I

Douglas, in the moonless night —Muffled oars on blue Loch Leven!— Took her hand, a flake of white —Beauty slides the bolts of heaven.— Little white hand, like a flake of snow, When they saw it, his Highland crew Swung together and murmured low, "Douglas, wilt thou die then, too?" And the pine trees whispered, weeping, "Douglas, Douglas, tender and true! Little white hand like a tender moonbeam, soon shall you set the broadswords leaping, It is the Queen, the Queen!" they whispered, watching her soar to the saddle anew. "There will be trumpets blown in the mountains, a mist of blood on the heather, and weeping, Weeping, weeping, and thou, too, dead for her, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true."

II

Carry the queenly lass along! —Cold she lies, cold and dead,— She whose laughter was a song, —Lapped around with sheets of lead!— She whose blood was wine of the South, —Light her down to a couch of clay!— And a royal rose her mouth, And her body made of may! —Lift your torches, weeping, weeping, Light her down to a couch of clay. 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!

Hush! Between the solemn pinewoods, carry the lovely lady sleeping, Out of the cold grey Northern mists, with banner and scutcheon, plume, and lance, Carry her southward, palled in purple, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping,— O, ma patrie, La plus cherie, Adieu, plaisant pays de France!

Well, sirs, that dark tide rose within my brain! I snatched his keys and flung them over the hedge, Then flung myself down on a bank of ferns And wept and wept and wept. It puzzled him. Perchance he feared my mind was going and yet, O, sirs, if you consider it rightly now, With all those ages knocking at his doors, With all that custom clamouring for his care, Is it so strange a grave-digger should weep? Well—he was kind enough and heaped my plate That night at supper. But I could never dig my graves at ease In Peterborough Churchyard. So I came To London—to St. Mary Magdalen's. And thus, I chanced to drink my ale one night Here in the Mermaid Inn. 'Twas All Souls' Eve, And, on that bench, where master Ford now sits Was master Shakespeare— Well, the lights burned low, And just like master Ford to-night he leaned Suddenly forward. 'Timothy,' he said, 'That's a most marvellous ruby!' My blood froze! I stretched my hand out bare as it was born; And he said nothing, only looked at me. Then, seeing my pipe was empty, he bade me fill And lit it for me. Peach, the astrologer, Was living then; and that same night I went And told him all my trouble about this ring. He took my hand in his, and held it—thus— Then looked into my face and said this rhyme:—

The ruby ring, that only three While Time and Tide go by, shall see, Weds your hand to history.

Honour and pride the first shall lend; The second shall give you gold to spend; The third—shall warn you of your end.

Peach was a rogue, some say, and yet he spake Most truly about the first," the sexton mused, "For master Shakespeare, though they say in youth Outside the theatres, he would hold your horse For pence, prospered at last, bought a fine house In Stratford, lived there like a squire, they say. And here, here he would sit, for all the world As he were but a poet! God bless us all, And then—to think!—he rose to be a squire! A deep one, masters! Well, he lit my pipe!" "Why did they bury such a queen by night?" Said Ford. "Kings might have wept for her. Did Death Play epicure and glutton that so few Were bidden to such a feast. Once on a time, I could have wept, myself, to hear a tale Of beauty buried in the dark. And hers Was loveliness, far, far beyond the common! Such beauty should be marble to the touch Of time, and clad in purple to amaze The moth. But she was kind and soft and fair, A woman, and so she died. But, why the dark?"

"Sir, they gave out the coffin was too heavy For gentlemen to bear!"—"For kings to bear?" Ford flashed at him. The sexton shook his head,— "Nay! Gentlemen to bear! But—the true cause— Ah, sir, 'tis unbelievable, even to me, A sexton, for a queen so fair of face! And all her beds, even as the pedlar said, Breathing Arabia, sirs, her walls all hung With woven purple wonders and great tales Of amorous gods, and mighty mirrors, too, Imaging her own softness, night and dawn, When through her sumptuous hair she drew the combs; And like one great white rose-leaf half her breast Shone through it, firm as ivory." "Ay," said Lodge, Murmuring his own rich music under breath, "About her neck did all the graces throng, And lay such baits as did entangle death." "Well, sir, the weather being hot, they feared She would not hold the burying!"... "In some sort," Ford answered slowly, "if your tale be true, She did not hold it. Many a knightly crest Will bend yet o'er the ghost of that small hand."

There was a hush, broken by Ben at last, Who turned to Ford—"How now, my golden lad? The astrologer's dead hand is on thy purse!"

Ford laughed, grimly, and flung an angel down. "Well, cause or consequence, rhyme or no rhyme, There is thy gold. I will not break the spell, Or thou mayst live to bury us one and all!" "And, if I live so long," the old man replied, Lighting his lanthorn, "you may trust me, sirs, Mine Inn is quiet, and I can find you beds Where Queens might sleep all night and never move. Good-night, sirs, and God bless you, one and all." He shouldered pick and spade. I opened the door. The snow blew in, and, as he shuffled out, There, in the strait dark passage, I could swear I saw a spark of red upon his hand, Like a great smouldering ruby. I gasped. He stopped. He peered at me. "Twice in a night," he said. "Nothing," I answered, "only the lanthorn-light." He shook his head. "I'll tell you something more! There's nothing, nothing now in life or death That frightens me. Ah, things used to frighten me. But never now. I thought I had ten years; But if the warning comes and says 'Thou fool, This night!' Why, then, I'm ready." I watched him go, With glimmering lanthorn up the narrow street, Like one that walked upon the clouds, through snow That seemed to mix the City with the skies.

On Christmas Eve we heard that he was dead.

VIII

FLOS MERCATORUM

FLOS MERCATORUM! On that night of nights We drew from out our Mermaid cellarage All the old glory of London in one cask Of magic vintage. Never a city on earth— Rome, Paris, Florence, Bagdad—held for Ben The colours of old London; and, that night, We staved them like a wine, and drank, drank deep!

'Twas Master Heywood, whom the Mermaid Inn Had dubbed our London laureate, hauled the cask Out of its ancient harbourage. "Ben," he cried, Bustling into the room with Dekker and Brome, "The prentices are up!" Ben raised his head Out of the chimney-corner where he drowsed, And listened, reaching slowly for his pipe.

"Clerk of the Bow Bell," all along the Cheape There came a shout that swelled into a roar. "What! Will they storm the Mermaid?" Heywood laughed, "They are turning into Bread Street!" Down they came! We heard them hooting round the poor old Clerk— "Clubs! Clubs! The rogue would have us work all night! He rang ten minutes late! Fifteen, by Paul's!" And over the hubbub rose, like a thin bell, The Clerk's entreaty—"Now, good boys, good boys, Children of Cheape, be still, I do beseech you! I took some forty winks, but then...." A roar Of wrathful laughter drowned him—"Forty winks! Remember Black May-day! We'll make you wink!" There was a scuffle, and into the tavern rushed Gregory Clopton, Clerk of the Bow Bell,— A tall thin man, with yellow hair a-stream, And blazing eyes. "Hide me," he clamoured, "quick! These picaroons will murder me!" I closed The thick oak doors against the coloured storm Of prentices in red and green and ray, Saffron and Reading tawny. Twenty clubs Drubbed on the panels as I barred them out; And even our walls and shutters could not drown Their song that, like a mocking peal of bells, Under our windows, made all Bread Street ring:—

"Clerk of the Bow Bell, With the yellow locks, For thy late ringing Thy head shall have knocks!"

Then Heywood, seeing the Clerk was all a-quake, Went to an upper casement that o'er-looked The whole of Bread Street. Heywood knew their ways, And parleyed with them till their anger turned To shouts of merriment. Then, like one deep bell His voice rang out, in answer to their peal:—

"Children of Cheape, Hold you all still! You shall have Bow Bell Rung at your will!"

Loudly they cheered him. Courteously he bowed, Then firmly shut the window; and, ere I filled His cup with sack again, the crowd had gone.

"My clochard, sirs, is warm," quavered the Clerk. "I do confess I took some forty winks! They are good lads, our prentices of Cheape, But hasty!" "Wine!" said Ben. He filled a cup And thrust it into Gregory's trembling hands. "Yours is a task," said Dekker, "a great task! You sit among the gods, a lord of time, Measuring out the pulse of London's heart." "Yea, sir, above the hours and days and years, I sometimes think. 'Tis a great Bell—the Bow! And hath been, since the days of Whittington." "The good old days," growled Ben. "Both good and bad Were measured by my Bell," the Clerk replied. And, while he spoke, warmed by the wine, his voice Mellowed and floated up and down the scale As if the music of the London bells Lingered upon his tongue. "I know them all, And love them, all the voices of the bells.

FLOS MERCATORUM! That's the Bell of Bow Remembering Richard Whittington. You should hear The bells of London when they tell his tale. Once, after hearing them, I wrote it down. I know the tale by heart now, every turn." "Then ring it out," said Heywood. Gregory smiled And cleared his throat. "You must imagine, sirs, The Clerk, sitting on high, among the clouds, With London spread beneath him like a map. Under his tower, a flock of prentices Calling like bells, of little size or weight, But bells no less, ask that the Bell of Bow Shall tell the tale of Richard Whittington, As thus." Then Gregory Clopton, mellowing all The chiming vowels, and dwelling on every tone In rhythm or rhyme that helped to swell the peal Or keep the ringing measure, beat for beat, Chanted this legend of the London bells:—

Clerk of the Bow Bell, four and twenty prentices, All upon a Hallowe'en, we prithee, for our joy, Ring a little turn again for sweet Dick Whittington, Flos Mercatorum, and a barefoot boy!—

"Children of Cheape," did that old Clerk answer, "You will have a peal, then, for well may you know, All the bells of London remember Richard Whittington When they hear the voice of the big Bell of Bow!"—

Clerk with the yellow locks, mellow be thy malmsey! He was once a prentice, and carolled in the Strand! Ay, and we are all, too, Marchaunt Adventurers, Prentices of London, and lords of Engeland.

