THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 A
 
 ON LONELY SHORES.
 
 ON LONELY SHORES 
 
 AND OTHER RHYMES 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES LEIGH JOYNES 
 
 LONDON 
 PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR 
 
 AT THE CHISWICK PRESS 
 1892
 
 J 76 7^ 
 
 o 
 
 ~3 
 
 2"0 Mr Z>£^£ 
 
 MABEL MAR UN TURNER 
 
 I DEDICATE THESE RHYMES. 
 
 830240
 
 TO MY HOOK. 
 
 GO forth alone and face the fearsome folk 
 
 Whose knife makes sharp their murder-dealing pen ; 
 
 Hare thy poor pages to the damning stroke 
 
 And death-fraught doom of those remorseless men. 
 
 And if thou 'scap'st alive out of their den, 
 
 Come back to me, and I will heal the scars 
 
 Thou get'st upon thee in these dangerous wars. 
 
 For one will sav, " These are but stolen wares ; 
 What meaner stealing than this thief's may be ? 
 Now red shame burn his shameless soul that dares 
 To aye the moods of might'er men than he, 
 To match old rhymes to the unsounded se.!> 
 To prate of knights and ladies, and to deem 
 His voice may echo to the mountain stream. 
 
 M Have we not many a voice of ampler sound, 
 And many a sweeter note than this man's son.; ? 
 Shall loud intruders tread the sacred ground, 
 And thrust their harsh discordant noise among 
 Those singing voices we have loved so long ' 
 Nay, take him by the throat, and plunge him down 
 Deep beneath Time's dark river till he drown." 
 
 vi
 
 Yet care not thou what such-like folk may say. 
 Have not I said it to thee oft before ? 
 Needs must thou faint upon the long, long way 
 That leads at last unto the deathless shore, 
 Where mighty poets dwell for evermore ; 
 Needs must thou faint upon the way, and lie 
 Where no man cares to wait to see thee die. 
 
 Then to thee lying dead there shall not come 
 One sorrowing friend to weep upon thy dust ; 
 O'er thy dumb pages still shall Fame be dumb, 
 And all thy songlets given to her trust 
 She shall resign to moth and mould and rust, 
 And sore o'ertasked shall put at last away 
 The charge she took yet cannot but bewray. 
 
 For this shall be the doom of thee, to lie 
 Long, long a-dying, and to hear the tread 
 Of all thy strong-souled fellows pass thee by, 
 And see the garland crown each eager head, 
 And get thee to the chambers of the dead, 
 And lay thee on thy bed of slow decay, 
 Too deeply damned to dread the judgment day. 
 
 vn
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 On Lonely Shores 
 
 Wage of Love 
 
 Danger 
 
 The Stream 
 
 Questions . 
 
 Twain 
 
 Requiescat 
 
 Good Morning 
 
 Good Night 
 
 Impatience 
 
 Love's Dawn 
 
 Parting 
 
 Alone 
 
 Love's Current Coi 
 
 Revenge 
 
 The Orchard 
 
 Shooting Stars 
 
 Night 
 
 Similia Similibu 
 
 Farewell . 
 
 Doubts 
 
 Love's Reason . 
 
 An Appeal 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 39 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 47 
 4§ 
 52 
 53 
 54 
 56 
 58 
 60 
 
 63 
 64 
 66 
 
 67 
 68 
 6 9 
 
 70 
 
 72 
 76 
 
 77 
 
 IX
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Meeting 
 
 
 
 79 
 
 Mabblli 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 80 
 
 in. 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
 
 82 
 
 r . . • 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
 
 8 5 
 
 To the Owl 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ?7 
 
 Happiness . 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
 
 89 
 
 Tm Witches' Tryst 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
 
 90 
 
 Failure 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 94 
 
 The Finding op the Belle May 
 
 
 
 
 
 9T 
 
 Thz Lands< Painter 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 "3
 
 ON LONELY SHORES. 
 
 WHERE no mariner looks for a landing, 
 
 No bird seeks shelter of tree, 
 A fort on the cliffs is standing 
 
 That frown on the Westward sea. 
 Its walls are as wrought steel targes 
 
 Resisting assault to the death : 
 But its heights when the hurricane charges, 
 
 Can scarce draw breath. 
 
 Those heights by vague memories haunted 
 
 Still stand as they stood from of old, 
 Unabashed, undefeated, undaunted 
 
 By thunder or tempest or cold. 
 Time's hand must deface and deform us, 
 
 As year upon year drifts by, 
 But its bastions bold and enormous 
 
 Still front the wide sky. 
 
 Over-arching, with hurricane pregnant, 
 Like a vault do the wide skies stand, 
 
 The fort, like a throned queen regnant, 
 Looks over the limitless land. 
 
 i B
 
 'Neath the void of the vault and its vastness 
 
 It dreads not the wild wind's shock, 
 For firm arc the feet of the fastness 
 Peep-rooted m rock. 
 
 When in tempest its banner is streaming, 
 
 And fierce is the hurricane's stress, 
 And the storm and the thunder are scheming: 
 
 Its pride to the dust to depress, 
 And the hosts of the hailstorm assemble 
 
 Deep scars on its sides to imprint, 
 It sets, though the hills arc a-tremble, 
 
 Its face like a Hint. 
 
 Though the trees by the storm be uprooted 
 
 And whirled at the wild wind's beck, 
 And the shores of the sea strange-fruited 
 
 With fruitage of waif and of wreck ; 
 Though back be the tide-streams driven, 
 
 And backward the vast waves curled, 
 Not a stone from its stand has been riven, 
 
 From its hold has been hurled. 
 
 Yet when day has gone down in its splendour, 
 
 And sunset in glory has died, 
 Does the fort make majestic surrender 
 
 Of the might that it claimed in its pride. 
 How sternly soe'er in its starkness 
 
 It stands against storm, yet it knows 
 In the lull betwixt daylight and darkness 
 
 A sense of repose. 
 2
 
 Then bright in the gloaming a maiden 
 
 Is seen on its terrace, whose form 
 Seems a flower with its sweetness o'erladen, 
 
 Over-fragile to front life's storm ; 
 And late when the glowworm glistens, 
 
 And stars are a-sparkle above, 
 In fear and in rapture she listens 
 
 To whispers of love. 
 
 O whence did that vision of glory- 
 Like a spirit supernal alight 
 
 On the heights that grow haggard and hoary 
 And weird in the slant moon's sight ? 
 
 Those heights, if they listed, could tell us 
 
 From whence that fair vision hath come ; 
 
 But the fort for its secret is jealous, 
 Its battlements dumb. 
 
 For hither unhelped, unbefriended, 
 
 In a cradle unguarded, unsafe, 
 By nought but the wild winds tended, 
 
 Was drifted a wave-borne waif. 
 'Mid wreckage of storm-torn splinters 
 
 Since first was that sweet waif seen, 
 Seventeen is the tale of the winters, 
 
 The springs seventeen. 
 
 And now 'neath the battlements, brightly 
 Lit up by the slow slant moon, 
 
 She glides o'er the terraces nightly 
 
 To list to the nightingale's tune : 
 
 3
 
 To list to the nightingale's dirges 
 
 For a love that is over and done, 
 
 And to look for a lover who urges 
 Love yet to be won. 
 
 And nightly the wide waves over, 
 
 With effort of arm and of oar, 
 One who rows like a strong sea-rover 
 
 Is borne on his bark to the shore. 
 And nightly with love*s sweet suasion 
 
 He prays her to brighten his home, 
 To dally no more with occasion, 
 
 But flee o'er the foam. 
 
 For the breath of the breeze is indulgent, 
 
 And scarcely astir is the sea, 
 And its moon-littcn waves are refulgent, 
 
 Whereo'er she may 'scape and be free : 
 Yet stroncr is the strain that must sever 
 
 The tie that his suasion withstands, 
 Kre her home she relinquish for ever 
 
 For alien lands. 
 
 And daily in wonderful fashion, 
 
 As she strays in her garden about, 
 Is her heart in its strong sweet passion 
 
 Torn this way and that way by doubt. 
 And daily the paths of her pleasance 
 
 And the branches that shade it above, 
 Grow aware of the mystical presence 
 
 Of passionate love. 
 
 4
 
 And still in its rose-covered alleys 
 
 She lists to the stir of the breeze, 
 As daily it dances and dallies 
 
 With shine of the shimmering seas ; 
 And the kind sea glistens and glances, 
 
 With surges full softly a-swell, 
 Till the soul of the silence entrances 
 
 Her soul in its spell. 
 
 There is wrought strange change by the summer 
 
 In the frown of the fortress above, 
 By the might of the bright new-comer, 
 
 The tyrant and sorcerer Love. 
 By the mystical might of the wizard 
 
 Transfigured are turret and hall, 
 From the world-old wall to the lizard 
 
 That creeps on the wall. 
 
 And softer and gentler and kinder 
 
 The smile that enlightens its form, 
 And effaces each trace and reminder 
 
 Of the frown that affronted the storm ; 
 Of the frown that affronted the thunder 
 
 And tempest of earlier days — 
 It is Love that hath wrought this wonder ; 
 
 To Love be the praise. 
 
 For buttress and cope weather-blunted 
 Are bright with a kindlier sheen, 
 
 And its dwarf shrubs wizened and stunted 
 Put on them a garment of green ; 
 5
 
 A varment of green that effaces 
 
 The scars in its iron-bound mail, 
 
 And right carefully covers the traces 
 Deep-scored by the hail. 
 
 Full slowly the year grows older, 
 
 As each moon waxes and wanes ; 
 And darker the daytime and colder, 
 
 When Autumn is drowned in her rains. 
 And still does that fair maid ponder 
 
 On what will the fates decree, 
 And shall she, or shall she not wander 
 
 Adrift on the sea. 
 
 And daily, as Autumn grows later, 
 
 And more of the sun must she miss, 
 She looks on the years that await her, 
 
 And dark is her future's abyss. 
 And daily her love waxes urgent 
 
 To bear her away for his bride ; 
 And her heart, like a traitor insurgent, 
 
 Still fights on his side. 
 
 Though deeper the shade on the dial, 
 
 And darker the gloom of the night, 
 He laughs at delay and denial, 
 
 And calms with his courage her fright. 
 And slowly his ceaseless insistence, 
 
 That knows not refusal or rest, 
 Is sapping the might for resistance 
 
 That once she possessed. 
 6
 
 And more is her mind growing sterile 
 
 Of reasons his prayer to deny, 
 Though their path be encompassed with peril, 
 
 Where'er o'er the foam they may fly ; 
 And less doth she deem of the danger 
 
 That hangs o'er the unknown ways ; 
 And ever her home seems stranger, 
 
 And darker her days. 
 
 And little she dreads wild weather, 
 
 And scarce at the swallowing wave 
 She shudders, if only together 
 
 The sea and the storm they may brave. 
 And high is her courage, if only 
 
 His hand on her lingers be laid ; 
 For she learns at the touch that less lonely 
 
 Her lot may be made. 
 
 But at last there is spoken a sentence 
 
 That scares her reluctance away ; 
 And straight she has done with repentance 
 
 And doubt and despair and delay. 
 Yea, to-night she will haply discover 
 
 The deeps of her tremulous heart, 
 For her purpose is fixed with her lover 
 
 Far hence to depart. 
 
 She has learned that there comes on the morrow 
 To the castle a-wooing a knight ; 
 
 And the wings of the dove would she borrow, 
 Could they but avail her for flight. 
 
 7
 
 For the Lord of the land with derision 
 And scorn has rejected her prayer 
 
 For a space to defer his decision, 
 For a season forbear. 
 
 And loud in his wrath has he spoken, 
 
 " Ere set of the next day's sun, 
 A promise that shall not be broken, 
 
 A deed that may ne'er be undone, 
 Shall be ratified here in my hearing, 
 
 With seal of my sanction made sure ; 
 And thy troth, as the heavens ensphering 
 
 This earth, shall endure." 
 
 Full lightly his doom has he uttered, 
 
 Full carelessly turned him away ; 
 And the plumes of his pride are unfluttcred 
 
 By doubt if the maid will obey. 
 But she, " Since he knows not relenting, 
 
 O'er the surge of the sundering sea, 
 At last to my true-love consenting, 
 
 This night will I flee." 
 
 Her pulses with fever are shaken, 
 
 Strange mist doth her vision involve ; 
 She is strong, for her soul hath partaken 
 
 Of the wine of a fearless resolve. 
 But the sense of its secret abashes 
 
 Her spirit with shame's sad guise ; 
 And deep in their curtaining lashes 
 
 Thick-screened are her eyes. 
 8
 
 And the quick blood momently flushes, 
 
 Bedimming her star-clear sight, 
 Till she hides in her hands her blushes, 
 
 And weeps in her own despite. 
 For her thoughts far-truant are roaming, 
 
 And she longs sitting sole in her room 
 For the day to be quenched in the gloaming, 
 
 The gloaming in gloom. 
 
 As the gradual day grows older, 
 
 There gathers a gloom in the air ; 
 For denser the clouds are and colder, 
 
 And dark as the face of despair. 
 And the phalanx of vapour advances, 
 
 And will not dissolve or depart ; 
 Till the frown in the heavens enhances 
 
 The fear in her heart. 
 
 For the wind like a ghost is keening, 
 
 And wild with a wail is its moan ; 
 And the tempest, like tyrant o'erweening, 
 
 Has silenced all sound but its own. 
 Very loud is its voice in November, 
 
 As under the dun sky's arch 
 The storm seems again to remember 
 
 Its madness of March. 
 
 Yet again comes the sunset revealing 
 Its rapture of flame o'er the foam, 
 
 Till its splendour on casement and ceiling 
 Encrimson the halls of her home ; 
 
 9
 
 The home where a waif she was stranded, 
 Wind-wafted, a fairy-like form; 
 
 And the walls storm-battered and branded 
 With bolts of the storm. 
 
 And lo, yet a^ain there is wafted 
 
 A bark o'er the shifting floor, 
 Though the quivers of storm sure-shafted 
 
 Are weighted with weapons of war ; 
 And louder the hiss of its arrows, 
 
 That sing through the foam in their flight, 
 As the glow of the sunset narrows, 
 
 And dies into night. 
 
 And now from her turret descending 
 
 She glides like a ghost on the stair, 
 While the scream of the tempest is rending 
 
 The vast dim vault of the air. 
 Full softly her footfall is shifted, 
 
 In fear by her folk to be heard, 
 If a latch be ungently uplifted, 
 
 An echo upstirred. 
 
 Unheeded she passes the portal, 
 
 Like a ghost at its sentence of doom, 
 Or a spirit of splendour immortal 
 
 Cast out into uttermost gloom — 
 To darkness and dungeon ejected 
 
 By doom of unrighteous decree — 
 No light in her eyes is reflected, 
 
 No gleam on the sea. 
 10
 
 Yet ne'er for her fear of the sentence 
 
 Of fate on a soul that has sinned, 
 Does she dream of return or repentance, 
 
 Or tremble at touch of the wind. 
 Nigh stunned by the storm of its hisses, 
 
 Nigh blinded by rush of the rain, 
 She greets with her tears and her kisses 
 
 Her true-love again. 
 
 And fast are their fervent embraces, 
 
 As they stand 'neath the pitiless skies ; 
 And bright is the love in their faces, 
 
 And steadfast the light in their eyes. 
 Nought now shall these lovers dissever, 
 
 Though with storm and with sea they must cope, 
 If help be in ardent endeavour, 
 
 In fearlessness hope. 
 
 For 'spite of the wild fierce weather, 
 
 And 'spite of the loud waves' roar, 
 They twain looking Westward together 
 
 Push off from the perilous shore. 
 Though nor rudder nor oarage are idle 
 
 In the roll of the refluent wave, 
 Will they gain from the fates for their bridal 
 
 A home or a grave ? 
 
 Right bravely they push to the Westward, 
 
 Right glad of the rush of the air, 
 As a dove on the wing sweeps nestward, 
 
 Scarce 'scaped from the fowler's snare. 
 
 II
 
 Nought reck they if weary and breathless 
 And faint o'er the billows they ride, 
 
 For they know that their love must be deathless, 
 Whate'er may betide. 
 
 And they drift o'er the hills and the hollows ; 
 
 But fast over hollow and hill 
 In its fury the strong storm follows, 
 
 A destroyer intent upon ill. 
 And the heights of the fort storm-shaken 
 
 With its towers are shut from their sight, 
 For their bark is entrapped and o'ertaken 
 
 In toils of the night. 
 
 Stern stands the dim fort in its sadness 
 
 Enthroned above moorland and lawn, 
 Till the mi^ht of the storm and its madness 
 
 Die out at the coming of dawn. 
 For the wings of the wind may not slacken 
 
 Till darkness be over and done, 
 And furze-bush and heather and bracken 
 
 Grow bright in the sun. 
 
 But though bright be the brake and the heather, 
 
 And over and done with the rain, 
 And the face of the bright glad weather 
 
 Enlightened with laughter again ; 
 Though sunshine the moorland is kissing, 
 
 The fort of its woe is aware, 
 And a sigh for the maid that is missing 
 
 Is heard in the air. 
 
 12
 
 And ever in strange sweet fashion 
 
 There creep o'er the shuddering seas 
 Lamentation and voiceless compassion 
 
 In the voice of the far faint breeze. 
 As out of the West o'er the boundless 
 
 Sea-spaces its breath goes by, 
 Its whispers are saddened and soundless 
 
 Of aught but a sigh. 
 
 For never again will the towers 
 
 Grow bright as they brightened of old ; 
 And ever the buds and the flowers 
 
 Must wither uncared-for and cold. 
 And never again will the pleasance, 
 
 And the lawn's moss-carpeted floor, 
 Be bright with the beautiful presence 
 
 That graced them of yore. 
 
 And the blossoming branches must perish, 
 
 And fall to the pruner's knife ; 
 There is none their pale petals to cherish, 
 
 And foster their pure sweet life, 
 And in vain are the rose-bowers shady, 
 
 The roses refulgent in vain ; 
 For ne'er in her locks will the Lady 
 
 Entwine them again. 
 
 But if o'er the wandering billow 
 
 That Lady in safety has sped, 
 
 Or the wild sea-banks be the pillow 
 Whereon she has rested her head ; 
 
 J 3
 
 If locked in the arms of her lover 
 
 Sea-shrouded afar be her form — 
 
 There is none can the secret discover, 
 But only the storm. 
 
 Yet when storm-clouds thunder-bestridden 
 
 From the Westward in hurricane sweep, 
 Though deeper their secret be hidden 
 
 Than the rocks of the fathomless deep, 
 To the watcher in fear and in wonder 
 
 There is borne on the billows of air, 
 'Mid the shock of the strong sea's thunder, 
 
 A wail of despair. 
 
 Then surely he learns, as he hearkens, 
 
 What means the lament of the breeze, 
 When the storm-cloud deepens and darkens 
 
 The horror abroad on the seas ; 
 And surely he knows by the burden 
 
 Of sorrow that sighs in its breath, 
 That the sea-bloom they twain for their guerdon 
 
 Have gathered, is Death. 
 
