"Sack! Sack! Canary! Malmsey! Muscadel!"— As the last canto ceased, the Mermaid Inn Chorussed. I flew from laughing voice to voice; But, over all the hubbub, rose the drone Of Francis Bacon,—"Now, this Muscovy Is a cold clime, not favourable to bees (Or love, which is a weakness of the south) As well might be supposed. Yet, as hot lands Gender hot fruits and odoriferous spice, In this case we may think that honey and flowers Are comparable with the light airs of May And a more temperate region. Also we see, As Pliny saith, this honey being a swette Of heaven, a certain spettle of the stars, Which, gathering unclean vapours as it falls, Hangs as a fat dew on the boughs, the bees Obtain it partly thus, and afterwards Corrupt it in their stomachs, and at last Expel it through their mouths and harvest it In hives; yet, of its heavenly source it keeps A great part. Thus, by various principles Of natural philosophy we observe—" And, as he leaned to Drayton, droning thus, I saw a light gleam of celestial mirth Flit o'er the face of Shakespeare—scarce a smile— A swift irradiation from within As of a cloud that softly veils the sun.

IV

THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE

We had just set our brazier smouldering, To keep the Plague away. Many a house Was marked with the red cross. The bells tolled Incessantly. Nash crept into the room Shivering like a fragment of the night, His face yellow as parchment, and his eyes Burning.

"The Plague! He has taken it!" voices cried. "That's not the Plague! The old carrion-crow is drunk; But stand away. What ails you, Nash my lad?" Then, through the clamour, as through a storm at sea, The master's voice, the voice of Ben, rang out, "Nash!"

Ben leapt to his feet, and like a ship Shouldering the waves, he shouldered the throng aside. "What ails you, man? What's that upon your breast? Blood?"

"Marlowe is dead," said Nash, And stunned the room to silence ...

"Marlowe—dead!" Ben caught him by the shoulders. "Nash! Awake! What do you mean? Marlowe? Kit Marlowe? Dead? I supped with him—why—not three nights ago! You are drunk! You are dazed! There's blood upon your coat!" "That's—where he died," said Nash, and suddenly sank Sidelong across a bench, bowing his head Between his hands ... Wept, I believe. Then, like a whip of steel, His lean black figure sprang erect again. "Marlowe!" he cried, "Kit Marlowe, killed for a punk, A taffeta petticoat! Killed by an apple-squire! Drunk! I was drunk; but I am sober now, Sober enough, by God! Poor Kit is dead."

* * * *

The Mermaid Inn was thronged for many a night With startled faces. Voices rose and fell, As I recall them, in a great vague dream, Curious, pitiful, angry, thrashing out The tragic truth. Then, all along the Cheape, The ballad-mongers waved their sheets of rhyme, Croaking: Come buy! Come buy! The bloody death Of Wormall, writ by Master Richard Bame! Come buy! Come buy! The Atheist's Tragedy. And, even in Bread Street, at our very door, The crowder to his cracked old fiddle sang:—

"He was a poet of proud repute And wrote full many a play, Now strutting in a silken suit, Now begging by the way."

Then, out of the hubbub and the clash of tongues, The bawdy tales and scraps of balladry, (As out of chaos rose the slow round world) At last, though for the Mermaid Inn alone, Emerged some tragic semblance of a soul, Some semblance of the rounded truth, a world Glimpsed only through great mists of blood and tears, Yet smitten, here and there, with dreadful light, As I believe, from heaven.

Strangely enough, (Though Ben forgot his pipe and Will's deep eyes Deepened and softened, when they spoke of Kit, For many a month thereafter) it was Nash That took the blow like steel into his heart. Nash, our "Piers Penniless," whom Rob Greene had called "Young Juvenal," the first satirist of our age, Nash, of the biting tongue and subtle sneer, Brooded upon it, till his grief became Sharp as a rapier, ready to lunge in hate At all the lies of shallower hearts.

One night, The night he raised the mists from that wild world, He talked with Chapman in the Mermaid Inn Of Marlowe's poem that was left half-sung, His Hero and Leander.

"Kit desired, If he died first, that you should finish it," Said Nash.

A loaded silence filled the room As with the imminent spirit of the dead Listening. And long that picture haunted me: Nash, like a lithe young Mephistopheles Leaning between the silver candle-sticks, Across the oak table, with his keen white face, Dark smouldering eyes, and black, dishevelled hair; Chapman, with something of the steady strength That helms our ships, and something of the Greek, The cool clear passion of Platonic thought Behind the fringe of his Olympian beard And broad Homeric brows, confronting him Gravely.

There was a burden of mystery Brooding on all that night; and, when at last Chapman replied, I knew he felt it, too. The curious pedantry of his wonted speech Was charged with living undertones, like truths Too strange and too tremendous to be breathed Save thro' a mask. And though, in lines that flamed Once with strange rivalry, Shakespeare himself defied Chapman, that spirit "by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch," Will's nimbler sense Was quick to breathings from beyond our world And could not hold them lightly.

"Ah, then Kit," Said Chapman, "had some prescience of his end, Like many another dreamer. What strange hints Of things past, present, and to come, there lie Sealed in the magic pages of that music Which, laying strong hold on universal laws, Ranges beyond these mud-walls of the flesh, Though dull wits fail to follow. It was this That made men find an oracle in the books Of Vergil, and an everlasting fount Of science in the prophets."

Once again That haunted silence filled the shadowy room; And, far away up Bread Street, we could hear The crowder, piping of black Wormall still:—

"He had a friend, once gay and green, Who died of want alone, In whose black fate he might have seen The warning of his own."

"Strange he should ask a hod-man like myself To crown that miracle of his April age," Said Chapman, murmuring softly under breath, "Amorous Leander, beautiful and young ... Why, Nash, had I been only charged to raise Out of its grave in the green Hellespont The body of that boy, To make him sparkle and leap thro' the cold waves And fold young Hero to his heart again, The task were scarce as hard. But ... stranger still,"— And his next words, although I hardly knew All that he meant, went tingling through my flesh— "Before you spoke, before I knew his wish, I had begun to write! I knew and loved His work. Himself I hardly knew at all; And yet—I know him now! I have heard him now And, since he pledged me in so rare a cup, I'll lift and drink to him, though lightnings fall From envious gods to scourge me. I will lift This cup in darkness to the soul that reigns In light on Helicon. Who knows how near? For I have thought, sometimes, when I have tried To work his will, the hand that moved my pen Was mine, and yet—not mine. The bodily mask Is mine, and sometimes, dull as clay, it sleeps With old Musaeus. Then strange flashes come, Oracular glories, visionary gleams, And the mask moves, not of itself, and sings."

"I know that thought," said Nash. "A mighty ship, A lightning-shattered wreck, out in that night, Unseen, has foundered thundering. We sit here Snug on the shore, and feel the wash of it, The widening circles running to our feet. Can such a soul go down to glut the sharks Without one ripple? Here comes one sprinkle of spray. Listen!" And through that night, quick and intense, And hushed for thunder, tingled once again, Like a thin wire, the crowder's distant tune:—

"Had he been prenticed to the trade His father followed still, This exit he had never made, Nor played a part so ill."

"Here is another," said Nash, "I know not why; But like a weed in the long wash, I too Was moved, not of myself, to a tune like this. O, I can play the crowder, fiddle a song On a dead friend, with any the best of you. Lie and kick heels in the sun on a dead man's grave And yet—God knows—it is the best we can; And better than the world's way, to forget." So saying, like one that murmurs happy words To torture his own grief, half in self-scorn, He breathed a scrap of balladry that raised The mists a moment from that Paradise, That primal world of innocence, where Kit In childhood played, outside his father's shop, Under the sign of the Golden Shoe, as thus:—

A cobbler lived in Canterbury —He is dead now, poor soul!— He sat at his door and stitched in the sun, Nodding and smiling at everyone; For St. Hugh makes all good cobblers merry, And often he sang as the pilgrims passed, "I can hammer a soldier's boot, And daintily glove a dainty foot. Many a sandal from my hand Has walked the road to Holy Land. Knights may fight for me, priests may pray for me, Pilgrims walk the pilgrim's way for me, I have a work in the world to do! —Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, To good St. Hugh!— The cobbler must stick to his last."

And anon he would cry "Kit! Kit! Kit!" to his little son, "Look at the pilgrims riding by! Dance down, hop down, after them, run!" Then, like an unfledged linnet, out Would tumble the brave little lad, With a piping shout,— "O, look at them, look at them, look at them, Dad! Priest and prioress, abbot and friar, Soldier and seaman, knight and squire! How many countries have they seen? Is there a king there, is there a queen Dad, one day, Thou and I must ride like this, All along the Pilgrim's Way, By Glastonbury and Samarcand, El Dorado and Cathay, London and Persepolis, All the way to Holy Land!"

Then, shaking his head as if he knew, Under the sign of the Golden Shoe, Touched by the glow of the setting sun, While the pilgrims passed, The little cobbler would laugh and say: "When you are old you will understand 'Tis a very long way To Samarcand! Why, largely to exaggerate Befits not men of small estate, But—I should say, yes, I should say, 'Tis a hundred miles from where you stand; And a hundred more, my little son, A hundred more, to Holy Land!... I have a work in the world to do —Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, To good St. Hugh!— The cobbler must stick to his last."

"Which last," said Nash, breaking his rhyme off short, "The crowder, after his kind, would seem to approve. Well—all the waves from that great wreck out there Break, and are lost in one withdrawing sigh:

The little lad that used to play Around the cobbler's door, Kit Marlowe, Kit Marlowe, We shall not see him more.

But—could I tell you how that galleon sank, Could I but bring you to that hollow whirl, The black gulf in mid-ocean, where that wreck Went thundering down, and round it hell still roars, That were a tale to snap all fiddle-strings." "Tell me," said Chapman.

