OLD AND NEW YEAR DITTIES.

1.

New Year met me somewhat sad: Old Year leaves me tired, Stripped of favorite things I had, Balked of much desired: Yet farther on my road to-day, God willing, farther on my way.

New Year coming on apace What have you to give me? Bring you scathe, or bring you grace, Face me with an honest face; You shall not deceive me: Be it good or ill, be it what you will, It needs shall help me on my road, My rugged way to heaven, please God.

2.

Watch with me, men, women, and children dear, You whom I love, for whom I hope and fear, Watch with me this last vigil of the year. Some hug their business, some their pleasure-scheme; Some seize the vacant hour to sleep or dream; Heart locked in heart some kneel and watch apart.

Watch with me, blessed spirits, who delight All through the holy night to walk in white, Or take your ease after the long-drawn fight. I know not if they watch with me: I know They count this eve of resurrection slow, And cry, "How long?" with urgent utterance strong.

Watch with me, Jesus, in my loneliness: Though others say me nay, yet say Thou yes; Though others pass me by, stop Thou to bless. Yea, Thou dost stop with me this vigil night; To-night of pain, to-morrow of delight: I, Love, am Thine; Thou, Lord, my God, art mine.

3.

Passing away, saith the World, passing away: Chances, beauty and youth sapped day by day: Thy life never continueth in one stay. Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to gray That hath won neither laurel nor bay? I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May: Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay On my bosom for aye. Then I answered: Yea.

Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away: With its burden of fear and hope, of labor and play; Hearken what the past doth witness and say: Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array, A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay. At midnight, at cock-crow, at morning, one certain day Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay: Watch thou and pray. Then I answered: Yea.

Passing away, saith my God, passing away: Winter passeth after the long delay: New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray, Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May. Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray. Arise, come away, night is past, and lo it is day, My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say. Then I answered: Yea.



AMEN.

It is over. What is over? Nay, how much is over truly!— Harvest days we toiled to sow for; Now the sheaves are gathered newly, Now the wheat is garnered duly.

It is finished. What is finished? Much is finished known or unknown: Lives are finished; time diminished; Was the fallow field left unsown? Will these buds be always unblown?

It suffices. What suffices? All suffices reckoned rightly: Spring shall bloom where now the ice is, Roses make the bramble sightly, And the quickening sun shine brightly, And the latter wind blow lightly, And my garden teem with spices.



MOTHER COUNTRY.

Oh what is that country And where can it be, Not mine own country, But dearer far to me? Yet mine own country, If I one day may see Its spices and cedars, Its gold and ivory.

As I lie dreaming It rises, that land; There rises before me Its green golden strand, With the bowing cedars And the shining sand; It sparkles and flashes Like a shaken brand.

Do angels lean nearer While I lie and long? I see their soft plumage And catch their windy song, Like the rise of a high tide Sweeping full and strong; I mark the outskirts Of their reverend throng.

Oh what is a king here, Or what is a boor? Here all starve together, All dwarfed and poor; Here Death's hand knocketh At door after door, He thins the dancers From the festal floor.

Oh what is a handmaid, Or what is a queen? All must lie down together Where the turf is green, The foulest face hidden, The fairest not seen; Gone as if never They had breathed or been.

Gone from sweet sunshine Underneath the sod, Turned from warm flesh and blood To senseless clod; Gone as if never They had toiled or trod, Gone out of sight of all Except our God.

Shut into silence From the accustomed song Shut into solitude From all earth's throng, Run down though swift of foot, Thrust down though strong; Life made an end of, Seemed it short or long.

Life made an end of, Life but just begun; Life finished yesterday, Its last sand run; Life new-born with the morrow Fresh as the sun: While done is done for ever; Undone, undone.

And if that life is life, This is but a breath, The passage of a dream And the shadow of death; But a vain shadow If one considereth; Vanity of vanities, As the Preacher saith.







THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS, ETC.



THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS.

Till all sweet gums and juices flow, Till the blossom of blossoms blow, The long hours go and come and go, The bride she sleepeth, waketh, sleepeth, Waiting for one whose coming is slow:— Hark! the bride weepeth.

"How long shall I wait, come heat come rime?"— "Till the strong Prince comes, who must come in time," Her women say. "There's a mountain to climb, A river to ford. Sleep, dream and sleep: Sleep," they say: "we've muffled the chime, Better dream than weep."

In his world-end palace the strong Prince sat, Taking his ease on cushion and mat, Close at hand lay his staff and his hat "When wilt thou start? the bride waits, O youth."— "Now the moon's at full; I tarried for that, Now I start in truth.

"But tell me first, true voice of my doom, Of my veiled bride in her maiden bloom; Keeps she watch through glare and through gloom, Watch for me asleep and awake?"— "Spell-bound she watches in one white room, And is patient for thy sake.

"By her head lilies and rosebuds grow; The lilies droop,—will the rosebuds blow? The silver slim lilies hang the head low; Their stream is scanty, their sunshine rare; Let the sun blaze out, and let the stream flow, They will blossom and wax fair.

"Red and white poppies grow at her feet, The blood-red wait for sweet summer heat, Wrapped in bud-coats hairy and neat; But the white buds swell; one day they will burst, Will open their death-cups drowsy and sweet,— Which will open the first?"

Then a hundred sad voices lifted a wail, And a hundred glad voices piped on the gale: "Time is short, life is short," they took up the tale: "Life is sweet, love is sweet, use to-day while you may; Love is sweet, and to-morrow may fail; Love is sweet, use to-day."

While the song swept by, beseeching and meek, Up rose the Prince with a flush on his cheek, Up he rose to stir and to seek, Going forth in the joy of his strength; Strong of limb, if of purpose weak, Starting at length.

Forth he set in the breezy morn, Across green fields of nodding corn, As goodly a Prince as ever was born, Carolling with the carolling lark;— Sure his bride will be won and worn, Ere fall of the dark.

So light his step, so merry his smile, A milkmaid loitered beside a stile, Set down her pail and rested awhile, A wave-haired milkmaid, rosy and white; The Prince, who had journeyed at least a mile, Grew athirst at the sight.

"Will you give me a morning draught?"— "You're kindly welcome," she said, and laughed. He lifted the pail, new milk he quaffed; Then wiping his curly black beard like silk: "Whitest cow that ever was calved Surely gave you this milk."

Was it milk now, or was it cream? Was she a maid, or an evil dream? Her eyes began to glitter and gleam; He would have gone, but he stayed instead; Green they gleamed as he looked in them: "Give me my fee," she said.—

"I will give you a jewel of gold."— "Not so; gold is heavy and cold."— "I will give you a velvet fold Of foreign work your beauty to deck."— "Better I like my kerchief rolled Light and white round my neck."—

"Nay," cried he, "but fix your own fee."— She laughed, "You may give the full moon to me; Or else sit under this apple-tree Here for one idle day by my side; After that I'll let you go free, And the world is wide."

Loath to stay, but to leave her slack, He half turned away, then he quite turned back: For courtesy's sake he could not lack To redeem his own royal pledge; Ahead, too, the windy heaven lowered black With a fire-cloven edge.

So he stretched his length in the apple-tree shade, Lay and laughed and talked to the maid, Who twisted her hair in a cunning braid, And writhed it in shining serpent-coils, And held him a day and night fast laid In her subtle toils.

At the death of night and the birth of day, When the owl left off his sober play, And the bat hung himself out of the way, Woke the song of mavis and merle, And heaven put off its hodden gray For mother-o'-pearl.

Peeped up daisies here and there, Here, there, and everywhere; Rose a hopeful lark in the air, Spreading out towards the sun his breast; While the moon set solemn and fair Away in the west.

"Up, up, up," called the watchman lark, In his clear reveillee: "Hearken, O hark! Press to the high goal, fly to the mark. Up, O sluggard, new morn is born; If still asleep when the night falls dark, Thou must wait a second morn."

"Up, up, up," sad glad voices swelled: "So the tree falls and lies as it's felled. Be thy bands loosed, O sleeper, long held In sweet sleep whose end is not sweet. Be the slackness girt and the softness quelled And the slowness fleet."

Off he set. The grass grew rare, A blight lurked in the darkening air, The very moss grew hueless and spare, The last daisy stood all astunt; Behind his back the soil lay bare, But barer in front.

A land of chasm and rent, a land Of rugged blackness on either hand: If water trickled, its track was tanned With an edge of rust to the chink; If one stamped on stone or on sand It returned a clink.

A lifeless land, a loveless land, Without lair or nest on either hand: Only scorpions jerked in the sand, Black as black iron, or dusty pale; From point to point sheer rock was manned By scorpions in mail.

A land of neither life nor death, Where no man buildeth or fashioneth, Where none draws living or dying breath; No man cometh or goeth there, No man doeth, seeketh, saith, In the stagnant air.

Some old volcanic upset must Have rent the crust and blackened the crust; Wrenched and ribbed it beneath its dust Above earth's molten centre at seethe, Heaved and heaped it by huge upthrust Of fire beneath.

Untrodden before, untrodden since: Tedious land for a social Prince; Halting, he scanned the outs and ins, Endless, labyrinthine, grim, Of the solitude that made him wince, Laying wait for him.