 H
 
 WAGE OF LOVE. 
 
 THERE knelt a knight to a lady fair, 
 
 And gazed into her eyes : 
 Alas ! those eyes looked otherwhere, 
 
 Nor made in love's glad guise 
 Mute sweet replies. 
 
 He spake his prayer to his lady fair, 
 
 And called his saints to aid ; 
 She turned and looked upon him there, 
 
 And low, like one afraid, 
 This answer made. 
 
 "Nay, now, Sir Knight, I cannot say 
 
 If love be mine or no ; 
 Love's hopes in my heart lie whelmed alway 
 
 With a weary weight of woe, 
 Like buds 'neath snow." 
 
 She bowed her body down, and wept 
 
 Like one in bitter pain — 
 " My kinsfolk sheathed their swords and slept ; 
 
 The quest gone forth in vain 
 Comes not again." 
 
 15
 
 Then stood she up before him there 
 As straight as poplar tree ; 
 
 As wild hedge-roses are, so fair, 
 And as the sweet saints be, 
 So pure to see. 
 
 She said, " Sir Knight, in dungeon dim 
 
 My Sire afar must lie ; 
 Unseen for evermore of him 
 
 The sun makes glad the sky, 
 The clouds go by. 
 
 " Unseen of him the dawn grows bright 
 Beyond his dungeon bars ; 
 
 The interchange of day and night 
 Unheeded makes and mars 
 God's crown of stars. 
 
 " Unfelt the whispering winds of May 
 That greet the glad shepherd ; 
 
 Unsmelt the sweet untedded hay ; 
 
 Unmarked the flowers ; unheard 
 Thrush and blackbird. 
 
 " He lies like one that is but dead 
 
 Alone in dungeon deep, 
 While I with fainting; heart and head 
 
 And hands folded in sleep 
 Do nought but weep." 
 
 Again she bowed her body down ; 
 
 elt 
 16 
 
 Her knight knelt at her knee ;
 
 His was the warrior's stern renown ; 
 He wept for his pity 
 Her woe to see. 
 
 There knelt he silent for a space, 
 Nor wist what word to speak ; 
 
 Scarce might he look upon her face ; 
 The tears that washed her cheek 
 Made his limbs weak. 
 
 He said, " Lady," and touched her hand, 
 " Grant me this only boon, 
 
 Then surely through the Paynim land 
 Loud war's triumphant tune 
 Shall shake full soon. 
 
 " Bid me but right thy father's wrong, 
 
 Bid me his foes defy, 
 Then by God's body, ere it be long, 
 
 Shall his gloom-darkened eye 
 Greet the glad sky, 
 
 " Ere it be long, his evil plight 
 
 Shall surely bettered be ; 
 Yea, I will set him in thy sight, 
 
 And he shall help the plea 
 I make to thee." 
 
 He looked into her liquid eyes 
 
 Past her long lashes brown ; 
 Fair showed her dainty broideries ; 
 
 17
 
 Like seaweed sloped her gown 
 Her limbs adown. 
 
 She spake not, but most steadfastly 
 
 Still held her eyes a-stare, 
 As though behind him she might sec, 
 
 Where was but empty air, 
 Her father there. 
 
 A space she stood, like one that dreamed 
 
 And scarce was well awake ; 
 A space like statue carved she seemed ; 
 
 No word that either spake 
 That silence brake. 
 
 Then burned her cheek, whose rose had fled ; 
 
 " For his sake thou shalt go ; " 
 Right royally she held her head ; 
 
 Her voice, that was so low, 
 Right loud did grow. 
 
 " And thou shalt swear, in toil or teen, 
 
 By this my Guardian Saint, 
 Sweet Cecily, and by Mar)', Queen 
 
 And Maiden without taint, 
 Thou wilt not faint, 
 
 "Nor turn thee from the Paynim land, 
 
 Until that I shall see 
 My father stand at thy right hand, 
 And he shall say to me, 
 ' Let this thing be.' " 
 IB
 
 " Soon, Lady, shalt thou see him here ; 
 
 Yet what ill hap befell 
 That friends were far and foemen near ?" 
 
 " Small need the tale to tell ; 
 Thou know'st it well. 
 
 " As he rode through the forest dim, 
 
 Nor recked of secret snares, 
 False Paynim hounds laid wait for him, 
 
 And caught him unawares — 
 Christ's curse be theirs ! 
 
 " They smote his sword from out his hand- 
 May God's hands smite the slaves, 
 
 And send strange ruin o'er their land, 
 Till one vast deluge laves 
 Their nameless graves. 
 
 "They smote his helm from off his head, 
 And scoffed at his white hair — 
 
 God smite the cravens blind and dead, 
 Who mocked, and did not spare, 
 At his brows bare. 
 
 "They bound his hands behind his back, 
 And smote him on the face — 
 
 O when their coward heartstrings crack, 
 God give them, of his grace, 
 Hell's hottest place. 
 
 " They fettered all his limbs, and then 
 They led him bound away, 
 
 19
 
 And shut him safe from sight of men — 
 What need I more to say ? 
 These things did they." 
 
 And there was silence. Hardly heard, 
 A bee buzzed on the pane ; 
 
 Outside a flute-throated blackbird, 
 Because there had been rain, 
 Gave thanks again. 
 
 She did not hear the blackbird's song ; 
 
 She did not note the bee ; 
 The knight that silent knelt so long 
 
 Upon his bended knee 
 She did not see. 
 
 She heard but that she fain would hear, 
 And ever more and more 
 
 War-axes clashing smote her ear, 
 With all the loud uproar 
 Of furious war. 
 
 She saw but that she fain would see, 
 Swords flashing in the light ; 
 
 She saw the host of Paynims flee, 
 And foremost in the fight 
 Her chosen knight. 
 
 She saw her Sire return to bless 
 Her love of him, for whom 
 She fain would face pain and the stress 
 
 20
 
 Of fear and all the gloom 
 That folds the tomb. 
 
 Her bosom 'neath her gown did swell, 
 Her lips shaped her knight's name, 
 
 Her dainty bodice rose and fell, 
 And in her face was flame 
 That went and came. 
 
 Her knight knelt ever at her knee ; 
 
 A soft breeze moved her hair, 
 That from its bands had floated free ; 
 
 He watched its waves most fair 
 Rippling in air; 
 
 As one who, gazing down below 
 
 From moorland bridge in May, 
 
 May note the silent to-and-fro 
 Of long green weeds a-sway 
 I' the stream alway. 
 
 He softly rose, and gazing saw 
 
 Where tears had stained her sleeve ; 
 
 Pity his voice did break, and awe ; 
 
 "Lady, I take my leave ; 
 
 Do thou not grieve. 
 
 " By Mary Queen of Heaven I swear, 
 
 And Maiden without taint, 
 By the Cross that God's Body bare, 
 By Cecily the sweet Saint, 
 I will not faint, 
 21
 
 " Nor turn mc from the Paynim land, 
 
 Until that thou shalt sec 
 At my right hand thy father stand, 
 
 And he shall say to thee, 
 ' Let this thing be.' 
 
 " Yet this one prayer shall still be mine, 
 
 O give me thy good leave, 
 Bid me for love's most sacred sign 
 
 On my red banner weave 
 Thy tear-stained sleeve." 
 
 Where in her sleeve long grasses green 
 Were broidered on the brown, 
 
 And her soft arm from sight did screen, 
 She grasped and tore it down 
 From off her gown. 
 
 Her arm from shoulder down to wrist 
 
 Was all of sleeve bereft. 
 He saw the silk strands twine and twist 
 
 Where that gold-broidcred weft 
 Atwain was cleft. 
 
 Then wist he whither winding went 
 
 The little veinlets blue 
 That nestled 'neath her elbow bent, 
 
 Where the warm blood crept through 
 Her heart unto. 
 
 The little veins that softly crept 
 Beneath her pearly skin 
 22
 
 He watched, and wellnigh watching wept, 
 Where they wound out and in 
 Their way to win. 
 
 His dazzled sight did reel and swim ; 
 
 Almost he swooned to see 
 How God dealt graciously with him, 
 
 And wrought that arm that he 
 Right glad might be. 
 
 'Twas not so white as folk may bleach 
 
 Fine linen in the sun, 
 The red that dyes the blossomed peach, 
 
 When spring has scarce begun, 
 Through all did run. 
 
 He took the sleeve in his right hand, 
 And like one who well wist 
 
 What thing to do, the braid that spanned 
 Her dainty-carven wrist 
 He mutely kist. 
 
 Then turned he, and awayward took 
 
 Reluctant steps and slow ; 
 Strange heart-throbs all his pulses shook, 
 
 He said, " Lady, I go," 
 And no word moe. 
 
 He took an oath of all his kin 
 
 And ten good knights beside, 
 By God's Body their way to win, 
 
 23
 
 Whate'er might else betide, 
 To her Sire's side. 
 
 They gat them to the Paynim land 
 All warrior-wise bedight, 
 
 They found a frowning fortress manned 
 By folk of mickle might 
 Full-armed for fight. 
 
 They stormed the fort by sheer assault, 
 And forth the Paynims drave, 
 
 Yet wist not where the dungeon vault 
 Lurked deep in loathsome cave, 
 Dark as the grave. 
 
 To ruin down in wrath they rent 
 That fortress stone bv stone, 
 
 Then found the knight a dim descent, 
 Where led by wail and groan 
 He strode alone. 
 
 Much prisoners pining there he found 
 With woe wellnigh distraught, 
 
 And far within to the wall fast bound 
 With shackles subtly wrought, 
 Him whom he sought. 
 
 He led him up the staircase dim, 
 And looked into his eyne ; 
 
 God's sweet fresh air was unto him 
 Like balm, and like strong wine 
 God's glad sunshine. 
 
 24
 
 He set him on his own good steed, 
 
 And only asked the boon 
 To walk beside in pilgrim's weed, 
 
 Shod all in sandal shoon, 
 'Neath sun and moon. 
 
 He brought him all his foemen past, 
 And crossed the narrow seas, 
 
 And led him to his home at last 
 High-castled mid tall trees, 
 That bowed i' the breeze. 
 
 The moving breeze their banner fanned, 
 As they rode up the height ; 
 
 The Lady saw her father stand 
 Beside her own true knight 
 Unscathed of fight. 
 
 Her eye was bright, her heart was glad, 
 Yet wondered she full sore 
 
 That he in pilgrim's weed was clad, 
 Nor sword nor armour wore 
 Like conqueror. 
 
 She flung her on her father's neck, 
 
 And for a little space 
 She clung, like mariner to wreck, 
 
 With face pressed hard to face 
 In fast embrace. 
 
 Then fell she back, and vague alarm 
 Gathered in her soft eyes ; 
 25
 
 Her father looked on her bare arm, 
 And marked in stern surprise 
 Its sleeveless guise. 
 
 She spake, the red blood dyed her cheek 
 And fearless straightward brow, 
 
 " My Knight went forth my Sire to seek ; 
 I vowed the Saints a vow 
 True-kept till now : 
 
 " I vowed upon this arm to wear 
 No garment 'gainst the cold, 
 
 Till once again should high in air 
 That red banner enfold 
 Those threads of gold. 
 
 " I see that gold-embroidered sleeve, 
 
 I see the banner shine, 
 Whereon my faithful Knight did weave 
 
 Love's gift for seal and sign 
 That he is mine. 
 
 " Thee has he led from Paynim land 
 
 Afar across the sea, 
 At his right hand I see thee stand, 
 
 'Tis thine to say to me. 
 ' Let this thing be.' " 
 
 Her father turned his silvered head, 
 
 A cloud was on his brow, 
 " Ccrtes, Sir Knight," he sternly said, 
 ' 26
 
 " 'Twere meet that I and thou 
 Should sunder now. 
 
 " Much thanks to thy good sword I owe, 
 Much thanks to all thy men ; 
 
 Else were I still deep whelmed in woe, 
 And pining now as then 
 In dungeon den. 
 
 "Yet for my child, thou needs must fail 
 
 Of favour in her sight ; 
 Nought shall th}' doughty deeds avail, 
 
 Her troth she may not plight 
 To nameless knight." 
 
 Aye looked the Knight i' the Lady's eyes 
 More sweet in weal or woe 
 
 Than sunlit lakes or starry skies ; 
 
 He said, " Lady, I go," 
 
 And no word moe. 
 
 But she, with sudden passion rent 
 
 Most marvellous to see, 
 Her voice afar like clarion sent, 
 
 Crying, " Where thou must be, 
 I go with thee. 
 
 " What place for him who saved the Sire 
 Meet as his daughter's side ? 
 
 What nobler lot might she desire 
 Than still with him to bide, 
 His chosen bride ? " 
 
 2 7
 
 Her father clenched an angry fist, 
 Deep was the oath he sware ; 
 
 He seized her by her little wrist, 
 By her thin arm and bare, 
 That was so fair : 
 
 He thrust her backwards through the door, 
 
 Till all her body slim, 
 Like reed the wild wind's breath before, 
 
 'Neath his fierce eyes and grim 
 Yielded to him. 
 
 Pale and more pale the Lady grew, 
 Scarce might she stand upright, 
 
 One glance of speechless trust she threw 
 Upon her faithful knight, 
 Then passed from sight. 
 
 The knight on pilgrim's staff did lean, 
 Where he had leant before ; 
 
 Almost he rushed the twain between ; 
 His limbs, though he forbore, 
 Trembled right sore. 
 
 His Lady's father turned him round, 
 
 Coldly his accents fell, 
 " I thank thee that I am not bound 
 Fast in yon Paynim's hell ; 
 Now fare thee well." 
 28
 
 Firmly the knight made answer, " Nay, 
 Of thanks have I small need ; 
 
 Yet if thy daughter bid me stay, 
 None other hest I heed, 
 So God me speed." 
 
 But he, " By Mary's sacred Son, 
 
 And those Evangels four, 
 With this one word hast thou undone 
 
 The friendship that I bore 
 To thee before. 
 
 And if henceforth we meet, we twain, 
 
 In land that calls me Lord, 
 Thy service thou shalt plead in vain ; 
 Short shrift will I afford, 
 And hempen cord." 
 
 So spake the Sire, and straight the knight 
 
 Went without word away, 
 But with the morrow's morning light 
 
 Came in the same array 
 That self-same way. 
 
 And thither daily at the dawn 
 
 Hard by the castle gate 
 He came ere night's dim veils were drawn, 
 Glad, spite of scorn and hate, 
 There still to wait. 
 29
 
 For it might chance that he should sec 
 
 His Lady's lily hand 
 Wave from the battlements, where she, 
 
 O'erlooking all the land, 
 At dawn would stand. 
 
 Or when the storm his cloudy flock 
 Was shepherding with care, 
 
 It might be she would send a lock, 
 Sailing through misty air, 
 Of long dark hair. 
 
 Or it might be, when thick the mist 
 Enshrouded bower and hall, 
 
 Where densest ivy chose to twist, 
 Sheer o'er the outmost wall 
 A flower would fall. 
 
 Or it might chance there smote his ear, 
 When winds to sleep had gone, 
 
 Athwart the silence sounding clear, 
 Chanted in ancrel tone, 
 Her orison. 
 
 But daily when the sun rose high, 
 And all the green hill-side 
 
 Beneath its r,ays grew dusty-dry, 
 He left those halls, and hied 
 Far from his bride. 
 
 30
 
 Yet not unmarked of angry eyes 
 His way the knight did win ; 
 
 His Lady's Sire in cunning wise 
 Took counsel of his kin 
 What snare to spin. 
 
 They wove a weft of craft and guile, 
 And lured him to their hall ; 
 
 The knight came glad at heart the while, 
 Careless of ill and all 
 That might befall. 
 
 They seized him sitting at their board 
 Like welcome guest and kind. 
 
 And threatened him with axe and cord, 
 If hopes his heart enshrined 
 He not resigned. 
 
 Then for that he would not make oath 
 To heed their hest, they swore 
 
 That thenceforth he should plight his troth 
 To nought but dungeon door 
 For evermore. 
 
 But he in dungeon grew right glad 
 That, where her feet must go 
 
 So near to him, his home he had ; 
 Though nothing did she know 
 Of this new woe. 
 
 31
 
 For daily still at dawn she went 
 
 Where steep steps upward wound, 
 
 Till from the topmost battlement 
 
 She scanned the lowland ground 
 For miles around. 
 
 She deemed her faithful knight was dead ; 
 
 Nought might she see nor hear, 
 Till one among her maidens said — 
 
 Trembling she came anear, 
 And spake in fear — 
 
 "Nay, nay, thy good knight liveth yet, 
 But draweth nigh to death ; 
 
 On all his limbs are irons set ; 
 
 Deep beyond day's sweet breath 
 He languishcth. 
 
 " Thy father feasting at his side 
 
 Seized him right treacherously ; 
 
 His hopes have sickened all and died ; 
 In dungeon he must lie 
 Till he too die, 
 
 " Unless thyself canst find the key, 
 
 And ope the iron door, 
 And bribe the gaolers not to see 
 
 Him pass, like Peter, o'er 
 The dungeon floor." 
 
 3 2
 
 Pale grew the Lady and more pale, 
 She kissed her maiden's mouth; 
 
 Glad was her heart as their's that hail 
 After long dearth and drouth 
 Rain from the South. 
 
 Pale and more pale the Lady grew 
 As she looked down the hall ; 
 
 She was so lily-white of hue, 
 Sore feared her maidens all 
 She needs must fall. 
 
 But she stood firm and cried, " Good hap 
 
 To thee for this thy tale ; 
 So may all lies, that tyrants wrap 
 
 Round naked truth for veil, 
 Fall off and fail." 
 
 Sedately through the hall she stept, 
 And lightly reached her room ; 
 
 Where falling on her bed she wept, 
 Till night wrapt all in gloom 
 Dark as the tomb. 
 
 Then stood she up and pressed her hands 
 
 Against her forehead high, 
 And wound and bound the twisted strands 
 
 Of hair that still would fiy 
 Unquietly. 
 
 33 D
 
 Through the dim corridors she went, 
 Whose arras hung unstirred ; 
 
 His head each armoured warder bent, 
 And hushed his breath and heard 
 Her whispered word. 
 
 Then went she on to doorway dim 
 Scarce seen amid the gloom, 
 
 Where maidens deft with fingers slim 
 In one long lamp-lit room 
 Wrought at the loom. 
 
 Where maidens fair with fingers deft 
 
 Before her own design 
 Did weave right skilfully the weft, 
 
 And warp with worsted fine 
 Of woof entwine. 
 
 There where she went with rustling gown 
 'Mid moving maids a-row, 
 
 It seemed as when the stream adown 
 Past long reeds bending low 
 A swan doth go. 
 
 Well might she trust with secret deep 
 
 Her maidens each and all, 
 The warders stout of moat and keep, 
 Of corridor and hall 
 And outmost wall. 
 34
 
 And for that there that night was feast 
 With wassail and with song, 
 
 And merriment for most and least 
 With revel loud and long 
 For all the throng, 
 
 With speed as secret as might be, 
 
 That self-same night she planned 
 
 Afar with her true love to flee 
 Beyond her father's land, 
 And his hard hand. 
 
