And as for him,—(Some narrow hearts there are That suffer blight when that they fed upon As something to complete their being fails, And they retire into their holds and pine, And long restrained grow stern. But some there are, That in a sacred want and hunger rise, And draw the misery home and live with it, And excellent in honor wait, and will That somewhat good should yet be found in it, Else wherefore were they born?),—and as for him, He loved her, but his peace and welfare made The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange Threw open wide its hospitable doors And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers, Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. In him the eyes at home were satisfied, And if he did but laugh the ear approved. What then? He dwelt among them as of old, And taught his mouth to smile. And time went on, Till on a morning, when the perfect spring Rested among her leaves, he journeying home After short sojourn in a neighboring town, Stopped at the little station on the line That ran between his woods; a lonely place And quiet, and a woman and a child Got out. He noted them, but walking on Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love, And she was sitting on a rustic seat That overlooked the line, and he desired With longing indescribable to look Upon her face again. And he drew near. She was right happy; she was waiting there. He felt that she was waiting for her lord. She cared no whit if Laurance went or stayed, But answered when he spoke, and dropped her cheek In her fair hand. And he, not able yet To force himself away, and never more Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers, And wild anemone, for many a clump Grew all about him, and the hazel rods Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard The stopping train, and felt that he must go; His time was come. There was nought else to do Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near And would have had her take it from his hand; But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, And then remembering him and his long love, She said, "I thank you; pray you now forget, Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes Softened; but he was dumb, till through the trees Suddenly broke upon their quietude The woman and her child. And Muriel said, "What will you?" She made answer quick and keen, "Your name, my lady; 'tis your name I want, Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased, But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, As if considering in how short a while It would be changed, she lifted up her face And gave it, and the little child drew near And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. Then Laurance, not content to leave them so, Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke,— "Your errand with this lady?"—"And your right To ask it?" she broke out with sudden heat And passion: "What is that to you! Poor child! Madam!" And Muriel lifted up her face And looked,—they looked into each other's eyes.

"That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman cried, "That man with whom you think to wed so soon, You must not heed him. What! the world is full Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, Better than he,—that I should say it!—far Better." And down her face the large tears ran, And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up, Taking a terrible meaning from her words; And Laurance stared about him half in doubt If this were real, for all things were so blithe, And soft air tossed the little flowers about; The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped, Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both Were quiet, gazing in each other's eyes.

He found his voice, and spoke: "This is not well, Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong; A man that could desert and plan to wed Will not his purpose yield to God and right, Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, If you be come this day to urge a claim, You will not tell me that your claim will hold; 'Tis only, if I read aright, the old, Sorrowful, hateful story!" Muriel sighed, With a dull patience that he marvelled at, "Be plain with me. I know not what to think, Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife? Be plain with me." And all too quietly, With running down of tears, the answer came, "Ay, madam, ay! the worse for him and me." Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear, And cried upon him with a bitter cry, Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, With such affright, and violent anger stirred He broke from out the thicket to her side, Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, She sat; and, stepping close, that woman came And faced him. Then said Muriel, "O my heart, Herbert!"—and he was dumb, and ground his teeth, And lifted up his hand and looked at it, And at the woman; but a man was there Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself Between them; he was strong,—a stalwart man: And Herbert thinking on it, knew his name. "What good," quoth he, "though you and I should strive And wrestle all this April day? A word, And not a blow, is what these women want: Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak With passion and great anguish, flung himself Upon the seat and cried, "O lost, my love! O Muriel, Muriel!" And the woman spoke, "Sir, 'twas an evil day you wed with me; And you were young; I know it, sir, right well. Sir, I have worked; I have not troubled you, Not for myself, nor for your child. I know We are not equal." "Hold!" he cried; "have done; Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. Get from me! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed! All's done. You hear it, Muriel; if you can, O sweet, forgive me." Then the woman moved Slowly away: her little singing child Went in her wake: and Muriel dropped her hands, And sat before these two that loved her so, Mute and unheeding. There were angry words, She knew, but yet she could not hear the words; And afterwards the man she loved stooped down And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew To look at her, and with a gesture pray Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed, And presently, and soon, O,—he was gone.