By bulging rock and gaping cleft, Even of half mere daylight reft, Rueful he peered to right and left, Muttering in his altered mood: "The fate is hard that weaves my weft, Though my lot be good."

Dim the changes of day to night, Of night scarce dark to day not bright. Still his road wound towards the right, Still he went, and still he went, Till one night he spied a light, In his discontent.

Out it flashed from a yawn-mouthed cave, Like a red-hot eye from a grave. No man stood there of whom to crave Rest for wayfarer plodding by: Though the tenant were churl or knave The Prince might try.

In he passed and tarried not, Groping his way from spot to spot, Towards where the cavern flare glowed hot:— An old, old mortal, cramped and double, Was peering into a seething-pot, In a world of trouble.

The veriest atomy he looked, With grimy fingers clutching and crooked, Tight skin, a nose all bony and hooked, And a shaking, sharp, suspicious way; Blinking, his eyes had scarcely brooked The light of day.

Stared the Prince, for the sight was new; Stared, but asked without more ado: "May a weary traveller lodge with you, Old father, here in your lair? In your country the inns seem few, And scanty the fare."

The head turned not to hear him speak; The old voice whistled as through a leak (Out it came in a quavering squeak): "Work for wage is a bargain fit: If there's aught of mine that you seek You must work for it.

"Buried alive from light and air This year is the hundredth year, I feed my fire with a sleepless care, Watching my potion wane or wax: Elixir of Life is simmering there, And but one thing lacks.

"If you're fain to lodge here with me, Take that pair of bellows you see,— Too heavy for my old hands they be,— Take the bellows and puff and puff: When the steam curls rosy and free The broth's boiled enough.

"Then take your choice of all I have; I will give you life if you crave. Already I'm mildewed for the grave, So first myself I must drink my fill: But all the rest may be yours, to save Whomever you will."

"Done," quoth the Prince, and the bargain stood. First he piled on resinous wood, Next plied the bellows in hopeful mood; Thinking, "My love and I will live. If I tarry, why life is good, And she may forgive."

The pot began to bubble and boil; The old man cast in essence and oil, He stirred all up with a triple coil Of gold and silver and iron wire, Dredged in a pinch of virgin soil, And fed the fire.

But still the steam curled watery white; Night turned to day and day to night; One thing lacked, by his feeble sight Unseen, unguessed by his feeble mind: Life might miss him, but Death the blight Was sure to find.

So when the hundredth year was full The thread was cut and finished the school. Death snapped the old worn-out tool, Snapped him short while he stood and stirred (Though stiff he stood as a stiff-necked mule) With never a word.

Thus at length the old crab was nipped. The dead hand slipped, the dead finger dipped In the broth as the dead man slipped,— That same instant, a rosy red Flushed the steam, and quivered and clipped Round the dead old head.

The last ingredient was supplied (Unless the dead man mistook or lied). Up started the Prince, he cast aside The bellows plied through the tedious trial, Made sure that his host had died, And filled a phial.

"One night's rest," thought the Prince. "This done, Forth I speed with the rising sun: With the morrow I rise and run, Come what will of wind or of weather. This draught of Life when my Bride is won We'll drink together."

Thus the dead man stayed in his grave, Self-chosen, the dead man in his cave; There he stayed, were he fool or knave, Or honest seeker who had not found; While the Prince outside was prompt to crave Sleep on the ground.

"If she watches, go bid her sleep; Bid her sleep, for the road is steep: He can sleep who holdeth her cheap, Sleep and wake and sleep again. Let him sow, one day he shall reap, Let him sow the grain.

"When there blows a sweet garden rose, Let it bloom and wither if no man knows: But if one knows when the sweet thing blows, Knows, and lets it open and drop, If but a nettle his garden grows He hath earned the crop."

Through his sleep the summons rang, Into his ears it sobbed and it sang. Slow he woke with a drowsy pang, Shook himself without much debate, Turned where he saw green branches hang, Started though late.

For the black land was travelled o'er, He should see the grim land no more. A flowering country stretched before His face when the lovely day came back: He hugged the phial of Life he bore, And resumed his track.

By willow courses he took his path, Spied what a nest the kingfisher hath, Marked the fields green to aftermath, Marked where the red-brown field-mouse ran, Loitered awhile for a deep-stream bath, Yawned for a fellow-man.

Up on the hills not a soul in view, In the vale not many nor few; Leaves, still leaves, and nothing new. It's O for a second maiden, at least, To bear the flagon, and taste it too, And flavor the feast.

Lagging he moved, and apt to swerve; Lazy of limb, but quick of nerve. At length the water-bed took a curve, The deep river swept its bank-side bare; Waters streamed from the hill-reserve,— Waters here, waters there.

High above, and deep below, Bursting, bubbling, swelling the flow, Like hill-torrents after the snow,— Bubbling, gurgling, in whirling strife, Swaying, sweeping, to and fro,— He must swim for his life.

Which way?—which way?—his eyes grew dim With the dizzying whirl,—which way to swim? The thunderous downshoot deafened him; Half he choked in the lashing spray: Life is sweet, and the grave is grim,— Which way?—which way?

A flash of light, a shout from the strand: "This way,—this way; here lies the land!" His phial clutched in one drowning hand; He catches,—misses,—catches a rope; His feet slip on the slipping sand: Is there life?—is there hope?

Just saved, without pulse or breath,— Scarcely saved from the gulp of death; Laid where a willow shadoweth,— Laid where a swelling turf is smooth. (O Bride! but the Bridegroom lingereth For all thy sweet youth.)

Kind hands do and undo, Kind voices whisper and coo: "I will chafe his hands,"—"and I,"—"and you Raise his head, put his hair aside." (If many laugh, one well may rue: Sleep on, thou Bride.)

So the Prince was tended with care: One wrung foul ooze from his clustered hair; Two chafed his hands, and did not spare; But one propped his head that drooped awry Till his eyes oped, and at unaware They met eye to eye.

O, a moon face in a shadowy place, And a light touch and a winsome grace, And a thrilling tender voice which says: "Safe from waters that seek the sea,— Cold waters by rugged ways,— Safe with me."

While overhead bird whistles to bird, And round about plays a gamesome herd: "Safe with us,"—some take up the word,— "Safe with us, dear lord and friend: All the sweeter if long deferred Is rest in the end."

Had he stayed to weigh and to scan, He had been more or less than a man: He did what a young man can, Spoke of toil and an arduous way,— Toil to-morrow, while golden ran The sands of to-day.

Slip past, slip fast, Uncounted hours from first to last, Many hours till the last is past, Many hours dwindling to one,— One hour whose die is cast, One last hour gone.

Come, gone,—gone forever,— Gone as an unreturning river,— Gone as to death the merriest liver,— Gone as the year at the dying fall,— To-morrow, to-day, yesterday, never,— Gone once for all.

Came at length the starting-day, With last words, and last, last words to say, With bodiless cries from far away,— Chiding wailing voices that rang Like a trumpet-call to the tug and fray; And thus they sang:

"Is there life?—the lamp burns low; Is there hope?—the coming is slow: The promise promised so long ago, The long promise, has not been kept. Does she live?—does she die?—she slumbers so Who so oft has wept.

"Does she live?—does she die?—she languisheth As a lily drooping to death, As a drought-worn bird with failing breath, As a lovely vine without a stay, As a tree whereof the owner saith, 'Hew it down to-day.'"

Stung by that word the Prince was fain To start on his tedious road again. He crossed the stream where a ford was plain, He clomb the opposite bank though steep, And swore to himself to strain and attain Ere he tasted sleep.

Huge before him a mountain frowned With foot of rock on the valley ground, And head with snows incessant crowned, And a cloud mantle about its strength, And a path which the wild goat hath not found In its breadth and length.

But he was strong to do and dare: If a host had withstood him there, He had braved a host with little care In his lusty youth and his pride, Tough to grapple though weak to snare. He comes, O Bride.

Up he went where the goat scarce clings, Up where the eagle folds her wings, Past the green line of living things, Where the sun cannot warm the cold,— Up he went as a flame enrings Where there seems no hold.

Up a fissure barren and black, Till the eagles tired upon his track, And the clouds were left behind his back,— Up till the utmost peak was past. Then he gasped for breath and his strength fell slack; He paused at last.

Before his face a valley spread Where fatness laughed, wine, oil, and bread, Where all fruit-trees their sweetness shed, Where all birds made love to their kind, Where jewels twinkled, and gold lay red And not hard to find.

Midway down the mountain side (On its green slope the path was wide) Stood a house for a royal bride, Built all of changing opal stone, The royal palace, till now descried In his dreams alone.

Less bold than in days of yore, Doubting now though never before, Doubting he goes and lags the more: Is the time late? does the day grow dim? Rose, will she open the crimson core Of her heart to him?

Above his head a tangle glows Of wine-red roses, blushes, snows, Closed buds and buds that unclose, Leaves, and moss, and prickles too; His hand shook as he plucked a rose, And the rose dropped dew.

Take heart of grace! the portion of Life May go far to woo him a wife: If she frown, yet a lover's strife Lightly raised can be laid again: A hasty word is never the knife To cut love in twain.