"Children of Cheape," did that old Clerk answer, "Hold you, ah hold you, ah hold you all still! Souling if you come to the glory of a Prentice, You shall have the Bow Bell rung at your will!"

"Whittington! Whittington! O, turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London," the big Bell began: "Where was he born? O, at Pauntley in Gloucestershire Hard by Cold Ashton, Cold Ashton," it ran.

"Flos Mercatorum," moaned the bell of All Hallowes, "There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone!" "Then we all sang," echoed happy St. Saviour's, "Called him, and lured him, and made him our own.

Told him a tale as he lay upon the hillside, Looking on his home in the meadow-lands below!" "Told him a tale," clanged the bell of Cold Abbey; "Told him the truth," boomed the big Bell of Bow!

Sang of a City that was like a blazoned missal-book, Black with oaken gables, carven and inscrolled; Every street a coloured page, and every sign a hieroglyph, Dusky with enchantments, a City paved with gold;

"Younger son, younger son, up with stick and bundle!"— Even so we rung for him—"But—kneel before you go; Watch by your shield, lad, in little Pauntley Chancel, Look upon the painted panes that hold your Arms a-glow,—

Coat of Gules and Azure; but the proud will not remember it! And the Crest a Lion's Head, until the new be won! Far away, remember it! And O, remember this, too,— Every barefoot boy on earth is but a younger son."

Proudly he answered us, beneath the painted window,— "Though I be a younger son, the glory falls to me: While my brother bideth by a little land in Gloucestershire, All the open Earth is mine, and all the Ocean-sea.

Yet will I remember, yet will I remember, By the chivalry of God, until my day be done, When I meet a gentle heart, lonely and unshielded, Every barefoot boy on earth is but a younger son!"

Then he looked to Northward for the tall ships of Bristol; Far away, and cold as death, he saw the Severn shine: Then he looked to Eastward, and he saw a string of colours Trickling through the grey hills, like elfin drops of wine;

Down along the Mendip dale, the chapmen and their horses, Far away, and carrying each its little coloured load, Winding like a fairy-tale, with pack and corded bundle, Trickled like a crimson thread along the silver road.

Quick he ran to meet them, stick and bundle on his shoulder! Over by Cold Ashton, he met them trampling down,— White shaggy horses with their packs of purple spicery, Crimson kegs of malmsey, and the silks of London town.

When the chapmen asked of him the bridle-path to Dorset, Blithely he showed them, and he led them on their way, Led them through the fern with their bales of breathing Araby, Led them to a bridle-path that saved them half a day.

Merrily shook the silver bells that hung the broidered bridle-rein, Chiming to his hand, as he led them through the fern, Down to deep Dorset, and the wooded Isle of Purbeck, Then—by little Kimmeridge—they led him turn for turn.

Down by little Kimmeridge, and up by Hampshire forest-roads, Round by Sussex violets, and apple-bloom of Kent, Singing songs of London, telling tales of London, All the way to London, with packs of wool they went.

"London was London, then! A clean, clear moat Girdled her walls that measured, round about, Three miles or less. She is big and dirty now," Said Dekker. "Call it a silver moat," growled Ben, "That's the new poetry! Call it crystal, lad! But, till you kiss the Beast, you'll never find Your Fairy Prince. Why, all those crowded streets, Flung all their filth, their refuse, rags and bones, Dead cats and dogs, into your clean clear moat, And made it sluggish as old Acheron. Fevers and plagues, death in a thousand shapes Crawled out of it. London was dirty, lad; And till you kiss that fact, you'll never see The glory of this old Jerusalem!" "Ay, 'tis the fogs that make the sunset red," Answered Tom Heywood. "London is earthy, coarse, Grimy and grand. You must make dirt the ground, Or lose the colours of friend Clopton's tale. Ring on!" And, nothing loth, the Clerk resumed:—

Bravely swelled his heart to see the moat of London glittering Round her mighty wall—they told him—two miles long! Then—he gasped as, echoing in by grim black Aldgate, Suddenly their shaggy nags were nodding through a throng:

Prentices in red and ray, marchaunts in their saffron, Aldermen in violets, and minstrels in white, Clerks in homely hoods of budge, and wives with crimson wimples, Thronging as to welcome him that happy summer night.

"Back," they cried, and "Clear the way," and caught the ringing bridle-reins: "Wait! the Watch is going by, this vigil of St. John!" Merrily laughed the chapmen then, reining their great white horses back, "When the pageant passes, lad, we'll up and follow on!"

There, as thick the crowd surged, beneath the blossomed ale-poles, Lifting up to Whittington a fair face afraid, Swept against his horse by a billow of madcap prentices, Hard against the stirrup breathed a green-gowned maid.

Swift he drew her up and up, and throned her there before him, High above the throng with her laughing April eyes, Like a Queen of Faerie on the great pack-saddle. "Hey!" laughed the chapmen, "the prentice wins the prize!"

"Whittington! Whittington! the world is all before you!" Blithely rang the bells and the steeples rocked and reeled! Then—he saw her eyes grow wide, and, all along by Leaden Hall, Drums rolled, earth shook, and shattering trumpets pealed.

Like a marching sunset, there, from Leaden Hall to Aldgate, Flared the crimson cressets—O, her brows were haloed then!— Then the stirring steeds went by with all their mounted trumpeters, Then, in ringing harness, a thousand marching men.

Marching—marching—his heart and all the halberdiers, And his pulses throbbing with the throbbing of the drums; Marching—marching—his blood and all the burganets! "Look," she cried, "O, look," she cried, "and now the morrice comes!"

Dancing—dancing—her eyes and all the Lincoln Green, Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, dancing through the town! "Where is Marian?" Laughingly she turned to Richard Whittington. "Here," he said, and pointed to her own green gown.

Dancing—dancing—her heart and all the morrice-bells! Then there burst a mighty shout from thrice a thousand throats! Then, with all their bows bent, and sheaves of peacock arrows, Marched the tall archers in their white silk coats,

White silk coats, with the crest of London City Crimson on the shoulder, a sign for all to read,— Marching—marching—and then the sworded henchmen, Then, William Walworth, on his great stirring steed.

Flos Mercatorum, ay, the fish-monger, Walworth,— He whose nets of silk drew the silver from the tide, He who saved the king when the king was but a prentice,— Lord Mayor of London, with his sword at his side!

Burned with magic changes, his blood and all the pageantry; Burned with deep sea-changes, the wonder in her eyes; Flos Mercatorum! 'Twas the rose-mary of Paphos, Reddening all the City for the prentice and his prize!

All the book of London, the pages of adventure, Passed before the prentice on that vigil of St. John: Then the chapmen shook their reins,—"We'll ride behind the revelry, Round again to Cornhill! Up, and follow on!"

Riding on his pack-horse, above the shouting multitude, There she turned and smiled at him, and thanked him for his grace: "Let me down by Red Rose Lane," and, like a wave of twilight While she spoke, her shadowy hair—touched his tingling face.

When they came to Red Rose Lane, beneath the blossomed ale-poles, Light along his arm she lay, a moment, leaping down: Then she waved "farewell" to him, and down the Lane he watched her Flitting through the darkness in her gay green gown.

All along the Cheape, as he rode among the chapmen, Round by Black Friars, to the Two-Necked Swan Coloured like the sunset, prentices and maidens Danced for red roses on the vigil of St. John.

Over them were jewelled lamps in great black galleries, Garlanded with beauty, and burning all the night; All the doors were shadowy with orpin and St. John's wort, Long fennel, green birch, and lilies of delight.

"He should have slept here at the Mermaid Inn," Said Heywood as the chanter paused for breath. "What? Has our Mermaid sung so long?" cried Ben. "Her beams are black enough. There was an Inn," Said Tom, "that bore the name; and through its heart There flowed the right old purple. I like to think It was the same, where Lydgate took his ease After his hood was stolen; and Gower, perchance; And, though he loved the Tabard for a-while, I like to think the Father of us all, The old Adam of English minstrelsy caroused Here in the Mermaid Tavern. I like to think Jolly Dan Chaucer, with his kind shrewd face Fresh as an apple above his fur-fringed gown, One plump hand sporting with his golden chain, Looked out from that old casement over the sign, And saw the pageant, and the shaggy nags, With Whittington, and his green-gowned maid, go by. "O, very like," said Clopton, "for the bells Left not a head indoors that night." He drank A draught of malmsey—and thus renewed his tale:—

"Flos Mercatorum," mourned the bell of All Hallowes, "There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone, Rubbing down the great white horses for a supper!" "True," boomed the Bow Bell, "his hands were his own!"

Where did he sleep? On a plump white wool-pack, Open to the moon on that vigil of St. John, Sheltered from the dew, where the black-timbered gallery Frowned above the yard of the Two-Necked Swan.

Early in the morning, clanged the bell of St. Martin's, Early in the morning, with a groat in his hand, Mournfully he parted with the jolly-hearted chapmen, Shouldered his bundle and walked into the Strand;

Walked into the Strand, and back again to West Cheape, Staring at the wizardry of every painted sign, Dazed with the steeples and the rich heraldic cornices Drinking in the colours of the Cheape like wine.

All about the booths now, the parti-coloured prentices Fluted like a flock of birds along a summer lane, Green linnets, red caps, and gay gold finches,— What d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack again?

"Buy my dainty doublets, cut on double taffetas, Buy my Paris thread," they cried, and caught him by the hand, "Laces for your Heart's-Delight, and lawns to make her love you, Cambric for her wimple, O, the finest in the land."

Ah, but he was hungry, foot-sore, weary, Knocking at the doors of the armourers that day! What d'ye lack? they asked of him; but no man lacked a prentice: When he told them what he lacked, they frowned and turned away.