She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone, Remained beside her; and she put her hand Before her face again, and afterward She heard a voice, as if a long way off, Some one entreated, but she could not heed. Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised Her passive from her seat. So then she knew That he would have her go with him, go home,— It was not far to go,—a dreary home. A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high, Had in her youth, and for a place and home, Married the stern old rector; and the girl Dwelt with them: she was orphaned,—had no kin Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in, And spared to her the telling of this woe. He sought her kindred where they sat apart, And laid before them all the cruel thing, As he had seen it. After, he retired: And restless, and not master of himself, He day and night haunted the rectory lanes; And all things, even to the spreading out Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground, Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace And glory and great light on mountain heads,— All things were leagued against him,—ministered By likeness or by contrast to his love.

But what was that to Muriel, though her peace He would have purchased for her with all prayers, And costly, passionate, despairing tears? O what to her that he should find it worse To bear her life's undoing than his own?

She let him see her, and she made no moan, But talked full calmly of indifferent things, Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes And lovely wasted cheek, he started up With "This I cannot bear!" and shamed to feel His manhood giving way, and utterly Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain, Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, Battling and chiding with himself, the maze.

She suffered, and he could not make her well For all his loving;—he was naught to her. And now his passionate nature, set astir, Fought with the pain that could not be endured; And like a wild thing suddenly aware That it is caged, which flings and bruises all Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged Against the misery: then he made all worse With tears. But when he came to her again, Willing to talk as they had talked before, She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, "I know you have been crying": and she bent Her own fair head and wept. She felt the cold— The freezing cold that deadened all her life— Give way a little; for this passionate Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart, And brought some natural warmth, some natural tears.

III.

And after that, though oft he sought her door, He might not see her. First they said to him, "She is not well"; and afterwards, "Her wish Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste They took her from the place, because so fast She faded. As for him, though youth and strength Can bear the weight as of a world, at last The burden of it tells,—he heard it said, When autumn came, "The poor sweet thing will die: That shock was mortal." And he cared no more To hide, if yet he could have hidden, the blight That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, Good, kindly women; and he wrote to them, Praying that he might see her ere she died.

So in her patience she permitted him To be about her, for it eased his heart; And as for her that was to die so soon, What did it signify? She let him weep Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke Pitying words, and then they made him go, It was enough they said, her time was short, And he had seen her. He HAD seen, and felt The bitterness of death; but he went home, Being satisfied in that great longing now, And able to endure what might befall.

And Muriel lay, and faded with the year; She lay at the door of death, that opened not To take her in; for when the days once more Began a little to increase, she felt,— And it was sweet to her, she was so young,— She felt a longing for the time of flowers, And dreamed that she was walking in that wood With her two feet among the primroses.

Then when the violet opened, she rose up And walked: the tender leaf and tender light Did solace her; but she was white and wan, The shadow of that Muriel, in the wood Who listened to those deadly words. And now Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder rose In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay, And drifted not at all. The lilac spread Odorous essence round her; and full oft, When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer, She, faded, sat among the Maytide bloom, And with a reverent quiet in her soul, Took back—it was His will—her time, and sat Learning again to live. Thus as she sat Upon a day, she was aware of one Who at a distance marked her. This again Another day, and she was vexed, for yet She longed for quiet; but she heard a foot Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. "Laurance!" And all impatient of unrest And strife, ay, even of the sight of them, When he drew near, with tired, tired lips, As if her soul upbraided him, she said, "Why have you done this thing?" He answered her, "I am not always master in the fight: I could not help it." "What!" she sighed, "not yet! O, I am sorry"; and she talked to him As one who looked to live, imploring him,— "Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long; It wearies me to think of this your love. Forget me!"

He made answer, "I will try: The task will take me all my life to learn, Or were it learned, I know not how to live; This pain is part of life and being now,— It is myself; but yet—but I will try." Then she spoke friendly to him,—of his home, His father, and the old, brave, loving folk; She bade him think of them. And not her words, But having seen her, satisfied his heart. He left her, and went home to live his life, And all the summer heard it said of her, "Yet, she grows stronger"; but when autumn came Again she drooped.