Far away stretched the royal land, Fed by dew, by a spice-wind fanned: Light labor more, and his foot would stand On the threshold, all labor done; Easy pleasure laid at his hand, And the dear Bride won.

His slackening steps pause at the gate,— Does she wake or sleep?—the time is late,— Does she sleep now, or watch and wait? She has watched, she has waited long, Watching athwart the golden grate With a patient song.

Fling the golden portals wide, The Bridegroom comes to his promised Bride; Draw the gold-stiff curtains aside, Let them look on each other's face, She in her meekness, he in his pride,— Day wears apace.

Day is over, the day that wore. What is this that comes through the door, The face covered, the feet before? This that coming takes his breath; This Bride not seen, to be seen no more Save of Bridegroom Death?

Veiled figures carrying her Sweep by yet make no stir; There is a smell of spice and myrrh, A bride-chant burdened with one name; The bride-song rises steadier Than the torches' flame:

"Too late for love, too late for joy, Too late, too late! You loitered on the road too long, You trifled at the gate: The enchanted dove upon her branch Died without a mate; The enchanted princess in her tower Slept, died, behind the grate; Her heart was starving all this while You made it wait.

"Ten years ago, five years ago, One year ago, Even then you had arrived in time, Though somewhat slow; Then you had known her living face Which now you cannot know: The frozen fountain would have leaped, The buds gone on to blow, The warm south wind would have awaked To melt the snow.

"Is she fair now as she lies? Once she was fair; Meet queen for any kingly king, With gold-dust on her hair. Now these are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear; Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there: Or is the hunger fed at length, Cast off the care?

"We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown; Her bed seemed never soft to her, Though tossed of down; She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs showed in her locks That used to be so brown.

"We never heard her speak in haste: Her tones were sweet, And modulated just so much As it was meet: Her heart sat silent through the noise And concourse of the street. There was no hurry in her hands, No hurry in her feet; There was no bliss drew nigh to her, That she might run to greet.

"You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed: But wherefore should you weep to-day That she is dead? Lo, we who love weep not to-day, But crown her royal head. Let be these poppies that we strew, Your roses are too red: Let be these poppies, not for you Cut down and spread."







MAIDEN-SONG.

Long ago and long ago, And long ago still, There dwelt three merry maidens Upon a distant hill. One was tall Meggan, And one was dainty May, But one was fair Margaret, More fair than I can say, Long ago and long ago.

When Meggan plucked the thorny rose, And when May pulled the brier, Half the birds would swoop to see, Half the beasts draw nigher; Half the fishes of the streams Would dart up to admire: But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower, Or poppy hot aflame, All the beasts and all the birds And all the fishes came To her hand more soft than snow.

Strawberry leaves and May-dew In brisk morning air, Strawberry leaves and May-dew Make maidens fair. "I go for strawberry-leaves," Meggan said one day: "Fair Margaret can bide at home, But you come with me, May; Up the hill and down the hill, Along the winding way, You and I are used to go."

So these two fair sisters Went with innocent will Up the hill and down again, And round the homestead hill: While the fairest sat at home, Margaret like a queen, Like a blush-rose, like the moon In her heavenly sheen, Fragrant-breathed as milky cow Or field of blossoming bean, Graceful as an ivy bough Born to cling and lean; Thus she sat to sing and sew.

When she raised her lustrous eyes A beast peeped at the door; When she downward cast her eyes A fish gasped on the floor; When she turned away her eyes A bird perched on the sill, Warbling out its heart of love, Warbling, warbling still, With pathetic pleadings low.

Light-foot May with Meggan Sought the choicest spot, Clothed with thyme-alternate grass: Then, while day waxed hot, Sat at ease to play and rest, A gracious rest and play; The loveliest maidens near or far, When Margaret was away, Who sat at home to sing and sew.

Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks, Wind-play tossed their hair, Creeping things among the grass Stroked them here and there; Meggan piped a merry note, A fitful, wayward lay, While shrill as bird on topmost twig Piped merry May; Honey-smooth the double flow.

Sped a herdsman from the vale, Mounting like a flame, All on fire to hear and see With floating locks he came. Looked neither north nor south, Neither east nor west, But sat him down at Meggan's feet As love-bird on his nest, And wooed her with a silent awe, With trouble not expressed; She sang the tears into his eyes, The heart out of his breast: So he loved her, listening so.

She sang the heart out of his breast, The words out of his tongue; Hand and foot and pulse he paused Till her song was sung. Then he spoke up from his place Simple words and true: "Scanty goods have I to give, Scanty skill to woo; But I have a will to work, And a heart for you: Bid me stay or bid me go."

Then Meggan mused within herself: "Better be first with him, Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits, Who shines my brightness dim, Forever second where she sits, However fair I be: I will be lady of his love, And he shall worship me; I will be lady of his herds And stoop to his degree, At home where kids and fatlings grow."

Sped a shepherd from the height Headlong down to look, (White lambs followed, lured by love Of their shepherd's crook): He turned neither east nor west, Neither north nor south, But knelt right down to May, for love Of her sweet-singing mouth; Forgot his flocks, his panting flocks In parching hillside drouth; Forgot himself for weal or woe.

Trilled her song and swelled her song With maiden coy caprice In a labyrinth of throbs, Pauses, cadences; Clear-noted as a dropping brook, Soft-noted like the bees, Wild-noted as the shivering wind Forlorn through forest trees: Love-noted like the wood-pigeon Who hides herself for love, Yet cannot keep her secret safe, But cooes and cooes thereof: Thus the notes rang loud or low.

He hung breathless on her breath; Speechless, who listened well; Could not speak or think or wish Till silence broke the spell. Then he spoke, and spread his hands Pointing here and there: "See my sheep and see the lambs, Twin lambs which they bare. All myself I offer you, All my flocks and care, Your sweet song hath moved me so."

In her fluttered heart young May Mused a dubious while: "If he loves me as he says"— Her lips curved with a smile: "Where Margaret shines like the sun, I shine but like a moon; If sister Meggan makes her choice I can make mine as soon; At cockcrow we were sister-maids, We may be brides at noon." Said Meggan, "Yes"; May said not "No."

Fair Margaret stayed alone at home, Awhile she sang her song, Awhile sat silent, then she thought: "My sisters loiter long." That sultry noon had waned away, Shadows had waxen great: "Surely," she thought within herself, "My sisters loiter late." She rose, and peered out at the door, With patient heart to wait, And heard a distant nightingale Complaining of its mate; Then down the garden slope she walked, Down to the garden gate, Leaned on the rail and waited so.

The slope was lightened by her eyes Like summer lightning fair, Like rising of the haloed moon Lightened her glimmering hair, While her face lightened like the sun Whose dawn is rosy white. Thus crowned with maiden majesty She peered into the night, Looked up the hill and down the hill, To left hand and to right, Flashing like fire-flies to and fro.

Waiting thus in weariness She marked the nightingale Telling, if any one would heed, Its old complaining tale. Then lifted she her voice and sang, Answering the bird: Then lifted she her voice and sang, Such notes were never heard From any bird when Spring's in blow.

The king of all that country Coursing far, coursing near, Curbed his amber-bitted steed, Coursed amain to hear; All his princes in his train, Squire, and knight, and peer, With his crown upon his head, His sceptre in his hand, Down he fell at Margaret's knees Lord king of all that land, To her highness bending low.

Every beast and bird and fish Came mustering to the sound, Every man and every maid From miles of country round: Meggan on her herdsman's arm, With her shepherd, May, Flocks and herds trooped at their heels Along the hillside way; No foot too feeble for the ascent, Not any head too gray; Some were swift and none were slow.

So Margaret sang her sisters home In their marriage mirth; Sang free birds out of the sky, Beasts along the earth, Sang up fishes of the deep,— All breathing things that move Sang from far and sang from near To her lovely love; Sang together friend and foe;

Sang a golden-bearded king Straightway to her feet, Sang him silent where he knelt In eager anguish sweet. But when the clear voice died away, When longest echoes died, He stood up like a royal man And claimed her for his bride. So three maids were wooed and won In a brief May-tide, Long ago and long ago.



JESSIE CAMERON.

"Jessie, Jessie Cameron, Hear me but this once," quoth he. "Good luck go with you, neighbor's son, But I'm no mate for you," quoth she. Day was verging toward the night There beside the moaning sea, Dimness overtook the light There where the breakers be. "O Jessie, Jessie Cameron, I have loved you long and true."— "Good luck go with you, neighbor's son, But I'm no mate for you."

She was a careless, fearless girl, And made her answer plain; Outspoken she to earl or churl, Kind-hearted in the main, But somewhat heedless with her tongue, And apt at causing pain; A mirthful maiden she and young, Most fair for bliss or bane. "O, long ago I told you so, I tell you so to-day: Go you your way, and let me go Just my own free way."

The sea swept in with moan and foam Quickening the stretch of sand; They stood almost in sight of home; He strove to take her hand. "O, can't you take your answer then, And won't you understand? For me you're not the man of men, I've other plans are planned. You're good for Madge, or good for Cis, Or good for Kate, may be: But what's to me the good of this While you're not good for me?"

