood.

309

Rich-fruited dates their branches fling,
The guardians of the desert spring,
Where camel-drivers pipe and sing.

I sat down to the meal—ah! then,
A fire-wind struck the beasts and men,
And drove me to a rocky den.

Where I lay faint, and saw the asp
Swell in the hot sand, that my grasp
Caught from the earth with anguished clasp.

I woke, and heard a voice as sweet
As angel's cry—“Now on your feet,
'Tis sunset, Hassan—rise and eat.”

310

THE BABY KING.

Not ten years old, and yet a king,
Throned high upon a velvet chair,
Beneath the gilded cloth of state,
He waves his sceptre with an air;

Welcomes the early with a nod,
Reproves the tardy with a frown;
Then to his lady mother turns,
And counts the pearls upon her gown.

The chancellor, with ponderous brow,
Talks to him of his common weal;
He pulls him by his jewelled chain,
And, laughing, hides the heavy seal.

The chamberlain, a stately lord,
Kneels down to yield his golden key;
The monarch all the while intent,
With the cat's cradle on his knee.

The privy council's grey beards meet,
The wooden noddles bend together;
The king is hearing the debate,
And playing with a peacock's feather.

311

WHAT I SAW THROUGH A TUDOR WINDOW.

There were motley jesters sprawling on the floor,
There were ribboned pages playing round the door,
There were gallants tickling maidens with the rushes,
And criticizing all their various depth of blushes.

There were yeomen looking at the bloodhounds' teeth,
Sly varlets lifting tapestry to spy beneath,
Falconers with ruffling haggards rising from the fist,
Out of painted casements where the rose the lattice kissed.

There were stewards bragging of their length of sword,
Servants whispering slander of their lord,
Ushers strutting stately with their white-peeled rods,
Mastiffs scratching, restless as the planks were clods.

312

THE LECTURE-THEATRE AT PADUA.

(Paracelsus.)

Don't tell me, Rupert and Fritz, 'tis the wisest man of the age—
Wiser than Geber, or Lully, or Rhazes, many a stage;
He's all the learning of Scotus, his wit would baffle a Jew,
And with a keen-bladed syllogism he'll run a sly doctor through.

Look at his pile of brain, and the keen eye under the hair
Of the tangled heap of eyebrow, when those smug doctors stare;
What a mouth, all clamped and barred, to shut in a secret truth!
And then when he laughs, what a glare through his beard of his broad, white tooth!

313

How he smites the desk with his hand, and look at his long gilt sword;
In the pommel he keeps a devil, bound to the will of its lord:
Sometimes he screws off the top, and it's out in the shape of a fly;
But back when he reads his speech, or he beckons it home with his eye.

I've seen him track a nerve from the foot right up to the brain,
Seeking the cause of life, and the throne where the soul may reign;
As one in a workshop gropes, when the lights are all put out,
And the master is gone, pulling the ropes and the wheels about.

Lifting the flaccid hand of the cold, white marble limb,
As if the secrets of God were none of them hid from him—
As if he made better than that, aye, any day in the week;—
He smites us down with a frown, if any one dare to speak.

314

Yet Moser, Tuesday last, would take up his surgeon's knife,
And try the edge with his thumb. O Lord! what squabble and strife
To see the professor's wrath!—such jostling and crowding of heads!
Such squeezing, and taking of notes all round the hospital beds!

Wonderful man the professor, Erasmus is not his fellow;
He'd beat all the doctors on earth, drubbing them black and yellow:
And they hate him, mock his art, would poison him if they could—
He scarce dare walk at night, to gather herbs in the wood.

315

HOW THE COLONEL TOOK IT!

(In Square.—An Affair in the Peninsula.)

We were standing foot to foot, and giving shoot for shoot,
Hot and strong went our volleys at the blue;
We knelt, but not for grace, and the fuse lit up the face
Of the gunner, as the round shot by us flew.
O the bugle it blew loud, the shot drove in a cloud,
And the bayonets of the boys were at play;
The old colonel, puffing fust, was almost like to bust,
With shouting, “Faugh a ballagh, clear a way!”