 And when the feast was at its height, 
 Her figure fair and slim, 
 
 Wrapt in the sable folds of ni^ht, 
 Crept down the staircase dim 
 From them to him. 
 
 Her fingers tightly clasped a key ; 
 
 She reached the iron door ; 
 The gaolers swore they did not see 
 
 Her pass, like angel, o'er 
 The dungeon floor. 
 
 She found her true love far within ; 
 
 In troubled sleep he lay ; 
 No light to that dark place might win, 
 
 No soul might surely say 
 'Twere night or day. 
 
 35
 
 He woke from his unquiet sleep ; 
 
 A soft voice stirred the air ; 
 Unwonted awe his soul did steep, 
 
 He saw i' the lantern's glare 
 His Lady there. 
 
 O sweet, when dreams take terror's shape, 
 To wake from bale to bliss ; 
 
 And sweet from dungeon dim to 'scape; 
 But sweeter far than this 
 True love's first kiss. 
 
 Him-seemed her form a splendour flung 
 Through all that evil place ; 
 
 She fell into his arms and clung 
 
 With face pressed hard to face 
 In fast embrace. 
 
 She said, " O love, forgive, forgive, 
 That though thou wast so near, 
 
 Apart from thee my heart could live, 
 And seek no shelter here, 
 Nor on my bier ; 
 
 " Alas, I could nor know nor guess." 
 " Ah, love," he said, " Let be ; 
 
 When sailors cease the stars to bless, 
 When the sun blames the sea, 
 Will I blame thee." 
 
 3&
 
 She said, " Alas, the weary while ! 
 
 Now make we haste to go ; 
 Me shalt thou teach for many a mile 
 
 Thy many deeds to know, 
 And thy much woe." 
 
 " Nay," said he, " let the dead past be " 
 
 And oped the iron door ; 
 The gaolers swore they did not see 
 
 Him pass, like Peter, o'er 
 The dungeon floor. 
 
 No echo did their voices stir ; 
 
 They climbed the staircase dim ; 
 It was enough of joy for her 
 
 To keep her body slim 
 So close to him. 
 
 They passed anigh the hall, and heard 
 
 The festival's uproar; 
 The warders gazed without a word 
 
 To see them cross the floor 
 O' the corridor. 
 
 He set her on her saddled steed, 
 
 And little did he say 
 But " Sweetest heart, have thou good heed, 
 
 For rough and long the way 
 Ere it be day." 
 
 37
 
 She bent her from her palfrey low 
 Till her face touched his face, 
 
 " Ah, dearest, one thing well I know r 
 To true love time and space 
 liver give place. 
 
 " It matters not if frost be cold, 
 
 Or burning sun be hot, 
 Let each the other's arms enfold, 
 
 Come weal, come woe, God wot, 
 It matters not. 
 
 " I reck not if the road be rough, 
 
 Nor if the way be long ; 
 One thing we twain know well enough, 
 
 While I to thee belong, 
 Naught can go wrong." 
 
 He sprang to horse, and flank to flank, 
 And stride for eager stride, 
 
 Through mist and dark and vapours dank 
 Those lovers side by side 
 Away did ride. 
 
 And next day in her father's hall 
 
 Was anger and affright, 
 And much he questioned each and all, 
 
 Groom, warder, page and knight, 
 Of his child's flight. 
 
 38
 
 But though he well believed they feigned, 
 And vexed his soul full sore, 
 
 Her flight a mystery remained 
 That his cold loveless lore 
 Might ne'er explore. 
 
 DANGER. 
 
 I NOT deny thine eyes are clear and blue 
 
 As mountain-tarns 'neath cloudless summer skies ; 
 
 I not deny thy spirit shines therethrough, 
 
 And drowns in light the azure of thine eyes ; 
 
 Nor do I make pretence my soul is free 
 
 From those strong toils thy strange eyes spread for me. 
 
 But well I know thou art as false as fair, 
 
 And deeper far than the unsounded sea, 
 
 And full as fickle as the restless air, 
 
 Born but the bane of loving hearts to be ; 
 
 And therefore, since 1 know thee what thou art, 
 
 I sit for ever lonely and apart. 
 
 39
 
 THE STREAM. 
 
 FROM the womb of the cloud, overweighted, o'erbowed 
 
 By the burden it carries within, 
 When the roar of the thunder, thereover, thereunder, 
 
 And the pangs of its travail begin ; 
 From amidst the thick gloom that envelops its womb, 
 
 And is lit by the lightning's glare, 
 Through the storm of its strife I am born into life, 
 
 And rocked in the cradles of air. 
 Then my mother the cloud, as she dons the white shroud 
 
 That is woven of frost and of snow, 
 Lets me gently adown by the skirts of her gown, 
 
 When it sweeps o'er the mountains below, 
 Till she flees and goes past, as she leaves me at last 
 
 All alone without guidance to go. 
 
 Deep under the hills are the founts of my rills, 
 
 Where a Naiad weeping sits, 
 Who was prisoned within for a nameless sin, 
 
 When the caverns were carved and the pits ; 
 And the tear-drop that slips from her eyes to her lips, 
 
 And the rain on her urn that alights, 
 Are transformed in a trice to an archway of ice, 
 
 And a frostwork of stalactites. 
 But the streamlet that swells from the fathomless wells 
 
 40
 
 That she guards in the caves of the earth, 
 And the waters that run unbeheld of the sun, 
 
 Where they know not of drought nor of dearth, 
 With their musical sound welling up from the ground, 
 
 Give me momently wondrous new birth. 
 
 On the heights of the hills, wheresoe'er the wind wills, 
 
 I am fostered by runlets of rain ; 
 Through the mosses I creep, o'er the ledges I weep, 
 
 And the long grass impedes me in vain. 
 Through the peat that would choke me I silently soak, 
 
 Till I lie in the lap of the pond ; 
 Though it fain would beguile me, I wait but awhile, 
 
 Ere I reach the green rushes beyond. 
 Yet awhile where I lie, the wide vault of the sky, 
 
 And the splendour and flame of the sun, 
 And the stars and the moon, as they follow full soon, 
 
 When the glories of daytime are done, 
 Like new skies 'neath the grass are revealed as I pass, 
 
 For with never a ripple I glide, 
 Till a splash and a whirr, when the birds are a-stir, 
 
 And are fain on my bosom to ride, 
 Set my surface a-jar, and dismantle and mar 
 
 All the magic that held me enskied. 
 
 Then with lingering feet I forsake my retreat 
 
 In the nooks of the mountains high, 
 Where the hail and the snow in the long long ago 
 
 Piled their wastes of white ice to the sky; 
 Through the emerald-strewn grass like a sapphire I pass 
 
 To the meads where the lambs are at play, 
 
 4>
 
 And rejoice when I see them run races with me, 
 
 For my heart is as merry as they. 
 Round the stones at my brink, where the birds rest and 
 drink, 
 
 Such a musical tinkling I keep, 
 That the lambs one and all think they hear the bells call, 
 
 And go skipping away to the sheep ; 
 Then again for a while, lest they guess at my guile, 
 
 I lie hushed like a baby asleep. 
 
 Yet away I must go to the fields far below, 
 
 And my pathway is rugged and grim, 
 Rough-hewn in the rock by the earthquake's shock, 
 
 When the cliffs were uphurled and a-swim. 
 With a frenzied uproar down my rock-bestrewn floor 
 
 My foam-beflecked wavelets I whirl ; 
 Sheer over the steep with a desperate leap 
 
 All my torrent I helplessly hurl ; 
 And the wind that goes past flees before me aghast, 
 
 As I dash down the headlong descent, 
 And the branches and trees, that are bowed in the breeze, 
 
 By my ruin are riven and rent ; 
 Yet like hope o'er despair, with my foam in the air 
 
 All the hues of the rainbow are blent. 
 
 Then I wander again in the lap of the plain, 
 
 For my perils are over and done ; 
 And ample and large, as a polished steel targe, 
 
 Is the mirror I show to the sun ; 
 Till I lurk in a cool deep crystalline pool, 
 
 And the weary-foot wayfarer lure 
 
 42
 
 To lave his hot limbs, where my lakelet o'erbrims 
 
 With the wealth will his weariness cure ; 
 Straight the slim-bodied tern and the shadow-winged hern 
 
 Flee away, and the wary mouse creeps, 
 And the ousel flits by, and the tit perches nigh, 
 
 And the wise little wagtail's eye peeps, 
 When his white arms divide the clear depths of my tide, 
 
 As amidmost my waters he leaps. 
 
 Wide and wider I grow, as my journey I go, 
 
 And my tribute from water-springs take ; 
 Like a broad band of blue the green fields threaded through, 
 
 Or the coils of a silvery snake ; 
 For I bind at my brink all the land in a link 
 
 That is changing, yet ever abides, 
 Where the water-weeds curl in my pathway of pearl, 
 
 And the lilies lean o'er as it slides. 
 Where the iris and sedge grow so thick at my edge, 
 
 The reed-warblers have built them a nest ; 
 Like a blue ray of light in its arrowy flight 
 
 The gay king-fisher skims o'er my breast ; 
 And the dace and the bream in the nooks of my stream, 
 
 Where hardly the eddies are stirred, 
 And the otters that swim, blithe of heart, lithe of limb, 
 
 Like strange eels nimble-footed and furred, 
 Make my heart full and fain to sing o'er and again 
 
 All the songs in my youth that I heard. 
 
 Yet as age draweth near, other voices I hear, 
 Other sights on my banks I must view ; 
 For the mill's merry sound, as I turn its wheel round, 
 
 43
 
 And the thrust of the scythe through the dew, 
 And the plover's s<id cry, now afar, now anigh, 
 
 And the noise of the nightingale's song, 
 Must give place to the beat of the myriad teet 
 
 That swarm round about me and throng ; 
 For the factory's hum and the band's busy drum 
 
 That is calling its hearers to kill, 
 And the bells overhead, that would deafen the dead 
 
 With their clangour of peace and good will, 
 Overwhelm, like a dream of loud terror, my stream 
 
 In a turmoil that never is still. 
 
 But beyond the harsh cries and the woe-begone eyes 
 
 Of the mob million-throated and loud, 
 Past the last iron ridge that they build for a bridge, 
 
 And across it unceasingly crowd, 
 I go calmly again on my march to the main, 
 
 Till 1 feel the vast pulse of the tide, 
 That each day late and soon 'neath its mistress the moon 
 
 Still must follow where'er she may guide. 
 And the ships with white wings where the merry wind 
 sings, 
 
 As they spread them before him and flee, 
 And the sea-birds that sail high upborne by the gale, 
 
 And sink down with furled wings upon me, 
 Make me glad by their kiss till I tremble with bliss, 
 
 As I mingle at last with the sea. 
 
 44
 
 QUESTIONS. 
 
 WHY dost thou bare that forehead to the view 
 
 Of all the careless gazers that go by ; 
 Till each may guess thy deep deep thought therethrough, 
 
 And learn what large brain lightens in thine eye ? 
 Yet plumb they ne'er so deep with lead and line, 
 'Tis only my thoughts that may fathom thine. 
 
 Why dost thou spread thy bright brown hair in skeins 
 Disparted wide in such a glorious net ; 
 
 Wiierein fond troops of deep-entangled swains 
 
 Have stumbled oft-times and go stumbling yet ? 
 
 But dare I mock the prisoned victims ? Nay, 
 
 Myself am fettered faster far than they. 
 
 Why dost thou ope thy great and liquid eyes 
 
 With such wide wealth of wonder on the world ; 
 
 Till those blown banners of the storm-swept skies 
 Unveil no fairer depths when they are furled ? 
 
 Yet shine they wider than the world-wide sky, 
 
 There is no soul can soften them but I. 
 
 Why wilt thou let thy rosy twin sea-shells 
 
 Through those thick locks so daintily appear ; 
 Till every silly swain his tale that tells 
 
 45
 
 Doubts not his love is all they yearn to hear ? 
 Yet since they heed but mine, what need I care ? 
 Veil them not 'neath thy bountiful brown hair. 
 
 Why dost thou let those dainty fingers lie 
 
 E'en for one moment in a stranger's hand ; 
 
 Who fain would hope that he may win thereby 
 The sweetest heart that is in all the land ? 
 
 Nay, yet small need to murmur or repine ; 
 
 No hand may hold thy fingers fast but mine. 
 
 Why dost thou dare to walk abroad at noon, 
 Nor of the crowd of gazers feel afraid ? 
 
 Ah, better 'twere 'neath the cloud-muffled moon 
 Unseen to wander in the sheltering shade. 
 
 Nay, though thou walk where all that will may see, 
 
 Thy wanderings do but lead thee back to me. 
 
 Why wilt thou let the red tide flush thy face 
 
 With such rich stain that all who see may swear, 
 
 Not knowing what wight is in happy case, 
 The signal flame of sacred love is there? 
 
 Nay, let thy cheek flush ; there is naught amiss ; 
 
 For none but I may press it with a kiss. 
 
 W 7 hy wilt thou let thy all too gracious words 
 
 So kindly sound ; till all who hear may vow 
 
 That there is no glad choir of singing birds 
 
 Can tune their wild notes sweetlier than thou ? 
 
 Nay, dear, how sweet soe'er thine accents be, 
 
 Their hidden meaning is for none but me. 
 
 46
 
 How canst thou hope that thy all-glorious head 
 
 May 'scape the wounding shafts of the world's spite ? 
 
 Nay, nay, what do I to be so in dread ? 
 
 Through love's proof armour malice may not smite. 
 
 Naught matters now, let our skies frown or shine ; 
 
 For thou art ever my love and I thine. 
 
 TWAIN. 
 
 A ROSY light lay over the land, 
 
 Where a man and a maid went hand in hand. 
 
 Together they came to the trysting-tree, 
 And true to each other they swore to be. 
 
 Then their paths were sundered, and ill content 
 To the strife and the snares of the world they went. 
 
 And in vain they struggled, and all in vain 
 Did the rosy light shine over the plain. 
 
 For never they came where they stood before, 
 And their lives were twain for evermore. 
 
 And the lightning has blasted the trysting-tree, 
 That thereunder may no more troth-plights be. 
 
 47
 
 REQUIESCAT. 
 
 REST, rest and peace, when all about the house 
 Naught moves except the wainscot-wandering mouse, 
 
 Rest, rest and peace for one who waited long. 
 Rest, rest and peace : no slander can he feel ; 
 Deep waves of silence all his hurts shall heal ; 
 
 Nor foe nor friend may wreak him further wrong. 
 
 And where is he who would not save his soul 
 When all the wheels of battle o'er him roll, 
 
 And crush the suppliants that cringe and kneel? 
 Or where is he who would not make an end 
 Of journeyings where sore the sharp flints rend 
 
 His tender feet, how soft soe'er he steal ? 
 
 Nav, this man faced the ravage and the wrong, 
 And fought the fury of the world o'erlong; 
 
 Now here at last right rcstfully he lies : 
 Nay, this man faced God's foemen all his life, 
 Nor, sore o'erwearied, slackened in the strife ; 
 
 Now none shall scare the quiet from his eyes. 
 
 Nay, let him be ; ye vex him with your words, 
 The hush cf raindrops and the song of birds 
 
 Are sounds most meet to fall upon his ear : 
 
 48
 
 For such as he God's quiet were the best, 
 Lay, lay him down for evermore to rest 
 
 Where none henceforth may tease him with a tear. 
 
 Nay, yet ye wrong him ; surely he would share 
 With mortals still the woes that they must bear, 
 
 Not shrink to silence e'en though he be dead : 
 For man right manfully he fought from birth 
 Till death ; then lay him in the kindly earth, 
 
 Where men most thickly o'er his grave may tread. 
 
 So one day hearkening he may haply know 
 That woes that were i' the long long time ago 
 
 At last, at last shall vex men's souls no more : 
 One whispered message he may haply hear, 
 That greed and hate no longer need they fear, 
 
 Those old foes that aforetime hurt them sore. 
 
 O paltry souls ! what do ye to declare 
 
 That he whose heart your joys and sorrows bare 
 
 Would gladlier turn him to a dull repose ? 
 That he whose hand was strongest in the fray 
 Would gladlier turn to darkness and decay, 
 
 And sleep forgetting friends, forgetting foes ? 
 
 Rest, rest and peace : yea, surely it were sweet 
 To see the daisies grow above his feet, 
 
 To teach the roses o'er his head to twine ; 
 To lay him where no ruder note were heard 
 Than song of sad night's melancholy bird, 
 
 In hallowed dust and consecrated shrine. 
 
 49 E
 
 Rest, rest and peace : nay, surely sweeter far 
 In fancy still to keep the gates ajar, 
 
 That hold the living sundered from the dead ; 
 To yield him somewhere resting-place and room, 
 Where he may lean and listen from the tomb, 
 
 And wellnigh hear who move above his head. 
 
 For then, though sadly he must sometimes know 
 That vanquished friend yields to victorious foe, 
 
 And right by wrong is shamefully o'erthrown, 
 Yet shall he surely in the lapse of time 
 See Freedom triumph over tyrant crime, 
 
 And Truth safe-seated on her sacred throne. 
 
 Then shall he joy and be exceeding glad, 
 Whose soul aforetime was in cere-clothes clad, 
 
 Whose heart sat mourning by the grave of Truth ; 
 Lo, she he wept for is no longer here, 
 Upsoaring far she rises from her bier, 
 
 Rejoicing in her renovated youth. 
 
 Then lay him where the tramp of myriad feet 
 The old old music daily may repeat, 
 
 That speaks more sweetly to his sleeping soul 
 Than all your choristerjp*vith hymns divine, 
 And sobs of organ moaning in the shrine, 
 
 And sad-voiced requiems that round it roll. 
 
 And in the new world that is yet to be, 
 When all the wakened land from hill to sea 
 Shall put off sorrow and put on delight, 
 
 50
 
 Though lulled to sleep, yet he shall somehow know, 
 Feeling life's pulses through dead nature glow, 
 The morning-star at last has slain the night. 
 
 Then though his name be utterly forgot, 
 And his stout-heartedness remembered not, 
 
 Nor all his loving-kindness and his worth, 
 Yet shall his deeds be living and not dead, 
 And those wise plans that travailed in his head, 
 
 And his great thoughts come to a glorious birth. 
 
 And he too shall partake of them ; and ye, 
 Who spend your souls for those ye ne'er shall see, 
 
 Shall win rich harvest reaped for your reward, 
 Seeing that after ye have passed away 
 Your own deeds still unchangeably shall sway 
 
 The woven strands of fate's unfailing cord. 
 
 Then lay your lost one in the kindly earth, 
 Where all things bright and beautiful have birth, 
 
 Nor trust to tears to keep his memory green : 
 He lives again in all that he has done, 
 Though here no more ye see him. Is the sun 
 
 Dead, when derfse clouds from sight his splendour 
 screen ? 
 