They stood together on the beach, They two alone, And louder waxed his urgent speech, His patience almost gone: "O, say but one kind word to me, Jessie, Jessie Cameron."— "I'd be too proud to beg," quoth she, And pride was in her tone. And pride was in her lifted head, And in her angry eye, And in her foot, which might have fled, But would not fly.

Some say that he had gypsy blood, That in his heart was guile: Yet he had gone through fire and flood Only to win her smile. Some say his grandam was a witch, A black witch from beyond the Nile, Who kept an image in a niche And talked with it the while. And by her hut far down the lane Some say they would not pass at night, Lest they should hear an unked strain Or see an unked sight.

Alas, for Jessie Cameron!— The sea crept moaning, moaning nigher: She should have hastened to be gone,— The sea swept higher, breaking by her: She should have hastened to her home While yet the west was flushed with fire, But now her feet are in the foam, The sea-foam, sweeping higher. O mother, linger at your door, And light your lamp to make it plain; But Jessie she comes home no more, No more again.

They stood together on the strand, They only, each by each; Home, her home, was close at hand, Utterly out of reach. Her mother in the chimney nook Heard a startled sea-gull screech, But never turned her head to look Towards the darkening beach: Neighbors here and neighbors there Heard one scream, as if a bird Shrilly screaming cleft the air:— That was all they heard.

Jessie she comes home no more, Comes home never; Her lover's step sounds at his door No more forever. And boats may search upon the sea And search along the river, But none know where the bodies be: Sea-winds that shiver, Sea-birds that breast the blast, Sea-waves swelling, Keep the secret first and last Of their dwelling.

Whether the tide so hemmed them round With its pitiless flow, That when they would have gone they found No way to go; Whether she scorned him to the last With words flung to and fro, Or clung to him when hope was past, None will ever know: Whether he helped or hindered her, Threw up his life or lost it well, The troubled sea, for all its stir, Finds no voice to tell.

Only watchers by the dying Have thought they heard one pray, Wordless, urgent; and replying, One seem to say him nay: And watchers by the dead have heard A windy swell from miles away, With sobs and screams, but not a word Distinct for them to say: And watchers out at sea have caught Glimpse of a pale gleam here or there, Come and gone as quick as thought, Which might be hand or hair.



SPRING QUIET.

Gone were but the Winter, Come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert Where the birds sing;

Where in the white-thorn Singeth a thrush, And a robin sings In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents Are the budding boughs, Arching high over A cool green house:

Full of sweet scents, And whispering air Which sayeth softly: "We spread no snare;

"Here dwell in safety, Here dwell alone, With a clear stream And a mossy stone.

"Here the sun shineth Most shadily; Here is heard an echo Of the far sea, Though far off it be."



THE POOR GHOST.

"O whence do you come, my dear friend, to me, With your golden hair all fallen below your knee, And your face as white as snowdrops on the lea, And your voice as hollow as the hollow sea?"

"From the other world I come back to you, My locks are uncurled with dripping, drenching dew. You know the old, whilst I know the new: But to-morrow you shall know this too."

"O, not to-morrow into the dark, I pray; O, not to-morrow, too soon to go away: Here I feel warm and well-content and gay: Give me another year, another day."

"Am I so changed in a day and a night That mine own only love shrinks from me with fright, Is fain to turn away to left or right, And cover up his eyes from the sight?"

"Indeed I loved you, my chosen friend, I loved you for life, but life has an end; Through sickness I was ready to tend; But death mars all, which we cannot mend.

"Indeed I loved you; I love you yet If you will stay where your bed is set, Where I have planted a violet Which the wind waves, which the dew makes wet."

"Life is gone, then love too is gone, It was a reed that I leant upon: Never doubt I will leave you alone And not wake you rattling bone with bone.

"I go home alone to my bed, Dug deep at the foot and deep at the head, Roofed in with a load of lead, Warm enough for the forgotten dead.

"But why did your tears soak through the clay, And why did your sobs wake me where I lay? I was away, far enough away: Let me sleep now till the Judgment Day."



A PORTRAIT.

I.

She gave up beauty in her tender youth, Gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways; She covered up her eyes lest they should gaze On vanity, and chose the bitter truth. Harsh towards herself, towards others full of ruth, Servant of servants, little known to praise, Long prayers and fasts trenched on her nights and days: She schooled herself to sights and sounds uncouth, That with the poor and stricken she might make A home, until the least of all sufficed Her wants; her own self learned she to forsake, Counting all earthly gain but hurt and loss. So with calm will she chose and bore the cross, And hated all for love of Jesus Christ.

II.

They knelt in silent anguish by her bed, And could not weep; but calmly there she lay. All pain had left her; and the sun's last ray Shone through upon her, warming into red The shady curtains. In her heart she said: "Heaven opens; I leave these and go away: The Bridegroom calls,—shall the Bride seek to stay?" Then low upon her breast she bowed her head. O lily-flower, O gem of priceless worth, O dove with patient voice and patient eyes, O fruitful vine amid a land of dearth, O maid replete with loving purities, Thou bowedst down thy head with friends on earth To raise it with the saints in Paradise.



DREAM-LOVE.

Young Love lies sleeping In May-time of the year, Among the lilies, Lapped in the tender light: White lambs come grazing, White doves come building there; And round about him The May-bushes are white.

Soft moss the pillow For O, a softer cheek; Broad leaves cast shadow Upon the heavy eyes: There winds and waters Grow lulled and scarcely speak; There twilight lingers The longest in the skies.

Young Love lies dreaming; But who shall tell the dream? A perfect sunlight On rustling forest tips; Or perfect moonlight Upon a rippling stream; Or perfect silence, Or song of cherished lips.

Burn odors round him To fill the drowsy air; Weave silent dances Around him to and fro; For O, in waking, The sights are not so fair, And song and silence Are not like these below.

Young Love lies dreaming Till summer days are gone, Dreaming and drowsing Away to perfect sleep: He sees the beauty Sun hath not looked upon, And tastes the fountain Unutterably deep.

Him perfect music Doth hush unto his rest, And through the pauses The perfect silence calms: O, poor the voices Of earth from east to west, And poor earth's stillness Between her stately palms.

Young Love lies drowsing Away to poppied death; Cool shadows deepen Across the sleeping face: So fails the summer With warm, delicious breath; And what hath autumn To give us in its place?

Draw close the curtains Of branched evergreen; Change cannot touch them With fading fingers sere: Here the first violets Perhaps will bud unseen, And a dove, maybe, Return to nestle here.



TWICE.

I took my heart in my hand (O my love, O my love), I said: Let me fall or stand, Let me live or die, But this once hear me speak (O my love, O my love); Yet a woman's words are weak: You should speak, not I.

You took my heart in your hand With a friendly smile, With a critical eye you scanned, Then set it down, And said: It is still unripe, Better wait awhile; Wait while the skylarks pipe, Till the corn grows brown.

As you set it down it broke,— Broke, but I did not wince; I smiled at the speech you spoke, At your judgment that I heard: But I have not often smiled Since then, nor questioned since, Nor cared for corn-flowers wild, Nor sung with the singing bird.

I take my heart in my hand, O my God, O my God, My broken heart in my hand: Thou hast seen, judge Thou. My hope was written on sand, O my God, O my God; Now let Thy judgment stand,— Yea, judge me now.

This contemned of a man, This marred one heedless day, This heart take Thou to scan Both within and without: Refine with fire its gold, Purge Thou its dross away,— Yea, hold it in Thy hold, Whence none can pluck it out.

I take my heart in my hand,— I shall not die, but live,— Before Thy face I stand; I, for Thou callest such: All that I have I bring, All that I am I give, Smile Thou and I shall sing, But shall not question much.



SONGS IN A CORNFIELD.

A song in a cornfield Where corn begins to fall, Where reapers are reaping, Reaping one, reaping all. Sing pretty Lettice, Sing Rachel, sing May; Only Marian cannot sing While her sweetheart's away.

Where is he gone to And why does he stay? He came across the green sea But for a day, Across the deep green sea To help with the hay. His hair was curly yellow And his eyes were gray, He laughed a merry laugh And said a sweet say. Where is he gone to That he comes not home? To-day or to-morrow He surely will come. Let him haste to joy Lest he lag for sorrow, For one weeps to-day Who'll not weep to-morrow:

To-day she must weep For gnawing sorrow, To-night she may sleep And not wake to-morrow.

May sang with Rachel In the waxing warm weather, Lettice sang with them, They sang all together:—

"Take the wheat in your arm Whilst day is broad above, Take the wheat to your bosom, But not a false false love. Out in the fields Summer heat gloweth, Out in the fields Summer wind bloweth, Out in the fields Summer friend showeth, Out in the fields Summer wheat groweth: But in the winter When summer heat is dead And summer wind has veered And summer friend has fled, Only summer wheat remaineth, White cakes and bread. Take the wheat, clasp the wheat That's food for maid and dove; Take the wheat to your bosom, But not a false false love."

A silence of full noontide heat Grew on them at their toil: The farmer's dog woke up from sleep, The green snake hid her coil Where grass stood thickest; bird and beast Sought shadows as they could, The reaping men and women paused And sat down where they stood; They ate and drank and were refreshed, For rest from toil is good.