Hard was his bed that night, beneath a cruel archway, Down among the hulks, with his heart growing cold! London is a rare town, but O, the streets of London, Red though their flints be, they are not red with gold.

Pale in the dawn, ere he marched on his adventure, Starving for a crust, did he kneel a-while again, Then, upon the fourth night, he cried, O, like a wounded bird "Let me die, if die I must, in Red Rose Lane."

Like a little wounded bird he trailed through the darkness, Laid him on a door-step, and then—O, like a breath Pitifully blowing out his life's little rushlight, Came a gush of blackness, a swoon deep as death.

Then he heard a rough voice! Then he saw a lanthorn! Then he saw a bearded face, and blindly wondered whose: Then—a marchaunt's portly legs, with great Rose-Windows, Bigger than St. Paul's, he thought, embroidered on his shoes.

"Alice!" roared the voice, and then, O like a lilied angel, Leaning from the lighted door a fair face afraid, Leaning over Red Rose Lane, O, leaning out of Paradise, Drooped the sudden glory of his green-gowned maid!

* * * *

"O, mellow be thy malmsey," grunted Ben, Filling the Clerk another cup. "The peal," Quoth Clopton, "is not ended; but the pause In ringing, chimes to a deep inward ear And tells its own deep tale. Silence and sound, Darkness and light, mourning and mirth,—no tale, No painting, and no music, nay, no world, If God should cut their fruitful marriage-knot. A shallow sort to-day would fain deny A hell, sirs, to this boundless universe. To such I say 'no hell, no Paradise!' Others would fain deny the topless towers Of heaven, and make this earth a hell indeed. To such I say, 'the unplumbed gulfs of grief Are only theirs for whom the blissful chimes Ring from those unseen heights.' This earth, mid-way, Hangs like a belfry where the ringers grasp Their ropes in darkness, each in his own place, Each knowing, by the tune in his own heart, Never by sight, when he must toss through heaven The tone of his own bell. Those bounded souls Have never heard our chimes! Why, sirs, myself Simply by running up and down the scale Descend to hell or soar to heaven. My bells Height above height, deep below deep, respond! Their scale is infinite. Dare I, for one breath, Dream that one note hath crowned and ended all, Sudden I hear, far, far above those clouds, Like laughing angels, peal on golden peal, Innumerable as drops of April rain, Yet every note distinct, round as a pearl, And perfect in its place, a chime of law, Whose pure and boundless mere arithmetic Climbs with my soul to God." Ben looked at him, Gently. "Resume, old moralist," he said. "On to thy marriage-bells!" "The fairy-tales Are wiser than they know, sirs. All our woes Lead on to those celestial marriage-bells. The world's a-wooing; and the pure City of God Peals for the wedding of our joy and pain! This was well seen of Richard Whittington; For only he that finds the London streets Paved with red flints, at last shall find them paved Like to the Perfect City, with pure gold. Ye know the world! what was a London waif To Hugh Fitzwarren's daughter? He was fed And harboured; and the cook declared she lacked A scullion. So, in Hugh Fitzwarren's house, He turned the jack, and scoured the dripping-pan. How could he hope for more? This marchaunt's house Was builded like a great high-gabled inn, Square, with a galleried courtyard, such as now The players use. Its rooms were rich and dim With deep-set coloured panes and massy beams. Its ancient eaves jutted o'er Red Rose Lane Darkly, like eyebrows of a mage asleep. Its oaken stair coiled upward through a dusk Heavy with fume of scented woods that burned To keep the Plague away,—a gloom to embalm A Pharaoh, but to dull the cheek and eye Of country lads like Whittington. He pined For wind and sunlight. Yet he plied his task Patient as in old tales of Elfin-land, The young knight would unhelm his golden locks And play the scullion, so that he might watch His lady's eyes unknown, and oftener hear Her brook-like laughter rippling overhead; Her green gown, like the breath of Eden boughs, Rustling nigh him. And all day long he found Sunshine enough in this. But when at night He crept into the low dark vaulted den, The cobwebbed cellar, where the cook had strewn The scullion's bed of straw (and none too thick Lest he should sleep too long), he choked for breath; And, like an old man hoarding up his life, Fostered his glimmering rushlight as he sate Bolt upright, while a horrible scurry heaved His rustling bed, and bright black-beaded eyes Peered at him from the crannies of the wall. Then darkness whelmed him, and perchance he slept,— Only to fight with nightmares and to fly Down endless tunnels in a ghastly dream, Hunted by horrible human souls that took The shape of monstrous rats, great chattering snouts, Vile shapes of shadowy cunning and grey greed, That gnaw through beams, and undermine tall towns, And carry the seeds of plague and ruin and death Under the careless homes of sleeping men. Thus, in the darkness, did he wage a war With all the powers of darkness. 'If the light Do break upon me, by the grace of God,' So did he vow, 'O, then will I remember, Then, then, will I remember, ay, and help To build that lovelier City which is paved For rich and poor alike, with purest gold.'

Ah, sirs, he kept his vow. Ye will not smile If, at the first, the best that he could do Was with his first poor penny-piece to buy A cat, and bring her home, under his coat By stealth (or else that termagant, the cook, Had drowned it in the water-butt, nor deemed The water worse to drink). So did he quell First his own plague, but bettered others, too. Now, in those days, Marchaunt Adventurers Shared with their prentices the happy chance Of each new venture. Each might have his stake, Little or great, upon the glowing tides Of high romance that washed the wharfs of Thames; And every lad in London had his groat Or splendid shilling on some fair ship at sea.

So, on an April eve, Fitzwarren called His prentices together; for, ere long, The Unicorn, his tall new ship, must sail Beyond the world to gather gorgeous webs From Eastern looms, great miracles of silk Dipt in the dawn by wizard hands of Ind; Or, if they chanced upon that fabled coast Where Sydon, river of jewels, like a snake Slides down the gorge its coils of crimson fire, Perchance a richer cargo,—rubies, pearls, Or gold bars from the Gates of Paradise. And many a moon, at least, a faerie foam Would lap Blackfriars wharf, where London lads Gazed in the sunset down that misty reach For old black battered hulks and tattered sails Bringing their dreams home from the uncharted sea.

And one flung down a groat—he had no more. One staked a shilling, one a good French crown; And one an angel, O, light-winged enough To reach Cathay; and not a lad but bought His pennyworth of wonder, So they thought, Till all at once Fitzwarren's daughter cried 'Father, you have forgot poor Whittington!' "Snails,' laughed the rosy marchaunt, 'but that's true! Fetch Whittington! The lad must stake his groat! 'Twill bring us luck!' 'Whittington! Whittington!' Down the dark stair, like a gold-headed bird, Fluttered sweet Alice. 'Whittington! Richard! Quick! Quick with your groat now for the Unicorn!'

'A groat!' cried Whittington, standing there aghast, With brown bare arms, still coloured by the sun, Among his pots and pans. 'Where should I find A groat? I staked my last groat in a cat!' —'What! Have you nothing? Nothing but a cat? Then stake the cat,' she said; and the quick fire That in a woman's mind out-runs the thought Of man, lit her grey eyes. Whittington laughed And opened the cellar-door. Out sailed his wealth, Waving its tail, purring, and rubbing its head Now on his boots, now on the dainty shoe Of Alice, who straightway, deaf to his laughing prayers, Caught up the cat, whispered it, hugged it close, Against its grey fur leaned her glowing cheek, And carried it off in triumph.

Red Rose Lane Echoed with laughter as, with amber eyes Blinking, the grey cat in a seaman's arms Went to the wharf. 'Ay, but we need a cat,' The captain said. So, when the painted ship Sailed through a golden sunrise down the Thames, A grey tail waved upon the misty poop, And Whittington had his venture on the seas.

It was a nine days' jest, and soon forgot. But, all that year,—ah, sirs, ye know the world, For all the foolish boasting of the proud, Looks not beneath the coat of Taunton serge For Gules and Azure. A prince that comes in rags To clean your shoes and, out of his own pride, Waits for the world to paint his shield again Must wait for ever and a day. The world Is a great hypocrite, hypocrite most of all When thus it boasts its purple pride of race, Then with eyes blind to all but pride of place Tramples the scullion's heraldry underfoot, Nay, never sees it, never dreams of it, Content to know that, here and now, his coat Is greasy.... So did Whittington find at last Such nearness was most distant; that to see her, Talk with her, serve her thus, was but to lose True sight, true hearing. He must save his life By losing it; forsake, to win, his love; Go out into the world to bring her home. It was but labour lost to clean the shoes, And turn the jack, and scour the dripping-pan. For every scolding blown about her ears The cook's great ladle fell upon the head Of Whittington; who, beneath her rule, became The scullery's general scapegoat. It was he That burned the pie-crust, drank the hippocras, Dinted the silver beaker.... Many a month He chafed, till his resolve took sudden shape And, out of the dark house at the peep of day, Shouldering bundle and stick again, he stole To seek his freedom, and to shake the dust Of London from his shoes.... You know the stone On Highgate, where he sate awhile to rest, With aching heart, and thought 'I shall not see Her face again.' There, as the coloured dawn Over the sleeping City slowly bloomed, A small black battered ship with tattered sails Blurring the burnished glamour of the Thames Crept, side-long to a wharf. Then, all at once, The London bells rang out a welcome home; And, over them all, tossing the tenor on high, The Bell of Bow, a sun among the stars, Flooded the morning air with this refrain:—

'Turn again, Whittington! Turn again, Whittington! Flos Mercatorum, thy ship hath come home! Trailing from her cross-trees the crimson of the sunrise, Dragging all the glory of the sunset thro' the foam. Turn again, Whittington, Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London!

Turn again, Whittington! When thy hope was darkest, Far beyond the sky-line a ship sailed for thee. Flos Mercatorum, O, when thy faith was blindest, Even then thy sails were set beyond the Ocean-sea.'

So he heard and heeded us, and turned again to London, Stick and bundle on his back, he turned to Red Rose Lane, Hardly hearing as he went the chatter of the prentices,— What d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack again?