A bitter thing it is To lose at once the lover and the love; For who receiveth not may yet keep life In the spirit with bestowal. But for her, This Muriel, all was gone. The man she loved, Not only from her present had withdrawn, But from her past, and there was no such man, There never had been.

He was not as one Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holds The winged fluttering stranger to his breast, Till, after transient stay, all unaware It leaves him: it has flown. No; this may live In memory,—loved till death. He was not vile; For who by choice would part with that pure bird, And lose the exaltation of its song? He had not strength of will to keep it fast, Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life Of thought to make the echo sound for him After the song was done. Pity that man: His music is all flown, and he forgets The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks 'Twas no great matter. But he was not vile, Only a thing to pity most in man, Weak,—only poor, and, if he knew it, undone. But Herbert! When she mused on it, her soul Would fain have hidden him forevermore, Even from herself: so pure of speech, so frank, So full of household kindness. Ah, so good And true! A little, she had sometimes thought, Despondent for himself, but strong of faith In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed.

Ay, he was gone! and she whom he had wed, As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send, From her small store, money to help her need, With, "Pray you keep it secret." Then the whole Of the cruel tale was told. What more? She died. Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly, Wrote of the end. "Our sister fain had seen Her husband; prayed him sore to come. But no. And then she prayed him that he would forgive, Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. Dear madam, he was angry, yet we think He might have let her see, before she died, The words she wanted, but he did not write Till she was gone—'I neither can forgive, Nor would I if I could.'" "Patience, my heart! And this, then, is the man I loved!" But yet He sought a lower level, for he wrote Telling the story with a different hue, Telling of freedom. He desired to come, "For now," said he, "O love, may all be well." And she rose up against it in her soul, For she despised him. And with passionate tears Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these words,— "Herbert, I will not see you." Then she drooped Again; it is so bitter to despise; And all her strength, when autumn leaves down dropped, Fell from her. "Ah!" she thought, "I rose up once, I cannot rise up now; here is the end." And all her kinsfolk thought, "It is the end."

But when that other heard, "It is the end," His heart was sick, and he, as by a power Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. Reason rebelled against it, but his will Required it of him with a craving strong As life, and passionate though hopeless pain.

She, when she saw his face, considered him Full quietly, let all excuses pass Not answered, and considered yet again.

"He had heard that she was sick; what could he do But come, and ask her pardon that he came?" What could he do, indeed?—a weak white girl Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand; His youth, and power, and majesty were hers, And not his own.

She looked, and pitied him. Then spoke: "He loves me with a love that lasts. Ah, me! that I might get away from it, Or, better, hear it said that love IS NOT, And then I could have rest. My time is short, I think, so short." And roused against himself In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom Her to disquiet whom he loved; ay, her For whom he would have given all his rest, If there were any left to give; he took Her words up bravely, promising once more Absence, and praying pardon; but some tears Dropped quietly upon her cheek.

"Remain," She said, "for there is something to be told, Some words that you must hear.

"And first hear this: God has been good to me; you must not think That I despair. There is a quiet time Like evening in my soul. I have no heart, For cruel Herbert killed it long ago, And death strides on. Sit, then, and give your mind To listen, and your eyes to look at me. Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is; Look at my hand,—my beauty is all gone." And Laurance lifted up his eyes; he looked, But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, Far otherwise than she had willed,—they said, "Lovelier than ever."

Yet her words went on, Cold and so quiet, "I have suffered much, And I would fain that none who care for me Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, "I have brought my mind of late to think of this: That since your life is spoilt (not willingly, My God, not willingly by me), 'twere well To give you choice of griefs.

"Were it not best To weep for a dead love, and afterwards Be comforted the sooner, that she died Remote, and left not in your house and life Aught to remind you? That indeed were best. But were it best to weep for a dead wife, And let the sorrow spend and satisfy Itself with all expression, and so end? I think not so; but if for you 'tis best, Then,—do not answer with too sudden words: It matters much to you; not much, not much To me,—then truly I will die your wife; I will marry you."