While the reapers took their ease, Their sickles lying by, Rachel sang a second strain, And singing seemed to sigh:—

"There goes the swallow,— Could we but follow! Hasty swallow stay, Point us out the way; Look back swallow, turn back swallow, stop swallow.

"There went the swallow,— Too late to follow: Lost our note of way, Lost our chance to-day; Good by swallow, sunny swallow, wise swallow.

"After the swallow All sweet things follow: All things go their way, Only we must stay, Must not follow: good by swallow, good swallow."

Then listless Marian raised her head Among the nodding sheaves; Her voice was sweeter than that voice; She sang like one who grieves: Her voice was sweeter than its wont Among the nodding sheaves; All wondered while they heard her sing Like one who hopes and grieves:—

"Deeper than the hail can smite, Deeper than the frost can bite, Deep asleep through day and night, Our delight.

"Now thy sleep no pang can break, No to-morrow bid thee wake, Not our sobs who sit and ache For thy sake.

"Is it dark or light below? O, but is it cold like snow? Dost thou feel the green things grow Fast or slow?

"Is it warm or cold beneath, O, but is it cold like death? Cold like death, without a breath, Cold like death?"

If he comes to-day He will find her weeping; If he comes to-morrow He will find her sleeping; If he comes the next day He'll not find her at all, He may tear his curling hair, Beat his breast and call.



A YEAR'S WINDFALLS.

On the wind of January Down flits the snow, Travelling from the frozen North As cold as it can blow. Poor robin redbreast, Look where he comes; Let him in to feel your fire, And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February Snow-flakes float still, Half inclined to turn to rain, Nipping, dripping, chill. Then the thaws swell the streams, And swollen rivers swell the sea:— If the winter ever ends How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March The catkins drop down, Curly, caterpillar-like, Curious green and brown. With concourse of nest-building birds And leaf-buds by the way, We begin to think of flowers And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall, On the hedged-in orchard-green, From the southern wall. Apple-trees and pear-trees Shed petals white or pink, Plum-trees and peach-trees; While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze Beside pure scent of flowers, While all things wax and nothing wanes In lengthening daylight hours. Across the hyacinth beds The wind lags warm and sweet, Across the hawthorn tops, Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June Thrives the red rose crop, Every day fresh blossoms blow While the first leaves drop; White rose and yellow rose And moss-rose choice to find, And the cottage cabbage-rose Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July Drives the pelting hail, From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot Blue heaven grown lurid-pale. Weedy waves are tossed ashore, Sea-things strange to sight Gasp upon the barren shore And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind, Cornfields bow the head, Sheltered in round valley depths, On low hills outspread. Early leaves drop loitering down Weightless on the breeze, First-fruits of the year's decay From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September The heavy-headed fruits Shake upon their bending boughs And drop from the shoots; Some glow golden in the sun, Some show green and streaked Some set forth a purple bloom, Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October At the equinox, Stirred up in his hollow bed Broad ocean rocks; Plunge the ships on his bosom, Leaps and plunges the foam,— It's O for mothers' sons at sea, That they were safe at home!

In slack wind of November The fog forms and shifts; All the world comes out again When the fog lifts. Loosened from their sapless twigs Leaves drop with every gust; Drifting, rustling, out of sight In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December, The year's sands nearly run, Speeds on the shortest day, Curtails the sun; With its bleak raw wind Lays the last leaves low, Brings back the nightly frosts, Brings back the snow.



THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.

How comes it, Flora, that, whenever we Play cards together, you invariably, However the pack parts, Still hold the Queen of Hearts?

I've scanned you with a scrutinizing gaze, Resolved to fathom these your secret ways: But, sift them as I will, Your ways are secret still.

I cut and shuffle; shuffle, cut, again; But all my cutting, shuffling, proves in vain: Vain hope, vain forethought, too; That Queen still falls to you.

I dropped her once, prepense; but, ere the deal Was dealt, your instinct seemed her loss to feel: "There should be one card more," You said, and searched the floor.

I cheated once: I made a private notch In Heart-Queen's back, and kept a lynx-eyed watch; Yet such another back Deceived me in the pack:

The Queen of Clubs assumed by arts unknown An imitative dint that seemed my own; This notch, not of my doing, Misled me to my ruin.

It baffles me to puzzle out the clew, Which must be skill, or craft, or luck in you: Unless, indeed, it be Natural affinity.



ONE DAY.

I will tell you when they met: In the limpid days of Spring; Elder boughs were budding yet, Oaken boughs looked wintry still, But primrose and veined violet In the mossful turf were set, While meeting birds made haste to sing And build with right good will.

I will tell you when they parted: When plenteous Autumn sheaves were brown, Then they parted heavy-hearted; The full rejoicing sun looked down As grand as in the days before; Only they had lost a crown; Only to them those days of yore Could come back nevermore.

When shall they meet? I cannot tell, Indeed, when they shall meet again, Except some day in Paradise: For this they wait, one waits in pain. Beyond the sea of death love lies Forever, yesterday, to-day; Angels shall ask them, "Is it well?" And they shall answer, "Yea."



A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW.

"Croak, croak, croak," Thus the Raven spoke, Perched on his crooked tree As hoarse as hoarse could be. Shun him and fear him, Lest the Bridegroom hear him; Scout him and rout him With his ominous eye about him.

Yet, "Croak, croak, croak," Still tolled from the oak; From that fatal black bird, Whether heard or unheard: "O ship upon the high seas, Freighted with lives and spices, Sink, O ship," croaked the Raven: "Let the Bride mount to heaven."

In a far foreign land Upon the wave-edged sand, Some friends gaze wistfully Across the glittering sea. "If we could clasp our sister," Three say, "now we have missed her!" "If we could kiss our daughter!" Two sigh across the water.

O, the ship sails fast, With silken flags at the mast, And the home-wind blows soft; But a Raven sits aloft, Chuckling and choking, Croaking, croaking, croaking:— Let the beacon-fire blaze higher; Bridegroom, watch; the Bride draws nigher.

On a sloped sandy beach, Which the spring-tide billows reach, Stand a watchful throng Who have hoped and waited long: "Fie on this ship, that tarries With the priceless freight it carries. The time seems long and longer: O languid wind, wax stronger";—

Whilst the Raven perched at ease Still croaks and does not cease, One monotonous note Tolled from his iron throat: "No father, no mother, But I have a sable brother: He sees where ocean flows to, And he knows what he knows, too."

A day and a night They kept watch worn and white; A night and a day For the swift ship on its way: For the Bride and her maidens,— Clear chimes the bridal cadence,— For the tall ship that never Hove in sight forever.

On either shore, some Stand in grief loud or dumb As the dreadful dread Grows certain though unsaid. For laughter there is weeping, And waking instead of sleeping, And a desperate sorrow Morrow after morrow.

O, who knows the truth, How she perished in her youth, And like a queen went down Pale in her royal crown? How she went up to glory From the sea-foam chill and hoary, From the sea-depth black and riven To the calm that is in Heaven?

They went down, all the crew, The silks and spices too, The great ones and the small, One and all, one and all. Was it through stress of weather, Quicksands, rocks, or all together? Only the Raven knows this, And he will not disclose this.—

After a day and a year The bridal bells chime clear; After a year and a day The Bridegroom is brave and gay: Love is sound, faith is rotten; The old Bride is forgotten:— Two ominous Ravens only Remember, black and lonely.



THE GERMAN-FRENCH CAMPAIGN.

1870-1871.

These two pieces, written during the suspense of a great nation's agony, aim at expressing human sympathy, not political bias.

I.

"THY BROTHER'S BLOOD CRIETH."

All her corn-fields rippled in the sunshine, All her lovely vines, sweets-laden, bowed; Yet some weeks to harvest and to vintage: When, as one man's hand, a cloud Rose and spread, and, blackening, burst asunder In rain and fire and thunder.

Is there nought to reap in the day of harvest? Hath the vine in her day no fruit to yield? Yea, men tread the press, but not for sweetness, And they reap a red crop from the field. Build barns, ye reapers, garner all aright, Though your souls be called to-night.

A cry of tears goes up from blackened homesteads, A cry of blood goes up from reeking earth: Tears and blood have a cry that pierces Heaven Through all its Hallelujah swells of mirth; God hears their cry, and though He tarry, yet He doth not forget.

Mournful Mother, prone in dust weeping, Who shall comfort thee for those who are not? As thou didst, men do to thee; and heap the measure, And heat the furnace sevenfold hot: As thou once, now these to thee—who pitieth thee From sea to sea?

O thou King, terrible in strength, and building Thy strong future on thy past! Though he drink the last, the King of Sheshach, Yet he shall drink at the last. Art thou greater than great Babylon, Which lies overthrown?

Take heed, ye unwise among the people; O ye fools, when will ye understand?— He that planted the ear shall He not hear, Nor He smite who formed the hand? "Vengeance is Mine, is Mine," thus saith the Lord:— O Man, put up thy sword.



II.

"TO-DAY FOR ME."

She sitteth still who used to dance, She weepeth sore and more and more— Let us sit with thee weeping sore, O fair France!

She trembleth as the days advance Who used to be so light of heart:— We in thy trembling bear a part, Sister France!