"Ah, you wondered why," Said Nash, "you wondered why he asked your help To crown that work of his. Why, Chapman, think, Think of the cobbler's awl—there's a stout lance To couch at London, there's a conquering point To carry in triumph through Persepolis! I tell you Kit was nothing but a child, When some rich patron of the Golden Shoe Beheld him riding into Samarcand Upon a broken chair, the which he said Was a white steed, splashed with the blood of kings. When, on that patron's bounty, he did ride So far as Cambridge, he was a brave lad, Untamed, adventurous, but still innocent, O, innocent as the cobbler's little self! He brought to London just a bundle and stick, A slender purse, an Ovid, a few scraps Of song, and all unshielded, all unarmed A child's heart, packed with splendid hopes and dreams. I say a child's heart, Chapman, and that phrase Crowns, not dis-crowns, his manhood. Well—he turned An honest penny, taking some small part In plays at the Red Bull. And, all the while, Beyond the paint and tinsel of the stage, Beyond the greasy cock-pit with its reek Of orange-peel and civet, as all of these Were but the clay churned by the glorious rush Of his white chariots and his burning steeds, Nay, as the clay were a shadow, his great dreams, Like bannered legions on some proud crusade, Empurpling all the deserts of the world, Swept on in triumph to the glittering towers Of his abiding City. Then—he met That damned blood-sucking cockatrice, the pug Of some fine strutting mummer, one of those plagues Bred by our stage, a puff-ball on the hill Of Helicon. As for his wench—she too Had played so many parts that she forgot The cue for truth. King Puff had taught her well. He was the vainer and more foolish thing, She the more poisonous. One dark day, to spite Archer, her latest paramour, a friend And apple-squire to Puff, she set her eyes On Marlowe ... feigned a joy in his young art, Murmured his songs, used all her London tricks To coney-catch the country greenhorn. Man, Kit never even saw her painted face! He pored on books by candle-light and saw Everything thro' a mist. O, I could laugh To think of it, only—his up-turned skull There, in the dark, now that the flesh drops off, Has laughed enough, a horrible silent laugh, To think his Angel of Light was, after all, Only the red-lipped Angel of the Plague. He was no better than the rest of us, No worse. He felt the heat. He felt the cold. He took her down to Deptford to escape Contagion, and the crashing of sextons' spades On dead men's bones in every churchyard round; The jangling bell and the cry, Bring out your dead. And there she told him of her luckless life, Wedded, deserted, both against her will, A luckless Eve that never knew the snake. True and half-true she mixed in one wild lie, And then—she caught him by the hand and wept. No death-cart passed to warn him with its bell. Her eyes, her perfumed hair, and her red mouth, Her warm white breast, her civet-scented skin, Swimming before him, in a piteous mist, Made the lad drunk, and—she was in his arms; And all that God had meant to wake one day Under the Sun of Love, suddenly woke By candle-light and cried, 'The Sun; The Sun!' And he believed it, Chapman, he believed it! He was a cobbler's son, and he believed In Love! Blind, through that mist, he caught at Love, The everlasting King of all this world.

Kit was not clever. Clever men—like Pomp— Might jest. And fools might laugh. But when a man, Simple as all great elemental things, Makes his whole heart a sacrificial fire To one whose love is in her supple skin, There comes a laughter in which jests break up Like icebergs in a sea of burning marl. Then dreamers turn to murderers in an hour. Then topless towers are burnt, and the Ocean-sea Tramples the proud fleet, down, into the dark, And sweeps over it, laughing. Come and see, The heart now of this darkness—no more waves, But the black central hollow where that wreck Went down for ever. How should Piers Penniless Brand that wild picture on the world's black heart?— Last night I tried the way of the Florentine, And bruised myself; but we are friends together Mourning a dead friend, none will ever know!— Kit, do you smile at poor Piers Penniless, Measuring it out? Ah, boy, it is my best! Since hearts must beat, let it be terza rima, A ladder of rhyme that two sad friends alone May let down, thus, to the last circle of hell."

So saying, and motionless as a man in trance, Nash breathed the words that raised the veil anew, Strange intervolving words which, as he spake them, Moved like the huge slow whirlpool of that pit Where the wreck sank, the serpentine slow folds Of the lewd Kraken that sucked it, shuddering, down:—

This is the Deptford Inn. Climb the dark stair. Come, come and see Kit Marlowe lying dead! See, on the table, by that broken chair,

The little phials of paint—the white and red. A cut-lawn kerchief hangs behind the door, Left by his punk, even as the tapster said.

There is the gold-fringed taffeta gown she wore, And, on that wine-stained bed, as is most meet, He lies alone, never to waken more.

O, still as chiselled marble, the frayed sheet Folds the still form on that sepulchral bed, Hides the dead face, and peaks the rigid feet.

Come, come and see Kit Marlowe lying dead! Draw back the sheet, ah, tenderly lay bare The splendour of that Apollonian head;

The gloriole of his flame-coloured hair; The lean athletic body, deftly planned To carry that swift soul of fire and air;

The long thin flanks, the broad breast, and the grand Heroic shoulders! Look, what lost dreams lie Cold in the fingers of that delicate hand;

And, shut within those lyric lips, what cry Of unborn beauty, sunk in utter night, Lost worlds of song, sealed in an unknown sky,

Never to be brought forth, clothed on with light. Was this, then, this the secret of his song?— Who ever loved that loved not at first?

It was not Love, not Love, that wrought this wrong; And yet—what evil shadow of this dark town Could quench a soul so flame-like clean and strong,

Strike the young glory of his manhood down, Dead, like a dog, dead in a drunken brawl, Dead for a phial of paint, a taffeta gown?

What if his blood were hot? High over all He heard, as in his song the world still hears, Those angels on the burning heavenly wall

Who chant the thunder-music of the spheres. Yet—through the glory of his own young dream Here did he meet that face, wet with strange tears,

Andromeda, with piteous face astream, Hailing him, Perseus. In her treacherous eyes As in dark pools the mirrored stars will gleam,

Here did he see his own eternal skies; And here—she laughed, nor found the dream amiss; But bade him pluck and eat—in Paradise.

Here did she hold him, broken up with bliss, Here, like a supple snake, around him coiled, Here did she pluck his heart out with a kiss,

Here were the wings clipped and the glory soiled, Here adders coupled in the pure white shrine, Here was the Wine spilt, and the Shew-bread spoiled.

Black was that feast, though he who poured the Wine Dreamed that he poured it in high sacrament. Deep in her eyes he saw his own eyes shine,

Beheld Love's god-head and was well content. Subtly her hand struck the pure silver note, The throbbing chord of passion that God meant

To swell the bliss of heaven. Round his young throat She wound her swarthy tresses; then, with eyes Half mad to see their power, half mad to gloat,

Half mad to batten on their own devilries, And mark what heaven-born splendours they could quell, She held him quivering in a mesh of lies,

And in soft broken speech began to tell— There as, against her heart, throbbing he lay— The truth that hurled his soul from heaven to hell.

Quivering, she watched the subtle whip-lash flay The white flesh of the dreams of his pure youth; Then sucked the blood and left them cold as clay.

Luxuriously she lashed him with the truth. Against his mouth her subtle mouth she set To show, as through a mask, O, without ruth,

As through a cold clay mask (brackish and wet With what strange tears!) it was not his, not his, The kiss that through his quivering lips she met.

Kissing him, "Thus," she whispered, "did he kiss. Ah, is the sweetness like a sword, then, sweet? Last night—ah, kiss again—aching with bliss,

Thus was I made his own, from head to feet." —A sudden agony thro' his body swept Tempestuously.—"Our wedded pulses beat

Like this and this; and then, at dawn, he slept." She laughed, pouting her lips against his cheek To drink; and, as in answer, Marlowe wept.

As a dead man in dreams, he heard her speak. Clasped in the bitter grave of that sweet clay, Wedded and one with it, he moaned. Too weak

Even to lift his head, sobbing, he lay, Then, slowly, as their breathings rose and fell, He felt the storm of passion, far away,

Gather. The shuddering waves began to swell. And, through the menace of the thunder-roll, The thin quick lightnings, thrilling through his hell,

Lightnings that hell itself could not control (Even while she strove to bow his neck anew) Woke the great slumbering legions of his soul.

Sharp was that severance of the false and true, Sharp as a sword drawn from a shuddering wound. But they, that were one flesh, were cloven in two.

Flesh leapt from clasping flesh, without a sound. He plucked his body from her white embrace, And cast him down, and grovelled on the ground.

Yet, ere he went, he strove once more to trace, Deep in her eyes, the loveliness he knew; Then—spat his hatred into her smiling face.

She clung to him. He flung her off. He drew His dagger, thumbed the blade, and laughed—"Poor punk! What? Would you make me your own murderer, too?"

* * * *

"That was the day of our great feast," said Nash, "Aboard the Golden Hynde. The grand old hulk Was drawn up for the citizens' wonderment At Deptford. Ay, Piers Penniless was there! Soaked and besotted as I was, I saw Everything. On her poop the minstrels played, And round her sea-worn keel, like meadow-sweet Curtseying round a lightning-blackened oak, Prentices and their sweethearts, heel and toe, Danced the brave English dances, clean and fresh As May. But in her broad gun-guarded waist Once red with British blood, long tables groaned For revellers not so worthy. Where her guns Had raked the seas, barrels of ale were sprung, Bestrid by roaring tipplers. Where at night The storm-beat crew silently bowed their heads With Drake before the King of Life and Death, A strumpet wrestled with a mountebank For pence, a loose-limbed Lais with a clown Of Cherry Hilton. Leering at their lewd twists, Cross-legged upon the deck, sluggish with sack, Like a squat toad sat Puff ... Propped up against the bulwarks, at his side, Archer, his apple-squire, hiccoughed a bawdy song. Suddenly, through that orgy, with wild eyes, Yet with her customary smile, O, there I saw in daylight what Kit Marlowe saw Through blinding mists, the face of his first love. She stood before her paramour on the deck, Cocking her painted head to right and left, Her white teeth smiling, but her voice a hiss: 'Quickly,' she said to Archer, 'come away, Or there'll be blood spilt!' 'Better blood than wine,' Said Archer, struggling to his feet, 'but who, Who would spill blood?' 'Marlowe!' she said. Then Puff Reeled to his feet. 'What, Kit, the cobbler's son? The lad that broke his leg at the Red Bull, Tamburlaine-Marlowe, he that would chain kings To's chariot-wheel? What, is he rushing hither? He would spill blood for Gloriana, hey? O, my Belphoebe, you will crack my sides! Was this the wench that shipped a thousand squires? O, ho! But here he comes. Now, solemnly, lads,— Now walk the angels on the walls of heaven To entertain divine Zenocrate!' And there stood Kit, high on the storm-scarred poop, Against the sky, bare-headed. I saw his face, Pale, innocent, just the dear face of that boy Who walked to Cambridge with a bundle and stick,— The little cobbler's son. Yet—there I caught My only glimpse of how the sun-god looked, And only for one moment. When he saw His mistress, his face whitened, and he shook. Down to the deck he came, a poor weak man; And yet—by God—the only man that day In all our drunken crew. 'Come along, Kit,' Cried Puff, 'we'll all be friends now, all take hands, And dance—ha! ha!—the shaking of the sheets!' Then Archer, shuffling a step, raised his cracked voice In Kit's own song to a falsetto tune, Snapping one hand, thus, over his head as he danced:—

'Come, live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove!' ...