What was he like to say, But, overcome with love and tears, to choose The keener sorrow,—take it to his heart, Cherish it, make it part of him, and watch Those eyes that were his light till they should close?

He answered her with eager, faltering words, "I choose,—my heart is yours,—die in my arms."

But was it well? Truly, at first, for him It was not well: he saw her fade, and cried, "When may this be?" She answered, "When you will," And cared not much, for very faint she grew, Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought, "If I could slip away before the ring Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot For both,—a blessed thing for him, and me."

But it was not so; for the day had come,— Was over: days and months had come, and Death,— Within whose shadow she had lain, which made Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness, Indifferent,—Death withdrew himself, and life Woke up, and found that it was folded fast, Drawn to another life forevermore. O, what a waking! After it there came Great silence. She got up once more, in spring, And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. She thought within herself, "What have I done? How shall I do the rest?" And he, who felt Her inmost thought, was silent even as she. "What have we done?" she thought. But as for him, When she began to look him in the face, Considering, "Thus and thus his features are," For she had never thought on them before, She read their grave repose aright. She knew That in the stronghold of his heart, held back, Hidden reserves of measureless content Kept house with happy thought, for her sake mute.

Most patient Muriel! when he brought her home, She took the place they gave her,—strove to please His kin, and did not fail; but yet thought on, "What have I done? how shall I do the rest? Ah! so contented, Laurance, with this wife That loves you not, for all the stateliness And grandeur of your manhood, and the deeps In your blue eyes." And after that awhile She rested from such thinking, put it by And waited. She had thought on death before: But no, this Muriel was not yet to die; And when she saw her little tender babe, She felt how much the happy days of life Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny thing, Whom when it slept the lovely mother nursed With reverent love, whom when it woke she fed And wondered at, and lost herself in long Rapture of watching, and contentment deep.

Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee, Her husband and his father standing nigh, About to ride, the grandmother, all pride And consequence, so deep in learned talk Of infants, and their little ways and wiles, Broke off to say, "I never saw a babe So like its father." And the thought was new To Muriel; she looked up, and when she looked, Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom Flushing her face, would fain he had not known, Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know; Yet there was pleasure in his smile, and love Tender and strong. He kissed her, kissed his babe, With "Goody, you are left in charge, take care "— "As if I needed telling," quoth the dame; And they were gone.

Then Muriel, lost in thought, Gazed; and the grandmother, with open pride, Tended the lovely pair; till Muriel said, "Is she so like? Dear granny, get me now The picture that his father has"; and soon The old woman put it in her hand.

The wife, Considering it with deep and strange delight, Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned.

A mouth for mastery and manful work, A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair Saxon of hue. She conned; then blushed again, Remembering now, when she had looked on him, The sudden radiance of her husband's smile.

But Muriel did not send the picture back; She kept it; while her beauty and her babe Flourished together, and in health and peace She lived.

Her husband never said to her, "Love, are you happy?" never said to her, "Sweet, do you love me?" and at first, whene'er They rode together in the lanes, and paused, Stopping their horses, when the day was hot, In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds, Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks That topped the mountains,—when she sat by him, Withdrawn at even while the summer stars Came starting out of nothing, as new made, She felt a little trouble, and a wish That he would yet keep silence, and he did. That one reserve he would not touch, but still Respected.

Muriel grew more brave in time, And talked at ease, and felt disquietude Fade. And another child was given to her.

"Now we shall do," the old great-grandsire cried, "For this is the right sort, a boy." "Fie, fie," Quoth the good dame; "but never heed you, love, He thinks them both as right as right can be."

But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go, But still he said, "I must": and she was left Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care Was like a mother's; and the two could talk Sweetly, for all the difference in their years.

But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish That she had known why Laurance left her thus. "Ay, love," the dame made answer; "for he said, 'Goody,' before he left, 'if Muriel ask No question, tell her naught; but if she let Any disquietude appear to you, Say what you know.'" "What?" Muriel said, and laughed, "I ask, then."