Her eyes shine tearful as they glance: "Who shall give back my slaughtered sons? "Bind up," she saith, "my wounded ones."— Alas, France!

She struggles in a deathly trance, As in a dream her pulses stir, She hears the nations calling her, "France, France, France!"

Thou people of the lifted lance, Forbear her tears, forbear her blood: Roll back, roll back, thy whelming flood, Back from France.

Eye not her loveliness askance, Forge not for her a galling chain; Leave her at peace to bloom again, Vine-clad France.

A time there is for change and chance, A time for passing of the cup: And One abides can yet bind up Broken France.

A time there is for change and chance: Who next shall drink the trembling cup, Wring out its dregs and suck them up After France?



ON THE WING.

SONNET.

Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you) We stood together in an open field; Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled, Sporting at ease and courting full in view. When loftier still a broadening darkness flew, Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed; Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield; So farewell life and love and pleasures new. Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground, Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops, I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep: But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.



CONSIDER.

Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:— We are as they; Like them we fade away, As doth a leaf.

Consider The sparrows of the air of small account: Our God doth view Whether they fall or mount,— He guards us too.

Consider The lilies that do neither spin nor toil, Yet are most fair:— What profits all this care And all this coil?

Consider The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks; God gives them food:— Much more our Father seeks To do us good.



BEAUTY IS VAIN.

While roses are so red, While lilies are so white, Shall a woman exalt her face Because it gives delight? She's not so sweet as a rose, A lily's straighter than she, And if she were as red or white She'd be but one of three.

Whether she flush in love's summer Or in its winter grow pale, Whether she flaunt her beauty Or hide it away in a veil, Be she red or white, And stand she erect or bowed, Time will win the race he runs with her And hide her away in a shroud.



MAGGIE A LADY.

You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear, For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see; And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year, 'T will be little lord or lady at my knee.

O, but what ails you, my sailor cousin Phil, That you shake and turn white like a cockcrow ghost? You're as white as I turned once down by the mill, When one told me you and ship and crew were lost:

Philip my playfellow, when we were boy and girl (It was the Miller's Nancy told it to me), Philip with the merry life in lip and curl, Philip my playfellow drowned in the sea!

I thought I should have fainted, but I did not faint; I stood stunned at the moment, scarcely sad, Till I raised my wail of desolate complaint For you, my cousin, brother, all I had.

They said I looked so pale,—some say so fair,— My lord stopped in passing to soothe me back to life: I know I missed a ringlet from my hair Next morning; and now I am his wife.

Look at my gown, Philip, and look at my ring, I'm all crimson and gold from top to toe: All day long I sit in the sun and sing, Where in the sun red roses blush and blow.

And I'm the rose of roses says my lord; And to him I'm more than the sun in the sky, While I hold him fast with the golden cord Of a curl, with the eyelash of an eye.

His mother said "fie," and his sisters cried "shame," His high-born ladies cried "shame" from their place: They said "fie" when they only heard my name, But fell silent when they saw my face.

Am I so fair, Philip? Philip, did you think I was so fair when we played boy and girl, Where blue forget-me-nots bloomed on the brink Of our stream which the mill-wheel sent awhirl?

If I was fair then sure I'm fairer now, Sitting where a score of servants stand, With a coronet on high days for my brow And almost a sceptre for my hand.

You're but a sailor, Philip, weatherbeaten brown, A stranger on land and at home on the sea, Coasting as best you may from town to town: Coasting along do you often think of me?

I'm a great lady in a sheltered bower, With hands grown white through having naught to do: Yet sometimes I think of you hour after hour Till I nigh wish myself a child with you.



WHAT WOULD I GIVE?

What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through, Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do; Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.

What would I give for words, if only words would come; But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb: O, merry friends, go your way, I have never a word to say.

What would I give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears, To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years, To wash the stain ingrain and to make me clean again.



THE BOURNE.

Underneath the growing grass, Underneath the living flowers, Deeper than the sound of showers: There we shall not count the hours By the shadows as they pass.

Youth and health will be but vain, Beauty reckoned of no worth: There a very little girth Can hold round what once the earth Seemed too narrow to contain.



SUMMER.

Winter is cold-hearted, Spring is yea and nay, Autumn is a weathercock Blown every way: Summer days for me When every leaf is on its tree;

When Robin's not a beggar, And Jenny Wren's a bride, And larks hang singing, singing, singing, Over the wheat-fields wide, And anchored lilies ride, And the pendulum spider Swings from side to side,

And blue-black beetles transact business, And gnats fly in a host, And furry caterpillars hasten That no time be lost, And moths grow fat and thrive, And ladybirds arrive.

Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, Why, one day in the country Is worth a month in town; Is worth a day and a year Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion That days drone elsewhere.



AUTUMN.

I dwell alone,—I dwell alone, alone, Whilst full my river flows down to the sea, Gilded with flashing boats That bring no friend to me: O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats, O love-pangs, let me be.

Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone And spices bear to sea: Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes, Love-promising, entreating,— Ah! sweet, but fleeting,— Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails. Hush! the wind flags and fails,— Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand,— Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone; Their songs wake singing echoes in my land,— They cannot hear me moan.

One latest, solitary swallow flies Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tost, Poor bird, shall it be lost? Dropped down into this uncongenial sea, With no kind eyes To watch it while it dies, Unguessed, uncared for, free: Set free at last, The short pang past, In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.

Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks, Some rent by thunder-strokes, Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze: Fair fall my fertile trees, That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.

A spider's web blocks all mine avenue; He catches down and foolish painted flies, That spider wary and wise. Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew Betwixt boughs green with sap, So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap: I will not mar the web, Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.

It shakes,—my trees shake; for a wind is roused In cavern where it housed: Each white and quivering sail, Of boats among the water leaves Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale: Each maiden sings again,— Each languid maiden, whom the calm Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm, Miles down my river to the sea They float and wane, Long miles away from me. Perhaps they say: "She grieves, Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower." Perhaps they say: "One hour More, and we dance among the golden sheaves." Perhaps they say: "One hour More, and we stand, Face to face, hand in hand; Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!"

My trees are not in flower, I have no bower, And gusty creaks my tower, And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.



THE GHOST'S PETITION.

"There's a footstep coming: look out and see."— "The leaves are falling, the wind is calling; No one cometh across the lea."—

"There's a footstep coming: O sister, look."— "The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes; No one cometh across the brook."—

"But he promised that he would come: To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow, He must keep his word, and must come home.

"For he promised that he would come: His word was given; from earth or heaven, He must keep his word, and must come home.

"Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane; You can slumber, who need not number Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.

"I shall sit here awhile, and watch; Listening, hoping, for one hand groping In deep shadow to find the latch."

After the dark, and before the light, One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping, Who had watched and wept the weary night.

After the night, and before the day, One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping,— Watching, weeping for one away.

There came a footstep climbing the stair; Some one standing out on the landing Shook the door like a puff of air,—

Shook the door, and in he passed. Did he enter? In the room centre Stood her husband: the door shut fast.

"O Robin, but you are cold,— Chilled with the night-dew: so lily-white you Look like a stray lamb from our fold.

"O Robin, but you are late: Come and sit near me,—sit here and cheer me."— (Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)

"Lay not down your head on my breast: I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you In the shelter that you love best.

"Feel not after my clasping hand: I am but a shadow, come from the meadow Where many lie, but no tree can stand.

"We are trees which have shed their leaves: Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there; Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.

"I could rest if you would not moan Hour after hour; I have no power To shut my ears where I lie alone.

"I could rest if you would not cry; But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping,— Watching, weeping so bitterly."—

"Woe's me! woe's me! for this I have heard. O, night of sorrow!—O, black to-morrow! Is it thus that you keep your word?

"O you who used so to shelter me Warm from the least wind,—why, now the east wind Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.

"O my husband of flesh and blood, For whom my mother I left, and brother, And all I had, accounting it good,

"What do you do there, underground, In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow. What do you do there?—what have you found?"—

"What I do there I must not tell; But I have plenty. Kind wife, content ye: It is well with us,—it is well.

"Tender hand hath made our nest; Our fear is ended, our hope is blended With present pleasure, and we have rest."—

"O, but Robin, I'm fain to come, If your present days are so pleasant; For my days are so wearisome.

"Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake: Why should I tease you, who cannot please you Any more with the pains I take?"



MEMORY.

I.

I nursed it in my bosom while it lived, I hid it in my heart when it was dead; In joy I sat alone, even so I grieved Alone and nothing said.

I shut the door to face the naked truth, I stood alone,—I faced the truth alone, Stripped bare of self-regard or forms or ruth Till first and last were shown.

I took the perfect balances and weighed; No shaking of my hand disturbed the poise; Weighed, found it wanting: not a word I said, But silent made my choice.

None know the choice I made; I make it still. None know the choice I made and broke my heart, Breaking mine idol: I have braced my will Once, chosen for once my part.

I broke it at a blow, I laid it cold, Crushed in my deep heart where it used to live. My heart dies inch by inch; the time grows old, Grows old in which I grieve.

II.

I have a room whereinto no one enters Save I myself alone: There sits a blessed memory on a throne, There my life centres.

While winter comes and goes—O tedious comer!— And while its nip-wind blows; While bloom the bloodless lily and warm rose Of lavish summer.