Puff reeled between, laughing. 'Damn you,' cried Kit, And, catching the fat swine by his round soft throat, Hurled him headlong, crashing across the tables, To lie and groan in the red bilge of wine That washed the scuppers. Kit gave him not one glance. 'Archer,' he said in a whisper. Instantly A long thin rapier flashed in Archer's hand. The ship was one wild uproar. Women screamed And huddled together. A drunken clamorous ring Seethed around Marlowe and his enemy. Kit drew his dagger, slowly, and I knew Blood would be spilt. 'Here, take my rapier, Kit!' I cried across the crowd, seeing the lad Was armed so slightly. But he did not hear. I could not reach him. All at once he leapt Like a wounded tiger, past the rapier point Straight at his enemy's throat. I saw his hand Up-raised to strike! I heard a harlot's scream, And, in mid-air, the hand stayed, quivering, white, A frozen menace. I saw a yellow claw Twisting the dagger out of that frozen hand; I saw his own steel in that yellow grip, His own lost lightning raised to strike at him! I saw it flash! I heard the driving grunt Of him that struck! Then, with a shout, the crowd Sundered, and through the gap, a blank red thing Streaming with blood came the blind face of Kit, Reeling, to me! And I, poor drunken I, Held my arms wide for him. Here, on my breast, With one great sob, he burst his heart and died."

* * * *

Nash ceased. And, far away down Friday Street, The crowder with his fiddler wailed again:

"Blaspheming Tambolin must die And Faustus meet his end. Repent, repent, or presentlie To hell ye must descend."

And, as in answer, Chapman slowly breathed Those mightiest lines of Marlowe's own despair:

"Think'st thou that I who saw the face of God, And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, Am not tormented with ten thousand hells?"

"Ah, you have said it," said Nash, "and there you know Why Kit desired your hand to crown his work. He reverenced you as one whose temperate eyes Austere and grave, could look him through and through; One whose firm hand could grasp the reins of law And guide those furious horses of the sun, As Ben and Will can guide them, where you will. His were, perchance, the noblest steeds of all, And from their nostrils blew a fierier dawn Above the world. That glory is his own; But where he fell, he fell. Before his hand Had learned to quell them, he was dashed to the earth. 'Tis yours to show that good men honoured him. For, mark this, Chapman, since Kit Marlowe fell. There will be fools that, in the name of Art, Will wallow in the mire, crying 'I fall, I fall from heaven!'—fools that have only heard From earth, the rumour of those golden hooves Far, far above them. Yes, you know the kind, The fools that scorn Will for his lack of fire Because he quells the storms they never knew, And rides above the thunder; fools of Art That skip and vex, like little vicious fleas, Their only Helicon, some green madam's breast. Art! Art! O, God, that I could send my soul, In one last wave, from that night-hidden wreck, Across the shores of all the years to be; O, God, that like a crowder I might shake Their blind dark casements with the pity of it, Piers Penniless his ballad, a poor scrap, That but for lack of time, and hope and pence, He might have bettered! For a dead man's sake, Thus would the wave break, thus the crowder cry:—

Dead, like a dog upon the road; Dead, for a harlot's kiss; The Apollonian throat and brow, The lyric lips, so silent now, The flaming wings that heaven bestowed For loftier airs than this!

The sun-like eyes whose light and life Had gazed an angel's down, That burning heart of honey and fire, Quenched and dead for an apple-squire, Quenched at the thrust of a mummer's knife, Dead—for a taffeta gown!

The wine that God had set apart, The noblest wine of all, Wine of the grapes that angels trod, The vintage of the glory of God, The crimson wine of that rich heart, Spilt in a drunken brawl,

Poured out to make a steaming bath That night in the Devil's Inn, A steaming bath of living wine Poured out for Circe and her swine, A bath of blood for a harlot To supple and sleek her skin.

And many a fool that finds it sweet Through all the years to be, Crowning a lie with Marlowe's fame, Will ape the sin, will ape the shame, Will ape our captain in defeat; But—not in victory;

Till Art become a leaping-house, And Death be crowned as Life, And one wild jest outshine the soul Of Truth ... O, fool, is this your goal? You are not our Kit Marlowe, But the drunkard with the knife;

Not Marlowe, but the Jack-o'-Lent That lured him o'er the fen! O, ay, the tavern is in its place, And the punk's painted smiling face, But where is our Kit Marlowe The man, the king of men?

Passion? You kiss the painted mouth, The hand that clipped his wings, The hand that into his heart she thrust And tuned him to her whimpering lust, And played upon his quivering youth As a crowder plucks the strings.

But he who dared the thunder-roll, Whose eagle-wings could soar, Buffeting down the clouds of night, To beat against the Light of Light, That great God-blinded eagle-soul, We shall not see him, more."

V

THE COMPANION OF A MILE

THWACK! Thwack! One early dawn upon our door I heard the bladder of some motley fool Bouncing, and all the dusk of London shook With bells! I leapt from bed,—had I forgotten?—I flung my casement wide and craned my neck Over the painted Mermaid. There he stood, His right leg yellow and his left leg blue, With jingling cap, a sheep-bell at his tail, Wielding his eel-skin bladder,—bang! thwack! bang!—Catching a comrade's head with the recoil And skipping away! All Bread Street dimly burned Like a reflected sky, green, red and white With littered branches, ferns and hawthorn-clouds; For, round Sir Fool, a frolic morrice-troop Of players, poets, prentices, mad-cap queans, Robins and Marians, coloured like the dawn, And sparkling like the greenwood whence they came With their fresh boughs all dewy from the dark, Clamoured, Come down! Come down, and let us in! High over these, I suddenly saw Sir Fool Leap to a sign-board, swing to a conduit-head, And perch there, gorgeous on the morning sky, Tossing his crimson cockscomb to the blue And crowing like Chanticleer, Give them a rouse! Tickle it, tabourer! Nimbly, lasses, nimbly! Tuck up your russet petticoats and dance! Let the Cheape know it is the first of May!

And as I seized shirt, doublet and trunk-hose, I saw the hobby-horse come cantering down, A pasteboard steed, dappled a rosy white Like peach-bloom, bridled with purple, bitted with gold, A crimson foot-cloth on his royal flanks, And, riding him, His Majesty of the May! Round him the whole crowd frolicked with a shout, And as I stumbled down the crooked stair I heard them break into a dance and sing:—

SONG

I

Into the woods we'll trip and go, Up and down and to and fro, Under the moon to fetch in May, And two by two till break of day, A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying! Wisdom trips not? Even so— Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go.

II

Out of the woods we'll dance and sing Under the morning-star of Spring, Into the town with our fresh boughs And knock at every sleeping house, Not sighing, Or crying, Though Love knows no denying! Then, round your summer queen and king, Come, young lovers, dance and sing, Dance and sing!

"Chorus," the great Fool tossed his gorgeous crest, And lustily crew against the deepening dawn, "Chorus," till all the Cheape caught the refrain, And, with a double thunder of frolic feet, Its ancient nut-brown tabors woke the Strand:—

A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying! Wisdom trips not? Even so,— Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go.

Into the Mermaid with a shout they rushed As I shot back the bolts, and bang, thwack, bang, The bladder bounced about me. What cared I? This was all England's holy-day! "Come in, My yellow-hammers," roared the Friar Tuck Of this mad morrice, "come you into church, My nightingales, my scraps of Lincoln green, And hear my sermon!" On a window-seat He stood, against the diamonded rich panes In the old oak parlour and, throwing back his hood, Who should it be but Ben, rare Ben himself? The wild troup laughed around him, some a-sprawl On tables, kicking parti-coloured heels, Some with their Marians jigging on their knees, And, in the front of all, the motley fool Cross-legged upon the rushes. O, I knew him,— Will Kemp, the player, who danced from London town To Norwich in nine days and was proclaimed Freeman of Marchaunt Venturers and hedge-king Of English morrice-dancery for ever! His nine-days' wonder, through the countryside Was hawked by every ballad-monger. Kemp Raged at their shake-rag Muses. None but I Guessed ever for what reason, since he chose His anticks for himself and, in his games, Was more than most May-fools fantastical. I watched his thin face, as he rocked and crooned, Shaking the squirrels' tails around his ears; And, out of all the players I had seen, His face was quickest through its clay to flash The passing mood. Though not a muscle stirred, The very skin of it seemed to flicker and gleam With little summer lightnings of the soul At every fleeting fancy. For a man So quick to bleed at a pin-prick or to leap Laughing through hell to save a butterfly, This world was difficult; and perchance he found In his fantastic games that open road Which even Will Shakespeare only found at last In motley and with some wild straws in his hair. But "Drawer! drawer!" bellowed Friar Ben, "Make ready a righteous breakfast while I preach;— Tankards of nut-brown ale, and cold roast beef, Cracknels, old cheese, flaunes, tarts and clotted cream. Hath any a wish not circumscribed by these?"

"A white-pot custard, for my white-pot queen," Cried Kemp, waving his bauble, "mark this, boy, A white-pot custard for my queen of May,— She is not here, but that concerns not thee!— A white-pot Mermaid custard, with a crust, Lashings of cream, eggs, apple-pulse and spice, A little sugar and manchet bread. Away! Be swift!" And as I bustled to and fro, The Friar raised his big brown fists again And preached in mockery of the Puritans Who thought to strip the moonshine wings from Mab, Tear down the May-poles, rout our English games, And drive all beauty back into the sea.