"Child, it is that your old love, Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start: He's gone. He came, our Laurance met him near; He said that he was going over seas, 'And might I see your wife this only once, And get her pardon?'"

"Mercy!" Muriel cried, "But Laurance does not wish it?"

"Nay, now, nay," Quoth the good dame. "I cannot," Muriel cried; "He does not, surely, think I should."

"Not he," The kind old woman said, right soothingly. "Does not he ever know, love, ever do What you like best?"

And Muriel, trembling yet, Agreed. "I heard him say," the dame went on, "For I was with him when they met that day, 'It would not be agreeable to my wife.'"

Then Muriel, pondering,—"And he said no more? You think he did not add, 'nor to myself?'" And with her soft, calm, inward voice, the dame Unruffled answered, "No, sweet heart, not he: What need he care?" "And why not?" Muriel cried, Longing to hear the answer. "O, he knows, He knows, love, very well": with that she smiled. "Bless your fair face, you have not really thought He did not know you loved him?"

Muriel said, "He never told me, goody, that he knew." "Well," quoth the dame, "but it may chance, my dear, That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep: Why need to rouse them? You are happy, sure? But if one asks, 'Art happy?' why, it sets The thoughts a-working. No, say I, let love, Let peace and happy folk alone.

"He said, 'It would not be agreeable to my wife.' And he went on to add, in course of time That he would ask you, when it suited you, To write a few kind words."

"Yes," Muriel said, "I can do that."

"So Laurance went, you see," The soft voice added, "to take down that child. Laurance had written oft about the child, And now, at last, the father made it known He could not take him. He has lost, they say, His money, with much gambling; now he wants To lead a good, true, working life. He wrote, And let this so be seen, that Laurance went And took the child, and took the money down To pay."

And Muriel found her talking sweet, And asked once more, the rather that she longed To speak again of Laurance, "And you think He knows I love him?"

"Ay, good sooth, he knows No fear; but he is like his father, love. His father never asked my pretty child One prying question; took her as she was; Trusted her; she has told me so: he knew A woman's nature. Laurance is the same. He knows you love him; but he will not speak; No, never. Some men are such gentlemen!"



SONGS

OF

THE NIGHT WATCHES.



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES,

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OF EVENING, AND A CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY DAY.

INTRODUCTORY.

(Old English Manner.)

APPRENTICED.

Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot; Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the tree, O! The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetest lass; Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with me, O!"

"My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, and drops her reel; My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can be, O! But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere light wax dim; How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with thee, O?"

"And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is strong, and love is strong; And O! had I but served the time, that takes so long to flee, O! And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, wast all in white, And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and thee, O."

THE FIRST WATCH.

TIRED.

I.

O, I would tell you more, but I am tired; For I have longed, and I have had my will; I pleaded in my spirit, I desired: "Ah! let me only see him, and be still All my days after." Rock, and rock, and rock, Over the falling, rising watery world, Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main; The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock To light on a warmer plain. White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled, Fall over in harmless play, As these do far away; Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea, All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee.

II.

I am so tired, If I would comfort me, I know not how, For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired, And I have nothing left to long for now.

Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee, Often and often, while the light grew dim, And through the lilac branches I could see, Under a saffron sky, the purple rim O' the heaving moorland? Ay. And then would float Up from behind as it were a golden boat, Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life, Love—such a slender moon, going up and up, Waxing so fast from night to night, And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, And hold to my two lips life's best of wine. Most beautiful crescent moon, Ship of the sky! Across the unfurrowed reaches sailing high. Methought that it would come my way full soon, Laden with blessings that were all, all mine,— A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife, That ere its day was done should hear thee call me wife.

III.

All over! the celestial sign hath failed; The orange flower-bud shuts; the ship hath sailed, And sunk behind the long low-lying hills. The love that fed on daily kisses dieth; The love kept warm by nearness, lieth Wounded and wan; The love hope nourished bitter tears distils, And faints with naught to feed upon. Only there stirreth very deep below The hidden beating slow, And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath Of the love that conquers death.