If any should force entrance he might see there One buried yet not dead, Before whose face I no more bow my head Or bend my knee there;

But often in my worn life's autumn weather I watch there with clear eyes, And think how it will be in Paradise When we're together.



A ROYAL PRINCESS.

I, a princess, king-descended, decked with jewels, gilded, drest, Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast, For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west.

Two and two my guards behind, two and two before, Two and two on either hand, they guard me evermore; Me, poor dove, that must not coo,—eagle, that must not soar.

All my fountains cast up perfumes, all my gardens grow Scented woods and foreign spices, with all flowers in blow That are costly, out of season as the seasons go.

All my walls are lost in mirrors, whereupon I trace Self to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place, Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face.

Then I have an ivory chair high to sit upon, Almost like my father's chair, which is an ivory throne; There I sit uplift and upright, there I sit alone.

Alone by day, alone by night, alone days without end; My father and my mother give me treasures, search and spend— O my father! O my mother! have you ne'er a friend?

As I am a lofty princess, so my father is A lofty king, accomplished in all kingly subtilties, Holding in his strong right hand world-kingdoms' balances.

He has quarrelled with his neighbors, he has scourged his foes; Vassal counts and princes follow where his pennon goes, Long-descended valiant lords whom the vulture knows,

On whose track the vulture swoops, when they ride in state To break the strength of armies and topple down the great: Each of these my courteous servant, none of these my mate.

My father counting up his strength sets down with equal pen So many head of cattle, head of horses, head of men; These for slaughter, these for labor, with the how and when.

Some to work on roads, canals; some to man his ships; Some to smart in mines beneath sharp overseers' whips; Some to trap fur-beasts in lands where utmost winter nips.

Once it came into my heart and whelmed me like a flood, That these too are men and women, human flesh and blood; Men with hearts and men with souls, though trodden down like mud.

Our feasting was not glad that night, our music was not gay; On my mother's graceful head I marked a thread of gray, My father frowning at the fare seemed every dish to weigh.

I sat beside them sole princess in my exalted place, My ladies and my gentlemen stood by me on the dais: A mirror showed me I look old and haggard in the face;

It showed me that my ladies all are fair to gaze upon, Plump, plenteous-haired, to every one love's secret lore is known, They laugh by day, they sleep by night; ah me, what is a throne?

The singing men and women sang that night as usual, The dancers danced in pairs and sets, but music had a fall, A melancholy windy fall as at a funeral.

Amid the toss of torches to my chamber back we swept; My ladies loosed my golden chain; meantime I could have wept To think of some in galling chains whether they waked or slept.

I took my bath of scented milk, delicately waited on, They burned sweet things for my delight, cedar and cinnamon, They lit my shaded silver lamp and left me there alone.

A day went by, a week went by. One day I heard it said: "Men are clamoring, women, children, clamoring to be fed; Men like famished dogs are howling in the streets for bread."

So two whispered by my door, not thinking I could hear, Vulgar, naked truth, ungarnished for a royal ear; Fit for cooping in the background, not to stalk so near.

But I strained my utmost sense to catch this truth, and mark: "There are families out grazing like cattle in the park." "A pair of peasants must be saved even if we build an ark."

A merry jest, a merry laugh, each strolled upon his way; One was my page, a lad I reared and bore with day by day; One was my youngest maid, as sweet and white as cream in May.

Other footsteps followed softly with a weightier tramp; Voices said: "Picked soldiers have been summoned from the camp To quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl and stamp."

"Howl and stamp?" one answered: "They made free to hurl a stone At the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly thrown." "There's work, then, for the soldiers, for this rank crop must be mown."

"One I saw, a poor old fool with ashes on his head, Whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread: Then he dropped; when some one raised him, it turned out he was dead."

"After us the deluge," was retorted with a laugh: "If bread's the staff of life, they must walk without a staff." "While I've a loaf they're welcome to my blessing and the chaff."

These passed. The king: stand up. Said my father with a smile: "Daughter mine, your mother comes to sit with you awhile, She's sad to-day, and who but you her sadness can beguile?"

He too left me. Shall I touch my harp now while I wait (I hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate), Or shall I work the last gold stitch into my veil of state;

Or shall my woman stand and read some unimpassioned scene, There's music of a lulling sort in words that pause between; Or shall she merely fan me while I wait here for the queen?

Again I caught my father's voice in sharp word of command: "Charge!" a clash of steel: "Charge again, the rebels stand. Smite and spare not, hand to hand; smite and spare not, hand to hand."

There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing higher; A flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire; I heard a cry for faggots, then I heard a yell for fire.

"Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread, You who sat to see us starve," one shrieking woman said: "Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head."

Nay, this thing will I do, while my mother tarrieth, I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith, I will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and wreath;

With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand, I will go down to this people, will stand face to face, will stand Where they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land.

They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have to give; I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live; I, if I perish, perish; that's the goal I half conceive:

Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and show The lesson I have learned, which is death, is life, to know. I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go.



SHALL I FORGET?

Shall I forget on this side of the grave? I promise nothing: you must wait and see Patient and brave. (O my soul, watch with him and he with me.)

Shall I forget in peace of Paradise? I promise nothing: follow, friend, and see, Faithful and wise. (O my soul, lead the way he walks with me.)



VANITY OF VANITIES.

SONNET.

Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain, Ah, woe is me for glory that is past: Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last, Glory that at the last bringeth no gain! So saith the sinking heart; and so again It shall say till the mighty angel-blast Is blown, making the sun and moon aghast, And showering down the stars like sudden rain. And evermore men shall go fearfully, Bending beneath their weight of heaviness; And ancient men shall lie down wearily, And strong men shall rise up in weariness; Yea, even the young shall answer sighingly, Saying one to another: How vain it is!



L. E. L.

"Whose heart was breaking for a little love."

Down-stairs I laugh, I sport and jest with all: But in my solitary room above I turn my face in silence to the wall; My heart is breaking for a little love. Though winter frosts are done, And birds pair every one, And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun.

I feel no spring, while spring is wellnigh blown, I find no nest, while nests are in the grove: Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone, My heart that breaketh for a little love. While golden in the sun Rivulets rise and run, While lilies bud, for springtide is begun.

All love, are loved, save only I; their hearts Beat warm with love and joy, beat full thereof: They cannot guess, who play the pleasant parts, My heart is breaking for a little love. While beehives wake and whirr, And rabbit thins his fur, In living spring that sets the world astir.

I deck myself with silks and jewelry, I plume myself like any mated dove: They praise my rustling show, and never see My heart is breaking for a little love. While sprouts green lavender With rosemary and myrrh, For in quick spring the sap is all astir.

Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth, Perhaps some angels read it as they move, And cry one to another full of ruth, "Her heart is breaking for a little love." Though other things have birth, And leap and sing for mirth, When spring-time wakes and clothes and feeds the earth.

Yet saith a saint: "Take patience for thy scathe"; Yet saith an angel: "Wait, for thou shalt prove True best is last, true life is born of death, O thou, heart-broken for a little love! Then love shall fill thy girth, And love make fat thy dearth, When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth."



LIFE AND DEATH.

Life is not sweet. One day it will be sweet To shut our eyes and die: Nor feel the wild-flowers blow, nor birds dart by With flitting butterfly, Nor grass grow long above our heads and feet, Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high, Nor sigh that spring is fleet and summer fleet, Nor mark the waxing wheat, Nor know who sits in our accustomed seat.

Life is not good. One day it will be good To die, then live again; To sleep meanwhile: so not to feel the wane Of shrunk leaves dropping in the wood, Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main, Nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stood Rich ranks of golden grain, Only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain: Asleep from risk, asleep from pain.



BIRD OR BEAST?

Did any bird come flying After Adam and Eve, When the door was shut against them And they sat down to grieve?

I think not Eve's peacock Splendid to see, And I think not Adam's eagle; But a dove may be.

Did any beast come pushing Through the thorny hedge Into the thorny, thistly world Out from Eden's edge?

I think not a lion, Though his strength is such; But an innocent loving lamb May have done as much.

If the dove preached from her bough And the lamb from his sod, The lamb and the dove Were preachers sent from God.



EVE.

"While I sit at the door, Sick to gaze within, Mine eye weepeth sore For sorrow and sin: As a tree my sin stands To darken all lands; Death is the fruit it bore.

"How have Eden bowers grown Without Adam to bend them! How have Eden flowers blown, Squandering their sweet breath, Without me to tend them! The Tree of Life was ours, Tree twelvefold-fruited, Most lofty tree that flowers, Most deeply rooted: I chose the Tree of Death.

"Hadst thou but said me nay, Adam, my brother, I might have pined away; I, but none other: God might have let thee stay Safe in our garden, By putting me away Beyond all pardon.

"I, Eve, sad mother Of all who must live, I, not another, Plucked bitterest fruit to give My friend, husband, lover. O wanton eyes run over! Who but I should grieve?— Cain hath slain his brother: Of all who must die mother, Miserable Eve!"

Thus she sat weeping, Thus Eve, our mother, Where one lay sleeping Slain by his brother. Greatest and least Each piteous beast To hear her voice Forgot his joys And set aside his feast.