Then laughter and chatter and clashing tankards drowned All but their May-day jollity a-while. But, as their breakfast ended, and I sank Gasping upon a bench, there came still more Poets and players crowding into the room; And one—I only knew him as Sir John— Waved a great ballad at Will Kemp and laughed, "Atonement, Will, atonement!" "What," groaned Kemp, "Another penny poet? How many lies Does this rogue tell? Sir, I have suffered much From these Melpomenes and strawberry quills, And think them better at their bloody lines On The Blue Lady. Sir, they set to work At seven o'clock in the morning, the same hour That I, myself, that's Cavaliero Kemp, With heels of feather and heart of cork, began Frolickly footing, from the great Lord Mayor Of London, tow'rds the worshipful Master Mayor Of Norwich." "Nay, Kemp, this is a May-day tune, A morrice of country rhymes, made by a poet Who thought it shame so worthy an act as thine Should wither in oblivion if the Muse With her Castalian showers could keep it green. And while the fool nid-nodded all in time, Sir John, in swinging measure, trolled this tale:—

I

With Georgie Sprat, my overseer, and Thomas Slye, my tabourer, And William Bee, my courier, when dawn emblazed the skies, I met a tall young butcher as I danced by little Sudbury, Head-master o' morrice-dancers all, high headborough of hyes.

By Sudbury, by Sudbury, by little red-roofed Sudbury, He wished to dance a mile with me! I made a courtly bow: I fitted him with morrice-bells, with treble, bass and tenor bells, And "Tickle your tabor, Tom," I cried, "we're going to market now."

And rollicking down the lanes we dashed, and frolicking up the hills we clashed, And like a sail behind me flapped his great white frock a-while, Till, with a gasp, he sank and swore that he could dance with me no more; And—over the hedge a milk-maid laughed, Not dance with him a mile?

"You lout!" she laughed, "I'll leave my pail, and dance with him for cakes and ale! I'll dance a mile for love," she laughed, "and win my wager, too. Your feet are shod and mine are bare; but when could leather dance on air? A milk-maid's feet can fall as fair and light as falling dew."

I fitted her with morrice-bells, with treble, bass and tenor bells: The fore-bells, as I linked them at her throat, how soft they sang! Green linnets in a golden nest, they chirped and trembled on her breast, And, faint as elfin blue-bells, at her nut-brown ankles rang.

I fitted her with morrice-bells that sweetened into woodbine bells, And trembled as I hung them there and crowned her sunny brow: "Strike up," she laughed, "my summer king!" And all her bells began to ring, And "Tickle your tabor, Tom," I cried, "we're going to Sherwood now!"

When cocks were crowing, and light was growing, and horns were blowing, and milk-pails flowing, We swam thro' waves of emerald gloom along a chestnut aisle, Then, up a shining hawthorn-lane, we sailed into the sun again, Will Kemp and his companion, his companion of a mile.

"Truer than most," snarled Kemp, "but mostly lies! And why does he forget the miry lanes By Brainford with thick woods on either side, And the deep holes, where I could find no ease But skipped up to my waist?" A crackling laugh Broke from his lips which, if he had not worn The cap and bells, would scarce have roused the mirth Of good Sir John, who roundly echoed it, Then waved his hand and said, "Nay, but he treats Your morrice in the spirit of Lucian, Will, Who thought that dancing was no mushroom growth, But sprung from the beginning of the world When Love persuaded earth, air, water, fire, And all the jarring elements to move In measure. Right to the heart of it, my lad, The song goes, though the skin mislike you so." "Nay, an there's more of it, I'll sing it, too! 'Tis a fine tale, Sir John, I have it by heart, Although 'tis lies throughout." Up leapt Will Kemp, And crouched and swayed, and swung his bauble round, Making the measure as they trolled the tale, Chanting alternately, each answering each.

II

The Fool

The tabor fainted far behind us, but her feet that day They beat a rosier morrice o'er the fairy-circled green.

Sir John

And o'er a field of buttercups, a field of lambs and buttercups, We danced along a cloth of gold, a summer king and queen!

The Fool

And straying we went, and swaying we went, with lambkins round us playing we went; Her face uplift to drink the sun, and not for me her smile, We danced, a king and queen of May, upon a fleeting holy-day, But O, she'd won her wager, my companion of a mile!

Sir John

Her rosy lips they never spoke, though every rosy foot-fall broke The dust, the dust to Eden-bloom; and, past the throbbing blue, All ordered to her rhythmic feet, the stars were dancing with my sweet, And all the world a morrice-dance!

The Fool

She knew not; but I knew! Love like Amphion with his lyre, made all the elements conspire To build His world of music. All in rhythmic rank and file, I saw them in their cosmic dance, catch hands across, retire, advance, For me and my companion, my companion of a mile!

Sir John

The little leaves on every tree, the rivers winding to the sea, The swinging tides, the wheeling winds, the rolling heavens above, Around the May-pole Igdrasil, they worked the Morrice-master's will, Persuaded into measure by the all-creative Love.

That hour I saw, from depth to height, this wildering universe unite! The lambs of God around us and His passion in every flower!

The Fool

His grandeur in the dust, His dust a blaze of blinding majesty, And all His immortality in one poor mortal hour.

And Death was but a change of key in Life the golden melody, And Time became Eternity, and Heaven a fleeting smile; For all was each and each was all, and all a wedded unity, Her heart in mine, and mine in my companion of a mile.

Thwack! Thwack! He whirled his bauble round about, "This fellow beats them all," he cried, "the worst Those others wrote was that I hopped from York To Paris with a mortar on my head. This fellow sends me leaping through the clouds To buss the moon! The best is yet to come; Strike up, Sir John! Ha! ha! You know no more?" Kemp leapt upon a table. "Clear the way", He cried, and with a great stamp of his foot And a wild crackling laugh, drew all to hark, "With hey and ho, through thick and thin, The hobby-horse is forgotten, But I must finish what I begin, Tho' all the roads be rotten.

"By all those twenty thousand chariots, Ben, Hear this true tale they shall! Now, let me see, Where was Will Kemp? Bussing the moon's pale mouth? Ah, yes!" He crouched above the listening throng,— "Good as a play," I heard one whispering quean,— And, waving his bauble, shuffling with his feet In a dance that marked the time, he sank his voice As if to breathe great secrets, and so sang:—

III

At Melford town, at Melford town, at little grey-roofed Melford town, A long mile from Sudbury, upon the village green, We danced into a merry rout of country-folk that skipt about A hobby-horse, a May-pole, and a laughing white-pot queen.

They thronged about us as we stayed, and there I gave my sunshine maid An English crown for cakes and ale—her dancing was so true! And "Nay," she said, "I danced my mile for love!" I answered with a smile, "'Tis but a silver token, lass, 'thou'st won that wager, too."

I took my leash of morrice-bells, my treble, bass and tenor bells, They pealed like distant marriage-bells! And up came William Bee With Georgie Sprat, my overseer, and Thomas Slye, my tabourer, "Farewell," she laughed, and vanished with a Suffolk courtesie. I leapt away to Rockland, and from Rockland on to Hingham, From Hingham on to Norwich, sirs! I hardly heard a-while The throngs that followed after, with their shouting and their laughter, For a shadow danced beside me, my companion of a mile!

At Norwich, by St. Giles his gate, I entered, and the Mayor in state, With all the rosy knights and squires for twenty miles about, With trumpets and with minstrelsy, was waiting there to welcome me; And, as I skipt into the street, the City raised a shout.

They gave me what I did not seek. I fed on roasted swans a week! They pledged me in their malmsey, and they lined me warm with ale! They sleeked my skin with red-deer pies, and all that runs and swims and flies; But, through the clashing wine-cups, O, I heard her clanking pail.

And, rising from his crimson chair, the worshipful and portly Mayor Bequeathed me forty shillings every year that I should live, With five good angels in my hand that I might drink while I could stand! They gave me golden angels! What I lacked they could not give.

They made Will Kemp, thenceforward, sirs, Freeman of Marchaunt Venturers! They hoped that I would dance again from Norwich up to York; Then they asked me, all together, had I met with right May weather, And they praised my heels of feather, and my heart, my heart of cork.

* * * *

As I came home by Sudbury, by little red-roofed Sudbury, I waited for my bare-foot maid, among her satin kine! I heard a peal of wedding-bells, of treble, bass and tenor bells: "Ring well," I cried, "this bridal morn! You soon shall ring for mine!"

I found her foot-prints in the grass, just where she stood and saw me pass. I stood within her own sweet field and waited for my may. I laughed. The dance has turned about! I stand within: she'll pass without, And—down the road the wedding came, the road I danced that day!

I saw the wedding-folk go by, with laughter and with minstrelsy, I gazed across her own sweet hedge, I caught her happy smile, I saw the tall young butcher pass to little red-roofed Sudbury, His bride upon his arm, my lost companion of a mile.

Down from his table leapt the motley Fool. His bladder bounced from head to ducking head, His crackling laugh rang high,—"Sir John, I danced In February, and the song says May! A fig for all your poets, liars all! Away to Fenchurch Street, lasses and lads, They hold high revel there this May-day morn. Away!" The mad-cap throng echoed the cry. He drove them with his bauble through the door; Then, as the last gay kerchief fluttered out He gave one little sharp sad lingering cry As of a lute-string breaking. He turned back

And threw himself along a low dark bench; His jingling cap was crumpled in his fist, And, as he lay there, all along Cheapside The happy voices of his comrades rang:—

Out of the woods we'll dance and sing Under the morning-star of Spring, Into the town with our fresh boughs And knock at every sleeping house, Not sighing, Or crying, Though Love knows no denying! Then, round your summer queen and king, Come, young lovers, dance and sing, Dance and sing!

His motley shoulders heaved. I touched his arm, "What ails you, sir?" He raised his thin white face, Wet with the May-dew still. A few stray petals Clung in his tangled hair. He leapt to his feet, "'Twas February, but I danced, boy, danced In May! Can you do this?" Forward he bent Over his feet, and shuffled it, heel and toe, Out of the Mermaid, singing his old song—

A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying! Wisdom trips not? Even so,— Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go.

Five minutes later, over the roaring Strand, "Chorus!" I heard him crow, and half the town Reeled into music under his crimson comb.

VI

BIG BEN

Gods, what a hubbub shook our cobwebs out The day that Chapman, Marston and our Ben Waited in Newgate for the hangman's hands.

Chapman and Marston had been flung there first For some imagined insult to the Scots In Eastward Ho, the play they wrote with Ben. But Ben was famous now, and our brave law Would fain have winked and passed the big man by. The lesser men had straightway been condemned To have their ears cut off, their noses slit. With other tortures.