 51
 
 GOOD MORNING. 
 
 GOOD morning ; yea, if Night can die, 
 'Tis surely time she should be dead ; 
 
 Good morning ; all the tears are dry 
 That Night has shed. 
 
 Good morning ; sweet the morn and good, 
 Wherein we hold each other's hands ; 
 
 Things Night has not yet understood 
 Morn understands. 
 
 Good morning ; well she knows the while 
 
 That she with Night has naught to do ; 
 
 See how her pure sweet sunny smile 
 O'erspreads the blue. 
 
 Again together we may stray, 
 
 Or 'neath the wild hedge-roses bide ; 
 Sweet morn will ne'er the nook betray 
 
 Wherein we hide. 
 
 O may we soon, my darling, see 
 
 The day that crowns our bliss begun ; 
 
 And then shall night and morn to me 
 Be all as one. 
 
 52
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 GOOD night, Good night, since dead the day ; 
 
 Good angels guard thy lonely bed ; 
 Good night ; what else were meet to say, 
 
 Or leave unsaid ? 
 
 I know not why good night should seek 
 
 To set our love so far apart ; 
 'Twere good to lie with cheek to cheek, 
 
 And heart to heart. 
 
 Again Good night ; Good night once more, 
 
 Though toll the midnight minster-chimes ; 
 
 O let me say it o'er and o'er 
 Ten thousand times. 
 
 Good night ; I would thou didst not deem 
 That lonely nights so good may be ; 
 
 Good night ; and if thou needs must dream, 
 O dream of me. 
 
 53
 
 IMPATIENCE. 
 
 I SAT and waited for my love, and swore 
 There was no thing so damned as a door, 
 Which when at love's hest it should open wide, 
 Remains the tighter shut and locked beside. 
 
 Then deeming that my heart must surely break, 
 At last I cried unto the door and spake, 
 "Whereto art fashioned, O thou thing of sin, 
 But to let ladies out or lovers in ? 
 
 " Now may the trunk that gave its planks to thee 
 Yet spare some timber for his gallows-tree, 
 Whose sordid soul naught nobler could attain 
 Than thus to live by building true-love's bane. 
 
 " Nay, may that carpenter who planed thy wood, 
 Since death by hanging is for him too good, 
 Sawn sheer asunder, flayed and quartered be, 
 As he hath treated many a taller tree. 
 
 II If but a plank of that same tree remain 
 
 The wretch with saw hath ruined and with plane, 
 Let every true man carefully have heed 
 He trust it not to help him in his need. 
 
 54
 
 " Should any ship of this wood builded be, 
 
 That ship will founder in a dead calm sea ; 
 
 Should Yule-tide hearth with this tree's logs be bright, 
 
 In flames that house will fall on Yule-tide night. 
 
 " The very wall whereon thou dost abut 
 Remaineth less inexorably shut : 
 Why came that villain carpenter at all 
 To stop the masons working at the wall ? 
 
 " For else if everywhere the wall alone 
 
 With masonry of mortar and of stone 
 
 In blank denial had returned my stare, 
 
 I should have known no anguish but despair. 
 
 *' Then up those naked stones from base to cope 
 There might no footing have been found for hope ; 
 Now, O thou thing of promises and lies, 
 Hope is each moment born, each moment dies." 
 
 Thus, while I waited for my love, I swore 
 There was no thing so damned as her door ; 
 When all at once, before I was aware, 
 The door swung back and Paradise was there. 
 
 But through its space no dreadful angel came 
 With angry eyes and two-edged sword of flame ; 
 Nay, she my soul in worship bows before 
 Came gliding past the darkness of the door. 
 
 55
 
 Now therefore all my curses I recall, 
 And keep them for the workers at the wall : 
 That carpenter who wrought a door so rare 
 Shall for his craft's sake earn my urgent prayer. 
 
 To him wide open, when he comes to die, 
 I pray the door of Paradise may fly ; 
 Should Jacob's ladder be the worse for wear, 
 His be the task to put it in repair. 
 
 Then some fine day, so useful he shall be, 
 That though the Saint still keep the sacred key, 
 This carpenter by Peter's special grace 
 Shall earn at last the under-porter's place. 
 
 Then naught but praise from all folk shall he win 
 By letting ladies and their lovers in ; 
 While they that ne'er have truly loved and well 
 Shall find no gate unlocked but those of hell. 
 
 LOVE'S DAWN. 
 
 COME out, come out ; the world 's a-blaze 
 
 With shafts of light ; 
 The sun has shot a thousand rays 
 
 Sheer through the night ; 
 Come out, and watch the warfare won 
 O'er flying night by flaming sun. 
 
 56
 
 Come out, come out ; the world's fair face 
 
 Is washed with dew ; 
 The mists are all dispersed in space ; 
 
 The skies are blue ; 
 Yet there is something wrong with all, 
 If thou not answer to my call. 
 
 Yes, there is something sadly wrong, 
 
 Too sad to tell ; 
 The blackbird has forgot the song 
 
 He knows so well ; 
 The very thrush, whose raptures thrill 
 Loud triumph in his throat, is still. 
 
 But come thou out to greet the morn, 
 
 And once again 
 The blackbird in the snow-white thorn 
 
 Flutes his refrain ; 
 And once again the soul-rapt thrush 
 Breaks up with shouts of song the hush. 
 
 Ah, dearest, what it is to me 
 
 Thou canst not know 
 That I should sometimes looking see 
 
 Thy fair face glow, 
 As if thou didst a little guess 
 What means this world's strange loveliness. 
 
 'Tis Love that thrills the throstle's throat, 
 
 Whene'er he sings ; 
 'Tis Love that tunes the blackbird's note ; 
 
 57
 
 'Tis Love that wings 
 With ardour wild the soaring lark, 
 That climbs the sky from dawn till dark. 
 
 Then come thou out, for Love is near, 
 
 Yea, hard at hand ; 
 Thou wilt not fail to find him, dear, 
 
 Where'er thou stand ; 
 For thou with me, and I with thee, 
 And Love between the twain will be. 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 No, no, be kind ; unsay that dreadful word ; 
 Or if thy meaning I have all misheard, 
 Because a whirr of wheels within my head 
 Blurs and blots out the sense of what is said, 
 
 Then say it o'er again, 
 
 Nor leave me to my pain ; 
 But if 'tis true 
 Thou fain wouldst do 
 
 So stern a deed as thrust anew 
 With sword of speech my body and soul apart, 
 Be merciful, as beautiful thou art ; 
 Break now, if break thou must, my all-but-broken heart. 
 
 Alas, alas ! what is it thou hast done ? 
 The fair sweet blossoms open in the sun ; 
 
 58
 
 The lark's shrill throat, that knows not of the wrong, 
 Is shaken with the tempest of his song ; 
 
 The bee for honeyed store 
 
 Yet roams as heretofore ; 
 And all goes well 
 In dale and dell, 
 
 As though there were no tale to tell 
 Of tears and vast illimitable woe, 
 Like avalanche of ice and stifling snow, 
 Whelming with weight of worlds two hapless hearts below. 
 
 Ay me, we part then, to meet nevermore, 
 And all the dead days that have gone before 
 Shall lie forgotten in their deep sad grave, 
 Nor rouse to grief the joy they could not save 
 With ghosts that aye must be 
 Laid o'er again till we, 
 Whose parting feet 
 Ne'er more may meet 
 Save only in the midmost street, 
 Where merest strangers pass each other by 
 With cold averted gaze or careless eye, 
 Have buried our dead hopes that none know where they 
 lie. 
 
 Yet verily since now indeed I know 
 
 The fates have sworn that these things shall be so, 
 
 Let me this last time hold thee to my heart, 
 
 And then shake hands, and kiss once more, and part. 
 
 I give thee back thy vow ; 
 
 Yet well I know that thou, 
 
 59
 
 When all is o'er, 
 
 Wilt chancre once more, 
 And love me better than before ; 
 And then though tears may flood my face like rain, 
 I, though I love thee, counting loss for gain, 
 Shall feel my heart's devotion half assuage my pain. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 I. 
 
 ALONE in a land of heat 
 
 And stone and desert and sand, 
 With a hate in my heart of the horrible land, 
 1 long for my love 
 Till the stars above 
 Keep a twinkling time to my heart's loud beat, 
 To show that they understand. 
 
 But the case is woefully worse 
 
 When the sun climbs up for the fray, 
 For he aims at my head with ray after ray, 
 And drags up the pain 
 From my heart to my brain, 
 Till I hardly can hope or think, but curse 
 The heat and the light and the day. 
 
 60
 
 Yet all this weariful while 
 
 My heart is happy to know 
 Her land, the land where her sweet feet go, 
 In the shade can shun 
 The terrible sun, 
 And fold its face for mile upon mile 
 In a mantle of pure cold snow. 
 
 And one of these days, I trust, 
 
 I shall flee from this burning hell, 
 And far over sea, though the surges swell, 
 I shall find her face 
 In a secret place, 
 And forget this desert of blinding dust; 
 For all shall again be well. 
 
 And my soul shall make oath thenceforth, 
 As I kiss her musical mouth, 
 To return nevermore to the dearth and the drouth, 
 And the deserts of sand, 
 That deface God's land; 
 For sweet and cool is the breath of the North, 
 And hateful as hell the South. 
 
 II. 
 
 Alone in a wintry waste 
 
 Of icicle, frost and snow, 
 With the iron earth my feet below, 
 I turn my eyes 
 To the iron skies ; 
 61
 
 Rut the skies and the earth alike must taste 
 The curse they cannot forgo. 
 
 But worse are the nights than the days, 
 When the moon and the stars agree ; 
 For the moon is as cruel as cruel can be, 
 And the stars overhead 
 See the birds drop dead, 
 And watch with a clear cold pitiless gaze 
 
 Where they freeze on the wind-swept tree. 
 
 Yet all this weariful while 
 
 My heart is happy to know 
 His land, the land where his strong feet go, 
 May drink the wine 
 Of the sweet sunshine, 
 And bask in the gleam of the bright sky's smile 
 That knows not of winter or snow. 
 
 And one of these days, I feel, 
 
 I shall flee from this vast snow-sheet, 
 And far over sea, though the surges beat, 
 I shall find his face 
 In a sunny place, 
 And forget this horrible land, as I kneel 
 In the light of the sun at his feet. 
 
 And my soul shall make oath thenceforth, 
 As I kiss the curves of his mouth, 
 To know no more of the frozen drouth 
 That weighs like lead 
 On my heart and my head ; 
 62
 
 For icy and stern is the breath of the North, 
 And sunny and sweet the South. 
 
 LOVE'S CURRENT COIN. 
 
 WHAT want I with thy gifts of yellow gold, 
 
 Thy gems, thy pearls, thy bracelets and thy rings ? 
 
 Love takes no joy such trinkets to behold, 
 
 Nor thanks thee for the revenue of Kings. 
 
 O in the record of his treasured store 
 
 Such toys as these are catalogued no more. 
 
 Bring me the least green leaf on earth that grows, 
 Bring me a wreath of daisies for a crown, 
 
 And these in worth shall so outvalue those 
 
 As loads of lead outweigh the thistle-down. 
 
 For not by gems is true love bought and sold, 
 
 'Tis only pride is glorified by gold. 
 
 Then when I greet thee in a gracious mood, 
 
 And on thy bosom in a rapture sink, 
 And give thee kisses for thy daily food, 
 
 And tears of loving-kindness for thy drink, 
 Thou shalt confess, in scorn of kings and thrones, 
 Kisses and tears outvalue priceless stones. 
 
 63
 
 REVENGE. 
 
 THEREFORE on me since thou hast cast this curse, 
 Than which no soul was weighted e'er with worse, 
 Since all our lives we twain right well shall know 
 Thine is the hand that fashioned all my woe, 
 
 Since naught may now befall 
 
 That might the curse recall, 
 Since hope is fled, 
 And comfort dead, 
 
 And coming years are dark with dread, 
 I will forget the happy days of yore, 
 I will forget the solemn oaths I swore, 
 And sweets no longer sweet I now will mourn no more. 
 
 So with my heart disburdened and at rest, 
 And thoughts untroubled, as is meet and best, 
 I pass my soul's resources in review, 
 And calmly think what cruel hate might do 
 To wreak on thee the wrong 
 Laid on my life o'erlong, 
 And vengeance take 
 For lost love's sake, 
 And all the pangs of hearts that ache, 
 Till thou shouldst know indeed what thou hast done, 
 
 64
 
 And learn at last that naught but shame is won, 
 And veil thy face in vain before the searching sun. 
 
 Yea, I have found fit vengeance for thee ; yea, 
 My soul has sought and found the perfect way ; 
 What though the long irrevocable years 
 Were blotted o'er with floods of falling tears ; 
 What though those tears were shed 
 For blighted hopes, and fed 
 From founts of woe 
 Dug long ago, 
 Now frozen fast 'neath new- fall' n snow ; 
 Revenge is sweet ; what do I to repine, 
 When with me Fates and Furies shall combine, 
 And vengeance sure and sharp and long-drawn-out be 
 mine ? 
 
 For through long years, howe'er thou may'st repent, 
 Thou shalt not find my fixed resolve relent ; 
 Since here I swear that while we twain shall live, 
 This thine unkindness I will all forgive ; 
 
 And none can say me nay, 
 
 Or take my right away, 
 The right that I 
 Keep till we die, 
 
 The right no mortal dare deny, 
 The right I least and last shall e'er forgo, 
 To pardon, 'spite of all that all men know, 
 Thee, even thee, my love, that wroughtest this my woe. 
 
 65
 
 THE ORCHARD. 
 
 " Under the blossom that hangs on tho bough." 
 
 WHERE blossoms hang so high 
 Snow-white against the green, 
 'Tis sweet with thee 
 'Neath the orchard tree, 
 Like one that is but dead, to lie 
 Where the lawn sees naught of the deep blue sky 
 For the white blossoms between. 
 
 But other days will dawn, 
 And frosts and fears must be, 
 W T hen the ice-cold breath 
 Of the freezing death 
 Shall lie in the lap of the lonely lawn, 
 And the clinging curtains of mist be drawn 
 Through the boughs of the naked tree. 
 
 Yet why should mortals weep 
 That blossoms fall and die, 
 When the self-same pall 
 Is woven for all 
 That over the wide earth crawl and creep, 
 Or swim in the caves of the sunless deep, 
 Or climb the vaulted sky ? 
 66
 
 Nay, naught we'll know of fear 
 'Neath blossoms hanging high ; 
 Whate'er be told 
 Of frost and cold, 
 Still careless of the changing year 
 We'll here make oath to live, and here, 
 If anywhere, to die. 
 
 SHOOTING STARS. 
 
 NAY, turn, O turn the splendour of thine eyes 
 
 Upon the cloudless heavens at dead of night; 
 
 What are those stars that shoot athwart the skies 
 Only to vanish with their trail of light ? 
 
 Ashes of suns that erst have shone sublime 
 
 Through cycles of unweariable time. 
 
 Then take, O take Occasion by the hand, 
 For surely now her aspect is most fair ; 
 
 And through the length of all this lovely land 
 
 Our life's sweet pathway still we twain will share. 
 
 Let not the lesson of the stars that die 
 
 Be all in vain emblazoned o'er the sky. 
 
 For how, O how should e'en Love hold his own, 
 When all the giant sun-gods of the spheres 
 At last by endless time have been o'erthrown, 
 
 67
 
 Crumbled to naught by lapse of countless years? 
 Shall that poor Love be longer-lived than these, 
 Sailing the vast waves of time's shoreless seas ? 
 
 Nay, waste your words no longer ; nay, let be ; 
 
 Great Love is stronger than a million sans ; 
 He holds immense eternity in fee, 
 
 And takes no heed of time's thin sand that runs. 
 Though all the weary stars fade from the sky, 
 Love lives forever throned, and may not die. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 COME, though tear-dimmed thy dewy eyes ; 
 
 Lo, day is dead that did thee wrong ; 
 Unveil again thy starry skies 
 
 Deep-drowned in garish light so long. 
 Unveil again each silver star, 
 
 Nor fold about with clouds thy head ; 
 For day indeed, that did but mar 
 
 Thy nightingale's sweet notes, is dead. 
 
 Come ; fear not now the flaming sun, 
 
 That all too lono; has scorched the sky; 
 
 His tyrant reign is dead and done ; 
 
 Resume of right thy throne on high. 
 68
 
 Bind, bind in orange-bloom thy brow, 
 
 And crown our blushing love with bliss ; 
 
 O give us thy good leave ; till thou 
 Be near, we are afraid to kiss. 
 
 Come swiftly ; all too late the lapse 
 
 Of thine inconstant gliding moon : 
 On earth if aught of evil haps, 
 
 It is not in the nights of June. 
 Come softly ; hold thy healing hands 
 
 In deep deep silence o'er my brow; 
 No balmy breeze from Southern lands 
 
 Is softer-sandalled, Night, than thou. 
 
 SIMILIA SIMILIBUS. 
 
 I SAW twin tears stand in my darling's eyes, 
 
 And dreading sore their dangerous overflow, 
 I made swift sally and o'erbold surprise, 
 
 And kissed away those waterfloods of woe. 
 Straight each thrice-radiant star 
 Flamed beacon-wise afar, 
 Like lights no mortal's might could make, or mend, or 
 mar. 
 
 Yet though thenceforth her starry eyes shone clear, 
 Such dreadful anger gathered in her frown, 
 
 69
 
 And put my soul and body so in fear, 
 
 Mine eyes, once looking, dropped ashamed adown ; 
 
 For penance must be done 
 
 By all and every one 
 Whose owlet eyes would fain outstare the angry sun. 
 
 But when I looked again, such grace was mine, 
 
 Such bounteous pity for my shame was hers, 
 The frown was gone, the starry eyes did shine 
 Like lights that greet o'erweary wayfarers ; 
 And what was done amiss 
 I found, to crown my bliss, 
 Could all be throughly healed by one such other kiss. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 FAREWELL, farewell. And if I speak the word 
 That most of all I would thou ne'er had'st heard, 
 And if thou hear'st so desolate a knell 
 Climbing up sunward from the deeps of hell, 
 Only reply Farewell. 
 
 Farewell, farewell. Can any word to me 
 Sound half so hateful ? Nay, if aught there be 
 Of more avail the heart's high hopes to quell 
 Than all the curses spawned of hideous hell, 
 It is the word Farewell. 
 70
 
 For 'mid foul words through vaulted hell that sound 
 No fiend a curse more terrible hath found, 
 No sadder syllables than these that spell 
 Sentence of woe and doom inexorable 
 In this one word Farewell. 
 
 O let us part with what we may of speed, 
 And hie us hence ; there surely is no need 
 The old old story sadly to retell ; 
 Love's mart is o'er ; there's naught to buy or sell, 
 Only to say Farewell. 
 
 Yea, let us hasten and go quickly hence ; 
 Small need of nourishing a vain pretence, 
 When naked truth will all our dreams dispel ; 
 The pearl is stolen, wherefore keep the shell ? 
 Speedily say Farewell. 
 
