"So; swing open door, and shade Take me; I am not afraid, For the time will not be long; Soon I shall have waxen strong— Strong enough my own to win From the grave it lies within." And I entered. On her bier Quiet lay the buried year; I sat down where I could see Life without and sunshine free, Death within. And I between, Waited my own heart to wean From the shroud that shaded her In the rock-hewn sepulchre— Waited till the dead should say, "Heart, be free of me this day"— Waited with a patient will— AND I WAIT BETWEEN THEM STILL.

I take the year back to my life and story, The dead year, and say, "I will share in thy tomb. 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory;' Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom! They reigned in their lifetime with sceptre and diadem, But thou excellest them; For life doth make thy grave her oratory, And the crown is still on thy brow; 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' And so dost thou."



REFLECTIONS.

LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A POOL IN A FIELD.

What change has made the pastures sweet And reached the daisies at my feet, And cloud that wears a golden hem? This lovely world, the hills, the sward— They all look fresh, as if our Lord But yesterday had finished them.

And here's the field with light aglow; How fresh its boundary lime-trees show, And how its wet leaves trembling shine! Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sea Below the level browsing line

I see the pool more clear by half Than pools where other waters laugh Up at the breasts of coot and rail. There, as she passed it on her way, I saw reflected yesterday A maiden with a milking-pail.

There, neither slowly nor in haste, One hand upon her slender waist, The other lifted to her pail, She, rosy in the morning light, Among the water-daisies white, Like some fair sloop appeared to sail.

Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod. I leaned upon the gate to see: The sweet thing looked, but did not speak; A dimple came in either cheek, And all my heart was gone from me.

Then, as I lingered on the gate, And she came up like coming fate, I saw my picture in her eyes— Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes, Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows Among white-headed majesties.

I said, "A tale was made of old That I would fain to thee unfold; Ah! let me—let me tell the tale." But high she held her comely head; "I cannot heed it now," she said, "For carrying of the milking-pail."

She laughed. What good to make ado? I held the gate, and she came through, And took her homeward path anon. From the clear pool her face had fled; It rested on my heart instead, Reflected when the maid was gone.

With happy youth, and work content, So sweet and stately on she went, Right careless of the untold tale. Each step she took I loved her more, And followed to her dairy door The maiden with the milking-pail.

II.

For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, How fine, how blest a thing is work! For work does good when reasons fail— Good; yet the axe at every stroke The echo of a name awoke— Her name is Mary Martindale.

I'm glad that echo was not heard Aright by other men: a bird Knows doubtless what his own notes tell; And I know not, but I can say I felt as shame-faced all that day As if folks heard her name right well.

And when the west began to glow I went—I could not choose but go— To that same dairy on the hill; And while sweet Mary moved about Within, I came to her without. And leaned upon the window-sill.

The garden border where I stood Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. I spoke—her answer seemed to fail: I smelt the pinks—I could not see; The dusk came down and sheltered me, And in the dusk she heard my tale.

And what is left that I should tell? I begged a kiss, I pleaded well: The rosebud lips did long decline; But yet I think, I think 'tis true, That, leaned at last into the dew, One little instant they were mine.

O life! how dear thou hast become: She laughed at dawn and I was dumb, But evening counsels best prevail. Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, Green be the pastures where she treads, The maiden with the milking-pail!



THE LETTER L.

ABSENT.

We sat on grassy slopes that meet With sudden dip the level strand; The trees hung overhead—our feet Were on the sand.

Two silent girls, a thoughtful man, We sunned ourselves in open light, And felt such April airs as fan The Isle of Wight;

And smelt the wall-flower in the crag Whereon that dainty waft had fed, Which made the bell-hung cowslip wag Her delicate head;

And let alighting jackdaws fleet Adown it open-winged, and pass Till they could touch with outstretched feet The warmed grass.

The happy wave ran up and rang Like service bells a long way off, And down a little freshet sprang From mossy trough,

And splashed into a rain of spray, And fretted on with daylight's loss, Because so many bluebells lay Leaning across.

Blue martins gossiped in the sun, And pairs of chattering daws flew by, And sailing brigs rocked softly on In company.

Wild cherry-boughs above us spread, The whitest shade was ever seen, And flicker, flicker, came and fled Sun spots between.

Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom, As babes will sigh for deep content When their sweet hearts for peace make room, As given, not lent.

And we saw on: we said no word, And one was lost in musings rare, One buoyant as the waft that stirred Her shining hair.

His eyes were bent upon the sand, Unfathomed deeps within them lay. A slender rod was in his hand— A hazel spray.

Her eyes were resting on his face, As shyly glad, by stealth to glean Impressions of his manly grace And guarded mien;

The mouth with steady sweetness set, And eyes conveying unaware The distant hint of some regret That harbored there.

She gazed, and in the tender flush That made her face like roses blown, And in the radiance and the hush, Her thought was shown.

It was a happy thing to sit So near, nor mar his reverie; She looked not for a part in it, So meek was she.

But it was solace for her eyes, And for her heart, that yearned to him, To watch apart in loving wise Those musings dim.

Lost—lost, and gone! The Pelham woods Were full of doves that cooed at ease; The orchis filled her purple hoods For dainty bees.

He heard not; all the delicate air Was fresh with falling water-spray: It mattered not—he was not there, But far away.

Till with the hazel in his hand, Still drowned in thought it thus befell; He drew a letter on the sand— The letter L.

And looking on it, straight there wrought A ruddy flush about his brow; His letter woke him: absent thought Rushed homeward now.

And half-abashed, his hasty touch Effaced it with a tell-tale care, As if his action had been much, And not his air.

And she? she watched his open palm Smooth out the letter from the sand, And rose, with aspect almost calm, And filled her hand

With cherry-bloom, and moved away To gather wild forget-me-not, And let her errant footsteps stray To one sweet spot,

As if she coveted the fair White lining of the silver-weed, And cuckoo-pint that shaded there Empurpled seed.

She had not feared, as I divine, Because she had not hoped. Alas! The sorrow of it! for that sign Came but to pass;

And yet it robbed her of the right To give, who looked not to receive, And made her blush in love's despite That she should grieve.

A shape in white, she turned to gaze; Her eyes were shaded with her hand, And half-way up the winding ways We saw her stand.

Green hollows of the fringed cliff, Red rocks that under waters show, Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff, Were spread below.

She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh, Perhaps to think; but who can tell How heavy on her heart must lie The letter L!

* * * * *

She came anon with quiet grace; And "What," she murmured, "silent yet!" He answered, "'Tis a haunted place, And spell-beset.

"O speak to us, and break the spell!" "The spell is broken," she replied. "I crossed the running brook, it fell, It could not bide.

"And I have brought a budding world, Of orchis spires and daisies rank, And ferny plumes but half uncurled, From yonder bank;

"And I shall weave of them a crown, And at the well-head launch it free, That so the brook may float it down, And out to sea.

"There may it to some English hands From fairy meadow seem to come; The fairyest of fairy lands— The land of home."

"Weave on," he said, and as she wove We told how currents in the deep, With branches from a lemon grove, Blue bergs will sweep.

And messages from shipwrecked folk Will navigate the moon-led main, And painted boards of splintered oak Their port regain.

Then floated out by vagrant thought, My soul beheld on torrid sand The wasteful water set at nought Man's skilful hand,

And suck out gold-dust from the box, And wash it down in weedy whirls, And split the wine-keg on the rocks, And lose the pearls.

"Ah! why to that which needs it not," Methought, "should costly things be given? How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot, On this side heaven!"

So musing, did mine ears awake To maiden tones of sweet reserve, And manly speech that seemed to make The steady curve

Of lips that uttered it defer Their guard, and soften for the thought: She listened, and his talk with her Was fancy fraught.

"There is not much in liberty"— With doubtful pauses he began; And said to her and said to me, "There was a man—

"There was a man who dreamed one night That his dead father came to him; And said, when fire was low, and light Was burning dim—

"'Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride, Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam? Sure home is best!' The son replied, 'I have no home.'

"'Shall not I speak?' his father said, 'Who early chose a youthful wife, And worked for her, and with her led My happy life.

"'Ay, I will speak, for I was young As thou art now, when I did hold The prattling sweetness of thy tongue Dearer than gold;

"'And rosy from thy noonday sleep Would bear thee to admiring kin, And all thy pretty looks would keep My heart within.

"'Then after, mid thy young allies— For thee ambition flushed my brow— I coveted the school-boy prize Far more than thou.

"'I thought for thee, I thought for all My gamesome imps that round me grew; The dews of blessing heaviest fall Where care falls too.

"'And I that sent my boys away, In youthful strength to earn their bread, And died before the hair was gray Upon my head—

"'I say to thee, though free from care, A lonely lot, an aimless life, The crowning comfort is not there— Son, take a wife.'

"'Father beloved,' the son replied, And failed to gather to his breast, With arms in darkness searching wide, The formless guest.

"'I am but free, as sorrow is, To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk; And free, as sick men are, I wis To rise and walk.

"'And free, as poor men are, to buy If they have nought wherewith to pay; Nor hope, the debt before they die, To wipe away.