IV.

Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear, My ever, my only dear? Yes; and I saw thee start upon thy way, So sure that we should meet Upon our trysting-day. And even absence then to me was sweet, Because it brought me time to brood Upon thy dearness in the solitude. But ah! to stay, and stay, And let that moon of April wane itself away, And let the lovely May Make ready all her buds for June; And let the glossy finch forego her tune That she brought with her in the spring, And never more, I think, to me can sing; And then to lead thee home another bride, In the sultry summer tide, And all forget me save for shame full sore, That made thee pray me, absent, "See my face no more."

V.

O hard, most hard! But while my fretted heart Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, Sobbed to itself apart, Ached to itself in vain, One came who loveth me As I love thee.... And let my God remember him for this, As I do hope He will forget thy kiss, Nor visit on thy stately head Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyes have said.... He came, and it was dark. He came, and sighed Because he knew the sorrow,—whispering low, And fast, and thick, as one that speaks by rote: "The vessel lieth in the river reach, A mile above the beach, And she will sail at the turning o' the tide." He said, "I have a boat, And were it good to go, And unbeholden in the vessel's wake Look on the man thou lovedst, and forgive, As he embarks, a shamefaced fugitive. Come, then, with me."

VI.

O, how he sighed! The little stars did wink, And it was very dark. I gave my hand,— He led me out across the pasture land, And through the narrow croft, Down to the river's brink. When thou wast full in spring, thou little sleepy thing, The yellow flags that broidered thee would stand Up to their chins in water, and full oft WE pulled them and the other shining flowers, That all are gone to-day: WE two, that had so many things to say, So many hopes to render clear: And they are all gone after thee, my dear,— Gone after those sweet hours, That tender light, that balmy rain; Gone "as a wind that passeth away, And cometh not again."

VII.

I only saw the stars,—I could not see The river,—and they seemed to lie As far below as the other stars were high. I trembled like a thing about to die: It was so awful 'neath the majesty Of that great crystal height, that overhung The blackness at our feet, Unseen to fleet and fleet The flocking stars among, And only hear the dipping of the oar, And the small wave's caressing of the darksome shore.

VIII.

Less real it was than any dream. Ah me! to hear the bending willows shiver, As we shot quickly from the silent river, And felt the swaying and the flow That bore us down the deeper, wider stream, Whereto its nameless waters go: O! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes, See that weird sight again; The lights from anchored vessels hung; The phantom moon, that sprung Suddenly up in dim and angry wise, From the rim o' the moaning main, And touched with elfin light The two long oars whereby we made our flight, Along the reaches of the night; Then furrowed up a lowering cloud, Went in, and left us darker than before, To feel our way as the midnight watches wore, And lie in HER lee, with mournful faces bowed, That should receive and bear with her away The brightest portion of my sunniest day,— The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the shore.

IX.

And I beheld thee: saw the lantern flash Down on thy face, when thou didst climb the side. And thou wert pale, pale as the patient bride That followed; both a little sad, Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad, That once did bear thee on, That brow of thine had lost; the fervor rash Of unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone. O, what a little moment, what a crumb Of comfort for a heart to feed upon! And that was all its sum; A glimpse, and not a meeting,— A drawing near by night, To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting, And all between the flashing of a light And its retreating.

X.

Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings, The ship,—and weighed her anchor to depart, We stole from her dark lee, like guilty things; And there was silence in my heart, And silence in the upper and the nether deep. O sleep! O sleep! Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep, Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand Over the lids that crave thy visits bland, Thou kind, thou comforting one: For I have seen his face, as I desired, And all my story is done. O, I am tired!

THE MIDDLE WATCH.

I.