 Make haste, make haste ; the sands are sliding fast ; 
 The time for speech full soon will be o'er past ; 
 For proudly though the willing spirit swell, 
 The flesh, the flesh is weak and may rebel ; 
 O let us say Farewell. 
 
 Alas, alas ! what is 't thou say'st, " Forgive " ? 
 Mine, mine the fault. Ah, darling, while we live, 
 Let us make oath, us twain, and keep it well, 
 Though surge against us all the hosts of hell, 
 Never to say Farewell. 
 
 71
 
 DOUBTS. 
 
 DEAR, I would not have thee say, 
 
 Looking through the latticed pane, 
 
 " Now my love has gone away 
 He will never come again, 
 
 No, he did not care to stay." 
 
 Ah, my dear, thou canst not know 
 How great pain it is to see 
 
 Through the tears that overflow 
 
 Thy white fingers wave to me, 
 
 Then to turn my face and go. 
 
 Truly 'tis the ancient tale, 
 
 Love has caught me in his net, 
 
 Trust me, dear, I shall not fail, 
 When the sun has nearly set, 
 
 This thy garden wall to scale. 
 
 Art so sure thou dost not feign 
 
 When my footfall comes a-near ? 
 
 Dost thou never, dear, complain ? 
 Sighing secretly to hear 
 
 That step on the sward again ? 
 72
 
 Dost thou never sadly say, 
 
 " All the world for me is dark ; 
 
 Were it not the wiser way 
 
 In my coffin stiff and stark 
 
 To await the judgment day ? '' 
 
 Dost not say, " For if I could 
 
 Have the heart to bid him go, 
 
 Past a doubt the gain were good, 
 Past a doubt 'twere better so ; 
 
 Would that he had understood. 
 
 " Once I looked into his eyes, 
 
 Saw his faith and love and hope 
 
 Clouded by no sad surmise, 
 
 When we cast our horoscope 
 
 Underneath the starry skies. 
 
 « Naught the stars foretold of wrong, 
 Naught of woe to come we felt : 
 
 Ah, his love was overstrong; 
 
 Soul and body seemed to melt 
 
 When I listened to him long. 
 
 " Scarcely was my soul awake ; 
 
 Troubled echoes 'gan to ring 
 Through my head with throb and ache ; 
 
 How could I say anything 
 When he held my hands and spake ? 
 
 73
 
 " Yet indeed I tried to say, 
 
 Were I worthy of his love, 
 
 It were very good to stay 
 
 With the stars ablaze above 
 
 Holding fast his hand alway. 
 
 "What could I have done to show 
 That I held my heart aloof? 
 
 how could I wound him so ? 
 
 When I put it to the proof, 
 
 1 could never bid him go. 
 
 "So he came as heretofore, 
 
 Since I did not send him hence ; 
 
 Still he comes, and evermore 
 Past all cure of penitence 
 
 Will his woe lie at my door." 
 
 Dost thou ne'er in silence think, 
 
 " Might I yet get free from him ! " 
 
 Dost thou shudder, dear, and shrink, 
 Like a bather stripped to swim 
 
 Pausing at the river's brink ? 
 
 Dearest, if it be that I 
 
 Grasp at gifts beyond my reach, 
 When I should have passed them by, 
 
 Speak and slay me with thy speech, 
 I am not afraid to die. 
 74
 
 But if doubts that I have seen, 
 Reservations in thine eyes, 
 
 Hesitations in thy mien, 
 
 Do but hold a half disguise 
 
 Over fears they fain would screen, 
 
 Fears that I may prove untrue, 
 
 Doubts that vex thee now and then 
 
 Lest I should be fickle too, 
 
 Like the many sons of men 
 
 Faithless even when they woo, 
 
 Then but put me to the test, 
 
 Grant the one thing I will ask, 
 
 Let me toil at thy behest, 
 
 Set me some tremendous task, 
 
 Make my great love manifest. 
 
 What are words but idle breath ? 
 
 Ah, how shall I surely know 
 On my path to dreary death 
 
 If thou love me, dear, or no, 
 With the love that vanquisheth. 
 
 Nay, mere words are none avail — 
 
 Be it pity, be it love, 
 Thou dost feel ; I shall not fail 
 
 Ere the stars come out above, 
 This thy garden wall to scale. 
 
 75
 
 Then I'll ask thee o'er again, 
 Thou wilt o'er again reply, 
 
 Do thy best to make it plain 
 
 'Tis but Love that in thine eye 
 
 Shines with light that shall not wane. 
 
 Yet if while I mix with men 
 
 Naught my doubts can ever clear, 
 All thy soul shall I see, when 
 
 At God's feet I find thee, dear — 
 Nay, perchance not even then. 
 
 LOVE'S REASON. 
 
 " Love not me for comely grace." 
 
 Old Madrigal. 
 
 NAY, do not love me for my doughty deeds, 
 Nay, do not love me for my warrior's weeds, 
 
 Nor for my form or face, 
 
 Nor for my pride of place, 
 Else one day I might fall from grace, 
 And penance do in vain, and vainly tell my beads. 
 
 Nay, love me but for true love's perfect sake ; 
 Cast all thy love upon my soul for stake, 
 
 7 6
 
 As gamblers do with dice, 
 O'ervaliant in their vice, 
 Not once alone, nor only twice, 
 And heal my wounded heart, and help its lonely ache. 
 
 If love between us without reason be, 
 'Tis reason good, for reasonless is he ; 
 Then let him have his way, 
 And do not strive or pray ; 
 With us the knave will surely stay, 
 Seeing in fate's despite how well we twain agree. 
 
 Then since pure love is given on either hand, 
 The bargain is most righteous and shall stand, 
 When other loves grow cold, 
 That are but bound by gold, 
 And propped with reasons manifold, 
 For love on reason based is built on shifting sand. 
 
 AN APPEAL. 
 
 DEAR, I did not know, 
 When first 1 swore thy bidding I would do, 
 That all the world was dark except for you ; 
 
 Dear, I cannot go. 
 
 Darling, do not say 
 My punishment must equal my offence, 
 
 11
 
 How could I guess that you would drive me hence? 
 Darling, let me stay. 
 
 Sweetest, how could I 
 Have caused you pain, had I but understood ? 
 Henceforth indeed, indeed I will be good ; 
 
 Sweetest, let me try. 
 
 Love, unbend thy brow ; 
 Lo, in God's heaven the angry clouds are furled. 
 Save only this one thing in all the world, 
 
 Love, naught matters now. 
 
 Dear, the days are dark, 
 The days are dark with bale where once was bliss ; 
 I do repent me ; what was done amiss, 
 
 Dear, do thou not mark. 
 
 Darling, do not grieve 
 That evil oft for good is over-strong ; 
 Let me but try to right what has been wrong, 
 
 Darling, give me leave. 
 
 Sweetest, would'st thou ope, 
 The least small chink of light on my despair, 
 Dark though it be, my trouble I could bear; 
 
 Sweetest, let me hope. 
 
 Love, these things are thus ; 
 Have thou then mercy upon thee and me ; 
 But if from woe the twain thou wilt not free, 
 
 Love, God pity us. 
 78
 
 MEETING. 
 
 THERE came a maiden up the glen, 
 
 Her face was fair to see ; 
 She frowned upon a many men, 
 
 But O she smiled on me. 
 
 They passed ; she held herself aloof, 
 And lightly looked them o'er ; 
 
 I have put it to the proof 
 
 A many times and more. 
 
 And when I met her in the glen, 
 
 O which was best to see, 
 Her frown upon the many men, 
 
 Or that sweet smile on me ? 
 
 Her brows were dark, her eyes were brown, 
 Naught might I know the while 
 
 If more I loved her for the frown, 
 Or more for that sweet smile. 
 
 1 meet the maiden now and then 
 
 When all alone is she ; 
 What care I for those many men ? 
 Her smile is all for me. 
 
 79
 
 MABELLE. 
 
 MABELLE, Mabelle, thy neck is fair and slim ; 
 No angel eager for his morning hymn 
 
 Upsoaring with God's sunlight on his brow, 
 No swan new wakened from its reedy lair, 
 Winging swift way through heights of spacious air, 
 
 Can stretch aloft a shapelier neck than thou. 
 
 Mabelle, Mabelle, thy hair is very sweet ; 
 
 Its silk strands hold me by my hands and feet ; 
 
 Its strange skeins bind my body and my soul : 
 In those strong links fain would I ever lie 
 Bound, though the day be come for me to die, 
 
 Chained, though the sky be folded as a scroll. 
 
 Mabelle, Mabelle, thy forehead is most fair ; 
 What though its height be hidden by thy hair, 
 
 No large-browed wise philosopher of old 
 Might smooth the furrows wrought by wrinkled time 
 Back from a brow so graciously sublime 
 
 As that white space thy clustered locks enfold. 
 
 Mabelle, Mabelle, thy lips are rosy red, 
 A little parted by the " Yes " that sped 
 Softer than silence past thy pearly teeth, 
 
 80
 
 With so great meaning in its speech for me 
 Meseemed one scarcely spoken sound might be 
 Rich with unuttered words that hide beneath. 
 
 For then that sweet irrevocable word 
 Broke up the silence, like a singing bird 
 
 That wakes in May a little ere the dawn, 
 When yet too soon the rapture of its notes 
 Stirs to glad music all the choral throats, 
 
 Though jiight's dark curtain be but half withdrawn. 
 
 Mabelle, Mabelle, ah, wonderfully wise 
 
 Must be those thoughts that sparkle in thine eyes, 
 
 Whose orbs are twain unfathomable wells : 
 Sure as love's star foretokeneth the sun, 
 Sure as sweet tinklings show where streamlets run, 
 
 So surely wisdom 'neath thy forehead dwells. 
 
 Mabelle, Mabelle, though words are out of place, 
 And all too weak to glorify thy grace, 
 
 Or paint aright the beauty of thy brow, 
 How shall I silence my still-praising tongue ? 
 So sweet, so passing sweet, and then so young, 
 
 So innocent of the world's wiles art thou. 
 
 Mabelle, Mabelle ; nay, I must swiftly cease, 
 Nor mar the white perfection of thy peace 
 
 With false flawed mirrors of distorting words; 
 Yet still thy praises, ill rehearsed or well, 
 Ever to my tranced heart, Mabelle, Mabelle, 
 
 Sound sweet as songs of spring's own darling birds. 
 
 81 G
 
 AGAIN. 
 
 So at the parting of the ways 
 
 I stood, and held thy hand, and spake, 
 That after days, 
 
 When hearts should ache, 
 Might ne'er reproach us with the wrong 
 Of keeping silence overlong. 
 
 The summer day was nearly done, 
 
 Thy face was toward the Westward skies, 
 The setting sun 
 
 Was on thine eyes, 
 And full on me the moon increased 
 
 Her silver splendours in the East. 
 
 I knew the risincr sun for me 
 
 Would spread its golden glory soon, 
 While thou wouldst see 
 
 The setting moon 
 Sink slowly through the aspen trees 
 That waved their whiteness in the breeze. 
 
 Yet though no twain could take their stand, 
 
 And gaze against each other's face 
 With hand in hand 
 
 82
 
 A little space, 
 Yet keep their twofold gaze addressed 
 One self-same way, or East, or West ; 
 
 And though the sun would set full soon, 
 
 Nor tarry in the West at all, 
 And though the moon 
 
 Would Westward fall, 
 And thou in one half heaven wouldst spy 
 As fair a space of stars as I ; 
 
 Yet somehow seemed it in my mind, 
 
 Though nothing of our fate we knew, 
 
 That we should find, 
 And finding rue, 
 
 In this our sad opposing gaze 
 
 An emblem of our parting ways. 
 
 We talked our troubles o'er again, 
 
 And fain would right whate'er was wrong ; 
 Alas the pain 
 
 That crept along 
 Our heart-strings like a chord that jarred, 
 Till all their music quite was marred. 
 
 Ah, sadly each let go the hand 
 
 That each had sadly held before, 
 
 Alone to stand 
 
 For evermore, 
 
 And each in sadness spake adieu 
 
 To true love found no longer true ; 
 
 83
 
 And then with feet that would not rest, 
 Or ere our bitter tears had ceased, 
 
 Thou looking West, 
 I looking Fast, 
 
 With all our store of sunshine spent 
 
 Our several ways we slowly went. 
 
 Yet wayfarers who part and go, 
 
 For utmost East or Westward bound, 
 
 And never know 
 
 The world is round, 
 
 May meet where ne'er they met before 
 
 When half their journey just is o'er. 
 
 And either there in that strange place, 
 
 'Mid thoughts of peril past and pain, 
 
 In close embrace 
 
 They clasp again, 
 
 Or do but gaze in cold surprise, 
 
 And then pass on with alien eyes. 
 
 Dear, we like wayfarers, have met, 
 Shall we, like wayfarers, go by, 
 
 Without regret, 
 
 With scarce a sigh ; 
 
 And once again refuse to know 
 
 The love we lost so long ago ? 
 
 For now at last again we stand 
 
 At that same parting of the ways, 
 Where hand in hand 
 
 84
 
 In other days, 
 Before the sun was set, we stood, 
 And knew not then that love was good. 
 
 Long time and lonely we have spent ; 
 
 Each moment was a year, it seems ; 
 Days came and went 
 
 Like evil dreams. 
 Wast thou, when I was far o'er-sea, 
 The happier, love, for lack of me ? 
 
 O let us learn, for love is wise, 
 
 And well can teach us what was wrong ; 
 Lo, in thine eyes, 
 
 Dissembled long, 
 Love shines supreme ; our lips at last 
 Meet, and we shed our bitter past. 
 
 CONTENT. 
 
 ERE I was well awake from sleep, 
 
 Or knew what pain and sorrow meant, 
 
 I roamed about my world in deep 
 Content. 
 
 But when I came to man's estate, 
 
 And love's hand smote my eyes across, 
 
 85
 
 At last I learned, though all too late, 
 My loss. 
 
 For years I knew that hope was dead ; 
 
 I mourned his death for many years, 
 And seasoned all my bitter bread 
 
 With tears. 
 
 1 cursed the cruel gods above, 
 
 I cursed the weaving hands of fate, 
 
 For mingling all the strands of love 
 With hate. 
 
 Yet when I reckoned loss with gain, 
 
 And had but learnt that tears are wet, 
 
 And all my joys had brought but vain 
 Regret ; 
 
 When youth and love were past and gone, 
 And all their pains and pleasures spent, 
 
 My heart did once again put on 
 Content. 
 
 86
 
 TO THE OWL. 
 
 BIRD of the gloomy light, 
 
 Born of the womb of night, 
 
 Bird of ill omen to souls that have sinned, 
 
 Mice from thee, sore afraid, 
 
 Hide, when thy war is made, 
 
 Hide when thy wings are spread wide on the wind. 
 
 Under the sparkling stars, 
 
 Or when mist darkling mars 
 
 All the white splendours a-blaze in the sky, 
 
 Thou, never tarrying, 
 
 Followest harrying 
 
 All the small foes of the farm that go by. 
 
 Then, like a ghost in air, 
 
 When men are most aware, 
 
 When men are most of ill spirits in fear, 
 
 Thou with thy feathers soft, 
 
 Silent as death aloft, 
 
 Sailest at twilight the graveyard anear. 
 
 Where the dead buried lie, 
 
 Screeching to terrify 
 
 All the live sinners that wander by night, 
 
 «7
 
 Thou, coming swoopingly, 
 
 Where the elms droopingly 
 
 Weep, fillest all their scared souls with affright. 
 
 High in the tower grim 
 
 Thy bridal bower dim 
 
 Safe in a nook of the wall thou dost keep ; 
 
 There on the coping stones, 
 
 Where thy mate moping moans, 
 
 All the day long thou art snoring in sleep. 
 
 Yet when the day is done, 
 
 Hidden away the sun, 
 
 Through the thick darkness thine orbed eyes see ; 
 
 Then when weird nightmares howl, 
 
 Witches and sprites that prowl 
 
 Owning their lord do allegiance to thee. 
 
 Ah, in the lonely night 
 
 If mortals only might 
 
 Once their ill conscience to nature's attune, 
 
 Then at thy grimly call, 
 
 Though the shades dimly fall, 
 
 Fearless as thou they would stray 'neath the moon. 
 
 Nay, till that day draws nigh, 
 Ere we our way descry 
 
 Clear through the doubts that distress us in vain, 
 Still we go wandering, 
 Woes overpondering ; 
 
 One day with thee o'er our fears we shall reign. 
 
 88
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 WHENCE came that sun-bright maiden unto men 
 
 Who else were all unblest, 
 To let them laugh a little now and then 
 
 With Happiness for guest ? 
 Whence won she so great wisdom at her birth 
 To heal the heart-ache of the hapless earth ? 
 
 Her birth is in the deep sea's sunniest smiles, 
 
 Her haunt and home are set 
 In far lone indiscoverable isles, 
 
 And ways untrodden yet ; 
 And all her wealth of favours she confers 
 Only on those that know not they are hers. 
 
 Once ask whence hither she hath found her way, 
 
 And whitherward she goes, 
 And if she hath commission here to stay 
 
 Longer than last year's snows, 
 Quick as that question all her joys have fled, 
 And Melancholy queens it in her stead. 
 
 Implore her yet to visit thee again 
 
 And put to flight thy fears, 
 And she will come in guise of bitter pain 
 
 8 9
 
 And thought deep drowned in tears : 
 Rut if thou ask her those sad tears to dry, 
 She gets her hence and comes no more anigh. 
 
 Nay, do not strive nor cry to her to stay, 
 
 But let her have her will, 
 Then will she bide for ever and a day 
 
 Close, close beside thee still : 
 And only thus her quiet song she sings 
 That makes men happier far than high-throned kings. 
 
 THE WITCHES' TRYST. 
 
 O THE joy beyond compare 
 
 For the vagrant of the air, 
 
 When she travels to the trysting-place of witches. 
 
 O the rapture that she feels 
 
 From her headpiece to her heels, 
 
 When the moonless midnight murkier than pitch is. 
 
 See, she sails, for better speed, 
 On a nightmare good at need ; 
 Ne'er a steed in earthly stable could be safer. 
 Her provisions, as she goes, 
 Are a murdered mortal's nose, 
 And a stolen slice of consecrated wafer. 
 
 90
 
 Who but she could soar and sail 
 
 Through the fury of the gale, 
 
 Who but she could laugh at hurricane and thunder ? 
 
 Who but she could pierce the cloud 
 
 By the whirlwind overbowed, 
 
 Big with swords of jagged light that leap thereunder? 
 
 By those lightnings through the dark 
 
 Her dim voyage you may mark, 
 
 You may track her by her peals of mocking laughter ; 
 
 Till the very bats and owls, 
 
 Night's own company of fowls, 
 
 Though she urge them, are afraid to flutter after. 
 
 Hark, the watch-dogs howl and whine, 
 
 And the cattle peak and pine, 
 
 And the steed within the stable shrinks affrighted ; 
 
 From the wheat beneath the flail 
 
 To the milk that's in the pail 
 
 There is naught but by the taint of her is blighted. 
 