"'What 'vails it there are wives to win, And faithful hearts for those to yearn, Who find not aught thereto akin To make return?

"'Shall he take much who little gives, And dwells in spirit far away, When she that in his presence lives Doth never stray,

"But waking, guideth as beseems The happy house in order trim, And tends her babes; and sleeping, dreams Of them and him?

"'O base, O cold,'"—while thus he spake The dream broke off, the vision fled; He carried on his speech awake And sighing said—

"'I had—ah happy man!—I had A precious jewel in my breast, And while I kept it I was glad At work, at rest!

"'Call it a heart, and call it strong As upward stroke of eagle's wing; Then call it weak, you shall not wrong The beating thing.

"'In tangles of the jungle reed, Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes, In shipwreck drifting with the weed 'Neath rainy skies,

"'Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen, At danger gazed with awed delight As if sea would not drown, I ween, Nor serpent bite.

"'I had—ah happy! but 'tis gone, The priceless jewel; one came by, And saw and stood awhile to con With curious eye,

"'And wished for it, and faintly smiled From under lashes black as doom, With subtle sweetness, tender, mild, That did illume

"'The perfect face, and shed on it A charm, half feeling, half surprise, And brim with dreams the exquisite Brown blessed eyes.

"'Was it for this, no more but this, I took and laid it in her hand, By dimples ruled, to hint submiss, By frown unmanned?

"'It was for this—and O farewell The fearless foot, the present mind, And steady will to breast the swell And face the wind!

"'I gave the jewel from my breast, She played with it a little while As I sailed down into the west, Fed by her smile;

"'Then weary of it—far from land, With sigh as deep as destiny, She let it drop from her fair hand Into the sea,

"'And watched it sink; and I—and I,— What shall I do, for all is vain? No wave will bring, no gold will buy, No toil attain;

"'Nor any diver reach to raise My jewel from the blue abyss; Or could they, still I should but praise Their work amiss.

"'Thrown, thrown away! But I love yet The fair, fair hand which did the deed: That wayward sweetness to forget Were bitter meed.

"'No, let it lie, and let the wave Roll over it for evermore; Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave— The sea her store.

"'My heart, my sometime happy heart! And O for once let me complain, I must forego life's better part— Man's dearer gain.

"'I worked afar that I might rear A peaceful home on English soil; I labored for the gold and gear— I loved my toil.

"'Forever in my spirit spake The natural whisper, "Well 'twill be When loving wife and children break Their bread with thee!"

"'The gathered gold is turned to dross, The wife hath faded into air, My heart is thrown away, my loss I cannot spare.

"'Not spare unsated thought her food— No, not one rustle of the fold, Nor scent of eastern sandal-wood, Nor gleam of gold;

"'Nor quaint devices of the shawl, Far less the drooping lashes meek; The gracious figure, lithe and tall, The dimpled cheek;

"'And all the wonders of her eyes, And sweet caprices of her air, Albeit, indignant reason cries, Fool! have a care.

"'Fool! join not madness to mistake; Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit; Only that she thy heart might break— She wanted it,

"'Only the conquered thing to chain So fast that none might set it free, Nor other woman there might reign And comfort thee.

"'Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet; Love dead outside her closed door, And passion fainting at her feet To wake no more;

"'What canst thou give that unknown bride Whom thou didst work for in the waste, Ere fated love was born, and cried— Was dead, ungraced?

"'No more but this, the partial care, The natural kindness for its own, The trust that waxeth unaware, As worth is known:

"'Observance, and complacent thought Indulgent, and the honor due That many another man has brought Who brought love too.

"'Nay, then, forbid it Heaven!' he said, 'The saintly vision fades from me; O bands and chains! I cannot wed— I am not free.'"

With that he raised his face to view; "What think you," asking, "of my tale? And was he right to let the dew Of morn exhale,

"And burdened in the noontide sun, The grateful shade of home forego— Could he be right—I ask as one Who fain would know?"

He spoke to her and spoke to me; The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek; The woven crown lay on her knee; She would not speak.

And I with doubtful pause—averse To let occasion drift away— I answered—"If his case were worse Than word can say,

"Time is a healer of sick hearts, And women have been known to choose, With purpose to allay their smarts, And tend their bruise,

"These for themselves. Content to give, In their own lavish love complete, Taking for sole prerogative Their tendance sweet.

"Such meeting in their diadem Of crowning love's ethereal fire, Himself he robs who robbeth them Of their desire.

"Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried Against his lot that even-song, I judge him honest, and decide That he was wrong."

"When I am judged, ah may my fate," He whispered, "in thy code be read! Be thou both judge and advocate." Then turned, he said—

"Fair weaver!" touching, while he spoke, The woven crown, the weaving hand, "And do you this decree revoke, Or may it stand?

"This friend, you ever think her right— She is not wrong, then?" Soft and low The little trembling word took flight: She answered, "No."

PRESENT.

A meadow where the grass was deep, Rich, square, and golden to the view, A belt of elms with level sweep About it grew.

The sun beat down on it, the line Of shade was clear beneath the trees; There, by a clustering eglantine, We sat at ease.

And O the buttercups! that field O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam— Where France set up his lilied shield, His oriflamb,

And Henry's lion-standard rolled: What was it to their matchless sheen, Their million million drops of gold Among the green!

We sat at ease in peaceful trust, For he had written, "Let us meet; My wife grew tired of smoke and dust, And London heat,

"And I have found a quiet grange, Set back in meadows sloping west, And there our little ones can range And she can rest.

"Come down, that we may show the view, And she may hear your voice again, And talk her woman's talk with you Along the lane."

Since he had drawn with listless hand The letter, six long years had fled, And winds had blown about the sand, And they were wed.

Two rosy urchins near him played, Or watched, entranced, the shapely ships That with his knife for them he made Of elder slips.

And where the flowers were thickest shed, Each blossom like a burnished gem, A creeping baby reared its head, And cooed at them.

And calm was on the father's face, And love was in the mother's eyes; She looked and listened from her place, In tender wise.

She did not need to raise her voice That they might hear, she sat so nigh; Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice, And soft reply.

Holding our quiet talk apart Of household things; till, all unsealed, The guarded outworks of the heart Began to yield;

And much that prudence will not dip The pen to fix and send away, Passed safely over from the lip That summer day.

"I should be happy," with a look Towards her husband where he lay, Lost in the pages of his book, Soft did she say.

"I am, and yet no lot below For one whole day eludeth care; To marriage all the stories flow, And finish there:

"As if with marriage came the end, The entrance into settled rest, The calm to which love's tossings tend, The quiet breast.

"For me love played the low preludes, Yet life began but with the ring, Such infinite solicitudes Around it cling.

"I did not for my heart divine Her destiny so meek to grow; The higher nature matched with mine Will have it so.

"Still I consider it, and still Acknowledge it my master made, Above me by the steadier will Of nought afraid.

"Above me by the candid speech; The temperate judgment of its own; The keener thoughts that grasp and reach At things unknown.

"But I look up and he looks down, And thus our married eyes can meet; Unclouded his, and clear of frown, And gravely sweet.

"And yet, O good, O wise and true! I would for all my fealty, That I could be as much to you As you to me;

"And knew the deep secure content Of wives who have been hardly won, And, long petitioned, gave assent, Jealous of none.

"But proudly sure in all the earth No other in that homage shares, Nor other woman's face or worth Is prized as theirs."

I said: "And yet no lot below For one whole day eludeth care. Your thought." She answered, "Even so. I would beware

"Regretful questionings; be sure That very seldom do they rise, Nor for myself do I endure— I sympathize.

"For once"—she turned away her head, Across the grass she swept her hand— "There was a letter once," she said, "Upon the sand."

"There was, in truth, a letter writ On sand," I said, "and swept from view; But that same hand which fashioned it Is given to you.

"Efface the letter; wherefore keep An image which the sands forego?" "Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep," She answered low,

"I could not choose but wake it now; For do but turn aside your face, A house on yonder hilly brow Your eyes may trace.

"The chestnut shelters it; ah me, That I should have so faint a heart! But yester-eve, as by the sea I sat apart,

"I heard a name, I saw a hand Of passing stranger point that way— And will he meet her on the strand, When late we stray?

"For she is come, for she is there, I heard it in the dusk, and heard Admiring words, that named her fair, But little stirred

"By beauty of the wood and wave, And weary of an old man's sway; For it was sweeter to enslave Than to obey."

—The voice of one that near us stood, The rustle of a silken fold, A scent of eastern sandal wood, A gleam of gold!

A lady! In the narrow space Between the husband and the wife, But nearest him—she showed a face With dangers rife;

A subtle smile that dimpling fled, As night-black lashes rose and fell: I looked, and to myself I said, "The letter L."

He, too, looked up, and with arrest Of breath and motion held his gaze, Nor cared to hide within his breast His deep amaze;

Nor spoke till on her near advance His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue; And with his change of countenance Hers altered too.

"Lenore!" his voice was like the cry Of one entreating; and he said But that—then paused with such a sigh As mourns the dead.

And seated near, with no demur Of bashful doubt she silence broke, Though I alone could answer her When first she spoke.