Back into the scullery, before the cook had missed him, Early in the morning his labours he began: Once again to clean the shoes and clatter with the water-pail, Once again to scrub the jack and scour the dripping-pan.

All the bells of London were pealing as he laboured. Wildly beat his heart, and his blood began to race. Then—there came a light step and, suddenly, beside him Stood his lady Alice, with a light upon her face.

'Quick,' she said, 'O, quick,' she said, 'they want you, Richard Whittington!' 'Quick,' she said; and, while she spoke, her lighted eyes betrayed All that she had hidden long, and all she still would hide from him. So—he turned and followed her, his green-gowned maid.

* * * *

There, in a broad dark oaken-panelled room Rich with black carvings and great gleaming cups Of silver, sirs, and massy halpace built Half over Red Rose Lane, Fitzwarren sat; And, at his side, O, like an old romance That suddenly comes true and fills the world With April colours, two bronzed seamen stood, Tattered and scarred, and stained with sun and brine. 'Flos Mercatorum,' Hugh Fitzwarren cried, Holding both hands out to the pale-faced boy, 'The prentice wins the prize! Why, Whittington, Thy cat hath caught the biggest mouse of all!' And, on to the table, tilting a heavy sack, One of the seamen poured a glittering stream Of rubies, emeralds, opals, amethysts, That turned the room to an Aladdin's cave, Or magic goblet brimmed with dusky wine Where clustering rainbow-coloured bubbles clung And sparkled, in the halls of Prester John.

'And that,' said Hugh Fitzwarren, 'is the price Paid for your cat in Barbary, by a King Whose house was rich in gems, but sorely plagued With rats and mice. Gather it up, my lad, And praise your master for his honesty; For, though my cargo prospered, yours outshines The best of it. Take it, my lad, and go; You're a rich man; and, if you use it well, Riches will make you richer, and the world Will prosper in your own prosperity. The miser, like the cold and barren moon, Shines with a fruitless light. The spendthrift fool Flits like a Jack-o-Lent over quags and fens; But he that's wisely rich gathers his gold Into a fruitful and unwasting sun That spends its glory on a thousand fields And blesses all the world. Take it and go.'

Blankly, as in a dream, Whittington stared. 'How should I take it, sir? The ship was yours, And ...' 'Ay, the ship was mine; but in that ship Your stake was richer than we knew. 'Tis yours.' 'Then,' answered Whittington, 'if this wealth be mine, Who but an hour ago was all so poor, I know one way to make me richer still.' He gathered up the glittering sack of gems, Turned to the halpace, where his green-gowned maid Stood in the glory of the coloured panes. He thrust the splendid load into her arms, Muttering—'Take it, lady! Let me be poor! But rich, at least, in that you not despise The waif you saved.' —'Despise you, Whittington?'— 'O, no, not in the sight of God! But I Grow tired of waiting for the Judgment Day! I am but a man. I am a scullion now; But I would like, only for half an hour, To stand upright and say "I am a king!" Take it!' And, as they stood, a little apart, Their eyes were married in one swift level look, Silent, but all that souls could say was said.

* * * *

And 'I know a way,' said the Bell of St. Martin's. 'Tell it, and be quick,' laughed the prentices below! 'Whittington shall marry her, marry her, marry her! Peal for a wedding,' said the big Bell of Bow.

He shall take a kingdom up, and cast it on the sea again; He shall have his caravels to traffic for him now; He shall see his royal sails rolling up from Araby, And the crest—a honey-bee—golden at the prow.

Whittington! Whittington! The world is all a fairy tale!— Even so we sang for him.—But O, the tale is true! Whittington he married her, and on his merry marriage-day, O, we sang, we sang for him, like lavrocks in the blue.

Far away from London, these happy prentice lovers Wandered through the fern to his western home again, Down by deep Dorset to the wooded isle of Purbeck, Round to little Kimmeridge, by many a lover's lane.

There did they abide as in a dove-cote hidden Deep in happy woods until the bells of duty rang; Then they rode the way he went, a barefoot boy to London, Round by Hampshire forest-roads, but as they rode he sang:—

_Kimmeridge in Dorset is the happiest of places! All the little homesteads are thatched with beauty there! All the old ploughmen, there, have happy smiling faces, Christmas roses in their cheeks, and crowns of silver hair.

Blue as are the eggs in the nest of the hedge-sparrow, Gleam the little rooms in the homestead that I know: Death, I think, has lost the way to Kimmeridge in Dorset; Sorrow never knew it, or forgot it, long ago!

Kimmeridge in Dorset, Kimmeridge in Dorset, Though I may not see you more thro' all the years to be, Yet will I remember the little happy homestead Hidden in that Paradise where God was good to me._

* * * *

So they turned to London, and with mind and soul he laboured, Flos Mercatorum, for the mighty years to be, Fashioning, for profit—to the years that should forget him!— This, our sacred City that must shine upon the sea.

London was a City when the Poulters ruled the Poultry! Rosaries of prayer were hung in Paternoster Row, Gutter Lane was Guthrun's, then; and, bright with painted missal-books, Ave Mary Corner, sirs, was fairer than ye know.

London was mighty when her marchaunts loved their merchandise, Bales of Eastern magic that empurpled wharf and quay: London was mighty when her booths were a dream-market, Loaded with the colours of the sunset and the sea.

There, in all their glory, with the Virgin on their bannerols, Glory out of Genoa, the Mercers might be seen, Walking to their Company of Marchaunt Adventurers;— Gallantly they jetted it in scarlet and in green.

There, in all the glory of the lordly Linen Armourers, Walked the Marchaunt Taylors with the Pilgrim of their trade, Fresh from adventuring in Italy and Flanders, Flos Mercatorum, for a green-gowned maid.

Flos Mercatorum! Can a good thing come of Nazareth? High above the darkness, where our duller senses drown, Lifts the splendid Vision of a City, built on merchandise, Fairer than that City of Light that wore the violet crown,

Lifts the sacred vision of a far-resplendent City, Flashing, like the heart of heaven, its messages afar, Trafficking, as God Himself through all His interchanging worlds, Holding up the scales of law, weighing star by star,

Stern as Justice, in one hand the sword of Truth and Righteousness; Blind as Justice, in one hand the everlasting scales, Lifts the sacred Vision of that City from the darkness, Whence the thoughts of men break out, like blossoms, or like sails!

Ordered and harmonious, a City built to music, Lifting, out of chaos, the shining towers of law,— Ay, a sacred City, and a City built of merchandise, Flos Mercatorum, was the City that he saw.

And by that light," quoth Clopton, "did he keep His promise. He was rich; but in his will He wrote those words which should be blazed with gold In London's Liber Albus:—

The desire And busy intention of a man, devout And wise, should be to fore-cast and secure The state and end of this short life with deeds Of mercy and pity, especially to provide For those whom poverty insulteth, those To whom the power of labouring for the needs Of life, is interdicted. He became The Father of the City. Felons died Of fever in old Newgate. He rebuilt The prison. London sickened, from the lack Of water, and he made fresh fountains flow. He heard the cry of suffering and disease, And built the stately hospital that still Shines like an angel's lanthorn through the night, The stately halls of St. Bartholomew. He saw men wrapt in ignorance, and he raised Schools, colleges, and libraries. He heard The cry of the old and weary, and he built Houses of refuge. Even so he kept His prentice vows of Duty, Industry, Obedience, words contemned of every fool Who shrinks from law; yet were those ancient vows The adamantine pillars of the State. Let all who play their Samson be well warned That Samsons perish, too! His monument Is London!"

"True," quoth Dekker, "and he deserves Well of the Mermaid Inn for one good law, Rightly enforced. He pilloried that rogue Will Horold, who in Whittington's third year Of office, as Lord Mayor, placed certain gums And spices in great casks, and filled them up With feeble Spanish wine, to have the taste And smell of Romeney,—Malmsey!" "Honest wine, Indeed," replied the Clerk, "concerns the State, That solemn structure touched with light from heaven, Which he, our merchant, helped to build on earth. And, while he laboured for it, all things else Were added unto him, until the bells More than fulfilled their prophecy. One great eve, Fair Alice, leaning from her casement, saw Another Watch, and mightier than the first, Billowing past the newly painted doors Of Whittington Palace—so men called his house In Hart Street, fifteen yards from old Mark Lane,— thousand burganets and halberdiers; A thousand archers in their white silk coats, A thousand mounted men in ringing mail, A thousand sworded henchmen; then, his Guild, Advancing, on their splendid bannerols The Virgin, glorious in gold; and then, Flos Mercatorum, on his great stirring steed Whittington! On that night he made a feast For London and the King. His feasting hall Gleamed like the magic cave that Prester John Wrought out of one huge opal. East and West Lavished their wealth on that great Citizen Who, when the King from Agincourt returned Victorious, but with empty coffers, lent Three times the ransom of an Emperor To fill them—on the royal bond, and said When the King questioned him of how and whence, 'I am the steward of your City, sire! There is a sea, and who shall drain it dry?'

Over the roasted swans and peacock pies, The minstrels in the great black gallery tuned All hearts to mirth, until it seemed their cups Were brimmed with dawn and sunset, and they drank The wine of gods. Lord of a hundred ships, Under the feet of England, Whittington flung The purple of the seas. And when the Queen, Catharine, wondered at the costly woods That burned upon his hearth, the Marchaunt rose, He drew the great sealed parchments from his breast, The bonds the King had given him on his loans, Loans that might drain the Mediterranean dry. 'They call us hucksters, madam, we that love Our City,' and, into the red-hot heart of the fire, He tossed the bonds of sixty thousand pounds. 'The fire burns low,' said Richard Whittington. Then, overhead, the minstrels plucked their strings; And, over the clash of wine-cups, rose a song That made the old timbers of their feasting-hall Shake, as a galleon shakes in a gale of wind, When she rolls glorying through the Ocean-sea:—

Marchaunt Adventurers, O, what shall it profit you Thus to seek your kingdom in the dream-destroying sun? Ask us why the hawthorn brightens on the sky-line: Even so our sails break out when Spring is well begun! Flos Mercatorum! Blossom wide, ye sail of Englande, Hasten ye the kingdom, now the bitter days are done! Ay, for we be members, one of another, 'Each for all and all for each,' quoth Richard Whittington!