I woke in the night, and the darkness was heavy and deep: I had known it was dark in my sleep, And I rose and looked out, And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick round about With the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too far For man's heart, like a voyaging frigate, to sail, where remote In the sheen of their glory they float, Or man's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams to partake, And dazed in their wake, Drink day that is born of a star. I murmured, "Remoteness and greatness, how deep you are set, How afar in the rim of the whole; You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, O, nor yet Of our light-bearer,—drawing the marvellous moons as they roll, Of our regent, the sun." I look on you trembling, and think, in the dark with my soul, "How small is our place 'mid the kingdoms and nations of God: These are greater than we, every one." And there falls a great fear, and a dread cometh over, that cries, "O my hope! Is there any mistake? Did He speak? Did I hear? Did I listen aright, if He spake? Did I answer Him duly? For surely I now am awake, If never I woke until now." And a light, baffling wind, that leads nowhither, plays on my brow. As a sleep, I must think on my day, of my path as untrod, Or trodden in dreams, in a dreamland whose coasts are a doubt; Whose countries recede from my thoughts, as they grope round about, And vanish, and tell me not how. Be kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, dwelling in light, And feeding the lamps of the sky; Look down upon this one, and let it be sweet in Thy sight, I pray Thee, to-night. O watch whom Thou madest to dwell on its soil, Thou Most High! For this is a world full of sorrow (there may be but one); Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye are undone, For this is a world where we die.

II.

With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and that yearned, (There fell a great calm while it spake,) I had heard it erewhile, but the noises of life are so loud, That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and the crowd: To the simple it cometh,—the child, or asleep, or awake, And they know not from whence; of its nature the wise never learned By his wisdom; its secret the worker ne'er earned By his toil; and the rich among men never bought with his gold; Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled, Nor the jester put down with his jeers (For it moves where it will), nor its season the aged discerned By thought, in the ripeness of years.

O elder than reason, and stronger than will! A voice, when the dark world is still: Whence cometh it? Father Immortal, thou knowest! and we,— We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent us of Thee; For it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty and dread, And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears that we shed; It is more than all meanings, and over all strife; On its tongue are the laws of our life, And it counts up the times of the dead.

III.

I will fear you, O stars, never more. I have felt it! Go on, while the world is asleep, Golden islands, fast moored in God's infinite deep. Hark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, the harpings of yore! How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far away lands: "The heavens are the work of Thy hands; They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure; Yea, they all shall wax old,— But Thy throne is established, O God, and Thy years are made sure; They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure,— They shall pass like a tale that is told."

Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days? Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of men? (Hist! hist! while the heaven-hung multitudes shine in His praise, His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them first; it was then They lifted their eyes to His throne; "They shall call on Me, 'Thou art our Father, our God, Thou alone!' For I made them, I led them in deserts and desolate ways; I have found them a Ransom Divine; I have loved them with love everlasting, the children of men; I swear by Myself, they are Mine."

THE MORNING WATCH.

THE COMING IN OF THE "MERMAIDEN."

The moon is bleached as white as wool, And just dropping under; Every star is gone but three, And they hang far asunder,— There's a sea-ghost all in gray, A tall shape of wonder!

I am not satisfied with sleep,— The night is not ended. But look how the sea-ghost comes, With wan skirts extended, Stealing up in this weird hour, When light and dark are blended.

A vessel! To the old pier end Her happy course she's keeping; I heard them name her yesterday: Some were pale with weeping; Some with their heart-hunger sighed, She's in,—and they are sleeping.

O! now with fancied greetings blest, They comfort their long aching: The sea of sleep hath borne to them What would not come with waking, And the dreams shall most be true In their blissful breaking.

The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes,— No blush of maid is sweeter; The red sun, half way out of bed, Shall be the first to greet her. None tell the news, yet sleepers wake, And rise, and run to meet her.

Their lost they have, they hold; from pain A keener bliss they borrow. How natural is joy, my heart! How easy after sorrow! For once, the best is come that hope Promised them "to-morrow."

CONCLUDING SONG OF DAWN.

(Old English Manner.)

A MORN OF MAY.

All the clouds about the sun lay up in golden creases, (Merry rings the maiden's voice that sings at dawn of day;) Lambkins woke and skipped around to dry their dewy fleeces, So sweetly as she carolled, all on a morn of May.