She looked: her eyes were beauty's own; She shed their sweetness into his; Nor spared the married wife one moan That bitterest is.

She spoke, and lo, her loveliness Methought she damaged with her tongue; And every sentence made it less, All falsely rung.

The rallying voice, the light demand, Half flippant, half unsatisfied; The vanity sincere and bland— The answers wide.

And now her talk was of the East, And next her talk was of the sea; "And has the love for it increased You shared with me?"

He answered not, but grave and still With earnest eyes her face perused, And locked his lips with steady will, As one that mused—

That mused and wondered. Why his gaze Should dwell on her, methought, was plain; But reason that should wonder raise I sought in vain.

And near and near the children drew, Attracted by her rich array, And gems that trembling into view Like raindrops lay.

He spoke: the wife her baby took And pressed the little face to hers; What pain soe'er her bosom shook, What jealous stirs

Might stab her heart, she hid them so, The cooing babe a veil supplied; And if she listened none might know, Or if she sighed;

Or if forecasting grief and care Unconscious solace thence she drew, And lulled her babe, and unaware Lulled sorrow too.

The lady, she interpreter For looks or language wanted none, If yet dominion stayed with her— So lightly won;

If yet the heart she wounded sore Could yearn to her, and let her see The homage that was evermore Disloyalty;

If sign would yield that it had bled, Or rallied from the faithless blow, Or sick or sullen stooped to wed, She craved to know.

Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen, Her asking eyes would round him shine; But guarded lips and settled mien Refused the sign.

And unbeguiled and unbetrayed, The wonder yet within his breast, It seemed a watchful part he played Against her quest.

Until with accent of regret She touched upon the past once more, As if she dared him to forget His dream of yore.

And words of little weight let fall The fancy of the lower mind; How waxing life must needs leave all Its best behind;

How he had said that "he would fain (One morning on the halcyon sea) That life would at a stand remain Eternally;

"And sails be mirrored in the deep, As then they were, for evermore, And happy spirits wake and sleep Afar from shore:

"The well-contented heart be fed Ever as then, and all the world (It were not small) unshadowed When sails were furled.

"Your words"—a pause, and quietly With touch of calm self-ridicule: "It may be so—for then," said he, "I was a fool."

With that he took his book, and left An awkward silence to my care, That soon I filled with questions deft And debonair;

And slid into an easy vein, The favorite picture of the year; The grouse upon her lord's domain— The salmon weir;

Till she could fain a sudden thought Upon neglected guests, and rise, And make us her adieux, with nought In her dark eyes

Acknowledging or shame or pain; But just unveiling for our view A little smile of still disdain As she withdrew.

Then nearer did the sunshine creep, And warmer came the wafting breeze; The little babe was fast asleep On mother's knees.

Fair was the face that o'er it leant, The cheeks with beauteous blushes dyed; The downcast lashes, shyly bent, That failed to hide

Some tender shame. She did not see; She felt his eyes that would not stir, She looked upon her babe, and he So looked at her.

So grave, so wondering, so content, As one new waked to conscious life, Whose sudden joy with fear is blent, He said, "My wife."

"My wife, how beautiful you are!" Then closer at her side reclined, "The bold brown woman from afar Comes, to me blind.

"And by comparison, I see The majesty of matron grace, And learn how pure, how fair can be My own wife's face:

"Pure with all faithful passion, fair With tender smiles that come and go, And comforting as April air After the snow.

"Fool that I was! my spirit frets And marvels at the humbling truth, That I have deigned to spend regrets On my bruised youth.

"Its idol mocked thee, seated nigh, And shamed me for the mad mistake; I thank my God he could deny, And she forsake.

"Ah, who am I, that God hath saved Me from the doom I did desire, And crossed the lot myself had craved, To set me higher?

"What have I done that He should bow From heaven to choose a wife for me? And what deserved, He should endow My home with THEE?

"My wife!" With that she turned her face To kiss the hand about her neck; And I went down and sought the place Where leaped the beck—

The busy beck, that still would run And fall, and falter its refrain; And pause and shimmer in the sun, And fall again.

It led me to the sandy shore, We sang together, it and I— "The daylight comes, the dark is o'er, The shadows fly."

I lost it on the sandy shore, "O wife!" its latest murmurs fell, "O wife, be glad, and fear no more The letter L."



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE.

(1571.)

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

Men say it was a stolen tyde— The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was nought of strange, beside The nights of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea wall.

I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth. From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song—

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed."

If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide.

The swanherds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath. The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came downe that kyndly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."

Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, "And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby!

"For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"

I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he saith; "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He looked across the grassy lea, To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"

With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout— Then beaten foam flew round about— Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high— A lurid mark and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang "Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I—my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "O come in life, or come in death! O lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith). And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow grasses mellow. Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking shed."



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE.

(THE PARSON'S BROTHER, SISTER, AND TWO CHILDREN)

Preface.

What wonder man should fail to stay A nursling wafted from above, The growth celestial come astray, That tender growth whose name is Love!

It is as if high winds in heaven Had shaken the celestial trees, And to this earth below had given Some feathered seeds from one of these.

O perfect love that 'dureth long! Dear growth, that shaded by the palms. And breathed on by the angel's song, Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms!

How great the task to guard thee here, Where wind is rough and frost is keen, And all the ground with doubt and fear Is checkered, birth and death between!

Space is against thee—it can part; Time is against thee—it can chill; Words—they but render half the heart; Deeds—they are poor to our rich will.

* * * * *

Merton. Though she had loved me, I had never bound Her beauty to my darkness; that had been Too hard for her. Sadder to look so near Into a face all shadow, than to stand Aloof, and then withdraw, and afterwards Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her. I think so, and I loved her; therefore I Have no complaint; albeit she is not mine: And yet—and yet, withdrawing I would fain She would have pleaded duty—would have said "My father wills it"; would have turned away, As lingering, or unwillingly; for then She would have done no damage to the past: Now she has roughly used it—flung it down And brushed its bloom away. If she had said, "Sir, I have promised; therefore, lo! my hand"— Would I have taken it? Ah no! by all Most sacred, no! I would for my sole share Have taken first her recollected blush The day I won her; next her shining tears— The tears of our long parting; and for all The rest—her cry, her bitter heart-sick cry, That day or night (I know not which it was, The days being always night), that darkest night. When being led to her I heard her cry, "O blind! blind! blind!" Go with thy chosen mate: The fashion of thy going nearly cured The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak That half my thoughts go after thee; but not So weak that I desire to have it so.

JESSIE, seated at the piano, sings.

When the dimpled water slippeth, Full of laughter, on its way, And her wing the wagtail dippeth, Running by the brink at play; When the poplar leaves atremble Turn their edges to the light, And the far-up clouds resemble Veils of gauze most clear and white; And the sunbeams fall and flatter Woodland moss and branches brown. And the glossy finches chatter Up and down, up and down: Though the heart be not attending, Having music of her own, On the grass, through meadows wending, It is sweet to walk alone.

When the falling waters utter Something mournful on their way, And departing swallows flutter, Taking leave of bank and brae; When the chaffinch idly sitteth With her mate upon the sheaves, And the wistful robin flitteth Over beds of yellow leaves; When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder Evil fate, float by and frown, And the listless wind doth wander Up and down, up and down: Though the heart be not attending, Having sorrows of her own, Through the fields and fallows wending, It is sad to walk alone.

Merton. Blind! blind! blind! Oh! sitting in the dark for evermore, And doing nothing—putting out a hand To feel what lies about me, and to say Not "This is blue or red," but "This is cold, And this the sun is shining on, and this I know not till they tell its name to me."

O that I might behold once more my God! The shining rulers of the night and day; Or a star twinkling; or an almond-tree, Pink with her blossom and alive with bees, Standing against the azure! O my sight! Lost, and yet living in the sunlit cells Of memory—that only lightsome place Where lingers yet the dayspring of my youth: The years of mourning for thy death are long.

Be kind, sweet memory! O desert me not! For oft thou show'st me lucent opal seas, Fringed with their cocoa-palms and dwarf red crags, Whereon the placid moon doth "rest her chin", For oft by favor of thy visitings I feel the dimness of an Indian night, And lo! the sun is coming. Red as rust Between the latticed blind his presence burns, A ruby ladder running up the wall; And all the dust, printed with pigeons' feet, Is reddened, and the crows that stalk anear Begin to trail for heat their glossy wings, And the red flowers give back at once the dew, For night is gone, and day is born so fast, And is so strong, that, huddled as in flight, The fleeting darkness paleth to a shade, And while she calls to sleep and dreams "Come on," Suddenly waked, the sleepers rub their eyes, Which having opened, lo! she is no more.

O misery and mourning! I have felt— Yes, I have felt like some deserted world That God had done with, and had cast aside To rock and stagger through the gulfs of space, He never looking on it any more— Untilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired, Nor lighted on by angels in their flight From heaven to happier planets, and the race That once had dwelt on it withdrawn or dead Could such a world have hope that some blest day God would remember her, and fashion her Anew?

Jessie. What, dearest? Did you speak to me?