Chorus:—Marchaunt Adventurers, Marchaunt Adventurers, Marchaunt Adventurers, the Spring is well begun! Break, break out on every sea, O, fair white sails of Englande! 'Each for all, and all for each,' quoth Richard Whittington.

Marchaunt Adventurers, O what 'ull ye bring home again? Woonders and works and the thunder of the sea! Whom will ye traffic with? The King of the sunset!— What shall be your pilot, then?—A wind from Galilee!

—Nay, but ye be marchaunts, will ye come back empty-handed?— Ay, we be marchaunts, though our gain we ne'er shall see! Cast we now our bread upon the waste wild waters; After many days it shall return with usury.

Chorus:—Marchaunt Adventurers, Marchaunt Adventurers, What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be? Englande! Englande! Englande! Englande! Glory everlasting and the lordship of the sea.

What need to tell you, sirs, how Whittington Remembered? Night and morning, as he knelt In those old days, O, like two children still, Whittington and his Alice bowed their heads Together, praying. From such simple hearts, O never doubt it, though the whole world doubt The God that made it, came the steadfast strength Of England, all that once was her strong soul, The soul that laughed and shook away defeat As her strong cliffs hurl back the streaming seas. Sirs, in his old age Whittington returned, And stood with Alice, by the silent tomb In little Pauntley church. There, to his Arms, The Gules and Azure, and the Lion's Head So proudly blazoned on the painted panes; (O, sirs, the simple wistfulness of it Might move hard hearts to laughter, but I think Tears tremble through it, for the Mermaid Inn) He added his new crest, the hard-won sign And lowly prize of his own industry, The Honey-bee. And, far away, the bells Peal softly from the pure white City of God:— Ut fragrans nardus Fama fuit iste Ricardus. With folded hands he waits the Judgment now. Slowly our dark bells toll across the world, For him who waits the reckoning, his accompt Secure, his conscience clear, his ledger spread A Liber Albus flooded with pure light.

Flos Mercatorum, Fundator presbyterorum,...

Slowly the dark bells toll for him who asks No more of men, but that they may sometimes Pray for the souls of Richard Whittington, Alice, his wife, and (as themselves of old Had prayed) the father and mother of each of them. Slowly the great notes fall and float away:—

Omnibus exemplum Barathrum vincendo morosum Condidit hoc templum ... Pauperibus pater ... Finiit ipse dies Sis sibi Christe quies. Amen."

IX

RALEIGH

Ben was our only guest that day. His tribe Had flown to their new shrine—the Apollo Room, To which, though they enscrolled his golden verse Above their doors like some great-fruited vine, Ben still preferred our Mermaid, and to smoke Alone in his old nook; perhaps to hear The voices of the dead, The voices of his old companions. Hovering near him,—Will and Kit and Rob.

"Our Ocean-shepherd from the Main-deep sea, Raleigh," he muttered, as I brimmed his cup, "Last of the men that broke the fleets of Spain, 'Twas not enough to cage him, sixteen years, Rotting his heart out in the Bloody Tower, But they must fling him forth in his old age To hunt for El Dorado. Then, mine host, Because his poor old ship The Destiny Smashes the Spaniard, but comes tottering home Without the Spanish gold, our gracious king, To please a catamite, Sends the old lion back to the Tower again. The friends of Spain will send him to the block This time. That male Salome, Buckingham, Is dancing for his head. Raleigh is doomed." A shadow stood in the doorway. We looked up; And there, but O, how changed, how worn and grey, Sir Walter Raleigh, like a hunted thing, Stared at us.

"Ben," he said, and glanced behind him. Ben took a step towards him. "O, my God, Ben," whispered the old man in a husky voice, Half timorous and half cunning, so unlike His old heroic self that one might weep To hear it, "Ben, I have given them all the slip! I may be followed. Can you hide me here Till it grows dark?" Ben drew him quickly in, and motioned me To lock the door. "Till it grows dark," he cried, "My God, that you should ask it!" "Do not think, Do not believe that I am quite disgraced," The old man faltered, "for they'll say it, Ben; And when my boy grows up, they'll tell him, too, His father was a coward. I do cling To life for many reasons, not from fear Of death. No, Ben, I can disdain that still; But—there's my boy!" Then all his face went blind. He dropt upon Ben's shoulder and sobbed outright, "They are trying to break my pride, to break my pride!" The window darkened, and I saw a face Blurring the panes. Ben gripped the old man's arm, And led him gently to a room within, Out of the way of guests. "Your pride," he said, "That is the pride of England!" At that name— England!— As at a signal-gun, heard in the night Far out at sea, the weather and world-worn man, That once was Raleigh, lifted up his head. Old age and weakness, weariness and fear Fell from him like a cloak. He stood erect. His eager eyes, full of great sea-washed dawns, Burned for a moment with immortal youth, While tears blurred mine to see him. "You do think That England will remember? You do think it?" He asked with a great light upon his face. Ben bowed his head in silence.

* * * *

"I have wronged My cause by this," said Raleigh. "Well they know it Who left this way for me. I have flung myself Like a blind moth into this deadly light Of freedom. Now, at the eleventh hour, Is it too late? I might return and—" "No! Not now!" Ben interrupted. "I'd have said Laugh at the headsman sixteen years ago, When England was awake. She will awake Again. But now, while our most gracious king, Who hates tobacco, dedicates his prayers To Buckingham— This is no land for men that, under God, Shattered the Fleet Invincible." A knock Startled us, at the outer door. "My friend Stukeley," said Raleigh, "if I know his hand. He has a ketch will carry me to France, Waiting at Tilbury." I let him in,— A lean and stealthy fellow, Sir Lewis Stukeley,— liked him little. He thought much of his health, More of his money bags, and most of all On how to run with all men all at once For his own profit. At the Mermaid Inn Men disagreed in friendship and in truth; But he agreed with all men, and his life Was one soft quag of falsehood. Fugitives Must use false keys, I thought; and there was hope For Raleigh if such a man would walk one mile To serve him now. Yet my throat moved to see him Usurping, with one hand on Raleigh's arm, A kind of ownership. "Lend me ten pounds," Were the first words he breathed in the old man's ear, And Raleigh slipped his purse into his hand.

* * * *

Just over Bread Street hung the bruised white moon When they crept out. Sir Lewis Stukeley's watch-dog, A derelict bo'sun, with a mulberry face, Met them outside. "The coast quite clear, eh, Hart?" Said Stukeley. "Ah, that's good. Lead on, then, quick." And there, framed in the cruddle of moonlit clouds That ended the steep street, dark on its light, And standing on those glistening cobblestones Just where they turned to silver, Raleigh looked back Before he turned the corner. He stood there. A figure like foot-feathered Mercury, Tall, straight and splendid, waving his plumed hat To Ben, and taking his last look, I felt, Upon our Mermaid Tavern. As he paused, His long fantastic shadow swayed and swept Against our feet. Then, like a shadow, he passed.

"It is not right," said Ben, "it is not right. Why did they give the old man so much grace? Witness and evidence are what they lack. Would you trust Stukeley—not to draw him out? Raleigh was always rash. A phrase or two Will turn their murderous axe into a sword Of righteousness—

Why, come to think of it, Blackfriar's Wharf, last night, I landed there, And—no, by God!—Raleigh is not himself, The tide will never serve beyond Gravesend. It is a trap! Come on! We'll follow them! Quick! To the river side!"— We reached the wharf Only to see their wherry, a small black cloud Dwindling far down that running silver road. Ben touched my arm. "Look there," he said, pointing up-stream. The moon Glanced on a cluster of pikes, like silver thorns, Three hundred yards away, a little troop Of weaponed men, embarking hurriedly. Their great black wherry clumsily swung about, Then, with twelve oars for legs, came striding down, An armoured beetle on the glittering trail Of some small victim. Just below our wharf A little dinghy waddled. Ben cut the painter, and without one word Drew her up crackling thro' the lapping water, Motioned me to the tiller, thrust her off, And, pulling with one oar, backing with the other, Swirled her round and down, hard on the track Of Raleigh. Ben was an old man now but tough, O tough as a buccaneer. We distanced them. His oar blades drove the silver boiling back. By Broken Wharf the beetle was a speck. It dwindled by Queen Hythe and the Three Cranes. By Bellyn's Gate we had left it, out of sight. By Custom House and Galley Keye we shot Thro' silver all the way, without one glimpse Of Raleigh. Then a dreadful shadow fell And over us the Tower of London rose Like ebony; and, on the glittering reach Beyond it, I could see the small black cloud That carried the great old seaman slowly down Between the dark shores whence in happier years The throng had cheered his golden galleons out, And watched his proud sails filling for Cathay. There, as through lead, we dragged by Traitor's Gate, There, in the darkness, under the Bloody Tower, There, on the very verge of victory, Ben gasped and dropped his oars. "Take one and row," he said, "my arms are numbed. We'll overtake him yet!" I clambered past him, And took the bow oar.

Once, as the pace flagged, Over his shoulder he turned his great scarred face And snarled, with a trickle of blood on his coarse lips, "Hard!"— And blood and fire ran through my veins again, For half a minute more.

Yet we fell back. Our course was crooked now. And suddenly A grim black speck began to grow behind us, Grow like the threat of death upon old age. Then, thickening, blackening, sharpening, foaming, swept Up the bright line of bubbles in our wake, That armoured wherry, with its long twelve oars All well together now.