 High she rides and naught she cares 
 
 For the oath the farmer swears 
 
 On the morrow to be even with the witches ; 
 
 On the morrow he will lie 
 
 Sick abed, and fain to cry 
 
 For her mercy on his aches and pains and stitches. 
 
 Little recks she as she flies — 
 
 Yet what is it she espies, 
 
 That she stares across the moorland at the city ? 
 
 9 1
 
 'Tis a scaffold great and grim, 
 
 They are priests that chant the hymn, 
 
 They are priests that laugh to scorn the thought of pity. 
 
 High she rides, but not so fast 
 
 Is she swept adown the blast ; 
 
 See, she checks her speed and tugs her rein and tarries. 
 
 Do her spirits flag and fail ? 
 
 Is her steed of small avail? 
 
 Will it sink beneath the weary weight it carries ? 
 
 Nay, the sight it is she sees, 
 
 Where by merciless degrees 
 
 Is a furnace flame to tenfold fury heated ; 
 
 In the centre stands a crone 
 
 For her witchcraft to atone, 
 
 While the priests give thanks that Satan is defeated. 
 
 High she rides, and yet again 
 
 In the hurricane and rain, 
 
 In the lightning and the thunder she rejoices ; 
 
 Fast she mutters spell on spell, 
 
 For amid the sounds of hell 
 
 She would fain forget the priests' triumphant voices. 
 
 Lo, the trysting-place is won — 
 Who but laggards lose the fun ? 
 Madly now she rushes headlong to the revel — 
 On her lips a wicked song — 
 See, she mingles with the throng 
 Who have sold their souls and bodies to the devil. 
 
 92
 
 Hark, the cock proclaims the dawn ; 
 
 Night's dim veil is half withdrawn ; 
 
 O'er her nightmare once again she throws the bridle. 
 
 Swiftly flies the monster back 
 
 Through the clouds that hide its track, 
 
 While its mistress lets nor spur nor lash lie idle. 
 
 Yet how fast soe'er she flies, 
 
 There's a sadness in her eyes ; 
 
 Ne'er again can they forget the taint of trouble ; 
 
 Ne'er so merrily for her 
 
 Will the spoon the hell-broth stir, 
 
 Ne'er so merrily again the cauldron bubble. 
 
 Close there clings about her heart 
 
 Terror's poison-pointed dart, 
 
 When the crone amid the furnace she remembers ; 
 
 Crowds of cruel faces come ; 
 
 Hark, she hears the hateful hum, 
 
 Where they fan to fiercer flame the dying embers. 
 
 All too late she wishes now 
 
 Her ill deeds to disavow, 
 
 And to earn an honest living by her needle ; 
 
 For the last end of a witch 
 
 Is but drowning in a ditch, 
 
 Or but burning at the stake before the beadle. 
 
 93
 
 FAILURE. 
 
 FOLD, fold your hands, and lay them in your lap; 
 What prate ye now of good or evil hap? 
 
 Your swords are broken and your deeds are done. 
 Ope your eyes only to the pale moonbeams, 
 The time is o'er for all but evil dreams ; 
 
 Scarf up your eyelids from the scorching sun. 
 
 Nay, surely e'en the time for dreams is o'er ; 
 Lo ye where death waits silent at the door 
 
 To sift your dust and ashes in his urn ; 
 With all your faults and failures on your head 
 Ye too shall join the long-forgotten dead, 
 
 Ye too shall be forgotten in your turn. 
 
 Then fold your hands and shut your tired eyes, 
 And death shall visit you in friendly guise, 
 
 Nor spread his pomp of terrors to your sight ; 
 Fold, fold your hands and lull your hearts to sleep, 
 Till softly o'er your senses there shall creep 
 
 The deep sweet hush of all-embracing night. 
 
 94
 
 " Nay, never think that we will fold our hands ; 
 Hark, dead folk cry to us from distant lands, 
 
 And wherewithal our answer should we make, 
 If longing still a quiet death to die, 
 And in your churchyard peacefully to lie, 
 
 We feared to front the battle for their sake? 
 
 " Darkness and dreams are for the night indeed, 
 But think ye very night may intercede 
 
 To put the dawn back, or to stay the sun ? 
 Fate in her scales inexorably just 
 Shall sift our ashes and shall weigh our dust, 
 
 But shall not mar the deeds that must be done. 
 
 " And what if death stand waiting at the door ? 
 Shall we less joyfully than heretofore 
 
 March forth to meet him, be he near or far ? 
 Less than the weight of his own bitter breath, 
 Nay, less than nothing do we value death ; 
 
 Death cannot dim the splendour of one star." 
 
 Nay, two stars surely death knows how to dim, 
 Unless ye carefully have heed of him, 
 
 Those bright twin splendours shining 'neath your brow 
 Unless life's secret sources ye have found, 
 Those eager eyes in death's thick darkness drowned 
 
 Will shine no more as they are shining now. 
 
 " Death is the instrument that soon or late 
 Will shear the threads were woven by our fate ; 
 To us 'tis one thing whether late or soon. 
 
 95
 
 Whereto is length of life-days, and what need 
 That we his threats should hold at all in heed, 
 Whose fairest favour is a bootless boon ? 
 
 " Life is but measured by the deeds we do, 
 And not by tale of many days or few 
 
 Dogged by dim fears and slow-foot hounds of hell 
 For us 'tis well if in the press of foes 
 Unscathed we earn a glorious repose, 
 
 And if we perish it is also well. 
 
 " Naught reck we of disaster or distress, 
 For what is failure but deferred success ? 
 
 And what our faults but errors in our view ? 
 With all our faults and failures on our head 
 To one same goal our several paths we tread ; 
 
 We may not pause in passing thereunto. 
 
 " Darkness and dreams are for the night-time ; nay, 
 Doubt not that there are dreamers of the day 
 
 With eyes for visions sweeter and more sure 
 Than those that vex the children of the night ; 
 Doubt not that splendours shine upon our sight 
 
 Whose faintest gleams eternally endure. 
 
 "'Tis but to turn our faces to the sky, 
 And lo, the light that ye go blindly by 
 
 Makes dark the day-star and makes dim the sun ; 
 That light shall lead us though the sun wax pale, 
 Yea, though the keen stars from before it fail, 
 
 Till all the deeds that we must do are done." 
 
 96
 
 THE FINDING OF THE BELLE MAY. 
 
 THERE dwelt a maid in a shire of the South, 
 A maiden whose praise was in all folks' mouth. 
 
 Fair was her forehead, and wondrous fair 
 The unbound locks of her yellow hair. 
 
 And the glance of her eyes was soft and kind, 
 As of one that held sweet thoughts in mind. 
 
 Sweet smiled the curve of her lips and chin, 
 And her teeth set pearl-wise therewithin. 
 
 From a hamlet far in the West she came, 
 And the Hill by the Fount it had to its name. 
 
 For she left her home in the West perforce 
 
 By the far-famed hills of the great White Horse ; 
 
 The great White Horse, that none may ride, 
 Scored in the long Down's billowy side. 
 
 A sweet unrest in her heart was born 
 As she went through the acres of standing corn. 
 
 97 h
 
 By lawn and by lane and by woodland way 
 Her feet fared onward and would not stay. 
 
 By hill and by valley, by shine and shade, 
 Through fell and through forest her way she made. 
 
 Two miles from the fair Green Stead in the East 
 The toil of her travelling footsteps ceased. 
 
 And she gave — and vowed no farther to roam — 
 Her old home's name to her new-found home. 
 
 NOW there was a man whose years from his birth 
 Doubled the tale of the maid's on earth. 
 
 For twice so oft had he seen the spring 
 Draw earth's sweet sap into each green thing ; 
 
 And twice so oft had the winter slain 
 The life that spring would revive again ; 
 
 And twice so oft through the sphere of sky 
 For him had the travelling sun gone by ; 
 
 And twice so oft had the twilight dim 
 Drawn wonderful veils o'er the world for him. 
 
 He had loved the maid when her life was new, 
 And a child in the Westland vale she grew ; 
 
 And dearly in sooth he loved her still, 
 When she dwelt on the brow of the Eastland hill. 
 
 98
 
 Yet naught did he know where her home might be. 
 Or anear the hills or anigh the sea. 
 
 But his hope was high and his heart was fain 
 To find the maid in the midmost plain. 
 
 RUDDY the bright blood shone through his skin, 
 And ruddy the hair that clothed his chin ; 
 
 And the clustered locks that crowned his head 
 Were a nameless colour 'twixt brown and red. 
 
 Long were his limbs, and his stature tall ; 
 Mid a crowd of his fellows he topped them all. 
 
 But Sickness breathed with her ice-cold breath, 
 And long had he lain nigh-hand unto death. 
 
 High-perched on a ridge of the hills he lay, 
 And took no thought or of night or of day. 
 
 Low down in the valley a small stream grew, 
 And threaded the meads and the thickets through. 
 
 From the height of his home so near to the sky 
 You might see the travelling wains go by. 
 
 But though loud were the ways far under the hill, 
 The place of his dwelling was hushed and still. 
 
 Long miles away from the noisy town 
 
 He had gotten a homestead 'twixt Down and Down. 
 
 99
 
 For seaward afar by the slow stream's mouth 
 Stretched half hare-hidden the Downs oi^ the South ; 
 
 While the ridge of the Northmost Downs stood up, 
 And rimmed one half of the sky's wide cup. 
 
 And there 'twixt Down and Down did he dwell, 
 And thought of the maiden he loved so well. 
 
 And sore was his lono-ino; at dead of the night, 
 
 And he longed full sore when the dawn waxed bright. 
 
 And sore he longed when the sun rose high, 
 Nor less when the white moon silvered the sky. 
 
 Rut none of his folk could tidings tell 
 
 Of the home of the maiden he loved so well. 
 
 TILL at last came a carline little and old, 
 Who was named by the name of the Yellow Gold. 
 
 Rut soothwise scant was the gold she had, 
 And sorry the raiment wherein she was clad. 
 
 Full fain was she or an alms to gain, 
 
 Or a roasted bone she might roast yet again. 
 
 From the Hill of the Holy Saint she came 
 To the stead with Yard of the Vine for name. 
 
 To Yard of the Vine she came, and said 
 " Feace be about the sick man's bed. 
 
 IOO
 
 " Now tell, has the tale come true to my ear, 
 That a man who is sorry and sick lies here ? 
 
 " That a man, whom his mates the Red Carle call, 
 Lies helpless here between wall and wall ? 
 
 " If this be the Red Carle's Yard of the Vine, 
 Much alms for my tidings shall surely be mine. 
 
 " I tell ye his sickness will not away 
 
 Till again he may speak with the fair Belle May." 
 
 THEN out o'er the gate in the wall did peep 
 The swain that tended the Red Carle's sheep. 
 
 " Nay, what to my Lord should the old witch say ? 
 Thou evil old woman, hence and away." 
 
 " Away from thy threshold I will not go, 
 Ere thou let thy Lord my errand to know." 
 
 THEN he led her under the lintel beam, 
 Though vain did her tale to the shepherd seem. 
 
 And she came to the room where the Red Carle lay; 
 " Now what dost know of the fair Belle May ? " 
 
 " O thou fair Lord with the red-locked head, 
 Is not my knowledge mine own?" she said. 
 
 " But give me an alms and a cup of thy wine, 
 And this my knowledge shall also be thine." 
 
 IOI
 
 Then loud did his voice ring out in the hall, 
 ly shepherd shall be thy seneschal. 
 
 " \ 
 
 " Now bring her a cup of the red, red wine, 
 And a purse of gold that her news may be mine." 
 
 He brought her the wine in r.n o'er-brimmed cup, 
 And the carline, whose name was Gold, took it up. 
 
 He brought her a purse of the yellow gold, 
 
 That her name-sake for once in her hand she might hold. 
 
 SWIFTLY she drank the red wine down, 
 And the gold she hid in her tattered gown. 
 
 Then straight to the Red Carle did she say, 
 
 " Now what would'st know of the fair Belle May ? " 
 
 " O thou that are named of the bane of men, 
 Tell all thou canst," said the Red Carle then. 
 
 SAID the little old crone, "There of late was a feast 
 Of tiie folk of the fair Green Stead in the Hast ; 
 
 " And thither I went their mirth to share, 
 For all were sure of a welcome there. 
 
 " From the Hill of the Saint I wended my way, 
 Where the deer of the Lord of the East Dale lay. 
 
 " I saw the herd of the fallow deer, 
 That looked upon me and did not fear. 
 
 102
 
 " And I came through the heath and the bracken green 
 To the tallest trees that e'er I had seen. 
 
 " The oak and the beech and the elm grew tall, 
 But twain great fir trees o'ertopped them all. 
 
 " And nigh thereunder in that green shade 
 Alone there was resting a fair-haired maid." 
 
 " O thou slow thing," said the Red Carle, " Say 
 Was hers the face of the sweet Belle May ? " 
 
 BUT wise was the crone, and her words were sly, 
 " 'Tis in telling the tale that the tongue grows dry. 
 
 " If one more cup of the wine so red — " 
 
 Then round did the Red Carle writhe in his bed ; 
 
 And " Woman," he cried, " take all thou wilt, 
 Be the red wine drunken or wasted and spilt ; 
 
 " This one thing only I bid thee say, 
 
 Where, where may 1 find the fair Belle May?" 
 
 THEN the old crone drank of the wine yet again, 
 And her words waxed dark, and her speech unplain, 
 
 " High over the valley, yet not so high, 
 Does the home of the fair Belle Maiden lie." 
 
 Then as one in pain did the Red Carle twist, 
 " Say how far hence, if the way thou wist. 
 
 103
 
 M Or art but a lie from head to feet, 
 
 And never hast seen the Belle May sweet?" 
 
 THEN the silly old crone she spake yet again, 
 But never a whit was her speech more plain ; 
 
 " Nigher than far, but farther than nigh, 
 Does the home of the fair Belle Maiden lie. 
 
 " By the Hill of the Saint I rede ye to seek, 
 
 And mayhap ye may find her in more than a week." 
 
 Then slowly the little old crone stood up, 
 
 And she reached out her hand yet again for the cup. 
 
 But the hand-maid came at the Red Carle's call, 
 And led her away to the gate in the wall. 
 
 Where bidding the hand-maid have heed of wine, 
 She gat her away from Yard of the Vine. 
 
 And a prayer from the maid did her name-Saint win, 
 "Now may Catherine keep me from such-like sin." 
 
 BUT sore did the Red Carle fume and fret, 
 And longed for the tidings he might not get. 
 
 And day-long he tossed till the twilight dim, 
 And his bed was a bed of thorns for him. 
 
 For in vain did his sister Elspeth try 
 To make the Red Carle quiet lie ; 
 
 104
 
 His sister Elspeth, whose words were wise, 
 
 With her dark brown hair and her great brown eyes. 
 
 She came and stood by his side, and spake, 
 
 " Now this thou shalt do for the Belle May's sake ; 
 
 " Tomorn in a wain abroad thou shalt ride, 
 And I will be with thee and sit by thy side. 
 
 " And together, for no man shall say us nay, 
 We will seek till we find the fair Belle May." 
 
 THEN his woe from the soul of the Red Carle went, 
 And he lay at rest and was well content. 
 
 And Night came out of the Eastland then, 
 And folded in shadow the ways of men. 
 
 BUT tomorn when the stars were waxen dim, 
 And had fled from the sun's red-rising rim, 
 
 The brown-haired Elspeth rose from her bed, 
 And called to her hand-maid in haste and said, 
 
 " This day must deeds be afoot and astir ; 
 Call thou to me straight Swain Harbinger." 
 
 Then gladly the strong swain Harbinger heard 
 The sound of the maid's swift-summoning word. 
 
 And swiftly he came, full fain to learn 
 How best his Lady's praise he might earn. 
 
 105
 
 Then the Lady Elspeth spake to the swain, 
 
 11 Now it needeth thou harness thy Lord's wide wain. 
 
 " On his saddled steed he may not sit, 
 Nor manage his mare with bridle and bit, 
 
 " So sore on his soul doth his sickness lie ; 
 Yet abroad would he ride ere the sun gets high. 
 
 44 Now do thou therefore thy surcoat on ; 
 
 And the steed that is named of the Baptist John 
 
 " Thou shalt harness straight to thy master's wain, 
 That at last he may get him abroad again." 
 
 Swain Harbinger greatly rejoiced thereat, 
 And the steed from out of his stall he gat ; 
 
 And he harnessed him straight to his master's wain, 
 And came and stood by the gate again. 
 
 THEN the Red Carle rose from his bed by the wall, 
 And his sister led him away to the hall. 
 
 And he saw the sun that was growing high, 
 And he saw the wain that was ready anigh, 
 
 And the steed that was named of the Baptist John, 
 And his heart waxed glad as he looked thereon. 
 
 So, holpen of Harbinger, into the wain 
 Upclimbed he slowly with little pain. 
 
 1 06
 
 And the Lady Elspeth sat by his side 
 
 With the reins in her hand John Baptist to guide. 
 
 And he brought them away with his sure-footed trot, 
 And above them the midsummer sun grew hot. 
 
 For haysel already was over and done, 
 And scarce was the harstling time begun. 
 
 And the days were hot and the ways were dry, 
 For they were amidmost of stern July. 
 
 AND they passed the manor-house moss-o'ergrown 
 With its grey old walls of weather-worn stone, 
 
 Grey walls that a wife of the six-wived king 
 For a dower-house gained with her marriage-ring. 
 
 But its walls of stone were as walls of wax 
 To shield her neck from the headsman's axe. 
 
 THEN past the four-went-way they were borne 
 To the thorpe well-named of the sharp, sharp thorn. 
 
 For bitterly there the North-wind blows, 
 
 And the bloom drops dead, but the sharp thorn grows. 
 
 But now it was dusty and dry and athirst, 
 O'erparched by the heat like a place accurst. 
 
 And on they were borne 'twixt meadow aud mead, 
 'Twixt blossom of hedge-rose and blossom of weed. 
 
 107
 
 'Twixt the last of the hay and the first of the sheaves, 
 Where earth for her harvest rejoices and grieves. 
 
 'Twixt acre and acre of unreaped corn, 
 
 'Twixt scythe and 'twixt sickle away they were borne. 
 
 And they saw the reapers that reaped in the wheat, 
 And the lark sky-soaring the sun to greet. 
 
 And they heard the stone to the steel edge set, 
 
 As a wight did his sword for the wheat-slaying whet. 
 
 And they heard the crake's harsh cry from the ground, 
 And the old oak's insect-swarming sound. 
 
 And they saw the small brown partridges run 
 
 From the road where they dusted their wings in the sun. 
 
 Till they came to the sacred Cross of the Tye, 
 And their steed kept onward and brought them by. 
 
 THEN adown they went by the vale-ward way, 
 And their thoughts were still with the fair Belle May. 
 
 And they came to the meadows that lie right low, 
 Where the smooth green reeds in the wet grass grow. 
 