Child. I think he spoke to us.

M. No, little elves, You were so quiet that I half forgot Your neighborhood. What are you doing there?

J. They sit together on the window-mat Nursing their dolls.

C. Yes, Uncle, our new dolls— Our best dolls, that you gave us.

M. Did you say The afternoon was bright?

J. Yes, bright indeed! The sun is on the plane-tree, and it flames All red and orange.

C. I can see my father— Look! look! the leaves are falling on his gown.

M. Where?

C. In the churchyard, Uncle—he is gone: He passed behind the tower.

M. I heard a bell: There is a funeral, then, behind the church.

2d Child. Are the trees sorry when their leaves drop off?

1st Child. You talk such silly words;—no, not at all. There goes another leaf.

2d Child. I did not see.

1st Child. Look! on the grass, between the little hills. Just where they planted Amy.

J. Amy died— Dear little Amy! when you talk of her, Say, she is gone to heaven.

2d Child. They planted her— Will she come up next year?

1st Child. No, not so soon; But some day God will call her to come up, And then she will. Papa knows everything— He said she would before he planted her.

2d Child. It was at night she went to heaven. Last night We saw a star before we went to bed.

1st Child. Yes, Uncle, did you know? A large bright star, And at her side she had some little ones— Some young ones.

M. Young ones! no, my little maid, Those stars are very old.

1st Child. What! all of them?

M. Yes.

1st Child. Older than our father?

M. Older, far.

2d Child. They must be tired of shining there so long. Perhaps they wish they might come down.

J. Perhaps! Dear children, talk of what you understand. Come, I must lift the trailing creepers up That last night's wind has loosened.

1st Child. May we help? Aunt, may we help to nail them?

J. We shall see. Go, find and bring the hammer, and some shreds.

[Steps outside the window, lifts a branch, and sings.]

Should I change my allegiance for rancor If fortune changes her side? Or should I, like a vessel at anchor, Turn with the turn of the tide? Lift! O lift, thou lowering sky; An thou wilt, thy gloom forego! An thou wilt not, he and I Need not part for drifts of snow.

M. [within] Lift! no, thou lowering sky, thou wilt not lift— Thy motto readeth, "Never."

Children. Here they are! Here are the nails! and may we help?

J. You shall, If I should want help.

1st Child. Will you want it, then? Please want it—we like nailing.

2d Child. Yes, we do.

J. It seems I ought to want it: hold the bough, And each may nail in turn.

[Sings.]

Like a daisy I was, near him growing: Must I move because favors flag, And be like a brown wall-flower blowing Far out of reach in a crag? Lift! O lift, thou lowering sky; An thou canst, thy blue regain! An thou canst not, he and I Need not part for drops of rain.

1st Child. Now, have we nailed enough?

J. [trains the creepers] Yes, you may go; But do not play too near the churchyard path.

M. [within] Even misfortune does not strike so near As my dependence. O, in youth and strength To sit a timid coward in the dark, And feel before I set a cautious step! It is so very dark, so far more dark Than any night that day comes after—night In which there would be stars, or else at least The silvered portion of a sombre cloud Through which the moon is plunging.

J. [entering] Merton!

M. Yes

J. Dear Merton, did you know that I could hear?

M. No: e'en my solitude is not mine now, And if I be alone is ofttimes doubt. Alas! far more than eyesight have I lost; For manly courage drifteth after it— E'en as a splintered spar would drift away From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I complain— Like a weak ailing woman I complain.

J. For the first time.

M. I cannot bear the dark.

J. My brother! you do bear it—bear it well— Have borne it twelve long months, and not complained Comfort your heart with music: all the air Is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands. You like to feel them on you. Come and play.

M. My fate, my fate is lonely!

J. So it is— I know it is.

M. And pity breaks my heart.

J. Does it, dear Merton?

M. Yes, I say it does. What! do you think I am so dull of ear That I can mark no changes in the tones That reach me? Once I liked not girlish pride And that coy quiet, chary of reply, That held me distant: now the sweetest lips Open to entertain me—fairest hands Are proffered me to guide.

J. That is not well?

M. No: give me coldness, pride, or still disdain, Gentle withdrawal. Give me anything But this—a fearless, sweet, confiding ease, Whereof I may expect, I may exact, Considerate care, and have it—gentle speech, And have it. Give me anything but this! For they who give it, give it in the faith That I will not misdeem them, and forget My doom so far as to perceive thereby Hope of a wife. They make this thought too plain; They wound me—O they cut me to the heart! When have I said to any one of them, "I am a blind and desolate man;—come here, I pray you—be as eyes to me?" When said, Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands That clasp a lifelong captive's through the grate, And who will ever lend her delicate aid To guide me, dark encumbrance that I am!— When have I said to her, "Comforting voice, Belonging to a face unknown, I pray Be my wife's voice?"

J. Never, my brother—no, You never have!

M. What could she think of me If I forgot myself so far? or what Could she reply?

J. You ask not as men ask Who care for an opinion, else perhaps, Although I am not sure—although, perhaps, I have no right to give one—I should say She would reply, "I will"

* * * * *

Afterthought.

Man dwells apart, though not alone, He walks among his peers unread; The best of thoughts which he hath known. For lack of listeners are not said.

Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, He saith "They dwell not lone like men, Forgetful that their sunflecked smiles Flash far beyond each other's ken."

He looks on God's eternal suns That sprinkle the celestial blue, And saith, "Ah! happy shining ones, I would that men were grouped like you!"

Yet this is sure, the loveliest star That clustered with its peers we see, Only because from us so far Doth near its fellows seem to be.



SONGS OF SEVEN.

SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION.

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven: I've said my "seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old, I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done; The lambs play always, they know no better; They are only one times one.

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low; You were bright! ah bright! but your light is failing— You are nothing now but a bow.

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven That God has hidden your face? I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place.

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold! O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold!

O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! O cuckoo pint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet— I am seven times one to-day.

SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE.

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me.

Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days.

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, And hangeth her hoods of snow; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: O, children take long to grow.

I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head; "The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it! Such as I wish it to be.

SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE.

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover— Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? Let the star-clusters glow, Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me.

"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep—

"Too deep for swift telling: and yet my one lover I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."

By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight: But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright.

SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY.

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all.

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups! Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow"— Sing once, and sing it again.

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks on you now!

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall— A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall! Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all!

SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD.

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan Before I am well awake; "Let me bleed! O let me alone, Since I must not break!"

For children wake, though fathers sleep With a stone at foot and at head: O sleepless God, forever keep, Keep both living and dead!

I lift mine eyes, and what to see But a world happy and fair! I have not wished it to mourn with me— Comfort is not there.

O what anear but golden brooms, And a waste of reedy rills! O what afar but the fine glooms On the rare blue hills!

I shall not die, but live forlore— How bitter it is to part! O to meet thee, my love, once more! O my heart, my heart!

No more to hear, no more to see! O that an echo might wake And waft one note of thy psalm to me Ere my heart-strings break!

I should know it how faint soe'er, And with angel voices blent; O once to feel thy spirit anear, I could be content!

Or once between the gates of gold, While an angel entering trod, But once—thee sitting to behold On the hills of God!

SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGE.

To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose: To see my bright ones disappear, Drawn up like morning dews— To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose: This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose.

To hear, to heed, to wed, And with thy lord depart In tears that he, as soon as shed, Will let no longer smart.— To hear, to heed, to wed, This while thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said, "Mother, give ME thy child."

O fond, O fool, and blind, To God I gave with tears; But when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears— O fond, O fool, and blind, God guards in happier spheres; That man will guard where he did bind Is hope for unknown years.

To hear, to heed, to wed, Fair lot that maidens choose, Thy mother's tenderest words are said, Thy face no more she views; Thy mother's lot, my dear, She doth in nought accuse; Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, To love—and then to lose.

SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME.

I.

A song of a boat:— There was once a boat on a billow: Lightly she rocked to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like snow, And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow And bent like a wand of willow.

II.

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Went curtseying over the billow, I marked her course till a dancing mote She faded out on the moonlit foam, And I stayed behind in the dear loved home; And my thoughts all day were about the boat, And my dreams upon the pillow.

III.

I pray you hear my song of a boat, For it is but short:— My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, In river or port. Long I looked out for the lad she bore, On the open desolate sea, And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, For he came not back to me— Ah me!

IV.

A song of a nest:— There was once a nest in a hollow: Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, Soft and warm, and full to the brim— Vetches leaned over it purple and dim, With buttercup buds to follow.

V.

I pray you hear my song of a nest, For it is not long:— You shall never light, in a summer quest The bushes among— Shall never light on a prouder sitter, A fairer nestful, nor ever know A softer sound than their tender twitter That wind-like did come and go.

VI.

I had a nestful once of my own, Ah happy, happy I! Right dearly I loved them: but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly— O, one after one they flew away Far up to the heavenly blue, To the better country, the upper day, And—I wish I was going too.

VII.

I pray you, what is the nest to me, My empty nest? And what is the shore where I stood to see My boat sail down to the west? Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Though my good man has sailed? Can I call that home where my nest was set, Now all its hope hath failed? Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be: There is the home where my thoughts are sent, The only home for me— Ah me!