"Too late," gasped Ben, His ash-grey face uplifted to the moon, One quivering hand upon the thwart behind him, A moment. Then he bowed over his knees Coughing. "But we'll delay them. We'll be drunk, And hold the catch-polls up!"

We drifted down Before them, broadside on. They sheered aside. Then, feigning a clumsy stroke, Ben drove our craft As they drew level, right in among their blades. There was a shout, an oath. They thrust us off; And then we swung our nose against their bows And pulled them round with every well-meant stroke. A full half minute, ere they won quite free, Cursing us for a pair of drunken fools.

We drifted down behind them.

"There's no doubt," Said Ben, "the headsman waits behind all this For Raleigh. This is a play to cheat the soul Of England, teach the people to applaud The red fifth act." Without another word we drifted down For centuries it seemed, until we came To Greenwich. Then up the long white burnished reach there crept Like little sooty clouds the two black boats To meet us.

"He is in the trap," said Ben, "And does not know it yet. See, where he sits By Stukeley as by a friend."

Long after this, We heard how Raleigh, simply as a child, Seeing the tide would never serve him now, And they must turn, had taken from his neck Some trinkets that he wore. "Keep them," he said To Stukeley, "in remembrance of this night."

He had no doubts of Stukeley when he saw The wherry close beside them. He but wrapped His cloak a little closer round his face. Our boat rocked in their wash when Stukeley dropped The mask. We saw him give the sign, and heard His high-pitched quavering voice—"IN THE KING'S NAME!" Raleigh rose to his feet. "I am under arrest?" He said, like a dazed man.

And Stukeley laughed. Then, as he bore himself to the grim end, All doubt being over, the old sea-king stood Among those glittering points, a king indeed. The black boats rocked. We heard his level voice, "Sir Lewis, these actions never will turn out To your good credit." Across the moonlit Thames It rang contemptuously, cold as cold steel, And passionless as the judgment that ends all.

* * * *

Some three months later, Raleigh's widow came To lodge a se'nnight at the Mermaid Inn. His house in Bread Street was no more her own, But in the hands of Stukeley, who had reaped A pretty harvest ... She kept close to her room, and that same night, Being ill and with some fever, sent her maid To fetch the apothecary from Friday Street, Old "Galen" as the Mermaid christened him. At that same moment, as the maid went out, Stukeley came in. He met her at the door; And, chucking her under the chin, gave her a letter. "Take this up to your mistress. It concerns Her property," he said. "Say that I wait, And would be glad to speak with her." The wench Looked pertly in his face, and tripped upstairs. I scarce could trust my hands. "Sir Lewis," I said, "This is no time to trouble her. She is ill." "Let her decide," he answered, with a sneer. Before I found another word to say The maid tripped down again. I scarce believed My senses, when she beckoned him up the stair. Shaking from head to foot, I blocked the way. "Property!" Could the crux of mine and thine Bring widow and murderer into one small room? "Sir Lewis," I said, "she is ill. It is not right! She never would consent." He sneered again, "You are her doctor? Out of the way, old fool! She has decided!" "Go," I said to the maid, "Fetch the apothecary. Let it rest With him!" She tossed her head. Her quick eyes glanced, Showing the white, like the eyes of a vicious mare. She laughed at Stukeley, loitered, then obeyed.

And so we waited, till the wench returned, With Galen at her heels. His wholesome face, Russet and wrinkled like an apple, peered Shrewdly at Stukeley, twinkled once at me, And passed in silence, leaving a whiff of herbs Behind him on the stair. Five minutes later, To my amazement, that same wholesome face Leaned from the lighted door above, and called "Sir Lewis Stukeley!" Sir Judas hastened up. The apothecary followed him within. The door shut. I was left there in the dark Bewildered; for my heart was hot with thoughts Of those last months. Our Summer's Nightingale, Our Ocean-Shepherd from the Main-deep Sea, The Founder of our Mermaid Fellowship, Was this his guerdon—at the Mermaid Inn? Was this that maid-of-honour whose romance With Raleigh, once, had been a kingdom's talk? Could Bess Throckmorton slight his memory thus? "It is not right," I said, "it is not right. She wrongs him deeply." I leaned against the porch Staring into the night. A ghostly ray Above me, from her window, bridged the street, And rested on the goldsmith's painted sign Opposite. I could hear the muffled voice Of Stukeley overhead, persuasive, bland; And then, her own, cooing, soft as a dove Calling her mate from Eden cedar-boughs, Flowed on and on; and then—all my flesh crept At something worse than either, a long space Of silence that stretched threatening and cold, Cold as a dagger-point pricking the skin Over my heart. Then came a stifled cry, A crashing door, a footstep on the stair Blundering like a drunkard's, heavily down; And with his gasping face one tragic mask Of horror,—may God help me to forget Some day the frozen awful eyes of one Who, fearing neither hell nor heaven, has met That ultimate weapon of the gods, the face And serpent-tresses that turn flesh to stone— Stukeley stumbled, groping his way out, Blindly, past me, into the sheltering night.

* * * *

It was the last night of another year Before I understood what punishment Had overtaken Stukeley. Ben, and Brome— Ben's ancient servant, but turned poet now— Sat by the fire with the old apothecary To see the New Year in. The starry night Had drawn me to the door. Could it be true That our poor earth no longer was the hub Of those white wheeling orbs? I scarce believed The strange new dreams; but I had seen the veils Rent from vast oceans and huge continents, Till what was once our comfortable fire, Our cosy tavern, and our earthly home With heaven beyond the next turn in the road, All the resplendent fabric of our world Shrank to a glow-worm, lighting up one leaf In one small forest, in one little land, Among those wild infinitudes of God. A tattered wastrel wandered down the street, Clad in a seaman's jersey, staring hard At every sign. Beneath our own, the light Fell on his red carbuncled face. I knew him— The bo'sun, Hart. He pointed to our sign And leered at me. "That's her," he said, "no doubt, The sea-witch with the shiny mackerel tail Swishing in wine. That's what Sir Lewis meant. He called it blood. Blood is his craze, you see. This is the Mermaid Tavern, sir, no doubt?" I nodded. "Ah, I thought as much," he said. "Well—happen this is worth a cup of ale." He thrust his hand under his jersey and lugged A greasy letter out. It was inscribed THE APOTHECARY AT THE MERMAID TAVERN.

I led him in. "I knew it, sir," he said, While Galen broke the seal. "Soon as I saw That sweet young naked wench curling her tail In those red waves.—The old man called it blood. Blood is his craze, you see.—But you can tell 'Tis wine, sir, by the foam. Malmsey, no doubt. And that sweet wench to make you smack your lips Like oysters, with her slippery tail and all! Why, sir, no doubt, this was the Mermaid Inn."

"But this," said Galen, lifting his grave face To Ben, "this letter is from all that's left Of Stukeley. The good host, there, thinks I wronged Your Ocean-shepherd's memory. From this letter, I think I helped to avenge him. Do not wrong His widow, even in thought. She loved him dearly. You know she keeps his poor grey severed head Embalmed; and so will keep it till she dies; Weeps over it alone. I have heard such things In wild Italian tales. But this was true. Had I refused to let her speak with Stukeley I feared she would go mad. This letter proves That I—and she perhaps—were instruments, Of some more terrible chirurgery Than either knew."

"Ah, when I saw your sign," The bo'sun interjected, "I'd no doubt That letter was well worth a cup of ale."

"Go—paint your bows with hell-fire somewhere else, Not at this inn," said Ben, tossing the rogue A good French crown. "Pickle yourself in hell." And Hart lurched out into the night again, Muttering "Thank you, sirs. 'Twas worth all that. No doubt at all."

"There are some men," said Galen, Spreading the letter out on his plump knees, "Will heap up wrong on wrong; and, at the last, Wonder because the world will not forget Just when it suits them, cancel all they owe, And, like a mother, hold its arms out wide At their first cry. And, sirs, I do believe That Stukeley, on that night, had some such wish To reconcile himself. What else had passed Between the widow and himself I know not; But she had lured him on until he thought That words and smiles, perhaps a tear or two, Might make the widow take the murderer's hand In friendship, since it might advantage both. Indeed, he came prepared for even more. Villains are always fools. A wicked act, What is it but a false move in the game, A blind man's blunder, a deaf man's reply, The wrong drug taken in the dead of night? I always pity villains. I mistook The avenger for the victim. There she lay Panting, that night, her eyes like summer stars Her pale gold hair upon the pillows tossed Dishevelled, while the fever in her face Brought back the lost wild roses of her youth For half an hour. Against a breast as pure And smooth as any maid's, her soft arms pressed A bundle wrapped in a white embroidered cloth. She crooned over it as a mother croons Over her suckling child. I stood beside her. —That was her wish, and mine, while Stukeley stayed.— And, over against me, on the other side, Stood Stukeley, gnawing his nether lip to find She could not, or she would not, speak one word In answer to his letter.

'Lady Raleigh, You wrong me, and you wrong yourself,' he cried, 'To play like a green girl when great affairs Are laid before you. Let me speak with you Alone.'

'But I am all alone,' she said, 'Far more alone than I have ever been In all my life before. This is my doctor. He must not leave me.'