Bedad! our steels were thick, and it made us mad, not sick,
To see the brave boys melting like the dew;
But the colours overhead, with a whirling gust of red,
Like a thunder cloud, above us fought and blew.

316

The colonel, he was blown, yet he struck up Garry Ow'n;
“I know who'll be tired first of this play;”
And every now and then, like a dragon from his den,
He outs with—“Faugh a ballagh, clear the way!”

My right hand man went down with a cut upon his crown,
Och! his bloody teeth were clenched with the pain;
And, bursting with a shout, all the Frenchmen rode about,
Slashing just like reapers at the grain.
“Let them pound, an hour or more they must wait outside the door!”
Cried the colonel, hot and savage with the play;
He shook the colour-staff with a shout and with a laugh,
Roaring out—“Faugh a ballagh, clear the way!”

With a hiss, and with a rush, and a will to pelt and crush,
Drove the bloody, tearing grape through our rank;

317

On leg, and arm, and brain, fell that sharp and bitter rain,
Yet we never winked a ha'porth, or yet shrank.
The drummers, all a heat, gave an angry, fretful beat,
As the wind blew the cannon smoke away;
“Och! the colonel, boys, is hit, yet beside the flag he'll sit,
Crying out, “Faugh a ballagh, clear the way!”

Then we couldn't stand it longer, and our hot rage grew the stronger,
As we spread in a moment into line;
O colonel, true to you, on the cavalry we flew,
All our bayonets down together—it was fine.
We broke them like a net—la! our steel they never met,
And we drove them all in heaps on that day;
O the colonel fairly screeched to see Ney overreached,
And thundered, “Faugh a ballagh, clear the way!”

When the boys came back to rank, we found him on a bank,
Rather pale, with a cloth about his head;

318

He'd a bottle by his side, and full of honest pride,
I saw his cheek burn sudden with the red;
Then he grew so wan and weak, he couldn't hardly speak,
But I listened as the waggon drove away,
And may I die alone, if the boy we call our own
Didn't whisper, “Faugh a ballagh, clear the way!”

319

THREE YEARS.

A lordly castle on a moor,
Its hundred windows, row by row,
With blood-red sunset all of a glow;
(No king a statelier house could show,)
With its fifty banners all of a blow.

A hundred turrets spouting fire,
Four black walls, gaping, split and rent;
A crimson cloud that like a tent
Wavers above it. Hark! there went
A shriek as from a martyr sent!

A ruin on a thirsty waste—
A tottering wall, a winding stair;
A parapet that high in air
Hangs, grey, by lightning struck, and bare,
Though still the starling nestles there.

320

THE CID'S STIRRUP CUP.

“Bring me the great gold flagon,”
Cried the baron from his horse,
“And leap, my page, on my roan of roans,
For the Saracen's out in force,
Fill up the spiced old Cyprus wine,
With the scent that would rouse a corse.

“Here's a cup to the good Saints John and Jude,
And one to my father dead;
Hail brave Saint James, whose steed of white
Hath wings all crimson red,
With the blood that spun from a sultan's wound
The day that Ali bled.”

Then he drained the flagon huge and long,
And struck it with his fist;
For they cried, that they saw the crescents shine,
Gold spots against the mist:
Then he threw in the air his laughing child,
And its eyes and forehead kissed.

321

How grim he shook the moths and dust
From the great flag of Castile,
He laughed at the red spots on the folds,
Then looked at the spurs on his heel;
Loud through the window he cursed the knights,
Lagging at their last meal.

He flung his lance as high as the gate,
It made his roan curvet,
And strike ou drifts of the fire-bright sparks.
In his state war-saddle set,
He clashed his breast with his rough mailed hand,
In his chafe and burning fret.

At last, down the flinty mountain path,
He dashed with a stormy curse;
Singing the song of Charles the Great,
And a hymn mixed verse for verse;
Feather and banner, and housing and robe,
Black as the plumes of a hearse.