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE.

We reached the place by night, And heard the waves breaking: They came to meet us with candles alight To show the path we were taking. A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white With tufted flowers down shaking.

With head beneath her wing, A little wren was sleeping— So near, I had found it an easy thing To steal her for my keeping From the myrtle-bough that with easy swing Across the path was sweeping.

Down rocky steps rough-hewed, Where cup-mosses flowered, And under the trees, all twisted and rude, Wherewith the dell was dowered, They led us, where deep in its solitude Lay the cottage, leaf-embowered.

The thatch was all bespread With climbing passion-flowers; They were wet, and glistened with raindrops, shed That day in genial showers. "Was never a sweeter nest," we said, "Than this little nest of ours."

We laid us down to sleep: But as for me—waking, I marked the plunge of the muffled deep On its sandy reaches breaking; For heart-joyance doth sometimes keep From slumber, like heart-aching.

And I was glad that night, With no reason ready, To give my own heart for its deep delight, That flowed like some tidal eddy, Or shone like a star that was rising bright With comforting radiance steady.

But on a sudden—hark! Music struck asunder Those meshes of bliss, and I wept in the dark, So sweet was the unseen wonder; So swiftly it touched, as if struck at a mark, The trouble that joy kept under.

I rose—the moon outshone: I saw the sea heaving, And a little vessel sailing alone, The small crisp wavelet cleaving; 'Twas she as she sailed to her port unknown— Was that track of sweetness leaving.

We know they music made In heaven, ere man's creation; But when God threw it down to us that strayed It dropt with lamentation, And ever since doth its sweetness shade With sighs for its first station.

Its joy suggests regret— Its most for more is yearning; And it brings to the soul that its voice hath met, No rest that cadence learning, But a conscious part in the sighs that fret Its nature for returning.

O Eve, sweet Eve! methought When sometimes comfort winning, As she watched the first children's tender sport, Sole joy born since her sinning, If a bird anear them sang, it brought The pang as at beginning.

While swam the unshed tear, Her prattlers little heeding, Would murmur, "This bird, with its carol clear. When the red clay was kneaden, And God made Adam our father dear, Sang to him thus in Eden."

The moon went in—the sky And earth and sea hiding, I laid me down, with the yearning sigh Of that strain in my heart abiding; I slept, and the barque that had sailed so nigh In my dream was ever gliding.

I slept, but waked amazed, With sudden noise frighted, And voices without, and a flash that dazed My eyes from candles lighted. "Ah! surely," methought, "by these shouts upraised Some travellers are benighted."

A voice was at my side— "Waken, madam, waken! The long prayed-for ship at her anchor doth ride. Let the child from its rest be taken, For the captain doth weary for babe and for bride— Waken, madam, waken!

"The home you left but late, He speeds to it light-hearted; By the wires he sent this news, and straight To you with it they started." O joy for a yearning heart too great, O union for the parted!

We rose up in the night, The morning star was shining; We carried the child in its slumber light Out by the myrtles twining: Orion over the sea hung bright, And glorious in declining.

Mother, to meet her son, Smiled first, then wept the rather; And wife, to bind up those links undone, And cherished words to gather, And to show the face of her little one, That had never seen its father.

That cottage in a chine We were not to behold it; But there may the purest of sunbeams shine, May freshest flowers enfold it, For sake of the news which our hearts must twine With the bower where we were told it!

Now oft, left lone again, Sit mother and sit daughter, And bless the good ship that sailed over the main, And the favoring winds that brought her; While still some new beauty they fable and feign For the cottage by the water.



PERSEPHONE.

(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, January, 1862.

Subject given—"Light and Shade.")

She stepped upon Sicilian grass, Demeter's daughter fresh and fair, A child of light, a radiant lass, And gamesome as the morning air. The daffodils were fair to see, They nodded lightly on the lea, Persephone—Persephone!

Lo! one she marked of rarer growth Than orchis or anemone; For it the maiden left them both, And parted from her company. Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still, And stooped to gather by the rill The daffodil, the daffodil.

What ailed the meadow that it shook? What ailed the air of Sicily? She wondered by the brattling brook, And trembled with the trembling lea. "The coal-black horses rise—they rise: O mother, mother!" low she cries— Persephone—Persephone!

"O light, light, light!" she cries, "farewell; The coal-black horses wait for me. O shade of shades, where I must dwell, Demeter, mother, far from thee! Ah, fated doom that I fulfil! Ah, fateful flower beside the rill! The daffodil, the daffodil!"

What ails her that she comes not home? Demeter seeks her far and wide, And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam From many a morn till eventide. "My life, immortal though it be, Is nought," she cries, "for want of thee, Persephone—Persephone!

"Meadows of Enna, let the rain No longer drop to feed your rills, Nor dew refresh the fields again, With all their nodding daffodils! Fade, fade and droop, O lilied lea, Where thou, dear heart, wert reft from me— Persephone—Persephone!"

She reigns upon her dusky throne, Mid shades of heroes dread to see; Among the dead she breathes alone, Persephone—Persephone! Or seated on the Elysian hill She dreams of earthly daylight still, And murmurs of the daffodil.

A voice in Hades soundeth clear, The shadows mourn and fill below; It cries—"Thou Lord of Hades, hear, And let Demeter's daughter go. The tender corn upon the lea Droops in her goddess gloom when she Cries for her lost Persephone.

"From land to land she raging flies, The green fruit falleth in her wake, And harvest fields beneath her eyes To earth the grain unripened shake. Arise, and set the maiden free; Why should the world such sorrow dree By reason of Persephone?"

He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds: "Love, eat with me this parting day;" Then bids them fetch the coal-black steeds— "Demeter's daughter, wouldst away?" The gates of Hades set her free: "She will return full soon," saith he— "My wife, my wife Persephone."

Low laughs the dark king on his throne— "I gave her of pomegranate seeds." Demeter's daughter stands alone Upon the fair Eleusian meads. Her mother meets her. "Hail!" saith she; "And doth our daylight dazzle thee, My love, my child Persephone?

"What moved thee, daughter, to forsake Thy fellow-maids that fatal morn, And give thy dark lord power to take Thee living to his realm forlorn?" Her lips reply without her will, As one addressed who slumbereth still— "The daffodil, the daffodil!"

Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, And sunny wafts that round her stir, Her cheek upon her mother's breast— Demeter's kisses comfort her. Calm Queen of Hades, art thou she Who stepped so lightly on the lea— Persephone, Persephone?

When, in her destined course, the moon Meets the deep shadow of this world, And laboring on doth seem to swoon Through awful wastes of dimness whirled— Emerged at length, no trace hath she Of that dark hour of destiny, Still silvery sweet—Persephone.

The greater world may near the less, And draw it through her weltering shade, But not one biding trace impress Of all the darkness that she made; The greater soul that draweth thee Hath left his shadow plain to see On thy fair face, Persephone!

Demeter sighs, but sure 'tis well The wife should love her destiny: They part, and yet, as legends tell, She mourns her lost Persephone; While chant the maids of Enna still— "O fateful flower beside the rill— The daffodil, the daffodil!"



A SEA SONG.

Old Albion sat on a crag of late. And sang out—"Ahoy! ahoy! Long, life to the captain, good luck to the mate. And this to my sailor boy! Come over, come home, Through the salt sea foam, My sailor, my sailor boy.

"Here's a crown to be given away, I ween, A crown for my sailor's head, And all for the worth of a widowed queen, And the love of the noble dead; And the fear and fame Of the island's name Where my boy was born and bred.

"Content thee, content thee, let it alone, Thou marked for a choice so rare; Though treaties be treaties, never a throne Was proffered for cause as fair. Yet come to me home, Through the salt sea foam, For the Greek must ask elsewhere.

"'Tis a pity, my sailor, but who can tell? Many lands they look to me; One of these might be wanting a Prince as well, But that's as hereafter may be." She raised her white head And laughed; and she said "That's as hereafter may be."



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON.

It was a village built in a green rent, Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay A reef of level rock runs out to sea, And you may lie on it and look sheer down, Just where the "Grace of Sunderland" was lost, And see the elastic banners of the dulse Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep Across the laver, and the mackerel shoot Over and under it, like silver boats Turning at will and plying under water.

There on that reef we lay upon our breasts, My brother and I, and half the village lads, For an old fisherman had called to us With "Sirs, the syle be come." "And what are they?" My brother said. "Good lack!" the old man cried, And shook his head; "To think you gentlefolk Should ask what syle be! Look you; I can't say What syle be called in your fine dictionaries, Nor what name God Almighty calls them by When their food's ready and He sends them south: But our folk call them syle, and nought but syle, And when they're grown, why then we call them herring. I tell you, Sir, the water is as full Of them as pastures be of blades of grass; You'll draw a score out in a landing net, And none of them be longer than a pin.