 And there went in the air the fragrance fine 
 Of the lush herbs trodden of slow-foot kine, 
 
 And the wild mint crushed by the cloven feet ; 
 And they smelt the smell of the meadow-sweet. 
 
 1 08
 
 Then straight they came to the Mid-vale tide, 
 And the beams that bridged it from side to side. 
 
 And the stout bridge trembled from bank to bank 
 When ash-wood wheel met oaken plank. 
 
 BUT never a whit did the Baptist heed 
 As he brought them over with sure-foot speed. 
 
 And hard was the task that was set him now, 
 For the hill rose steep ere he gained its brow. 
 
 Yet he brought them with never a fear of harm 
 To the goodly garth of the Grey-stone Farm. 
 
 And Elspeth said, as they passed it by, 
 
 " To the Hill of the Saint we are drawing anigh." 
 
 Said the Red Carle then, "Saint James be our aid, 
 And send us a sign of the fair Belle Maid." 
 
 AND they passed the Lord of the East Dale's deer, 
 That gazed against them withouten fear. 
 
 And they found the oak and the elm and the beech, 
 Tall trees thick-standing each by each. 
 
 And they found anear to the North-most wall 
 The twain great firs that o'ertopped them all. 
 
 Then the Red Carle gave to a peasant wight 
 A guerdon of gold to guide them aright. 
 
 109
 
 And lo, ere long by the side of the way 
 
 They were come to the home of the fair Belle May. 
 
 DOWN lighted the Lady Elspeth then, 
 And there came at her call a hand-maiden. 
 
 Down lighted the Red Carle with her aid, 
 And he sat in the porch of the fair Belle Maid. 
 
 And the hand-maid told the house-folk all 
 Of the guest at the entering-in of the hall. 
 
 And there was a stir, and the curtains wide 
 Were swayed and shifted from side to side. 
 
 And lo, the lovely Belle May sweet 
 Came forth her well-beloved to greet. 
 
 FAIR was her forehead, and wondrous fair 
 The unbound locks of her yellow hair. 
 
 And the glance of her eyes was soft and kind, 
 As of one that held sweet thoughts in mind. 
 
 Sweet smiled the curve of her lips and chin 
 And her teeth set pearl-wise therewithin. 
 
 And she came and touched the Red Carle's hand, 
 And close anigh to his knees did stand. 
 
 And she bowed her face his face to kiss, 
 Till his soul was a-dread with exceeding bliss. 
 
 no
 
 For utter joy he might not speak, 
 His very limbs were waxen weak. 
 
 She kissed his brow and whispered " Dear, 
 How long a time since thou wast near ! " 
 
 As he felt her gold hair round him fall 
 
 There was naught but glory for him in the hall. 
 
 NlGH blinded by her golden hair 
 He might not see her forehead fair. 
 
 Nigh swooning 'neath her kisses sweet 
 He might not stand upon his feet. 
 
 Nigh dazed between his hopes and fears 
 He might not answer but with tears. 
 
 SHE spake, " O love, the day has come 
 That thou hast found me in mine home. 
 
 " Sore longed I to seek thee and let thee know, 
 Yet there was a spell, and I might not go. 
 
 " But all ill spells are broken now, 
 
 Since found me here in my home hast thou." 
 
 Therewith again she kissed his cheek, 
 
 And his limbs waxed strong that had waxed so weak. 
 
 For broken indeed was the evil spell, 
 And all his body was hale and well. 
 
 II I
 
 THEN blithe and fain on his feet he stood, 
 And looked in her eyes so kind and good ; 
 
 And saw in a mist of glory there 
 
 The tangled locks of her unbound hair ; 
 
 And saw again that mouth's sweet smile 
 He had longed for O such a weary while. 
 
 And he ringed her about with his strong arms then, 
 And folded her in from the world of men. 
 
 And " Love" he whispered, and "Love "yet again, 
 And then there was silence betwixt those twain. 
 
 BUT his sister Elspeth rejoiced and was glad 
 When she saw his arms in that gold hair clad. 
 
 And into the house they went, they three, 
 And blithe were the folk that sight to see. 
 
 And what things else thereafter befell 
 Small need it were my tale should tell. 
 
 112
 
 THE LANDSCAPE PAINTER. 
 
 (BY HIS DISAPPOINTED RIVAL.) 
 
 THAT head-stone ? Yes, it is new — and neglected so soon ! 
 
 Would you know 
 Yet more of the tale of the life of the lady that lies below ? 
 I can tell you ; I once was her friend, and she was a friend 
 
 to me ; 
 Though there she lies in her grave, and I stand here, as 
 
 you see. 
 Oh, yes, you are right, quite right. We might have been 
 
 married, we twain, 
 And have taken our chance together of shadow and sun- 
 shine and rain. 
 Well, many things might have been, and are not ; and it 
 
 little skills 
 To brood over vanished hopes, and count them for present 
 
 ills. 
 
 She lived, you must know, in the valley, and I on the 
 
 further slope 
 Of the mountain that lifts its head to the skies, as if ever 
 
 in hope 
 
 113 I
 
 That the careless clouds that p:iss, as you see them 
 
 passing now. 
 Will yet take pity and heal the heat of its aching brow. 
 How oft have I crossed its ridges ! There is not a single 
 
 stone 
 In the whole rough length of the path that I have not 
 
 noticed and known, 
 And loved and been glad to greet, as we greet the face of 
 
 a friend 
 Whose welcome is always sure when we reach our 
 
 journey's end. 
 
 And a welcome was mine in the valley whenever I cared 
 
 to come ; 
 And daily I came and went, till the days made up the sum 
 Of the best bright years ot my life, when its skies were 
 
 undimmed. Ah me ! 
 About them abode a glory I never again shall see. 
 For still as I climbed the ridge in the light of the afternoon, 
 My heart was aglow with the thought, " I shall see my 
 
 darling soon." 
 And late when again I returned, one thought lit all my 
 
 ni ht, 
 M Again on the morrow's eve I shall sun my soul in her 
 
 sight." 
 Strong summer was hot on the hill when I roamed its 
 
 ridges across ; 
 But summer died off into autumn, and left no sense of a 
 
 loss 
 In my heart as I came and went, though the wind and 
 
 the wintry rain 
 
 114
 
 Stripped all the shivering trees of the pride of their summer 
 
 gain. 
 Nor tarried the autumn longer, but winter wild and 
 
 cold, 
 With dint of his iron heel a-tramp on the frozen wold, 
 Locked all the runlets fast in the grip of a crystal vice, 
 And set to the sound of my footfall the ridges a-ringing 
 
 with ice. 
 But little I recked of the rain, and less of the cold and 
 
 frost ; 
 There was that had been mine in the summer that was 
 
 not in winter lost — 
 The passion of ardent love, the glow of a gift divine, 
 That warmed the veins of my heart with a warmth that 
 
 was better than wine. 
 And winter went by, and was done with, and yielded its 
 
 place to the spring, 
 And again by the stream in the valley I heard the night- 
 ingale sing ; 
 And again was the garment of green soft- spread over 
 
 herbage and tree ; 
 But what was the spring's bright robe or the nightingale's 
 
 note to me ? 
 Nay, the nightingale's note and the spring's new raiment 
 
 were doubly dear, 
 And doubly sweet each change that came with the 
 
 changing year ; 
 For ever before me now sweet spring seemed spread in my 
 
 view, 
 And a nightingale sang in my heart the whole black 
 
 winter through. 
 
 115
 
 And daily in spring as in winter I came to the cottage 
 
 that stood 
 By the bank of the winding stream where it lost its way 
 
 in the wood ; 
 And daily I saw my love, and at eve of each glad day 
 We talked long hours together, and ever had much to say 
 Of our hopes and our fears for the future, and many a care 
 
 and doubt, 
 And many a sage opinion the world could have done 
 
 without, 
 And not been much the loser ; but what to us was the 
 
 world ? 
 Our eyes were undimmed by the dust that the wheels of 
 
 its chariot whirled; 
 Our hearts were clear of the curse that has clung to its 
 
 lips from of old ; 
 Our hands, though hardened with toil, were clean of the 
 
 grime of its gold. 
 
 And our talk was of fields and of woods, and of birds 
 
 whose nests were begun, 
 And of all things free that rejoice in the sight of the 
 
 strengthening sun ; 
 And we spoke of the dismal city, and pitied the dwellers 
 
 there, 
 Dim-lighted with gas for its sunshine, and fog for the 
 
 fresh free air ; 
 Foul, murky for miles and miles ; and we talked of the 
 
 rich and great, 
 And the squalid starving poor, whose souls are cankered 
 
 with hate, 
 
 116
 
 And their bodies with fever and famine — a horrible festering 
 
 sore 
 That ever from year to year Lord Dives sees at his door, 
 And heeds not at all its horror, nor hearkens at all to the 
 
 cry 
 That Lazarus million-throated sends up to the pitiless sky, 
 Knowing well that on earth is no pity, and asking 'twixt 
 
 hope and despair, 
 If haply its home be on high in the vast dim vault of the 
 
 air. 
 And we talked of the homes of the wealthy, and well we 
 
 agreed that we 
 Would still say No to the chance, if ever such chance 
 
 should be, 
 That might, mayhap, enthrone us in one of their high-built 
 
 halls, 
 Where all too thick are the hangings, and all too strong 
 
 are the walls, 
 To let the lament of the poor and the noise of the vulgar 
 
 and rude, 
 On the delicate ears of the owners with hateful insistence 
 
 intrude. 
 
 No, naught would we have to do with the lordlier lot of 
 
 the great, 
 Not even if we were enriched by the turn of the wheel of 
 
 fate. 
 And then we planned in our wisdom how this and that we 
 
 would do, 
 And much that was wrong should be righted, but little, 
 
 alas, we knew 
 
 117
 
 Of the chance of heart that comes with the change of rank 
 
 and degree 
 And the hopes whose bloom is blighted. Yet wise in our 
 
 way were we ; 
 For wiser it surely is to take what the fates may send, 
 Nor overmuch to murmur at ills that we cannot mend, 
 Though all our hope make ship-wreck, and all its cargo 
 
 of bliss 
 In the shallowing straits of fortune be steered awry and 
 
 amiss, 
 Till it strike on the rocks and sink in the gape of the 
 
 swallowing wave. 
 For caught in the swirl of despair, when hardly his soul 
 
 shall he save, 
 If haply a man remember the joy that comes not again, 
 The bliss remembered in sorrow is only the keener pain. 
 Nay, let him a little be happy, nor mar his present mirth 
 With the woe in the womb of time ere its sorrow be come 
 
 to the birth. 
 
 But you want to be told my tale, and to get you away 
 
 and go 
 On the road that your own fate leads you, and straight to 
 
 forget my woe, 
 And the dismal sound of my sighs, and the sight of my 
 
 woe-begone face, 
 And to leave this chill churchyard, and pass to a plea- 
 
 santer place. 
 Well, listen again yet awhile; I will tell you, as best I may> 
 How the bloom of our life was blighted and snatched by 
 
 the fates away. 
 
 118
 
 It was early as yet in the summer, but spring had been 
 
 dusty and dry ; 
 The earth was parched and athirst, and cloudless the broad 
 
 blue sky ; 
 Our hay was housed already — what little there was to get — 
 Some six weeks sooner than usual ; for springs are windy 
 
 and wet, 
 As a rule, in our upland meadows ; the distance was dim 
 
 with haze ; 
 A spark unstamped would have set our whole hill-side in 
 
 a blaze, 
 So dr}' was the heather and furze and the long grass grown 
 
 to seed, 
 For all green things were withered, and scarcely a single 
 
 weed 
 Was left for the sheep to nibble that was not as dry as a 
 
 stick, 
 And the blade that grew in the field was as brown as the 
 
 hay in the rick. 
 
 And still the days grew hotter when June had in drought 
 
 gone by, 
 And had left the crops to cope with the ardours of fierce 
 
 July. 
 
 Folk said that in town they suffered a nigh unendurable 
 
 heat, 
 And that each rich lord had gone to the cool of his country 
 
 seat ; 
 While as for the toiling poor, why, the poor must always 
 
 sweat, 
 
 119
 
 And a few drops less or more make no great matter ; and 
 
 yet 
 'Twas pity to think of them then — all night in the 
 
 poisonous gloom 
 Of the hell they have for home, their single cellar-room, 
 All da)' in the crowded workshop with never a breath of 
 
 air, 
 And never a pause or a lull in the din and the toil and the 
 
 glare, 
 Till again the gas re-lighted sent each like a beast to his 
 
 den, 
 For surely such slaves as these are liker to beasts than 
 
 men. 
 And we wished that we two had been rich, for we fain 
 
 would have helped them, and fain 
 By the spell that is wrought with gold would have 
 
 lightened the load of their pain. 
 And we spoke with scorn and contempt of the rich and the 
 
 great who fly 
 From the squalid sight of the toilers who pile their wealth 
 
 so high. 
 And again we longed to be wealthy, if only that we might 
 
 save 
 Some few of the children at least from the great town's 
 
 living grave, 
 For the death-rate there was doubled, men said, because 
 
 of the heat, 
 And we knew that a child must be dying in each foul 
 
 pestilent street, 
 Who might have been saved by the gold, as our hearts 
 
 grew hot to think, 
 
 120
 
 That the rich could do naught but squander in folly and 
 vice and drink. 
 
 'Twas thus we talked as we went in the long hot afternoon 
 To the meadows behind the wood-land ; and still to the 
 
 self-same tune 
 We spoke, and in all were agreed, for our hearts were as 
 
 one in twain, 
 As hand in hand we went through the meadows athirst for 
 
 rain — 
 For the rain that would not come ; and we found that the 
 
 beasts had strayed 
 In search, mayhap, for water or shelter of cool green shade ; 
 For water was scarce for the herd, though none from the 
 
 drought had harm, 
 So careful and kind was my Annie to each live thing on 
 
 the farm. 
 And we filled the tank with buckets we drew from the 
 
 deep-dug well, 
 And wondering went in search of the herd, nor at all could 
 
 we tell 
 How it was they had strayed, nor whither, for Annie had 
 
 fastened the gate 
 With her own neat hands in the morning ; but now was 
 
 her anger great 
 To find it wide thrown open, the bolt-bar broken in two, 
 And the cord cut clean asunder by one too dull to undo, 
 Too rude to respect the knot that her fingers had carefully 
 
 tied. 
 
 And vainly at first for the culprit we looked, till at last we 
 espied, 
 
 121
 
 Stretched out full length on the grass and watching the 
 
 clouds go by, 
 A man who seemed by his looks some ten years older 
 
 than I. 
 At his ease in the shade of a tree he was lazily lolling 
 
 there 
 In an idle careless way with an indolent insolent air, 
 Vacant and lordly, and yet with a kind of delicate grace, 
 And a look of command in the lines of his aristocratic face. 
 A broad flat book lay near, and some artists' tools in his 
 
 hand, 
 And surely an artist ne'er need look for a lovelier land, 
 How far soe'er o'er the world in an alien clime he may 
 
 roam, 
 Than the whole sweet length of the valley that Annie and 
 
 I called home. 
 And surely he might not have found, where'er in the 
 
 world he had spied, 
 A lovelier maiden's face than hers who stood at my side. 
 
 But as yet he had made no sketch : he had found him a 
 
 shady seat, 
 And there he lounged at his length, nigh faint with the 
 
 fervent heat. 
 For he looked like one who so deeply had drunk of the 
 
 pleasures of life 
 That little of vigour was left him to cope with the strain 
 
 of its strife ; 
 Whose energies all had ebbed in folly's vain pursuit, 
 Till its wine was little but lees in place of the grape's rich 
 
 fruit. 
 
 122
 
 And Annie would fain have gone by; but I, like a fool, 
 
 must ask 
 If he knew whose field he was in ; and roundly I took him 
 
 to task 
 For cutting the cord of the gate, and for leaving it open 
 
 wide, 
 Till all the cattle were lost, astray on the wild hill-side. 
 For more and more it provoked me to see him lounging 
 
 there, 
 With his calm, supercilious, careless, graceful, negligent 
 
 air, 
 
 While we looked forward to spending the rest of the 
 
 summer day 
 In trying to find the cattle his folly had sent astray. 
 
 Well, I was a fool for my pains, as I knew ere long to my 
 
 cost, 
 And yet it was hard to be patient, when there were the 
 
 cattle lost ; 
 And I knew that the flies and the heat might make them 
 
 wander for miles, 
 For out on the open common were no more gates and stiles 
 To keep them at all in bounds ; and for aught that we 
 
 could know, 
 They might be gone for good, while the man who had let 
 
 them go 
 From mere sheer idle mischief, lay lounging there at our 
 
 feet, 
 And fanning his face with a fern because of the flies and 
 
 the heat. 
 
 123
 
 He let mc say out my say to the end, but well I could see 
 He was gazing the while at Annie, nor thought for a 
 
 moment of me ; 
 Then just with the least little trace of a faint satirical 
 
 smile, 
 As of one who will yet make answer, although it is scarce 
 
 worth while, 
 He gracefully, daintily said that he certainly never had 
 
 meant 
 To do any harm, we must kindly acquit him of evil intent ; 
 And as for the cattle, why, yes, he had seen some beasts 
 
 go through, 
 But they seemed, he thought, by their manner to know 
 
 what they had to do, 
 And the flies were teasing them sadly, he thought it was 
 
 just as well 
 They should try a change of quarters, and how could he 
 
 possibly tell 
 That they were not allowed to go ? he had noticed a look 
 
 in their eyes 
 As though they knew what was best, and certainly fewer 
 
 flies 
 Had been there since the cattle had gone ; but if he had 
 
 only known, 
 He ne'er would have been so careless, and what could he 
 
 do to atone ? 
 
 This much in excuse he said, and at first seemed trying to 
 
 find 
 A suitable coin in his pocket to gild it, but changed his 
 
 mind 
 
 124
 
 As he gazed upon Annie, I saw ; for the delicate roseate 
 
 trace 
 Of a blush fluttered out on her cheeks ; and he kept his 
 
 eyes on her face, 
 Till the dull dead coal of his heart was slowly but surely 
 
 lit 
 By the spark of a smouldering flame devil-brought from 
 
 the nethermost pit ; 
 And his pale lackadaisical face and his lustreless eyes took 
 
 fire, 
 And burned with the passionate heat of the glow of an ill 
 
 desire. 
 Alas, I saw it well, and it made me mad, and I said 
 I know not what in my anger, but cast loud words at his 
 
 head, 
 Loud words thrown out like curses, instinct with a taunting 
 
 scorn, 
 To sting him out of the mask his manners had ever 
 
 worn, 
 And make him as rude as I ; for the contrast of his 
 
 restraint 
 Still vexed me more than the mischief whereof I had made 
 
 complaint. 
 