Then she lured him on, Played on his brain as a musician plays Upon the lute. 'Forgive me, dear Sir Lewis, If I am grown too gay for widowhood. But I have pondered for a long, long time On all these matters. I know the world was right; And Spain was right, Sir Lewis. Yes, and you, You too, were right; and my poor husband wrong. You see I knew his mind so very well. I knew his every gesture, every smile. I lived with him. I think I died with him. It is a strange thing, marriage. For my soul (As if myself were present in this flesh) Beside him, slept in his grey prison-cell On that last dreadful dawn. I heard the throng Murmuring round the scaffold far away; And, with the smell of sawdust in my nostrils, I woke, bewildered as himself, to see That tall black-cassocked figure by his bed. I heard the words that made him understand: The Body of our Lord—take and eat this! I rolled the small sour flakes beneath my tongue With him. I caught, with him, the gleam of tears, Far off, on some strange face of sickly dread. The Blood—and the cold cup was in my hand, Cold as an axe-heft washed with waterish red. I heard his last poor cry to wife and child.— Could any that heard forget it?—My true God, Hold you both in His arms, both in His arms. And then—that last poor wish, a thing to raise A smile in some. I have smiled at it myself A thousand times. "Give me my pipe," he said, "My old Winchester clay, with the long stem, And half an hour alone. The crowd can wait. They have not waited half so long as I." And then, O then, I know what soft blue clouds, What wavering rings, fragrant ascending wreaths Melted his prison walls to a summer haze, Through which I think he saw the little port Of Budleigh Salterton, like a sea-bird's nest Among the Devon cliffs—the tarry quay Whence in his boyhood he had flung a line For bass or whiting-pollock. I remembered (Had he not told me, on some summer night, His arm about my neck, kissing my hair) He used to sit there, gazing out to sea; Fish, and for what? Not all for what he caught And handled; but for rainbow-coloured things, The water-drops that jewelled his thin line, Flotsam and jetsam of the sunset-clouds; While the green water, gurgling through the piles, Heaving and sinking, helped him to believe The fast-bound quay a galleon plunging out Superbly for Cathay. There would he sit Listening, a radiant boy, child of the sea, Listening to some old seaman's glowing tales, His grey eyes rich with pictures—

Then he saw, And I with him, that gathering in the West, To break the Fleet Invincible. O, I heard The trumpets and the neighings and the drums. I watched the beacons on a hundred hills. I drank that wine of battle from his cup, And gloried in it, lying against his heart. I sailed with him and saw the unknown worlds! The slender ivory towers of old Cathay Rose for us over lilac-coloured seas That crumbled a sky-blue foam on long shores Of shining sand, shores of so clear a glass They drew the sunset-clouds into their bosom And hung that City of Vision in mid-air Girdling it round, as with a moat of sky, Hopelessly beautiful. O, yet I heard, Heard from his blazoned poops the trumpeters Blowing proud calls, while overhead the flag Of England floated from white towers of sail— And yet, and yet, I knew that he was wrong, And soon he knew it, too.

I saw the cloud Of doubt assail him, in the Bloody Tower, When, being withheld from sailing the high seas For sixteen years, he spread a prouder sail, Took up his pen, and, walled about with stone, Began to write—his History of the World. And emperors came like Lazarus from the grave To wear his purple. And the night disgorged Its empires, till, O, like the swirl of dust Around their marching legions, that dim cloud Of doubt closed round him. Was there any man So sure of heart and brain as to record The simple truth of things himself had seen? Then who could plumb that night? The work broke off! He knew that he was wrong. I knew it, too! Once more that stately structure of his dreams Melted like mist. His eagles perished like clouds. Death wound a thin horn through the centuries. The grave resumed his forlorn emperors. His empires crumbled back to a little ash Knocked from his pipe.— He dropped his pen in homage to the truth. The truth? O, eloquent, just and mighty Death!

Then, when he forged, out of one golden thought, A key to open his prison; when the King Released him for a tale of faerie gold Under the tropic palms; when those grey walls Melted before his passion; do you think The gold that lured the King was quite the same As that which Raleigh saw? You know the song:

"Say to the King," quoth Raleigh, "I have a tale to tell him; Wealth beyond derision, Veils to lift from the sky, Seas to sail for England, And a little dream to sell him, Gold, the gold of a vision That angels cannot buy."

Ah, no! For all the beauty and the pride, Raleigh was wrong; but not so wrong, I think, As those for whom his kingdoms oversea Meant only glittering dust. The fight he waged Was not with them. They never worsted him.

It was The Destiny that brought him home Without the Spanish gold.—O, he was wrong, But such a wrong, in Gloriana's day, Was more than right, was immortality. He had just half an hour to put all this Into his pipe and smoke it,—

The red fire, The red heroic fire that filled his veins When the proud flag of England floated out Its challenge to the world—all gone to ash? What! Was the great red wine that Drake had quaffed Vinegar? He must fawn, haul down his flag, And count all nations nobler than his own, Tear out the lions from the painted shields That hung his poop, for fear that he offend The pride of Spain? Treason to sack the ships Of Spain? The wounds of slaughtered Englishmen Cried out—there is no law beyond the line! Treason to sweep the seas with Francis Drake? Treason to fight for England? If it were so, The times had changed and quickly. He had been A schoolboy in the morning of the world Playing with wooden swords and winning crowns Of tinsel; but his comrades had outgrown Their morning-game, and gathered round to mock His battles in the sunset. Yet he knew That all his life had passed in that brief day; And he was old, too old to understand The smile upon the face of Buckingham, The smile on Cobham's face, at that great word England! He knew the solid earth was changed To something less than dust among the stars— And, O, be sure he knew that he was wrong, That gleams would come, Gleams of a happier world for younger men, That Commonwealth, far off. This was a time Of sadder things, destruction of the old Before the new was born. At least he knew It was his own way that had brought the world Thus far, England thus far! How could he change, Who had loved England as a man might love His mistress, change from year to fickle year? For the new years would change, even as the old. No—he was wedded to that old first love, Crude flesh and blood, and coarse as meat and drink, The woman—England; no fine angel-isle, Ruled by that male Salome—Buckingham! Better the axe than to live on and wage These new and silent and more deadly wars That play at friendship with our enemies. Such times are evil. Not of their own desire They lead to good, blind agents of that Hand Which now had hewed him down, down to his knees, But in a prouder battle than men knew.

His pipe was out, the guard was at the door. Raleigh was not a god. But, when he climbed The scaffold, I believe he looked a man. And when the axe fell, I believe that God Set on his shoulders that immortal head Which he desired on earth.

O, he was wrong! But when that axe fell, not one shout was raised. That mighty throng around that crimson block Stood silent—like the hushed black cloud that holds The thunder. You might hear the headsman's breath. Stillness like that is dangerous, being charged, Sometimes, with thought, Sir Lewis! England sleeps! What if, one day, the Stewart should be called To know that England wakes? What if a shout Should thunder-strike Whitehall, and the dogs lift Their heads along the fringes of the crowd To catch a certain savour that I know, The smell of blood and sawdust?—

Ah, Sir Lewis, 'Tis hard to find one little seed of right Among so many wrongs. Raleigh was wrong, And yet—it was because he loved his country Next to himself, Sir Lewis, by your leave, His country butchered him. You did not know That I was only third in his affections? The night I told him—we were parting then— I had begged the last disposal of his body, Did he not say, with O, so gentle a smile, "Thou hadst not always the disposal of it In life, dear Bess. 'Tis well it should be thine In death!"'

'The jest was bitter at such an hour, And somewhat coarse in grain,' Stukeley replied. 'Indeed I thought him kinder.'

'Kinder,' she said, Laughing bitterly.

Stukeley looked at her. She whispered something, and his lewd old eyes Fastened upon her own. He knelt by her. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'your woman's wit has found A better way to solve this bitter business.' Her head moved on the pillow with little tossings. He touched her hand. It leapt quickly away. She hugged that strange white bundle to her breast, And writhed back, smiling at him, across the bed.

'Ah, Bess,' he whispered huskily, pressing his lips To that warm hollow where her head had lain, 'There is one way to close the long dispute, Keep the estates unbroken in your hands And stop all slanderous tongues, one happy way. We have some years to live; and why alone?' 'Alone?' she sighed. 'My husband thought of that. He wrote a letter to me long ago, When he was first condemned. He said—he said— Now let me think—what was it that he said?— I had it all by heart. "Beseech you, Bess, Hide not yourself for many days", he said.' 'True wisdom that,' quoth Stukeley, 'for the love That seeks to chain the living to the dead Is but self-love at best!'

'And yet,' she said, 'How his poor heart was torn between two cares, Love of himself and care for me, as thus:

Love God! Begin to repose yourself on Him! Therein you shall find true and lasting riches; But all the rest is nothing. When you have tired Your thoughts on earthly things, when you have travelled Through all the glittering pomps of this proud world You shall sit down by Sorrow in the end. Begin betimes, and teach your little son To serve and fear God also. Then God will be a husband unto you, And unto him a father; nor can Death Bereave you any more. When I am gone, No doubt you shall be sought unto by many For the world thinks that I was very rich. No greater misery can befall you, Bess, Than to become a prey, and, afterwards, To be despised.'

'Human enough,' said Stukeley, 'And yet—self-love, self-love!'

'Ah no,' quoth she, 'You have not heard the end: God knows, I speak it Not to dissuade you—not to dissuade you, mark— From marriage. That will be the best for you, Both in respect of God and of the world. Was that self-love, Sir Lewis? Ah, not all. And thus he ended: For his father's sake That chose and loved you in his happiest times, Remember your poor child! The Everlasting, Infinite, powerful, and inscrutable God, Keep you and yours, have mercy upon me, And teach me to forgive my false accusers— Wrong, even in death, you see. Then—My true wife, Farewell! Bless my poor boy! Pray for me! My true God, Hold you both in His arms, both in His arms! I know that he was wrong. You did not know, Sir Lewis, that he had left me a little child. Come closer. You shall see its orphaned face, The sad, sad relict of a man that loved His country—all that's left to me. Come, look!' She beckoned Stukeley nearer. He bent down Curiously. Her feverish fingers drew

The white wrap from the bundle in her arms, And, with a smile that would make angels weep, She showed him, pressed against her naked breast, Terrible as Medusa, the grey flesh And shrivelled face, embalmed, the thing that dropped Into the headsman's basket, months agone,— The head of Raleigh. Half her body lay Bare, while she held that grey babe to her heart; But Judas hid his face.... 'Living,' she said, 'he was not always mine; But—dead—I shall not wean him'— Then, I too Covered my face—I cannot tell you more. There was a dreadful silence in that room, Silence that, as I know, shattered the brain Of Stukeley.—When I dared to raise my head Beneath that silent thunder of our God, The man had gone— This is his letter, sirs, Written from Lundy Island: "For God's love, Tell them it is a cruel thing to say That I drink blood. I have no secret sin. A thousand pound is not so great a sum; And that is all they paid me, every penny. Salt water, that is all the drink I taste On this rough island. Somebody has taught The sea-gulls how to wail around my hut All night, like lost souls. And there is a face, A dead man's face that laughs in every storm, And sleeps in every pool along the coast. I thought it was my own, once. But I know These actions never, never, on God's earth, Will turn out to their credit, who believe That I drink blood." He crumpled up the letter And tossed it into the fire. "Galen," said Ben, "I think you are right—that one should pity villains."