"Syle! ay, indeed, we should be badly off, I reckon, and so would God Almighty's gulls," He grumbled on in his quaint piety, "And all His other birds, if He should say I will not drive my syle into the south; The fisher folk may do without my syle, And do without the shoals of fish it draws To follow and feed on it." This said, we made Our peace with him by means of two small coins, And down we ran and lay upon the reef, And saw the swimming infants, emerald green, In separate shoals, the scarcely turning ebb Bringing them in; while sleek, and not intent On chase, but taking that which came to hand, The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam Between; and settling on the polished sea, A thousand snow-white gulls sat lovingly In social rings, and twittered while they fed. The village dogs and ours, elate and brave, Lay looking over, barking at the fish; Fast, fast the silver creatures took the bait, And when they heaved and floundered on the rock, In beauteous misery, a sudden pat Some shaggy pup would deal, then back away, At distance eye them with sagacious doubt, And shrink half frighted from the slippery things.

And so we lay from ebb-tide, till the flow Rose high enough to drive us from the reef; The fisher lads went home across the sand; We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour or more, Talking and looking down. It was not talk Of much significance, except for this— That we had more in common than of old, For both were tired, I with overwork. He with inaction; I was glad at heart To rest, and he was glad to have an ear That he could grumble to, and half in jest Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs, And the misfortune of a good estate— Misfortune that was sure to pull him down, Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man: Indeed he felt himself deteriorate Already. Thereupon he sent down showers Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words, And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily Into the seething wave. And as for me, I railed at him and at ingratitude, While rifling of the basket he had slung Across his shoulders; then with right good will We fell to work, and feasted like the gods, Like laborers, or like eager workhouse folk At Yuletide dinner; or, to say the whole At once, like tired, hungry, healthy youth, Until the meal being o'er, the tilted flask Drained of its latest drop, the meat and bread And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs Mumbling the bones, this elder brother of mine— This man, that never felt an ache or pain In his broad, well-knit frame, and never knew The trouble of an unforgiven grudge, The sting of a regretted meanness, nor The desperate struggle of the unendowed For place and for possession—he began To sing a rhyme that he himself had wrought; Sending it out with cogitative pause, As if the scene where he had shaped it first Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind Whether his dignity it well beseemed To sing of pretty maiden:

Goldilocks sat on the grass, Tying up of posies rare; Hardly could a sunbeam pass Through the cloud that was her hair. Purple orchis lasteth long, Primrose flowers are pale and clear; O the maiden sang a song It would do you good to hear!

Sad before her leaned the boy, "Goldilocks that I love well, Happy creature, fair and coy, Think o' me, sweet Amabel." Goldilocks she shook apart, Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes; Like a blossom in her heart, Opened out her first surprise.

As a gloriole sign o' grace, Goldilocks, ah fall and flow, On the blooming, childlike face, Dimple, dimple, come and go. Give her time; on grass and sky Let her gaze if she be fain: As they looked ere he drew nigh, They will never look again.

Ah! the playtime she has known, While her goldilocks grew long, Is it like a nestling flown, Childhood over like a song? Yes, the boy may clear his brow, Though she thinks to say him nay, When she sighs, "I cannot now— Come again some other day."

"Hold! there," he cried, half angry with himself; "That ending goes amiss:" then turned again To the old argument that we had held— "Now look you!" said my brother, "You may talk Till, weary of the talk, I answer 'Ay, There's reason in your words;' and you may talk Till I go on to say, 'This should be so;' And you may talk till I shall further own 'It is so; yes, I am a lucky dog!' Yet not the less shall I next morning wake. And with a natural and fervent sigh, Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim 'What an unlucky dog I am!'" And here He broke into a laugh. "But as for you— You! on all hands you have the best of me; Men have not robbed you of your birthright—work, Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field, Nor wedded heiresses against their will, Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, nor overreached, That you might drone a useless life away 'Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms And half a dozen bogs." "O rare!" I cried; "His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent: Now we behold how far bad actions reach! Because five hundred years ago a Knight Drove geese and beeves out from a Franklin's yard Because three hundred years ago a squire— Against her will, and for her fair estate— Married a very ugly red-haired maid, The blest inheritor of all their pelf, While in the full enjoyment of the same, Sighs on his own confession every day. He cracks no egg without a moral sigh, Nor eats of beef, but thinking on that wrong; Then, yet the more to be revenged on them, And shame their ancient pride, if they should know, Works hard as any horse for his degree, And takes to writing verses." "Ay," he said, Half laughing at himself. "Yet you and I, But for those tresses which enrich us yet With somewhat of the hue that partial fame Calls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs, But when it flames round brows of younger sons, Just red—mere red; why, but for this, I say, And but for selfish getting of the land, And beggarly entailing it, we two, To-day well fed, well grown, well dressed, well read, We might have been two horny-handed boors— Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors— Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme, Or soiling our dull souls and consciences With plans for pilfering a cottage roost.

"What, chorus! are you dumb? you should have cried, 'So good comes out of evil;'" and with that, As if all pauses it was natural To seize for songs, his voice broke out again:

Coo, dove, to thy married mate— She has two warm eggs in her nest: Tell her the hours are few to wait Ere life shall dawn on their rest; And thy young shall peck at the shells, elate With a dream of her brooding breast.

Coo, dove, for she counts the hours, Her fair wings ache for flight: By day the apple has grown in the flowers, And the moon has grown by night, And the white drift settled from hawthorn bowers, Yet they will not seek the light.

Coo, dove; but what of the sky? And what if the storm-wind swell, And the reeling branch come down from on high To the grass where daisies dwell, And the brood beloved should with them lie Or ever they break the shell?

Coo, dove; and yet black clouds lower, Like fate, on the far-off sea: Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower, As on wings of destiny. Ah, what if they break in an evil hour, As they broke over mine and me?

What next?—we started like to girls, for lo! The creaking voice, more harsh than rusty crane, Of one who stooped behind us, cried aloud "Good lack! how sweet the gentleman does sing— So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his throat. Why, Mike's a child to him, a two years child— Chrisom child." "Who's Mike?" my brother growled A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman— "Mike, Sir? he's just a fisher lad, no more; But he can sing, when he takes on to sing, So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make bold, I'd ask what song that was you sung. My mate, As we were shoving off the mackerel boats, Said he, 'I'll wager that's the sort o' song They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea,'"

"There, fisherman," quoth I, "he showed his wit, Your mate; he marked the sound of savage war— Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and bursting shells, And 'murderous messages,' delivered by Spent balls that break the heads of dreaming men."

"Ay, ay, Sir!" quoth the fisherman. "Have done!" My brother. And I—"The gift belongs to few Of sending farther than the words can reach Their spirit and expression;" still—"Have done!" He cried; and then "I rolled the rubbish out More loudly than the meaning warranted, To air my lungs—I thought not on the words."

Then said the fisherman, who missed the point, "So Mike rolls out the psalm; you'll hear him, Sir, Please God you live till Sunday." "Even so: And you, too, fisherman; for here, they say, You are all church-goers." "Surely, Sir," quoth he, Took off his hat, and stroked his old white head And wrinkled face; then sitting by us said, As one that utters with a quiet mind Unchallenged truth—"'Tis lucky for the boats."

The boats! 'tis lucky for the boats! Our eyes Were drawn to him as either fain would say, What! do they send the psalm up in the spire, And pray because 'tis lucky for the boats?

But he, the brown old man, the wrinkled man, That all his life had been a church-goer, Familiar with celestial cadences, Informed of all he could receive, and sure Of all he understood—he sat content, And we kept silence. In his reverend face There was a simpleness we could not sound; Much truth had passed him overhead; some error He had trod under foot;—God comfort him! He could not learn of us, for we were young And he was old, and so we gave it up; And the sun went into the west, and down Upon the water stooped an orange cloud, And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad To wear its colors; and the sultry air Went out to sea, and puffed the sails of ships With thymy wafts, the breath of trodden grass: It took moreover music, for across The heather belt and over pasture land Came the sweet monotone of one slow bell, And parted time into divisions rare, Whereof each morsel brought its own delight.

"They ring for service," quoth the fisherman; "Our parson preaches in the church to-night."

"And do the people go?" my brother asked.

"Ay, Sir; they count it mean to stay away, He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man, Our parson; half a head above us all"

"That's a great gift, and notable," said I.

"Ay, Sir; and when he was a younger man He went out in the lifeboat very oft, Before the 'Grace of Sunderland' was wrecked. He's never been his own man since that hour: For there were thirty men aboard of her, Anigh as close as you are now to me, And ne'er a one was saved. They're lying now, With two small children, in a row: the church And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few Have any names. She bumped upon the reef; Our parson, my young son, and several more Were lashed together with a two-inch rope, And crept along to her; their mates ashore Ready to haul them in. The gale was high, The sea was all a boiling seething froth, And God Almighty's guns were going off, And the land trembled.

"When she took the ground, She went to pieces like a lock of hay Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that, The captain reeled on deck with two small things, One in each arm—his little lad and lass. Their hair was long, and blew before his face, Or else we thought he had been saved; he fell, But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls! The breakers licked them off; and some were crushed, Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead, The dear breath beaten out of them: not one Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back With eyes wide open. But the captain lay And clung—the only man alive. They prayed— 'For God's sake, captain, throw the children here!' 'Throw them!' our parson cried; and then she struck And he threw one, a pretty two years child; But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge, And down he went. They say they heard him cry.