 Yet though I abused him soundly, I utterly failed in this ; 
 For he did but politely repeat his regret to have been so 
 
 remiss ; 
 Asked how he could best make atonement, and might he 
 
 come with us and try 
 If he could assist in the hunt ; and a twinkle of mirth in 
 
 his eye 
 
 125
 
 Showed just what he thought of the errand — a lord on 
 
 the hunt for a cow — 
 But I, seeing clearly the purpose it was not his plan to 
 
 avow, 
 And knowing full well from his face that all he wanted to 
 
 see 
 Was Annie's sweet little self, and neither the cows nor me, 
 Made answer short and stern that we would not give him 
 
 the pain, 
 Although he had lost our cattle, of tr} T ing to find them 
 
 again. 
 And I turned on my heel, and left him : but Annie 
 
 followed behind 
 More slowly and ill at ease, and seemed to be troubled in 
 
 mind, 
 Because I had spoken harshly, and been, as she thought, so 
 
 rough 
 To a man who had done us harm, it was true, but was 
 
 ready enough 
 To do what he could to amend it, and no one could well 
 
 do more ; 
 And it was not right to bear malice ; she never had known 
 
 before 
 That my temper was quite so short, but 'twas well to be 
 
 made aware 
 Of the state of the case henceforward, and she must take 
 
 very good care 
 To study my whims and my humours — and more in the 
 
 same light strain, 
 Half jesting and half in earnest ; but I was scarce in the 
 
 vein 
 
 126
 
 For making so light of the matter ; the man's ill e}'es as 
 
 he gazed 
 On the eyes of my Annie had hurt me, and I was in secret 
 
 amazed 
 That she had not taken ofTence, and been angrier yet 
 
 than I. 
 But little she knew of the meaning that might in an ill 
 
 look lie, 
 And how could I tell her my thoughts ? I answered I 
 
 know not what ; 
 I own I was worried and weary and cross and peevish and 
 
 hot, 
 For the hill-side stretched away, and the cattle were not to 
 
 be seen, 
 And the sun had scorched the herbage to every colour but 
 
 green, 
 And we knew not whither to turn, and behind us a-lounge 
 
 in the shade 
 Lay the careless lazy scoundrel who all this mischief had 
 
 made, 
 While far and wide we must wander with eyes and wits 
 
 on the stretch, 
 And he lay idly lolling, or making a scrawl of a sketch. 
 
 Alas, I had lost my temper, and felt so jealous as well, 
 That the earth I had thought pure heaven seemed now 
 
 grown liker to hell. 
 And instead of comforting Annie, I let my tongue run 
 
 wild, 
 Bewailing my own discomfort, as peevish as an} r child, 
 
 127
 
 And abusing the lazy lord, who, it seemed, had just come 
 
 down 
 To the countr} 7 for change of air from his palace in 
 
 London town, 
 And was one of the rascally rich who grind the face of 
 
 the poor, 
 And lay on their bowed bent backs great burdens they 
 
 will not endure 
 To touch with their own fair fingers, the fingers they 
 
 keep so white, 
 And nice, and tender, and neat. — 'Twas thus I vented my 
 
 spite 
 On the luckless lounging lord, as we climbed the hill in the 
 
 heat, 
 In words that had served before, and will serve again for 
 
 the feat 
 Of abusing behind their backs the lords who are lazy and 
 
 rich. 
 Till Annie was sick of my story, and said that she felt a 
 
 stitch 
 In her side, and was tired of climbing, and she would sit 
 
 down, while I 
 Went just to the top of the ridge, to get a look-out and 
 
 spy 
 If the cattle were hid in the hollow. To go was the least 
 
 I could do ; 
 But I went with no good grace ; and from such slight cause 
 
 there grew 
 A coolness between us twain that we never had known 
 
 before; 
 And still as I climbed the ridge, I wondered more and more 
 
 123
 
 Why Annie had not resented the fellow's insolent stare, 
 Little knowing 'twas naught but my folly and rude impe- 
 rious air 
 That seemed to put him in the right who had nothing but 
 wrong on his side. 
 
 Well, I mounted the ridge at last, and by great good for- 
 tune espied 
 The cattle, and not far off. And homeward I drove them 
 
 in haste ; 
 And Annie came up to meet me, and praised me, and 
 
 thanked me, and graced 
 Her soft-spoken praises and thanks with a sweet make- 
 
 friends-again smile, 
 Till I well was ashamed of my temper, and said so. But 
 
 all the while 
 That lazy knave had been sitting, and never had stirred 
 
 from the spot 
 Where we found him at first in the shade, for the sun was 
 
 scarce less hot, 
 Though now it was well on its way down the steep sky's 
 
 westward slope. 
 And silently we drew near him again, and I could not but 
 
 hope 
 He would let us pass in silence : but no ; for he gracefully 
 
 rose, 
 Though the smell of the breath of the cattle offended his 
 
 Roman nose, 
 And came with a smile to greet us, and offered to show us 
 
 a sketch 
 
 129 K
 
 He had made on the spur cf the moment, he said, though 
 
 he felt like a wretch 
 To have given us all that trouble, but what he could do he 
 
 had done, 
 And would we accept in earnest the thing he had sketched 
 
 in fun, 
 And take his attempt at atonement, and kindly forgive his 
 
 offence ? 
 
 And I saw that the scoundrel had sketched it on purpose 
 
 to have a pretence 
 For making a present to Annie, but what could I do ? He 
 
 came, 
 And put the thing in her hands, and told her his high- 
 sounding name, 
 And asked for the favour of hers, and she told him, and 
 
 then for mine 
 With a gesture of kind condescension to this rude keeper 
 
 of kine. 
 And naught could I do but tell him, and stand, and look 
 
 like a fool, 
 Or a boy new-caught in a theft and catechised gravely in 
 
 school, 
 Or an urchin bewhipped of an usher. And quickly to 
 
 Annie I turned, 
 To hide from his scornful glances the heat on my face that 
 
 burned, 
 And looked at the sketch that was moving her laughter 
 
 and winning her praise, 
 And saw with keen irritation and stupid sense of amaze 
 My Annie there to the life, enthroned on a rock like a queen, 
 
 130
 
 And a little way off myself — that the man could have been 
 
 so mean !- 
 
 Like a clod-hopping clumsy clown a-driving a skinny 
 
 beast 
 Toward Annie across the moor ; and he might, as I 
 
 thought, at least 
 Have made me a little more like what I was ; for the eyes 
 
 were a-scjuint, 
 And the legs all crooked and curved, and yet there was 
 
 clearly a hint 
 In the face that the mis-shapen booby was meant to be 
 
 taken for me. 
 
 And still more foolish and hot and angry I felt, to see 
 That no one could look without laughing at this contemp- 
 tible scrawl ; 
 And I knew I was made a mock of; and humbled and silly 
 
 and small 
 Was the figure I cut in his sight ; for I did not know how 
 
 to sketch, 
 Nor to sit so gracefully idle while other folk hurried to 
 
 fetch 
 Whatever might hap to be missing, nor yet could I drawl 
 
 and lisp, 
 Nor look so much like a doll, nor curl my moustache like 
 
 a wisp 
 Of yellowish hay tight-rolled ; and many another thing 
 I thought of, that he could do and that I could not ; and 
 
 the sting 
 Of feeling a helpless fool, and of not knowing what to say,
 
 And of seeing him staring at her, made me urgent to get 
 
 her away 
 Before I had lost control of my ever increasing wrath, 
 For iear I might do him a mischief. But there he stood 
 
 in her path, 
 And never a jot did he budge, though I said we had work 
 
 to do, 
 And had lost much time already, and lost our tempers too. 
 
 At that he laughed, and in anger I turned me away, and 
 
 went 
 On the downward path to the farm ; and my heart was ill 
 
 content 
 To leave him with Annie alone, but I thought she would 
 
 follow me straight, 
 And forgot that we had not fastened the severed cord of 
 
 the gate, 
 The cord he had carelessly cut — I would it had been a 
 
 whip, 
 And that I could have laid it about him, and made my 
 
 gentleman skip. 
 
 But on I went to the farm, and I gave the beasts their 
 
 food, 
 And waited and fumed and fretted ; and jealous and mean 
 
 was the mood 
 That I greeted her with when she came, for I asked with 
 
 an ugly sneer, 
 How long she had left her beauty, and if I should find him 
 
 near 
 
 132
 
 When I went to give him the thrashing the rascal so richly 
 
 deserved. 
 No answer did Annie make, but her delicate lip was curved 
 In her scorn of my mean ill-temper and jealous pitiful spite, 
 And she silently went within. But still more vexed at the 
 
 slight, 
 I turned on my heel and departed, and went to my home 
 
 o'er the hill ; 
 And still as I went in my heart there rankled a sore, and 
 
 still 
 I was wroth with my own fool anger. At home I got me 
 
 to bed, 
 And slept not a wink till dawn ; and rose with an aching 
 
 head, 
 And did what I had to do in an aimless stupid way, 
 And crossed the hill again in the hot afternoon of the day. 
 
 Then in sooth, as I plodded along, I made up my mag- 
 nanimous mind 
 
 To forget and forgive what was past, and be happy. 
 But whom should I find 
 
 In the garden behind the farm, where none but Annie 
 and I 
 
 Were wont to wander at will unseen of the passers-by, 
 
 Safe-seated there on the lawn, a self-satisfied smirk on his 
 face, 
 
 With his artists' tools about him, and making a sketch of 
 the place, 
 
 But the rascal whose knack of drawing had made me look 
 such an ass. 
 
 133
 
 He was making himself at home ; I had hardly room to 
 
 pass, 
 For his traps and his trumpery tools were littered about 
 
 on the lawn, 
 And lots of books full of scraps and sketches and things he 
 
 had drawn, 
 All brought, as it seemed, to be shown to my Annie. But 
 
 Annie herself 
 Was not to be seen ; and I wondered, was I to be put on 
 
 the shelf, 
 And to miss her word of welcome, that brightened the 
 
 whole long day, 
 Lest this new flame should be jealous, nor care near Annie 
 
 to stay. 
 
 But I loitered about on the lawn, and stood in the fellow's 
 
 light, 
 And did what I could by my presence to vex him for very 
 
 spite ; 
 Till he looked up at last, and spoke — he had only nodded 
 
 at first, 
 But his nod had more of a sting for my pride than if he 
 
 had cursed — 
 And he begged of me, since, as it seemed, I had nothing 
 
 better to do 
 Than to stand in the way of his light, and prevent him 
 
 from getting a view, 
 To go rather more to the left, and stand a bit nearer the 
 
 wall, 
 And then, if I liked the chance, he would give me a place 
 
 in the scrawl ; 
 
 134
 
 Ten minutes would do for the study, he would not ask 
 
 for more ; 
 And he thought this sketch would be better than that of 
 
 the night before. 
 
 I looked in his insolent eyes, and I answered him never a 
 
 word, 
 But turned and went to the door in silence, as though I had 
 
 heard 
 Not a sound of the taunt he had spoken. And there on 
 
 the threshold I stood, 
 And I thought that when God made man, and pronounced 
 
 his work to be good, 
 He could not have meant such creatures as this to disfigure 
 
 his earth. 
 And I looked at him once again, and almost he moved my 
 
 mirth, 
 This puny dainty lordling compared with a proper man, 
 Though I was not in vein for laughter. But then in my 
 
 soul there began 
 A dreadful doubt to arise if at all it were worth the while 
 To fly in the face of fortune, that still did nothing but 
 
 smile 
 On all this lounger attempted, and nothing but frown on 
 
 me ; 
 And whether, as all seemed hopeless, it might not better 
 
 be 
 At once and for good to resign this battle as lost, and yield 
 Its honours to Fortune's darling, and leave him lord of the 
 field. 
 
 135
 
 And almost I turned mc about and departed ; but then 
 
 there came 
 The flash of a sudden thought that mine would be all the 
 
 blame, 
 If Annie were wooed by the blackguard, and won, and 
 
 ruined, and left, 
 Of her pure sweet peace of heart and her own fair fame 
 
 bereft ; 
 And I thought I at least would warn her, and put her 
 
 pride on its guard; 
 And I suddenly opened the door, and entered. But oh, it 
 
 was hard 
 To be greeted at last by Annie with welcome embarrassed 
 
 and cold, 
 No longer eye to eye and heart to heart as of old. 
 But I feigned to be glad of the greeting, and not to have 
 
 noticed the change, 
 And I asked her to set me a task, and she said I could help 
 
 her arrange 
 The things in the dairy for churning. I saw with a pang 
 
 to my pride, 
 That she wanted to keep me away from the fool on the 
 
 lawn outside ; 
 And I magnified each little thing, as a jealous lover will 
 
 do, 
 Each sign that showed she thought him the better man of 
 
 the two. 
 
 And I talked at first of the weather, and tried to quiet the 
 pain 
 
 136
 
 That surged like a sea in my soul, and kept my voice on 
 
 the strain ; 
 But I was not greatly successful, for ere very long the 
 
 smart 
 Of her cold indifferent answers had hurt me so to the heart, 
 That I saw I must say right out what had to be said, and 
 
 take 
 My chance if Annie would listen at all for our love's sweet 
 
 sake, 
 Or would flare in sudden anger, and bid me be silent and 
 
 go; 
 
 For then, though it broke my heart, at least the worst I 
 should know. 
 
 And I told her all that I knew, or all that was fit to be 
 
 told, 
 Of the evil life of the man whose image had taken hold, 
 As I thought, of the heart of my Annie ; and how I had 
 
 heard men speak 
 Of the girls he had ruined already ; and more than the 
 
 days in a week 
 Was the number of those whose names I had certainly 
 
 heard them say ; 
 For too well known was the name he had told us yesterday. 
 
 At that she looked up quickly, and said I had made a 
 
 mistake, 
 And she hoped I would contradict it, if only for truth's 
 
 own sake ; 
 He had told her that very morning when first he came to 
 
 the house, 
 
 137
 
 He was only a landscape painter, as poor as a starved 
 
 church mouse, 
 Though the name of a man who was richer than any man 
 
 ought to be 
 Was a name that was also his ; and she hoped that now I 
 
 should see 
 How wicked and mean it was to slander a man's fair fame 
 Because I had happened to hear ill tales of another man's 
 
 name — 
 Such tales ! she would not listen to anything more of the 
 
 kind, 
 Then I, in my utter amazement that she should have been 
 
 so blind, 
 Burst out, " The infamous liar ! and does he dare to deny 
 That the blackguard and he are the same ? His heart is 
 
 as black as his lie, 
 And his lie is as foul as his heart, and both are fathered 
 
 in hell, 
 And will go to their own place soon, as the devil knows 
 
 full well." 
 
 And more I may haply have said that I do not remember 
 
 now; 
 But Annie turned her about with a frown on her beautiful 
 
 brow, 
 And bade me begone from the house, since I knew not how 
 
 to behave 
 As I ought when I stood in her presence, and could but 
 
 rant and rave 
 In words that it hurt her to hear — and she would not listen 
 
 to more. 
 
 138
 
 With pain that tugged at my heart-strings I turned and 
 
 went to the door, 
 Looked back but once, and departed, and crossed the brow 
 
 of the hill, 
 And came to the house where I lived, where in sooth I am 
 
 living still. 
 
 Well, years have gone by since then, and much has 
 
 happened, and I 
 Stand here, as you see, by her grave. But what of the 
 
 lord ? I will try 
 To give you the rest of the story. There is not much to 
 
 be said, 
 Except that Annie, my darling, was once alive, and is 
 
 dead. 
 It seems he was jaded with pleasure, and after an ill-spent 
 
 life, 
 Being weary of riotous living, determined to find him a 
 
 wife, 
 And cast his insolent eyes upon Annie ; and half in jest, 
 And half with an earnest purpose to put her heart to the 
 
 test, 
 And win her unhelped by his title, he told her a pack of 
 
 lies, 
 And meant, when at last he had won her, to give her a 
 
 grand surprise 
 By changing her landscape painter again to a high-born 
 
 peer. 
 
 I cannot tell if she loved him, or why she consented. I 
 fear 
 
 139
 
 She was tired of life at the farm, and wanted to see the 
 
 world, 
 And to flit to a brighter abode, like a moth when its wings 
 
 arc unfurled ; 
 For the long, long lane of routine with never a turn or a 
 
 bend, 
 Stretched out to her uttermost view, and beyond, and had 
 
 no end ; 
 And life with a landscape painter could hardly be other 
 
 than sweet. 
 And so she was ready to listen; and often they used to meet, 
 And walk in the lanes and fields and the pleasant paths 
 
 of the wood, 
 Till the day was fixed for the marriage. But when it was 
 
 all made good 
 Down here at the village church, and she was his wedded 
 
 wife, 
 He told her at last to her terror a truer tale of his life, 
 And decked her name with his title, and thought it would 
 
 make her glad, 
 And took her with him to London ; and there she was 
 
 richly clad, 
 And there she lived in splendour, and took, like a queen, 
 
 her place, 
 And moved amid high-born ladies ; and ever her simple 
 
 grace 
 Made all that talked with her count her for happy. But 
 
 none the less 
 Her life that seemed so bright had its secret bitterness, 
 That none but her own heart knew. And none the less 
 
 did the earl 
 
 140
 
 Find out he had made a mistake when he married a village 
 
 g irl > 
 Who was all too meek for his grandeur, and all too puie 
 
 for his taste ; 
 And at leisure did he repent of the marriage he made in 
 
 haste; 
 For he saw that she had no heart to confront the world as 
 
 his wife, 
 And was frightened and shocked by the splendour of his 
 
 luxurious life. 
 
 As the fox-glove high in the hedge is shamed and put to 
 
 scorn 
 By the banner of blood-bright poppies ablaze in the 
 
 standing corn ; 
 As the pale-petalled golden-cupped weed, 'mid the tangle 
 
 of tendrils it weaves, 
 Dies down in the lordlier light of the lily a-lounge on its 
 
 leaves ; 
 As pales the morning star in the beams of the rising sun, 
 So paled and shrank and dwindled the maiden whose hand 
 
 he had won. 
 There is not much more I can tell, for how could I an} r - 
 
 wise know 
 Of the sorrow she suffered at heart and the little-availing 
 
 woe? 
 But three sad years she spent in the shade of his high-built 
 
 halls, 
 Then went, as we all must go when the voice is Death's 
 
 that calls. 
 
 141
 
 But she bore two children before she died. Yes, they are 
 
 alive, 
 And happy, I hope; if a plant like happiness e'er can thrive 
 With luxury choking its life, and the weeds of enormous 
 
 wealth 
 With their rank growth tainting the air till it hardly can 
 
 grow by stealth. 
 And Annie is buried here, and the grass grows over her 
 
 grave, 
 And the poppies are bright in the sun ; but the lilies are 
 
 taller, and wave 
 Their pure white petals above them, the lilies I planted 
 
 myself. 
 And there at my home on the hill there stands alone on the 
 
 shelf 
 A book that she gave me once, and her dear name written 
 
 within. 
 
 And here in this troublesome world with its turmoil and 
 
 sorrow and sin, 
 Two things in my cold heart yet set its sweet dead dreams 
 
 astir, 
 The book that she gave to me, and the flowers I have 
 
 given to her. 
 
 14-2
 
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