Ben had risen at that! He gripped his cudgel, called for a quart of ale, Then like Helvellyn with his rocky face And mountain-belly, he surged along Cheapside, Snorting with wrath, and rolled into the gaol, To share the punishment.

"There is my mark! 'Tis not the first time you have branded me," Said our big Ben, and thrust his broad left thumb Branded with T for Tyburn, into the face Of every protest. "That's the mark you gave me Because I killed my man in Spitalfields, A duel honest as any your courtiers fight. But I was no Fitzdotterel, bore no gules And azure, robbed no silk-worms for my hose, I was Ben Jonson, out of Annandale, Bricklayer in common to the good Lord God. You branded me. I am Ben Jonson still. You cannot rub it out."

The Mermaid Inn Buzzed like a hornet's nest, upon the day Fixed for their mutilation. And the stings Were ready, too; for rapiers flashed and clashed Among the tankards. Dekker was there, and Nash, Brome (Jonson's body-servant, whom he taught His art of verse and, more than that, to love him,) And half a dozen more. They planned to meet The prisoners going to Tyburn, and attempt A desperate rescue.

All at once we heard A great gay song come marching down the street, A single voice, and twenty marching men, Then the full chorus, twenty voices strong:—

The prentice whistles at break of day All under fair roofs and towers, When the old Cheape openeth every way Her little sweet inns like flowers; And he sings like a lark, both early and late, To think, if his house take fire, At the good Green Dragon in Bishopsgate He may drink to his heart's desire.

Chorus: Or sit at his ease in the old Cross Keys And drink to his heart's desire.

But I, as I walk by Red Rose Lane, Tho' it warmeth my heart to see The Swan, The Golden Hynde, and The Crane, With the door set wide for me; Tho' Signs like daffodils paint the strand When the thirsty bees begin, Of all the good taverns in Engeland My choice is—The Mermaid Inn.

Chorus: There is much to be said for The Saracen's Head, But my choice is The Mermaid Inn.

Into the tavern they rushed, these roaring boys. "Now broach your ripest and your best," they cried. "All's well! They are all released! They are on the way! Old Camden and young Selden worked the trick. Where is Dame Dimpling? Where's our jolly hostess? Tell her the Mermaid Tavern will have guests: We are sent to warn her. She must raid Cook's Row, And make their ovens roar. Nobody dines This day with old Duke Humphrey. Red-deer pies, Castles of almond crust, a shield of brawn Big as the nether millstone, barrels of wine, Three roasted peacocks! Ben is on the way!" Then all the rafters rang with song again:—

There was a Prince—long since, long since!— To East Cheape did resort, For that he loved The Blue Boar's Head Far better than Crown or Court;

But old King Harry in Westminster Hung up, for all to see, Three bells of power in St. Stephen's Tower, Yea, bells of a thousand and three,

Chorus: Three bells of power in a timber tower, Thirty thousand and three,

For Harry the Fourth was a godly king And loved great godly bells! He bade them ring and he bade them swing Till a man might hear nought else. In every tavern it soured the sack With discord and with din; But they drowned it all in a madrigal Like this, at The Mermaid Inn.

Chorus: They drowned it all in a madrigal Like this, at The Mermaid Inn.

"But how did Selden work it?"—"Nobody knows. They will be here anon. Better ask Will. He's the magician!"—"Ah, here comes Dame Dimpling!" And, into the rollicking chaos our good Dame —A Dame of only two and thirty springs— All lavender and roses and white kerchief, Bustled, to lay the tables.

Fletcher flung His arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. But all she said was, "One—two—three—four—five— Six at a pinch, in yonder window-seat." "A health to our Dame Dimpling," Beaumont cried, And Dekker, leaping on the old black settle, Led all their tumult into a song again:—

What is the Mermaid's merriest toast? Our hostess—good Dame Dimpling! Who is it rules the Mermaid roast? Who is it bangs the Mermaid host, Tho' her hands be soft as her heart almost? Dame Dimpling!

She stands at the board in her fresh blue gown With the sleeves tucked up—Dame Dimpling! She rolls the white dough up and down And her pies are crisp, and her eyes are brown. So—she is the Queen of all this town,— Dame Dimpling!

Her sheets are white as black-thorn bloom, White as her neck, Dame Dimpling! Her lavender sprigs in the London gloom Make every little bridal-room A country nook of fresh perfume,— Dame Dimpling!

She wears white lace on her dark brown hair: And a rose on her breast, Dame Dimpling! And who can show you a foot as fair Or an ankle as neat when she climbs the stair, Taper in hand, and head in the air, And a rose in her cheek?—O, past compare, Dame Dimpling!

"But don't forget those oyster-pies," cried Lyly. "Nor the roast beef," roared Dekker. "Prove yourself The Muse of meat and drink."

There was a shout In Bread Street, and our windows all swung wide, Six heads at each.

Nat Field bestrode our sign And kissed the painted Mermaid on her lips, Then waved his tankard.

"Here they come," he cried. "Camden and Selden, Chapman and Marston, too, And half Will's company with our big Ben Riding upon their shoulders."

"Look!" cried Dekker, "But where is Atlas now? O, let them have it! A thumping chorus, lads! Let the roof crack!" And all the Mermaid clashed and banged again In thunderous measure to the marching tune That rolled down Bread Street, forty voices strong:—

At Ypres Inn, by Wring-wren Lane, Old John of Gaunt would dine: He scarce had opened an oyster or twain, Or drunk one flagon of wine, When, all along the Vintry Ward, He heard the trumpets blow, And a voice that roared—"If thou love thy lord, Tell John of Gaunt to go!"

Chorus: A great voice roared—"If thou love thy lord, Tell John of Gaunt to go!"

Then into the room rushed Haviland That fair fat Flemish host, "They are marching hither with sword and brand, Ten thousand men—almost! It is these oysters or thy sweet life, Thy blood or the best of the bin!"— "Proud Pump, avaunt!" quoth John of Gaunt, "I will dine at The Mermaid Inn!"

Chorus: "Proud Pump, avaunt!" quoth John of Gaunt, "There is wine at The Mermaid Inn!"

And in came Ben like a great galleon poised High on the white crest of a shouting wave, And then the feast began. The fragrant steam As from the kitchens of Olympus drew A throng of ragged urchins to our doors. Ben ordered them a castellated pie That rolled a cloud around them where they sat Munching upon the cobblestones. Our casements Dripped with the golden dews of Helicon; And, under the warm feast our cellarage Gurgled and foamed in the delicious cool With crimson freshets— "Tell us," cried Nat Field, When pipes began to puff. "How did you work it?" Camden chuckled and tugged his long white beard. "Out of the mouth of babes," he said and shook His head at Selden! "O, young man, young man, There's a career before you! Selden did it. Take my advice, my children. Make young Selden Solicitor-general to the Mermaid Inn. That rosy silken smile of his conceals A scholar! Yes, that suckling lawyer there Puts my grey beard to shame. His courteous airs And silken manners hide the nimblest wit That ever trimmed a sail to catch the wind Of courtly favour. Mark my words now, Ben, That youth will sail right up against the wind By skilful tacking. But you run it fine, Selden, you run it fine. Take my advice And don't be too ironical, my boy, Or even the King will see it." He chuckled again. "But tell them of your tractate!" "Here it is," Quoth Selden, twisting a lighted paper spill, Then, with his round cherubic face aglow Lit his long silver pipe, "Why, first," he said, "Camden being Clarencieux King-at-arms, He read the King this little tract I wrote Against tobacco." And the Mermaid roared With laughter. "Well, you went the way to hang All three of them," cried Lyly, "and, as for Ben, His Trinidado goes to bed with him." "Green gosling, quack no more," Selden replied, Smiling that rosy silken smile anew. "The King's a critic! When have critics known The poet from his creatures, God from me? How many cite Polonius to their sons And call it Shakespeare? Well, I took my text From sundry creatures of our great big Ben, And called it 'Jonson.' Camden read it out Without the flicker of an eye. His beard Saved us, I think. The King admired his text. 'There is a man,' he read, 'lies at death's door Thro' taking of tobacco. Yesterday He voided a bushel of soot.' 'God bless my soul, A bushel of soot! Think of it!' said the King. 'The man who wrote those great and splendid words,' Camden replied,—I had prepared his case Carefully—'lies in Newgate prison, sire. His nose and ears await the hangman's knife.'

'Ah,' said the shrewd King, goggling his great eyes Cannily. 'Did he not defame the Scots?' 'That's true,' said Camden, like a man that hears Truth for the first time. 'O ay, he defamed 'em,' The King said, very wisely, once again. 'Ah, but,' says Camden, like a man that strives With more than mortal wit, 'only such Scots As flout your majesty, and take tobacco. He is a Scot, himself, and hath the gift Of preaching.' Then we gave him Jonson's lines Against Virginia. 'Neither do thou lust After that tawny weed; for who can tell, Before the gathering and the making up, What alligarta may have spawned thereon,' Or words to that effect. 'Magneeficent!' Spluttered the King—'who knows? Who knows, indeed? That's a grand touch, that Alligarta, Camden!' 'The Scot who wrote those great and splendid words,' Said Camden, 'languishes in Newgate, sire. His ears and nose—' And there, as we arranged With Inigo Jones, the ladies of the court Assailed the King in tears. Their masque and ball Would all be ruined. All their Grecian robes, Procured at vast expense, were wasted now. The masque was not half-written. Master Jones Had lost his poets. They were all in gaol. Their noses and their ears ... 'God bless my soul,' Spluttered the King, goggling his eyes again, 'What d'you make of it, Camden?'— 'I should say A Puritan plot, sire; for these justices— Who love tobacco—use their law, it seems, To flout your Majesty at every turn. If this continue, sire, there'll not be left A loyal ear or nose in all your realm.' At that, our noble monarch well-nigh swooned. He hunched his body, padded as it was Against the assassin's knife, six inches deep With great green quilts, wagged his enormous head, Then, in a dozen words, he wooed destruction: 'It is presumption and a high contempt In subjects to dispute what kings can do,' He whimpered. 'Even as it is blasphemy To thwart the will of God.' He waved his hand, And rose. 'These men must be released, at once!' Then, as I think, to seek a safer place, He waddled from the room, his rickety legs Doubling beneath that great green feather-bed He calls his 'person.'—I shall dream to-night Of spiders, Camden.—But in half an hour, Inigo Jones was armed with Right Divine To save such ears and noses as the ball Required for its perfection. Think of that! And let this earthly ball remember, too, That Chapman, Marston, and our great big Ben Owe their poor adjuncts to—ten Grecian robes And 'Jonson' on tobacco! England loves Her poets, O, supremely, when they're dead." "But Ben has narrowly escaped her love," Said Chapman gravely. "What do you mean?" said Lodge. And, as he spoke, there was a sudden hush. A tall gaunt woman with great burning eyes, And white hair blown back softly from a face Ethereally fierce, as might have looked Cassandra in old age, stood at the door. "Where is my Ben?" she said. "Mother!" cried Ben. He rose and caught her in his mighty arms. Her labour-reddened, long-boned hands entwined Behind his neck. "She brought this to the gaol," Said Chapman quietly, tossing a phial across To Camden. "And he meant to take it, too, Before the hangman touched him. Half an hour And you'd have been too late to save big Ben. He has lived too much in ancient Rome to love A slit nose and the pillory. He'd have wrapped His purple round him like an emperor. I think she had another for herself." "There's Roman blood in both of them," said Dekker, "Don't look. She is weeping now," And, while Ben held That gaunt old body sobbing against his heart, Dekker, to make her think they paid no heed, Began to sing; and very softly now. Full forty voices echoed the refrain:—