"Then he rose up and took the other one, And all our men reached out their hungry arms, And cried out, 'Throw her! throw her!' and he did: He threw her right against the parson's breast, And all at once a sea broke over them, And they that saw it from the shore have said It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, Just as a woman might the lump of salt That 'twixt her hands into the kneading pan She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread.

"We hauled our men in: two of them were dead— The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down; Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb; We often see him stand beside her grave: But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his.

"I ask your pardon, Sirs, I prate and prate, And never have I said what brought me here. Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow morn, I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like mine."

"Ay, that was what we wanted," we replied; "A boat, his boat;" and off he went, well pleased.

We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky Flushing our faces), and went sauntering on, And thought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. And up and down among the heather beds, And up and down between the sheaves we sped, Doubling and winding; for a long ravine Ran up into the land and cut us off, Pushing out slippery ledges for the birds. And rent with many a crevice, where the wind Had laid up drifts of empty eggshells, swept From the bare berths of gulls and guillemots.

So as it chanced we lighted on a path That led into a nutwood; and our talk Was louder than beseemed, if we had known, With argument and laughter; for the path, As we sped onward, took a sudden turn Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass, And close upon a porch, and face to face With those within, and with the thirty graves. We heard the voice of one who preached within, And stopped. "Come on," my brother whispered me; "It were more decent that we enter now; Come on! we'll hear this rare old demigod: I like strong men and large; I like gray heads, And grand gruff voices, hoarse though this may be With shouting in the storm." It was not hoarse, The voice that preached to those few fishermen And women, nursing mothers with the babes Hushed on their breasts; and yet it held them not: Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us, Till, having leaned our rods against the wall, And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat, And were apprised that, though he saw us not, The parson knew that he had lost the eyes And ears of those before him, for he made A pause—a long dead pause, and dropped his arms, And stood awaiting, till I felt the red Mount to my brow. And a soft fluttering stir Passed over all, and every mother hushed The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round And met our eyes, unused to diffidence, But diffident of his; then with a sigh Fronted the folk, lifted his grand gray head, And said, as one that pondered now the words He had been preaching on with new surprise, And found fresh marvel in their sound, "Behold! Behold!" saith He, "I stand at the door and knock."

Then said the parson: "What! and shall He wait, And must He wait, not only till we say, 'Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swept. The children sleep, the mackerel-boats are in, And all the nets are mended; therefore I Will slowly to the door and open it:' But must He also wait where still, behold! He stands and knocks, while we do say, 'Good Lord. The gentlefolk are come to worship here, And I will up and open to Thee soon; But first I pray a little longer wait, For I am taken up with them; my eyes Must needs regard the fashion of their clothes, And count the gains I think to make by them; Forsooth, they are of much account, good Lord! Therefore have patience with me—wait, dear Lord Or come again?' What! must He wait for THIS— For this? Ay, He doth wait for this, and still, Waiting for this, He, patient, raileth not; Waiting for this, e'en this He saith, 'Behold! I stand at the door and knock,' O patient hand! Knocking and waiting—knocking in the night When work is done! I charge you, by the sea Whereby you fill your children's mouths, and by The might of Him that made it—fishermen! I charge you, mothers! by the mother's milk He drew, and by His Father, God over all. Blessed forever, that ye answer Him! Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned; If ye be sorry, open it with sighs. Albeit the place be bare for poverty, And comfortless for lack of plenishing, Be not abashed for that, but open it, And take Him in that comes to sup with thee; 'Behold!' He saith, 'I stand at the door and knock.'

"Now, hear me: there be troubles in this world That no man can escape, and there is one That lieth hard and heavy on my soul, Concerning that which is to come:— I say As a man that knows what earthly trouble means, I will not bear this ONE—I cannot bear This ONE—I cannot bear the weight of you— You—every one of you, body and soul; You, with the care you suffer, and the loss That you sustain; you, with the growing up To peril, maybe with the growing old To want, unless before I stand with you At the great white throne, I may be free of all, And utter to the full what shall discharge Mine obligation: nay, I will not wait A day, for every time the black clouds rise, And the gale freshens, still I search my soul To find if there be aught that can persuade To good, or aught forsooth that can beguile From evil, that I (miserable man! If that be so) have left unsaid, undone.

"So that when any risen from sunken wrecks, Or rolled in by the billows to the edge Of the everlasting strand, what time the sea Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may say Never, 'Old man, you told us not of this; You left us fisher lads that had to toil Ever in danger of the secret stab Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger; winds Of breath more murderous than the cannon's; wave Mighty to rock us to our death; and gulfs, Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in: This crime be on your head; and as for us— What shall we do? 'but rather—nay, not so, I will not think it; I will leave the dead, Appealing but to life: I am afraid Of you, but not so much if you have sinned As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. The day was, I have been afraid of pride— Hard man's hard pride; but now I am afraid Of man's humility, I counsel you, By the great God's great humbleness, and by His pity, be not humble over-much. See! I will show at whose unopened doors He stands and knocks, that you may never says 'I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost; He knocks at other doors, but not at mine.'

"See here! it is the night! it is the night! And snow lies thickly, white untrodden snow, And the wan moon upon a casement shines— A casement crusted o'er with frosty leaves, That make her ray less bright along the floor. A woman sits, with hands upon her knees, Poor tired soul! and she has nought to do, For there is neither fire nor candle-light: The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth, The rushlight flickered down an hour ago; Her children wail a little in their sleep For cold and hunger, and, as if that sound Was not enough, another comes to her, Over God's undefiled snow—a song— Nay, never hang your heads—I say, a song. And doth she curse the alehouse, and the sots That drink the night out and their earnings there, And drink their manly strength and courage down, And drink away the little children's bread, And starve her, starving by the self-same act Her tender suckling, that with piteous eye Looks in her face, till scarcely she has heart To work, and earn the scanty bit and drop That feed the others? Does she curse the song? I think not, fishermen; I have not heard Such women curse. God's curse is curse enough. To-morrow she will say a bitter thing, Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show— A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse— 'My master is not worse than many men:' But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still; No food, no comfort, cold and poverty Bearing her down. My heart is sore for her; How long, how long? When troubles come of God, When men are frozen out of work, when wives Are sick, when working fathers fail and die, When boats go down at sea—then nought behoves Like patience; but for troubles wrought of men Patience is hard—I tell you it is hard.

"O thou poor soul! it is the night—the night; Against thy door drifts up the silent snow, Blocking thy threshold: 'Fall' thou sayest, 'fall, fall Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot. Am not I fallen? wake up and pipe, O wind, Dull wind, and heat and bluster at my door: Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song, For there is other music made to-night That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea, Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall. O, I could long like thy cold icicles Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift And not complain, so I might melt at last In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do!

"'But woe is me! I think there is no sun; My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark: None care for me. The children cry for bread, And I have none, and nought can comfort me; Even if the heavens were free to such as I, It were not much, for death is long to wait, And heaven is far to go!'

"And speak'st thou thus, Despairing of the sun that sets to thee, And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, And of the heaven that lieth far from thee? Peace, peace, fond fool! One draweth near thy door Whose footsteps leave no print across the snow; Thy sun has risen with comfort in his face, The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart, And bless with saintly hand. What! is it long To wait, and far to go? Thou shalt not go; Behold, across the snow to thee He comes, Thy heaven descends, and is it long to wait? Thou shalt not wait: 'This night, this night,' he saith, 'I stand at the door and knock.'

"It is enough—can such an one be here— Yea, here? O God forgive you, fishermen! One! is there only one? But do thou know, O woman pale for want, if thou art here, That on thy lot much thought is spent in heaven; And, coveting the heart a hard man broke, One standeth patient, watching in the night, And waiting in the daytime. What shall be If thou wilt answer? He will smile on thee, One smile of His shall be enough to heal The wound of man's neglect; and He will sigh, Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure; And He will speak—speak in the desolate nigh In the dark night: 'For me a thorny crown Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands And feet: there was an earthquake, and I died I died, and am alive for evermore.

"'I died for thee; for thee I am alive, And my humanity doth mourn for thee, For thou art mine; and all thy little ones, They, too, are mine, are mine. Behold, the house Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons Of God are singing, and, behold, the heart Is troubled: yet the nations walk in white; They have forgotten how to weep; and thou Shalt also come, and I will foster thee And satisfy thy soul; and thou shall warm Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. A little while—it is a little while— A little while, and I will comfort thee; I go away, but I will come again.'