* * * *

The clock struck twelve. The bells began to peal. We drank a cup of sack to the New Year. "New songs, new voices, all as fresh as may," Said Ben to Brome, "but I shall never live To hear them."

All was not so well, indeed, With Ben, as hitherto. Age had come upon him. He dragged one foot as in paralysis. The critics bayed against the old lion, now, And called him arrogant. "My brain," he said, "Is yet unhurt although, set round with pain, It cannot long hold out." He never stooped, Never once pandered to that brainless hour. His coat was thread-bare. Weeks had passed of late Without his voice resounding in our inn.

"The statues are defiled, the gods dethroned, The Ionian movement reigns, not the free soul. And, as for me, I have lived too long," he said. "Well—I can weave the old threnodies anew." And, filling his cup, he murmured, soft and low, A new song, breaking on an ancient shore:

I

Marlowe is dead, and Greene is in his grave, And sweet Will Shakespeare long ago is gone! Our Ocean-shepherd sleeps beneath the wave; Robin is dead, and Marlowe in his grave. Why should I stay to chant an idle stave, And in my Mermaid Tavern drink alone? For Kit is dead and Greene is in his grave, And sweet Will Shakespeare long ago is gone.

II

Where is the singer of the Faerie Queen? Where are the lyric lips of Astrophel? Long, long ago, their quiet graves were green; Ay, and the grave, too, of their Faerie Queen! And yet their faces, hovering here unseen, Call me to taste their new-found oenomel; To sup with him who sang the Faerie Queen; To drink with him whose name was Astrophel.

III

I drink to that great Inn beyond the grave! —If there be none, the gods have done us wrong.— Ere long I hope to chant a better stave, In some great Mermaid Inn beyond the grave; And quaff the best of earth that heaven can save, Red wine like blood, deep love of friends and song. I drink to that great Inn beyond the grave; And hope to greet my golden lads ere long.

He raised his cup and drank in silence. Brome Drank with him, too. The bells had ceased to peal. Galen shook hands, and bade us all good-night. Then Brome, a little wistfully, I thought, Looked at his old-time master, and prepared To follow. "Good-night—Ben," he said, a pause Before he spoke the name. "Good-night! Good-night! My dear old Brome," said Ben. And, at the door, Brome whispered to me, "He is lonely now. There are not many left of his old friends. We all go out—like this—into the night. But what a fleet of stars!" he said, and shook My hand, and smiled, and pointed to the sky. And, when I looked into the room again, The lights were very dim, and I believed That Ben had fallen asleep. His great grey head Was bowed across the table, on his arms. Then, all at once, I knew that he was weeping; And like a shadow I crept back again, And stole into the night. There as I stood Under the painted sign, I could have vowed That I, too, heard the voices of the dead, The voices of his old companions, Gathering round him in that lonely room, Till all the timbers of the Mermaid Inn Trembled above me with their ghostly song:

I

Say to the King, quoth Raleigh I have a tale to tell him, Wealth beyond derision, Veils to lift from the sky, Seas to sail for England And a little dream to sell him,— Gold, the gold of a vision, That angels cannot buy.

II

Fair thro' the walls of his dungeon, —What were the stones but a shadow?— Streamed the light of the rapture, The lure that he followed of old, The dream of his old companions, The vision of El Dorado, The fleet that they never could capture, The City of Sunset-gold.

III

Yet did they sail the seas And, dazed with exceeding wonder, Straight through the sunset-glory Plunge into the dawn: Leaving their home behind them, By a road of splendour and thunder, They came to their home in amazement Simply by sailing on.



NEW POEMS



A WATCHWORD OF THE FLEET

[For purposes of recognition at night a small squadron of Elizabethan ships, crossing the Atlantic, adopted as a watchword the sentence: Before the world—was God.]

They diced with Death. Their big sea-boots Were greased with blood. They swept the seas For England; and—we reap the fruits Of their heroic deviltries! Our creed is in the cold machine, The inhuman devildoms of brain, The bolt that splits the midnight main, Loosed at a lever's touch; the lean Torpedo; "Twenty Miles of Power"; The steel-clad Dreadnoughts' dark array! Yet ... we that keep the conning tower Are not so strong as they Whose watchword we disdain.

They laughed at odds for England's sake! We count, yet cast our strength away. One Admiral with the soul of Drake Would break the fleets of hell to-day! Give us the splendid heavens of youth, Give us the banners of deathless flame, The ringing watchwords of their fame, The faith, the hope, the simple truth! Then shall the Deep indeed be swayed Through all its boundless breadth and length, Nor this proud England lean dismayed On twenty miles of strength, Or shrink from aught but shame.

Pull out by night, O leave the shore And lighted streets of Plymouth town, Pull out into the Deep once more! There, in the night of their renown, The same great waters roll their gloom Around our midget period; And the huge decks that Raleigh trod Over our petty darkness loom! Along the line the cry is passed From all their heaven-illumined spars, Clear as a bell, from mast to mast, It rings against the stars: Before the world—was God.



NEW WARS FOR OLD

"Peace with its luxury is the corrupter of Nations."

Any militarist Journal.

I

Peace! When have we prayed for peace? Over us burns a star Bright, beautiful, red for strife! Yours are only the drum and the fife And the golden braid and the surface of life! Ours is the white-hot war!

II

Peace? When have we prayed for peace? Ours are the weapons of men! Time changes the face of the world! Therefore your ancient flags are furled, And ours are the unseen legions hurled Up to the heights again!

III

Peace? When have we prayed for peace? Is there no wrong to right? Wrong crying to God on high Here where the weak and the helpless die, And the homeless hordes of the city go by, The ranks are rallied to-night!

IV

Peace? When have we prayed for peace? Are ye so dazed with words? Earth, heaven, shall pass away Ere for your passionless peace we pray! Are ye deaf to the trumpets that call us to-day, Blind to the blazing swords?



THE PRAYER FOR PEACE

"Unless public opinion can rise to the height of discussing the substitution of law for force as a great world-movement, the American arbitration proposals cannot be carried out."

Sir Edward Grey.



I

Dare we—though our hope deferred Left us faithless long ago— Dare we let our hearts be stirred, Lift them to the light and know, Cast away our cynic shields, Break the sword that Mockery wields, Know that Truth indeed prevails, And that Justice holds the scales? Britain, kneel! Kneel, Imperial Commonweal!

II

Dare we know that this great hour, Dawning on thy long renown, Marks the purpose of thy power, Crowns thee with a mightier crown, Know that to this purpose climb All the blood-red wars of Time? If indeed thou hast a goal Beaconing to thy warrior soul, Britain, kneel! Kneel, Imperial Commonweal!

III

Dare we know what every age Writes with an unerring hand, Read the midnight's moving page, Read the stars and understand,— Out of Chaos ye shall draw Linked harmonies of Law, Till around the Eternal Sun All your peoples move in one? Britain, kneel! Kneel, Imperial Commonweal!

IV

Dare we know that wearied eyes Dimmed with dust of every day Can, once more, desire the skies And the glorious upward way? Dare we, if the Truth should still Vex with doubt our alien will, Take it to our Maker's throne, Let Him speak with us alone? Britain, kneel! Kneel, Imperial Commonweal!

V

Dare we cast our pride away? Dare we tread where Lincoln trod? All the Future, by this day, Waits to judge us and our God! Set the struggling peoples free! Crown with Law their Liberty! Proud with an immortal pride, Kneel we at our Sister's side! Britain, kneel! Kneel, Imperial Commonweal!



THE SWORD OF ENGLAND

(Written during a European war crisis)

Not as one muttering in a spell-bound sleep Shall England speak the word; Not idly bid the embattled lightnings leap, Nor lightly draw the sword!

Let statesmen grope by night in a blind dream, The cold clear morning star Should like a trophy in her helmet gleam When England sweeps to war!

Not like a derelict, drunk with surf and spray, And drifting down to doom; But like the Sun-god calling up the day Should England rend that gloom.

Not as in trance, at some hypnotic call, Nor with a doubtful cry; But a clear faith, like a banner above us all, Rolling from sky to sky.

She sheds no blood to that vain god of strife Whom striplings call "renown"; She knows that only they who reverence life Can nobly lay it down;

And these will ride from child and home and love, Through death and hell that day; But O, her faith, her flag, must burn above, Her soul must lead the way!



THE DAWN OF PEACE

Yes—"on our brows we feel the breath Of dawn," though in the night we wait! An arrow is in the heart of Death, A God is at the doors of Fate! The spirit that moved upon the Deep Is moving through the minds of men: The nations feel it in their sleep, A change has touched their dreams again.

Voices, confused, and faint, arise, Troubling their hearts from East and West. A doubtful light is in their skies, A gleam that will not let them rest: The dawn, the dawn is on the wing, The stir of change on every side, Unsignalled as the approach of Spring, Invincible as the hawthorn-tide.

Have ye not heard it, far and nigh, The voice of France across the dark, And all the Atlantic with one cry Beating the shores of Europe?—hark! Then—if ye will—uplift your word Of cynic wisdom! Once again Tell us He came to bring a sword, Tell us He lived and died in vain.