The Cardinal's Hat is a very good inn, And so is The Puritan's Head; But I know a sign of a Wine, a Wine That is better when all is said. It is whiter than Venus, redder than Mars, It was old when the world begun; For all good inns are moons or stars But The Mermaid is their Sun.

Chorus: They are all alight like moons in the night, But The Mermaid is their Sun.

Therefore, when priest or parson cries That inns like flowers increase, I say that mine inn is a church likewise, And I say to them "Be at peace!" An host may gather in dark St. Paul's To salve their souls from sin; But the Light may be where "two or three" Drink Wine in The Mermaid Inn.

Chorus: The Light may be where "two or three" Drink Wine in The Mermaid Inn.

VII

THE BURIAL OF A QUEEN

'Twas on an All Souls' Eve that our good Inn —Whereof, for ten years now, myself was host— Heard and took part in its most eerie tale. It was a bitter night, and master Ben, —His hair now flecked with grey, though youth still fired His deep and ageless eyes,—in the old oak-chair, Over the roaring hearth, puffed at his pipe; A little sad, as often I found him now Remembering vanished faces. Yet the years Brought others round him. Wreaths of Heliochrise Gleamed still in that great tribe of Benjamin, Burned still across the malmsey and muscadel. Chapman and Browne, Herrick,—a name like thyme Crushed into sweetness by a bare-foot maid Milking, at dewy dawn, in Elfin-land,— These three came late, and sat in a little room Aside, supping together, on one great pie, Whereof both crust and coffin were prepared By master Herrick's receipt, and all washed down With mighty cups of sack. This left with Ben, John Ford, wrapped in his cloak, brooding aloof, Drayton and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden. Suddenly, in the porch, I heard a sound Of iron that grated on the flags. A spade And pick came edging through the door.

"O, room! Room for the master-craftsman," muttered Ford, And grey old sexton Scarlet hobbled in. He shuffled off the snow that clogged his boots, —On my clean rushes!—brushed it from his cloak Of Northern Russet, wiped his rheumatic knees, Blew out his lanthorn, hung it on a nail, Leaned his rude pick and spade against the wall, Flung back his rough frieze hood, flapped his gaunt arms, And called for ale.

"Come to the fire," said Lodge. "Room for the wisest counsellor of kings, The kindly sage that puts us all to bed, And tucks us up beneath the grass-green quilt." "Plenty of work, eh Timothy?" said Ben. "Work? Where's my liquor? O, ay, there's work to spare," Old Scarlet croaked, then quaffed his creaming stoup, While Ben said softly—"Pity you could not spare, You and your Scythe-man, some of the golden lads That I have seen here in the Mermaid Inn!" Then, with a quiet smile he shook his head And turned to master Drummond of Hawthornden. "Well, songs are good; but flesh and blood are better. The grey old tomb of Horace glows for me Across the centuries, with one little fire Lit by a girl's light hand." Then, under breath, Yet with some passion, he murmured this brief rhyme:—

I

Dulce ridentem, laughing through the ages, Dulce loquentem, O, fairer far to me, Rarer than the wisdom of all his golden pages Floats the happy laughter of his vanished Lalage.

II

Dulce loquentem,—we hear it and we know it. Dulce ridentem,—so musical and low. "Mightier than marble is my song!" Ah, did the poet Know why little Lalage was mightier even so?

III

Dulce ridentem,—through all the years that sever, Clear as o'er yon hawthorn hedge we heard her passing by,— Lalagen amabo,—a song may live for ever Dulce loquentem,—but Lalage must die.

"I'd like to learn that rhyme," the sexton said. "I've a fine memory too. You start me now, I'd keep it up all night with ancient ballads." And then—a strange thing happened. I saw John Ford "With folded arms and melancholy hat" (As in our Mermaid jest he still would sit) Watching old Scarlet like a man in trance. The sexton gulped his ale and smacked his lips, Then croaked again—"O, ay, there's work to spare, We fills 'em faster than the spades can dig," And, all at once, the lights burned low and blue. Ford leaned right forward, with his grim black eyes Widening.

"Why, that's a marvellous ring!" he said, And pointed to the sexton's gnarled old hand Spread on the black oak-table like the claw Of some great bird of prey. "A ruby worth The ransom of a queen!" The fire leapt up! The sexton stared at him; Then stretched his hand out, with its blue-black nails, Full in the light, a grim earth-coloured hand, But bare as it was born.

"There was a ring! I could have sworn it! Red as blood!" cried Ford. And Ben and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden All stared at him. For such a silent soul Was master Ford that, when he suddenly spake, It struck the rest as dumb as if the Sphinx Had opened its cold stone lips. He would sit mute Brooding, aloof, for hours, his cloak around him, A staff between his knees, as if prepared For a long journey, a lonely pilgrimage To some dark tomb; a strange and sorrowful soul, Yet not—as many thought him—harsh or hard, But of a most kind patience. Though he wrote In blood, they say, the blood came from his heart; And all the sufferings of this world he took To his own soul, and bade them pasture there: Till out of his compassion, he became A monument of bitterness. He rebelled; And so fell short of that celestial height Whereto the greatest only climb, who stand By Shakespeare, and accept the Eternal Law. These find, in law, firm footing for the soul, The strength that binds the stars, and reins the sea, The base of being, the pillars of the world, The pledge of honour, the pure cord of love, The form of truth, the golden floors of heaven. These men discern a height beyond all heights, A depth below all depths, and never an end Without a pang beyond it, and a hope; Without a heaven beyond it, and a hell. For these, despair is like a bubble pricked, An old romance to make young lovers weep. For these, the law becomes a fiery road, A Jacob's ladder through that vast abyss Lacking no rung from realm to loftier realm, Nor wanting one degree from dust to wings. These, at the last, radiant with victory, Lay their strong hands upon the winged steeds And fiery chariots, and exult to hold, Themselves, the throbbing reins, whereby they steer The stormy splendours. He, being less, rebelled, Cried out for unreined steeds, and unruled stars, An unprohibited ocean and a truth Untrue; and the equal thunder of the law Hurled him to night and chaos, who was born To shine upon the forehead of the day. And yet—the voice of darkness and despair May speak for heaven where heaven would not be heard, May fight for heaven where heaven would not prevail, And the consummate splendour of that strife, Swallowing up all discords, all defeat, In one huge victory, harmonising all, Make Lucifer, at last, at one with God.

There,—on that All Souls' Eve, you might have thought A dead man spoke, to see how Drayton stared, And Drummond started. "You saw no ruby ring," The old sexton muttered sullenly. "If you did, The worse for me, by all accounts. The lights Burned low. You caught the firelight on my fist. What was it like, this ring?" "A band of gold, And a great ruby, heart-shaped, fit to burn Between the breasts of Lais. Am I awake Or dreaming?" "Well,—that makes the second time! There's many have said they saw it, out of jest, To scare me. For the astrologer did say The third time I should die. Now, did you see it? Most likely someone's told you that old tale! You hadn't heard it, now?" Ford shook his head. "What tale?" said Ben. "O, you could make a book About my life. I've talked with quick and dead, And neither ghost nor flesh can fright me now! I wish it was a ring, so's I could catch him, And sell him; but I've never seen him yet. A white witch told me, if I did, I'd go Clink, just like that, to heaven or t'other place, Whirled in a fiery chariot with ten steeds The way Elijah went. For I have seen So many mighty things that I must die Mightily. Well,—I came, sirs, to my craft The day mine uncle Robert dug the grave For good Queen Katharine, she whose heart was broke By old King Harry, a very great while ago. Maybe you've heard about my uncle, sirs? He was far-famous for his grave-digging. In depth, in speed, in neatness, he'd no match! They've put a fine slab to his memory In Peterborough Cathedral—Robert Scarlet, Sexton for half a century, it says, In Peterborough Cathedral, where he built The last sad habitation for two queens, And many hundreds of the common sort. And now himself, who for so many built Eternal habitations, others have buried. Obiit anno aetatis, ninety-eight, July the second, fifteen ninety-four. We should do well, sir, with a slab like that, Shouldn't we?" And the sexton leered at Lodge. "Not many boasts a finer slab than that. There's many a king done worse. Ah, well, you see, He'd a fine record. Living to ninety-eight, He buried generations of the poor, A countless host, and thought no more of it Than digging potatoes. He'd a lofty mind That found no satisfaction in small deeds. But from his burying of two queens he drew A lively pleasure. Could he have buried a third, It would indeed have crowned his old white hairs. But he was famous, and he thought, perchance, A third were mere vain-glory. So he died. I helped him with the second." The old man leered To see the shaft go home. Ben filled the stoup With ale. "So that," quoth he, "began the tale About this ruby ring?" "But who," said Lodge, "Who was the second queen?" "A famous queen, And a great lover! When you hear her name, Your hearts will leap. Her beauty passed the bounds Of modesty, men say, yet—she died young! We buried her at midnight. There were few That knew it; for the high State Funeral Was held upon the morrow, Lammas morn. Anon you shall hear why. A strange thing that,— To see the mourners weeping round a hearse That held a dummy coffin. Stranger still To see us lowering the true coffin down By torchlight, with some few of her true friends, In Peterborough Cathedral, all alone." "Old as the world," said Ford. "It is the way Of princes. Their true tears and smiles are seen At dead of night, like ghosts raised from the grave! And all the luxury of their brief, bright noon, Cloaks but a dummy throne, a mask of life; And, at the last, drapes a false catafalque, Holding a vacant urn, a mask of death. But tell, tell on!" The sexton took a draught Of ale and smacked his lips. "Mine uncle lived A mile or more from Peterborough, then. And, past his cottage, in the dead of night, Her royal coach came creeping through the lanes, With scutcheons round it and no crowd to see, And heralds carrying torches in their hands, And none to admire, but him and me, and one, A pedlar-poet, who lodged with us that week And paid his lodging with a bunch of rhymes. By these, he said, my uncle Robert's fame Should live, as in a picture, till the crack Of doom. My uncle thought that he should pay Four-pence beside; but, when the man declared The thought unworthy of these august events, My uncle was abashed. And, truth to tell, The rhymes were mellow, though here and there he swerved From truth to make them so. Nor would he change 'June' to 'July' for all that we could say. 'I never said the month was June,' he cried, 'And if I did, Shakespeare hath jumped an age! Gods, will you hedge me round with thirty nights? "June" rhymes with "moon"!' With that, he flung them down And strode away like Lucifer, and was gone, Before old Scarlet could approach again The matter of that four-pence. Yet his rhymes Have caught the very colours of that night! I can see through them, Ay, just as through our cottage window-panes, Can see the great black coach, Carrying the dead queen past our garden-gate. The roses bobbing and fluttering to and fro, Hide, and yet show the more by hiding, half. And, like smoked glass through which you see the sun, The song shows truest when it blurs the truth. This is the way it goes." He rose to his feet, Picked up his spade, and struck an attitude, Leaning upon it. "I've got to feel my spade, Or I'll forget it. This is the way I speak it. Always." And, with a schoolboy's rigid face, And eyes fixed on the rafters, he began, Sing-song, the pedlar-poet's bunch of rhymes:—