322

NIGHTMARES.

A dumb man struggling with the dark,
Straining to bawl, or sob, or scream,
The sullen anger of the stream
Choking him slowly hour by hour.

A blind slave in a distant land,
Hearing a voice not heard for years;
Striving to call through stifling tears,
For one to put in his—her hand.

A wretch that, like a mad dog's chased
With swords and torches—how he shrieks,
Finding the friendly door he seeks
Bolted and barred, and clamped and braced!

A miner hanging down a cleft,
The fire-damp spreading to his feet;
While round the pit-mouth rebels meet,
Ready to stab him to the heft.

323

A YEAR AGO; OR, THE DEAD TWELVEMONTH.

Where's the maiden with downcast eyes,
And voice all whispers, murmurs and sighs,
Breath like the flowers, when the west winds blow?
God o' mercy! why, lord, I trow
(Other men have broken a vow),
She's dead and buried a year ago!

Where's the friend, so gentle and calm,
With his soft hand pressing your sturdier arm,
And his ready greeting and clasp, I trow?
God o' mercy! why death, sir, broke
That friend's meek heart with a sudden stroke!
He's dead and buried this year ago!

Then where's the child I saw you kiss,
Your old face flushed with a father's bliss,
As he on your knees leaped to and fro?
O God o' mercy! the turf's still green
Over the youngster's grave, I ween;
He's dead and buried a year ago!

324

MERCUTIO'S LOVE LINES.

Softest foot upon the rushes—
Softest foot upon the rushes;
Her darling foot will press a rose,
Yet never kill the flower it crushes.

Whiter hand no lover kisses—
Whiter hand no lover kisses;
Soft between her breasts of snow
Nestles love and all his blisses.

Eyes, as dark as violet shadows—
Eyes, as dark as violet shadows;
A smile as sweet, and gay, and soft
As April sunshine on the meadows.

Voice like whispering woods in summer—
Voice like whispering woods in summer;
Soft and low as June winds blow
In the warm midnights of summer.

325

REGRETS.

One by one—yes! still they say—
So the hours will die away,
So the Aprils yield to May.

Long ago—yes! very long—
Then I cared for mirth and song,
Then I grappled with the throng.

Dead and gone—yes! gone away,
As the rose melts into clay,
When the frost the blossoms slay.

Come and go—ah! so we do,
Passing as the flowers and dew—
Bitter saying, yet too true.

‘Life is short—and art is long;’
'Tis the burden of the song,
We're repeating all day long.

Time flies—yes! it never sleeps,
Never mourns, and never weeps;
Dumb and calm the tyrant keeps.

Over now—yes! boyhood—youth,
But not my courage, not my sooth—
No, God help me! not my truth.

326

PLACE POUR LES GRENADIERS!

(A song in the Invalides.)

I've heard the war drum's tumult
'Mid snow, and sea, and sand;
I've tracked the battered eagle
Through hot and frozen land;
And when the fire balls, bursting,
Tore out a bloody way,
I always called with a lusty shout,
“Place pour les grenadiers!”

We trod down Egypt's mamelukes,
And all their silk and gold;
We smote the pride of Prussia
In battles manifold:
And when old surly Blucher
Before our steel gave way,
I called to our men with a lusty shout,
“Place pour les grenadiers.”

327

The white coats at Marengo
Were wasted in our flame;
Fire flew, and blasted them as we
Wrapped in the hot smoke came.
Now when the pulsing cannon
Proclaims the break of day,
I always shout from my bed in the ward,
“Place pour les grenadiers!”

328

THE FAMILY CONCERT.

The blackbird pipes upon the bough
Of the oak tree twisted strong;
The fledglings five in the clay-built nest
Listen unto his song,
And care not though their father be
In time and cadence wrong.

The wind blows half the tune away
(Sing merry, and sing loud);
It pipes a noisier tune the wind,
Lashing the lagging cloud;
But still the birds to their father's song
Are listening glad and proud.

THE END