"But hear me yet. There was a poor old man Who sat and listened to the raging sea, And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs As like to tear them down. He lay at night; And 'Lord have mercy on the lads,' said he, 'That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine! For when the gale gets up, and when the wind Flings at the window, when it beats the roof, And lulls and stops and rouses up again, And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave. And scatters it like feathers up the field, Why, then I think of my two lads: my lads That would have worked and never let me want, And never let me take the parish pay. No, none of mine; my lads were drowned at sea— My two—before the most of these wore born. I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife Walked up and down, and still walked up and down. And I walked after, and one could not hear A word the other said, for wind and sea That raged and beat and thundered in the night— The awfullest, the longest, lightest night That ever parents had to spend—a moon That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. Ah me! and other men have lost their lads, And other women wiped their poor dead mouths, And got them home and dried them in the house, And seen the driftwood lie along the coast, That was a tidy boat but one day back. And seen next tide the neighbors gather it To lay it on their fires. Ay, I was strong And able-bodied—loved my work;—but now I am a useless hull: 'tis time I sank; I am in all men's way; I trouble them; I am a trouble to myself: but yet I feel for mariners of stormy nights, And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay! If I had learning I would pray the Lord To bring them in: but I'm no scholar, no; Book-learning is a world too hard for me: But I make bold to say, 'O Lord, good Lord, I am a broken-down poor man, a fool To speak to Thee: but in the Book 'tis writ, As I hear say from others that can read, How, when Thou camest, Thou didst love the sea, And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure Thou knowest all the peril they go through. And all their trouble. As for me, good Lord, I have no boat; I am too old, too old— My lads are drowned; I buried my poor wife; My little lasses died so long ago That mostly I forget what they were like. Thou knowest, Lord; they were such little ones. I know they went to Thee, but I forget Their faces, though I missed them sore. O Lord, I was a strong man; I have drawn good food And made good money out of Thy great sea: But yet I cried for them at nights; and now, Although I be so old, I miss my lads, And there be many folk this stormy night Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord, Comfort them; save their honest boys, their pride, And let them hear next ebb the blessedest, Best sound—the boat-keels grating on the sand. I cannot pray with finer words: I know Nothing; I have no learning, cannot learn— Too old, too old. They say I want for nought, I have the parish pay; but I am dull Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. God save me, I have been a sinful man— And save the lives of them that still can work, For they are good to me; ay, good to me. But, Lord, I am a trouble! and I sit, And I am lonesome, and the nights are few That any think to come and draw a chair, And sit in my poor place and talk a while. Why should they come, forsooth? Only the wind Knocks at my door, O long and loud it knocks, The only thing God made that has a mind To enter in.'

"Yea, thus the old man spake: These were the last words of his aged mouth— BUT ONE DID KNOCK. One came to sup with him, That humble, weak, old man; knocked at his door In the rough pauses of the laboring wind. I tell you that One knocked while it was dark. Save where their foaming passion had made white Those livid seething billows. What He said In that poor place where He did talk a while, I cannot tell: but this I am assured, That when the neighbors came the morrow morn, What time the wind had bated, and the sun Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile He passed away in, and they said, 'He looks As he had woke and seen the face of Christ, And with that rapturous smile held out his arms To come to Him!'

"Can such an one be here, So old, so weak, so ignorant, so frail? The Lord be good to thee, thou poor old man; It would be hard with thee if heaven were shut To such as have not learning! Nay, nay, nay, He condescends to them of low estate; To such as are despised He cometh down, Stands at the door and knocks.

"Yet bear with me. I have a message; I have more to say. Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sin— That burden ten times heavier to be borne? What think you? Shall the virtuous have His care Alone? O virtuous women, think not scorn. For you may lift your faces everywhere; And now that it grows dusk, and I can see None though they front me straight, I fain would tell A certain thing to you. I say to you; And if it doth concern you, as methinks It doth, then surely it concerneth all. I say that there was once—I say not here— I say that there was once a castaway, And she was weeping, weeping bitterly; Kneeling, and crying with a heart-sick cry That choked itself in sobs—'O my good name! Oh my good name!' And none did hear her cry! Nay; and it lightened, and the storm-bolts fell, And the rain splashed upon the roof, and still She, storm-tost as the storming elements— She cried with an exceeding bitter cry, 'O my good name!' And then the thunder-cloud Stooped low and burst in darkness overhead, And rolled, and rocked her on her knees, and shook The frail foundations of her dwelling-place. But she—if any neighbors had come in (None did): if any neighbors had come in, They might have seen her crying on her knees. And sobbing 'Lost, lost, lost!' beating her breast— Her breast forever pricked with cruel thorns. The wounds whereof could neither balm assuage Nor any patience heal—beating her brow, Which ached, it had been bent so long to hide From level eyes, whose meaning was contempt.

"O ye good women, it is hard to leave The paths of virtue, and return again. What if this sinner wept, and none of you Comforted her? And what if she did strive To mend, and none of you believed her strife. Nor looked upon her? Mark, I do not say, Though it was hard, you therefore were to blame; That she had aught against you, though your feet Never drew near her door. But I beseech Your patience. Once in old Jerusalem A woman kneeled at consecrated feet, Kissed them, and washed them with her tears. What then? I think that yet our Lord is pitiful: I think I see the castaway e'en now! And she is not alone: the heavy rain Splashes without, and sullen thunder rolls, But she is lying at the sacred feet Of One transfigured.

"And her tears flow down, Down to her lips,—her lips that kiss the print Of nails; and love is like to break her heart! Love and repentance—for it still doth work Sore in her soul to think, to think that she, Even she, did pierce the sacred, sacred feet. And bruise the thorn-crowned head.

"O Lord, our Lord, How great is Thy compassion. Come, good Lord, For we will open. Come this night, good Lord; Stand at the door and knock.

"And is this all?— Trouble, old age and simpleness, and sin— This all? It might be all some other night; But this night, if a voice said 'Give account Whom hast thou with thee?' then must I reply, 'Young manhood have I, beautiful youth and strength, Rich with all treasure drawn up from the crypt Where lies the learning of the ancient world— Brave with all thoughts that poets fling upon The strand of life, as driftweed after storms: Doubtless familiar with Thy mountain heads, And the dread purity of Alpine snows, Doubtless familiar with Thy works concealed For ages from mankind—outlying worlds, And many mooned spheres—and Thy great store Of stars, more thick than mealy dust which here Powders the pale leaves of Auriculas. This do I know, but, Lord, I know not more. Not more concerning them—concerning Thee, I know Thy bounty; where Thou givest much Standing without, if any call Thee in Thou givest more.' Speak, then, O rich and strong: Open, O happy young, ere yet the hand Of Him that knocks, wearied at last, forbear; The patient foot its thankless quest refrain, The wounded heart for evermore withdraw."

I have heard many speak, but this one man— So anxious not to go to heaven alone— This one man I remember, and his look, Till twilight overshadowed him. He ceased. And out in darkness with the fisherfolk We passed and stumbled over mounds of moss, And heard, but did not see, the passing beck. Ah, graceless heart, would that it could regain From the dim storehouse of sensations past The impress full of tender awe, that night, Which fell on me! It was as if the Christ Had been drawn down from heaven to track us home, And any of the footsteps following us Might have been His.



A WEDDING SONG.

Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane, My Dane with the beautiful eyes! Thousands and thousands await thee full fain, And talk of the wind and the skies. Fear not from folk and from country to part, O, I swear it is wisely done: For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart, As becometh my father's son.

Great London was shouting as I went down. "She is worthy," I said, "of this; What shall I give who have promised a crown? O, first I will give her a kiss." So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane, Through the waving wonderful crowd: Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain, Like mighty thunders and loud.

And they said, "He is young, the lad we love, The heir of the Isles is young: How we deem of his mother, and one gone above, Can neither be said nor sung.

"He brings us a pledge—he will do his part With the best of his race and name;"— And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart, As may suit with my mother's fame.



THE FOUR BRIDGES.

I love this gray old church, the low, long nave, The ivied chancel and the slender spire; No less its shadow on each heaving grave, With growing osier bound, or living brier; I love those yew-tree trunks, where stand arrayed So many deep-cut names of youth and maid.

A simple custom this—I love it well— A carved betrothal and a pledge of truth; How many an eve, their linked names to spell, Beneath the yew-trees sat our village youth! When work was over, and the new-cut hay Sent wafts of balm from meadows where it lay.

Ah! many an eve, while I was yet a boy, Some village hind has beckoned me aside, And sought mine aid, with shy and awkward joy, To carve the letters of his rustic bride, And make them clear to read as graven stone, Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own.

For none could carve like me, and here they stand. Fathers and mothers of this present race: And underscored by some less practised hand, That fain the story of its line would trace, With children's names, and number, and the day When any called to God have passed away.

I look upon them, and I turn aside, As oft when carving them I did erewhile; And there I see those wooden bridges wide That cross the marshy hollow; there the stile In reeds embedded, and the swelling down, And the white road towards the distant town.

But those old bridges claim another look. Our brattling river tumbles through the one; The second spans a shallow, weedy brook; Beneath the others, and beneath the sun, Lie two long stilly pools, and on their breasts Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows' nests.

And round about them grows a fringe of reeds, And then a floating crown of lily-flowers, And yet within small silver-budded weeds; But each clear centre evermore embowers A deeper sky, where, stooping, you may see The little minnows darting restlessly.

My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet; Why did the dewdrop fringe your chalices? Why in your beauty are you thus complete, You silver ships—you floating palaces? O! if need be, you must allure man's eye, Yet wherefore blossom here? O why? O why?