As I went by the cattle-shed The grey dew dimmed the grass, And, under a twisted apple-tree, Old Robin Scarlet stood by me. "Keep watch! Keep watch to-night," he said, "There's things 'ull come to pass.

"Keep watch until the moon has cleared The thatch of yonder rick; Then I'll come out of my cottage-door To wait for the coach of a queen once more; And—you'll say nothing of what you've heard, But rise and follow me quick."

"And what 'ull I see if I keep your trust, And wait and watch so late?" "Pride," he said, "and Pomp," he said, "Beauty to haunt you till you're dead, And Glorious Dust that goes to dust, Passing the white farm-gate.

"You are young and all for adventure, lad, And the great tales to be told: This night, before the clock strike one, Your lordliest hour will all be done; But you'll remember it and be glad, In the days when you are old!"

All in the middle of the night, My face was at the pane; When, creeping out of his cottage-door, To wait for the coach of a queen once more, Old Scarlet, in the moon-light, Beckoned to me again.

He stood beneath a lilac-spray, Like Father Time for dole, In Reading Tawny cloak and hood, With mattock and with spade he stood, And, far away to southward, A bell began to toll.

He stood beneath a lilac-spray, And never a word he said; But, as I stole out of the house, He pointed over the orchard boughs, Where, not with dawn or sunset, The Northern sky grew red.

I followed him, and half in fear, To the old farm-gate again; And, round the curve of the long white road, I saw that the dew-dashed hedges glowed Red with the grandeur drawing near, And the torches of her train.

They carried her down with singing, With singing sweet and low, Slowly round the curve they came, Twenty torches dropping flame, The heralds that were bringing her The way we all must go.

'Twas master William Dethick, The Garter King of Arms, Before her royal coach did ride, With none to see his Coat of Pride, For peace was on the countryside, And sleep upon the farms;

Peace upon the red farm, Peace upon the grey, Peace on the heavy orchard trees, And little white-walled cottages, Peace upon the wayside, And sleep upon the way.

So master William Dethick, With forty horse and men, Like any common man and mean Rode on before the Queen, the Queen, And—only a wandering pedlar Could tell the tale again.

How, like a cloud of darkness, Between the torches moved Four black steeds and a velvet pall Crowned with the Crown Imperiall And—on her shield—the lilies, The lilies that she loved.

Ah, stained and ever stainless Ah, white as her own hand, White as the wonder of that brow, Crowned with colder lilies now, White on the velvet darkness, The lilies of her land!

The witch from over the water, The fay from over the foam, The bride that rode thro' Edinbro' town With satin shoes and a silken gown, A queen, and a great king's daughter,— Thus they carried her home,

With torches and with scutcheons, Unhonoured and unseen, With the lilies of France in the wind a-stir, And the Lion of Scotland over her, Darkly, in the dead of night, They carried the Queen, the Queen.

The sexton paused and took a draught of ale. "'Twas there," he said, "I joined 'em at the gate, My uncle and the pedlar. What they sang, The little shadowy throng of men that walked Behind the scutcheoned coach with bare bent heads I know not; but 'twas very soft and low. They walked behind the rest, like shadows flung Behind the torch-light, from that strange dark hearse. And, some said, afterwards, they were the ghosts Of lovers that this queen had brought to death. A foolish thought it seemed to me, and yet Like the night-wind they sang. And there was one An olive-coloured man,—the pedlar said Was like a certain foreigner that she loved, One Chastelard, a wild French poet of hers. Also the pedlar thought they sang 'farewell' In words like this, and that the words in French Were written by the hapless Queen herself, When as a girl she left the vines of France For Scotland and the halls of Holyrood:—

I

Though thy hands have plied their trade Eighty years without a rest, Robin Scarlet, never thy spade Built a house for such a guest! Carry her where, in earliest June, All the whitest hawthorns blow; Carry her under the midnight moon, Singing very soft and low. Slow between the low green larches, carry the lovely lady sleeping, Past the low white moon-lit farms, along the lilac-shadowed way! Carry her through the summer darkness, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping! Answering only, to any that ask you, whence ye carry her,—Fotheringhay!

II

She was gayer than a child! —Let your torches droop for sorrow.— Laughter in her eyes ran wild! —Carry her down to Peterboro'.— Words were kisses in her mouth! —Let no word of blame be spoken.— She was Queen of all the South! —In the North, her heart was broken.— They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her land's own keeping, Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free to dance. Out of the cold grey Northern mists, we carry her weeping, weeping, weeping,— O, ma patrie, La plus cherie, Adieu, plaisant pays de France!

III

Many a red heart died to beat —Music swelled in Holyrood!— Once, beneath her fair white feet. —Now the floors may rot with blood— She was young and her deep hair— —Wind and rain were all her fate!— Trapped young Love as in a snare, —And the wind's a sword in the Canongate! Edinboro'! Edinboro'! Music built the towers of Troy, but thy grey walls are built of sorrow! Wind-swept hills, and sorrowful glens, of thrifty sowing and iron reaping, What if her foot were fair as a sunbeam, how should it touch or melt your snows? What if her hair were a silken mesh? Hands of steel can deal hard blows, Iron breast-plates bruise fair flesh! Carry her southward, palled in purple, Weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping, What had their rocks to do with roses? Body and soul she was all one rose.

Thus, through the summer night, slowly they went, We three behind,—the pedlar-poet and I, And Robin Scarlet. The moving flare that ringed The escutcheoned hearse, lit every leaf distinct Along the hedges and woke the sleeping birds, But drew no watchers from the drowsier farms. Thus, through a world of innocence and sleep, We brought her to the doors of her last home, In Peterborough Cathedral. Round her tomb They stood, in the huge gloom of those old aisles, The heralds with their torches, but their light Struggled in vain with that tremendous dark. Their ring of smoky red could only show A few sad faces round the purple pall, The wings of a stone angel overhead, The base of three great pillars, and, fitfully, Faint as the phosphorus glowing in some old vault, One little slab of marble, far away. Yet, or the darkness, or the pedlar's words Had made me fanciful, I thought I saw Bowed shadows praying in those unplumbed aisles, Nay, dimly heard them weeping, in a grief That still was built of silence, like the drip Of water from a frozen fountain-head. We laid her in her grave. We closed the tomb. With echoing footsteps all the funeral went; And I went last to close and lock the doors; Last, and half frightened of the enormous gloom That rolled along behind me as one by one The torches vanished. O, I was glad to see The moonlight on the kind turf-mounds again. But, as I turned the key, a quivering hand Was laid upon my arm. I turned and saw That foreigner with the olive-coloured face. From head to foot he shivered, as with cold. He drew me into the shadows of the porch. 'Come back with me,' he whispered, and slid his hand —Like ice it was!—along my wrist, and slipped A ring upon my finger, muttering quick, As in a burning fever, 'All the wealth Of Eldorado for one hour! Come back! I must go back and see her face again! I was not there, not there, the day she—died. You'll help me with the coffin. Not a soul Will know. Come back! One moment, only one!' I thought the man was mad, and plucked my hand Away from him. He caught me by the sleeve, And sank upon his knees, lifting his face Most piteously to mine. 'One moment! See! I loved her!' I saw the moonlight glisten on his tears, Great, long, slow tears they were; and then—my God— As his face lifted and his head sank back Beseeching me—I saw a crimson thread Circling his throat, as though the headsman's axe Had cloven it with one blow, so shrewd, so keen, The head had slipped not from the trunk. I gasped; And, as he pleaded, stretching his head back, The wound, O like a second awful mouth, The wound began to gape. I tore my cloak Out of his clutch. My keys fell with a clash. I left them where they lay, and with a shout I dashed into the broad white empty road. There was no soul in sight. Sweating with fear I hastened home, not daring to look back; But as I turned the corner, I heard the clang Of those great doors, and knew he had entered in.

Not till I saw before me in the lane The pedlar and my uncle did I halt And look at that which clasped my finger still As with a band of ice. My hand was bare! I stared at it and rubbed it. Then I thought I had been dreaming. There had been no ring! The poor man I had left there in the porch, Being a Frenchman, talked a little wild; But only wished to look upon her grave. And I—I was the madman! So I said Nothing. But all the same, for all my thoughts, I'd not go back that night to find the keys, No, not for all the rubies in the crown Of Prester John.