The mouse paused in his walk And dropped his wheaten stalk; Grave cattle wagged their heads In rumination; The eagle gave a cry From his cloud station; Larks on thyme beds Forbore to mount or sing; Bees drooped upon the wing; The raven perched on high Forgot his ration; The conies in their rock, A feeble nation, Quaked sympathetical; The mocking-bird left off to mock; Huge camels knelt as if In deprecation; The kind hart's tears were falling; Chattered the wistful stork; Dove-voices with a dying fall Cooed desolation, Answering grief by grief.

Only the serpent in the dust, Wriggling and crawling, Grinned an evil grin, and thrust His tongue out with its fork.



GROWN AND FLOWN.

I loved my love from green of Spring Until sere Autumn's fall; But now that leaves are withering How should one love at all? One heart's too small For hunger, cold, love, everything.

I loved my love on sunny days Until late Summer's wane; But now that frost begins to glaze How should one love again? Nay, love and pain Walk wide apart in diverse ways.

I loved my love,—alas to see That this should be, alas! I thought that this could scarcely be, Yet has it come to pass: Sweet sweet love was, Now bitter bitter grown to me.



A FARM WALK.

The year stood at its equinox And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, Green hardy things were growing; I met a maid with shining locks Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck, Her bare arm showed its dimple, Her apron spread without a speck, Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail And sang a country ditty, An innocent fond lovers' tale, That was not wise nor witty, Pathetically rustical, Too pointless for the city.

She kept in time without a beat As true as church-bell ringers, Unless she tapped time with her feet, Or squeezed it with her fingers; Her clear unstudied notes were sweet As many a practised singer's.

I stood a minute out of sight, Stood silent for a minute To eye the pail, and creamy white The frothing milk within it;

To eye the comely milking maid Herself so fresh and creamy: "Good day to you," at last I said; She turned her head to see me: "Good day," she said, with lifted head; Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,

And all the while she milked and milked The grave cow heavy-laden: I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked, But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid Than this in homely cotton, Whose pleasant face and silky braid I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I Count with a sober sorrow; Seven springs have come and passed me by, And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself Free just for once from London, To set my work upon the shelf And leave it done or undone;

To run down by the early train, Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And feel the bluff North blow again, And mark the sprouting thistle Set up on waste patch of the lane Its green and tender bristle,

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, Crisp primrose leaves and others, And watch the lambs leap at their pranks And butt their patient mothers.

Alas, one point in all my plan My serious thoughts demur to: Seven years have passed for maid and man, Seven years have passed for her too;

Perhaps my rose is overblown, Not rosy or too rosy; Perhaps in farm-house of her own Some husband keeps her cosey, Where I should show a face unknown. Good by, my wayside posy.



SOMEWHERE OR OTHER.

Somewhere or other there must surely be The face not seen, the voice not heard, The heart that not yet—never yet—ah me! Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far; Past land and sea, clean out of sight; Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near; With just a wall, a hedge, between; With just the last leaves of the dying year Fallen on a turf grown green.



A CHILL.

What can lambkins do All the keen night through? Nestle by their woolly mother, The careful ewe.

What can nestlings do In the nightly dew? Sleep beneath their mother's wing Till day breaks anew.

If in field or tree There might only be Such a warm soft sleeping-place Found for me!



CHILD'S TALK IN APRIL.

I WISH you were a pleasant wren, And I your small accepted mate; How we'd look down on toilsome men! We'd rise and go to bed at eight Or it may be not quite so late.

Then you should see the nest I'd build, The wondrous nest for you and me; The outside rough, perhaps, but filled With wool and down: ah, you should see The cosey nest that it would be.

We'd have our change of hope and fear, Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet: I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer, Or hop about on active feet And fetch you dainty bits to eat.

We'd be so happy by the day, So safe and happy through the night, We both should feel, and I should say, It's all one season of delight, And we'll make merry whilst we may.

Perhaps some day there'd be an egg When spring had blossomed from the snow: I'd stand triumphant on one leg; Like chanticleer I'd almost crow To let our little neighbors know.

Next you should sit and I would sing Through lengthening days of sunny spring: Till, if you wearied of the task, I'd sit; and you should spread your wing From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.

Fancy the breaking of the shell, The chirp, the chickens wet and bare, The untried proud paternal swell; And you with housewife-matron air Enacting choicer bills of fare.

Fancy the embryo coats of down, The gradual feathers soft and sleek; Till clothed and strong from tail to crown, With virgin warblings in their beak, They too go forth to soar and seek.

So would it last an April through And early summer fresh with dew: Then should we part and live as twain, Love-time would bring me back to you And build our happy nest again.



GONE FOREVER.

O happy rose-bud blooming Upon thy parent tree,— Nay, thou art too presuming; For soon the earth entombing Thy faded charms shall be, And the chill damp consuming.

O happy skylark springing Up to the broad blue sky, Too fearless in thy winging, Too gladsome in thy singing, Thou also soon shalt lie Where no sweet notes are ringing.

And through life's shine and shower We shall have joy and pain; But in the summer bower, And at the morning hour, We still shall look in vain For the same bird and flower.



UNDER THE ROSE.

"The iniquity of the fathers upon the children."

O the rose of keenest thorn! One hidden summer morn Under the rose I was born.

I do not guess his name Who wrought my Mother's shame, And gave me life forlorn, But my Mother, Mother, Mother, I know her from all other. My Mother pale and mild, Fair as ever was seen, She was but scarce sixteen, Little more than a child, When I was born To work her scorn. With secret bitter throes, In a passion of secret woes, She bore me under the rose.

One who my Mother nursed Took me from the first:— "O nurse, let me look upon This babe that cost so dear; To-morrow she will be gone: Other mothers may keep Their babes awake and asleep, But I must not keep her here."— Whether I know or guess, I know this not the less.

So I was sent away That none might spy the truth: And my childhood waxed to youth And I left off childish play. I never cared to play With the village boys and girls; And I think they thought me proud, I found so little to say And kept so from the crowd: But I had the longest curls, And I had the largest eyes, And my teeth were small like pearls; The girls might flout and scout me, But the boys would hang about me In sheepish mooning wise.

Our one-street village stood A long mile from the town, A mile of windy down And bleak one-sided wood, With not a single house. Our town itself was small, With just the common shops, And throve in its small way. Our neighboring gentry reared The good old-fashioned crops, And made old-fashioned boasts Of what John Bull would do If Frenchman Frog appeared, And drank old-fashioned toasts, And made old-fashioned bows To my Lady at the Hall.

My Lady at the Hall Is grander than they all: Hers is the oldest name In all the neighborhood; But the race must die with her Though she's a lofty dame, For she's unmarried still. Poor people say she's good And has an open hand As any in the land, And she's the comforter Of many sick and sad; My nurse once said to me That everything she had Came of my Lady's bounty: "Though she's greatest in the county She's humble to the poor, No beggar seeks her door But finds help presently. I pray both night and day For her, and you must pray: But she'll never feel distress If needy folk can bless." I was a little maid When here we came to live From somewhere by the sea. Men spoke a foreign tongue There where we used to be When I was merry and young, Too young to feel afraid; The fisher-folk would give A kind strange word to me, There by the foreign sea: I don't know where it was, But I remember still Our cottage on a hill, And fields of flowering grass On that fair foreign shore.

I liked my old home best, But this was pleasant too: So here we made our nest And here I grew. And now and then my Lady In riding past our door Would nod to nurse and speak, Or stoop and pat my cheek; And I was always ready To hold the field-gate wide For my Lady to go through; My Lady in her veil So seldom put aside, My Lady grave and pale.

I often sat to wonder Who might my parents be, For I knew of something under My simple-seeming state. Nurse never talked to me Of mother or of father, But watched me early and late With kind suspicious cares: Or not suspicious, rather Anxious, as if she knew Some secret I might gather And smart for unawares. Thus I grew.

But Nurse waxed old and gray, Bent and weak with years. There came a certain day That she lay upon her bed Shaking her palsied head, With words she gasped to say Which had to stay unsaid. Then with a jerking hand Held out so piteously She gave a ring to me Of gold wrought curiously, A ring which she had worn Since the day that I was born, She once had said to me: I slipped it on my finger; Her eyes were keen to linger On my hand that slipped it on; Then she sighed one rattling sigh And stared on with sightless eye:— The one who loved me was gone.

How long I stayed alone With the corpse I never knew, For I fainted dead as stone: When I came to life once more I was down upon the floor, With neighbors making ado To bring me back to life. I heard the sexton's wife Say: "Up, my lad, and run To tell it at the Hall; She was my Lady's nurse, And done can't be undone. I'll watch by this poor lamb. I guess my Lady's purse Is always open to such: I'd run up on my crutch A cripple as I am," (For cramps had vexed her much,) "Rather than this dear heart Lack one to take her part."

For days, day after day, On my weary bed I lay, Wishing the time would pass; O, so wishing that I was Likely to pass away: For the one friend whom I knew Was dead, I knew no other, Neither father nor mother; And I, what should I do?

One day the sexton's wife Said: "Rouse yourself, my dear: My Lady has driven down From the Hall into the town, And we think she's coming here. Cheer up, for life is life."