* * * *

The high State Funeral Was held on Lammas Day. A wondrous sight For Peterborough! For myself, I found Small satisfaction in a catafalque That carried a dummy coffin. None the less, The pedlar thought that as a Solemn Masque, Or Piece of Purple Pomp, the thing was good, And worthy of a picture in his rhymes; The more because he said it shadowed forth The ironic face of Death. The Masque, indeed Began before we buried her. For a host Of Mourners—Lords and Ladies—on Lammas eve Panting with eagerness of pride and place, Arrived in readiness for the morrow's pomp, And at the Bishop's Palace they found prepared A mighty supper for them, where they sat All at one table. In a Chamber hung With 'scutcheons and black cloth, they drank red wine And feasted, while the torches and the Queen Crept through the darkness of Northampton lanes.

At seven o'clock on Lammas Morn they woke, After the Queen was buried; and at eight The Masque set forth, thus pictured in the rhymes With tolling bells, which on the pedlar's lips Had more than paid his lodging: Thus he spake it, Slowly, sounding the rhymes like solemn bells, And tolling, in between, with lingering tongue:—

Toll!—From the Palace the Releevants creep,— A hundred poor old women, nigh their end, Wearing their black cloth gowns, and on each head An ell of snow-white holland which, some said, Afterwards they might keep, —Ah, Toll!—with nine new shillings each to spend, For all the trouble that they had, and all The sorrow of walking to this funeral.

Toll!—And the Mourning Cloaks in purple streamed Following, a long procession, two by two, Her Household first. With these, Monsieur du Preau Her French Confessor, unafraid to show The golden Cross that gleamed About his neck, warned what the crowd might do Said I will wear it, though I die for it! So subtle in malice was that Jesuit.

Toll!—Sir George Savile in his Mourner's Gown Carried the solemn Cross upon a Field Azure, and under it by a streamer borne Upon a field of Gules, an Unicorn Argent and, lower down, A scrolled device upon a blazoned shield, Which seemed to say—I AM SILENT TILL THE END!— Toll! Toll!—IN MY DEFENCE, GOD ME DEFEND!

Toll!—and a hundred poor old men went by, Followed by two great Bishops.—Toll, ah toll!— Then, with White Staves and Gowns, four noble lords; Then sixteen Scots and Frenchmen with drawn swords; Then, with a Bannerol, Sir Andrew Noel, lifting to the sky The Great Red Lion. Then the Crown and Crest Borne by a Herald on his glittering breast.

And now—ah now, indeed, the deep bell tolls— That empty Coffin, with its velvet pall, Borne by six Gentlemen, under a canopy Of purple, lifted by four knights, goes by.

The Crown Imperial Burns on the Coffin-head. Four Bannerols On either side, uplifted by four squires, Roll on the wind their rich heraldic fires. Toll! The Chief Mourner—the fair Russell!—toll!— Countess of Bedford—toll!—they bring her now, Weeping under a purple Cloth of State, Till, halting there before the Minister Gate, Having in her control The fair White Staves of office, with a bow She gives them to her two great Earls again, Then sweeps them onward in her mournful train.

Toll! At the high Cathedral door the Quires Meet them and lead them, singing all the while A mighty Miserere for her soul! Then, as the rolling organ—toll, ah toll!— Floods every glimmering aisle With ocean-thunders, all those knights and squires Bring the false Coffin to the central nave And set it in the Catafalque o'er her grave.

The Catafalque was made in Field-bed wise Valanced with midnight purple, fringed with gold: All the Chief Mourners on dark thrones were set Within it, as jewels in some huge carcanet: Above was this device IN MY DEFENCE, GOD ME DEFEND, inscrolled Round the rich Arms of Scotland, as to say "Man judged me. I abide the Judgment Day."

The sexton paused anew. All looked at him, And at his wrinkled, grim, earth-coloured hand, As if, in that dim light, beclouded now With blue tobacco-smoke, they thought to see The smouldering ruby again. "Ye know," he said, "How master William Wickham preached that day?" Ford nodded. "I have heard of it. He showed Subtly, O very subtly, after his kind, That the white Body of Beauty such as hers Was in itself Papistical, a feast, A fast, an incense, a burnt-offering, And an Abomination in the sight Of all true Protestants. Why, her very name Was Mary!" "Ay, that's true, that's very true!" The sexton mused. "Now that's a strange deep thought! The Bishop missed a text in missing that. Her name, indeed, was Mary!" "Did you find Your keys again?" "Ay, Sir, I found them!" "Where?" "Strange you should ask me that! After the throng Departed, and the Nobles were at feast, All in the Bishop's Palace—a great feast And worthy of their sorrow—I came back Carrying my uncle's second bunch of keys To lock the doors and search, too, for mine own. 'Twas growing dusk already, and as I thrust The key into the lock, the great grey porch Grew cold upon me, like a tomb. I pushed Hard at the key—then stopped—with all my flesh Freezing, and half in mind to fly; for, sirs, The door was locked already, and—from within! I drew the key forth quietly and stepped back Into the Churchyard, where the graves were warm With sunset still, and the blunt carven stones Lengthened their homely shadows, out and out, To Everlasting. Then I plucked up heart, Seeing the footprints of that mighty Masque Along the pebbled path. A queer thought came Into my head that all the world without Was but a Masque, and I was creeping back, Back from the Mourner's Feast to Truth again. Yet—I grew bold, and tried the Southern door. 'Twas locked, but held no key on the inner side To foil my own, and softly, softly, click, I turned it, and with heart, sirs, in my mouth, Pushed back the studded door and entered in ... Stepped straight out of the world, I might have said, Out of the dusk into a night so deep, So dark, I trembled like a child.... And then I was aware, sirs, of a great sweet wave Of incense. All the gloom was heavy with it, As if her Papist Household had returned To pray for her poor soul; and, my fear went. But either that strange incense weighed me down, Or else from being sorely over-tasked, A languor came upon me, and sitting there To breathe a moment, in a velvet stall, I closed mine eyes. A moment, and no more, For then I heard a rustling in the nave, And opened them; and, very far away, As if across the world, in Rome herself, I saw twelve tapers in the solemn East, And saw, or thought I saw, cowled figures kneel Before them, in an incense-cloud. And then, Maybe the sunset deepened in the world Of masques without—clear proof that I had closed Mine eyes but for a moment, sirs, I saw As if across a world-without-end tomb, A tiny jewelled glow of crimson panes Darkening and brightening with the West. And then, Then I saw something more—Queen Mary's vault, And—it was open!... Then, I heard a voice, A strange deep broken voice, whispering love In soft French words, that clasped and clung like hands; And then—two shadows passed against the West, Two blurs of black against that crimson stain, Slowly, O very slowly, with bowed heads, Leaning together, and vanished into the dark Beyond the Catafalque. Then—I heard him pray,— And knew him for the man that prayed to me,— Pray as a man prays for his love's last breath! And then, O sirs, it caught me by the throat, And I, too, dropped upon my knees and prayed; For, as in answer to his prayer, there came A moan of music, a mighty shuddering sound From the great organ, a sound that rose and fell Like seas in anger, very far away; And then a peal of thunder, and then it seemed, As if the graves were giving up their dead, A great cowled host of shadows rose and sang;—

Dies irae, dies illa Solvet saeclum in favilla, Teste David cum Sibylla.

I heard her sad, sad, little, broken voice, Out in the darkness. 'Ay, and David, too, His blood is on the floors of Holyrood, To speak for me.' Then that great ocean-sound Swelled to a thunder again, and heaven and earth Shrivelled away; and in that huge slow hymn Chariots were driven forth in flaming rows, And terrible trumpets blown from deep to deep.

And then, ah then, the heart of heaven was hushed, And—in the hush—it seemed an angel wept, Another Mary wept, and gathering up All our poor wounded, weary, way-worn world, Even as a Mother gathers up her babe, Soothed it against her breast, and rained her tears On the pierced feet of God, and melted Him To pity, and over His feet poured her deep hair. The music died away. The shadows knelt. And then—I heard a rustling nigh the tomb, And heard—and heard—or dreamed I heard—farewells, Farewells for everlasting, deep farewells, Bitter as blood, darker than any death. And, at the last, as in a kiss, one breath, One agony of sweetness, like a sword For sharpness, drawn along a soft white throat; And, for its terrible sweetness, like a sigh Across great waters, very far away,— Sweetheart!

And then, like doors, like world-without-end doors That shut for Everlasting, came a clang, And ringing, echoing, through the echo of it, One terrible cry that plucked my heart-strings out, Mary! And on the closed and silent tomb, Where there were two, one shuddering shadow lay, And then—I, too,—reeled, swooned and knew no more.

Sirs, when I woke, there was a broad bright shaft Of moonlight, slanting through an Eastern pane Full on her tomb and that black Catafalque. And on the tomb there lay—my bunch of keys! I struggled to my feet, Ashamed of my wild fancies, like a man Awakening from a drunken dream. And yet, When I picked up the keys, although that storm Of terror had all blown by and left me calm, I lifted up mine eyes to see the scroll Round the rich crest of that dark canopy, IN MY DEFENCE, GOD ME DEFEND. The moon Struck full upon it; and, as I turned and went, God help me, sirs, though I were loyal enough To good Queen Bess, I could not help but say, Amen! And yet, methought it was not I that spake, But some deep soul that used me for a mask, A soul that rose up in this hollow shell Like dark sea-tides flooding an empty cave. I could not help but say with my poor lips, Amen! Amen! Sirs, 'tis a terrible thing To move in great events. Since that strange night I have not been as other men. The tides Would rise in this dark cave"—he tapped his skull— "Deep tides, I know not whence; and when they rose My friends looked strangely upon me and stood aloof. And once, my uncle said to me—indeed, It troubled me strangely,—'Timothy,' he said, 'Thou art translated! I could well believe Thou art two men, whereof the one's a fool, The other a prophet. Or else, beneath thy skin There lurks a changeling! What hath come to thee?' And then, sirs, then—well I remember it! 'Twas on a summer eve, and we walked home Between high ghostly hedges white with may— And uncle Robin, in his holy-day suit Of Reading Tawny, felt his old heart swell With pride in his great memories. He began Chanting the pedlar's tune, keeping the time Thus, jingle, jingle, slowly, with his keys:—