Quoth the Sergeant, "Here I'll halt; here's wine of joy for drinking; To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings doth play; All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking, And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of May."

Quoth the Sergeant, "Work is work, but any ye might make me, If I worked for you, dear lass, I'd count my holiday. I'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but take me, So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May."

"Medals count for worth," quoth she, "and scars are worn for honor; But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way." All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon her. O! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May.

Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast and faster, Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the dull delay: "Beauty! when I said a slave, I think I meant a master; So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn of May.

"Lass, I love you! Love is strong, and some men's hearts are tender." Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not aught to say; Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any counsel render, Though sweetly she had carolled upon that morn of May.

Shy, she sought the wooer's face, and deemed the wooing mended; Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have his way: So the lass was made a wife, and so the song was ended. O! sweetly she did carol all on that morn of May.



CONTRASTED SONGS.



CONTRASTED SONGS.

SAILING BEYOND SEAS.

(Old Style.)

Methought the stars were blinking bright, And the old brig's sails unfurled; I said, "I will sail to my love this night At the other side of the world." I stepped aboard,—we sailed so fast,— The sun shot up from the bourne; But a dove that perched upon the mast Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. O fair dove! O fond dove! And dove with the white breast, Let me alone, the dream is my own, And my heart is full of rest.

My true love fares on this great hill, Feeding his sheep for aye; I looked in his hut, but all was still, My love was gone away. I went to gaze in the forest creek, And the dove mourned on apace; No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek Rose up to show me his place. O last love! O first love! My love with the true heart, To think I have come to this your home, And yet—we are apart!

My love! He stood at my right hand, His eyes were grave and sweet. Methought he said, "In this far land, O, is it thus we meet! Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; I have no place,—no part,— No dwelling more by sea or shore, But only in thy heart." O fair dove! O fond dove! Till night rose over the bourne, The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast, Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.

REMONSTRANCE.

Daughters of Eve! your mother did not well: She laid the apple in your father's hand, And we have read, O wonder! what befell,— The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand: He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne,— With her could die, but could not live alone.

Daughters of Eve! he did not fall so low, Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell; For something better, than as gods to know, That husband in that home left off to dwell: For this, till love be reckoned less than lore, Shall man be first and best for evermore.

Daughters of Eve! it was for your dear sake The world's first hero died an uncrowned king; But God's great pity touched the grand mistake, And made his married love a sacred thing: For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true, Find the lost Eden in their love to you.

SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S RESURRECTION.

(A Humble Imitation.)

"And birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave."

It is the noon of night, And the world's Great Light Gone out, she widow-like doth carry her: The moon hath veiled her face, Nor looks on that dread place Where He lieth dead in sealed sepulchre; And heaven and hades, emptied, lend Their flocking multitudes to watch and wait the end.

Tier above tier they rise, Their wings new line the skies, And shed out comforting light among the stars; But they of the other place The heavenly signs deface, The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mars; Yet high they sit in throned state,— It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate.

And first and highest set, Where the black shades are met, The lord of night and hades leans him down; His gleaming eyeballs show More awful than the glow, Which hangeth by the points of his dread crown; And at his feet, where lightnings play, The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their day.

Lo! one, with eyes all wide, As she were sight denied, Sits blindly feeling at her distaff old; One, as distraught with woe, Letting the spindle go, Her star y-sprinkled gown doth shivering fold; And one right mournful hangs her head, Complaining, "Woe is me! I may not cut the thread.

"All men of every birth, Yea, great ones of the earth, Kings and their councillors, have I drawn down; But I am held of Thee,— Why dost Thou trouble me, To bring me up, dead King, that keep'st Thy crown? Yet for all courtiers hast but ten Lowly, unlettered, Galilean fishermen.

"Olympian heights are bare Of whom men worshipped there, Immortal feet their snows may print no more; Their stately powers below Lie desolate, nor know This thirty years Thessalian grove or shore; But I am elder far than they;— Where is the sentence writ that I must pass away?

"Art thou come up for this, Dark regent, awful Dis? And hast thou moved the deep to mark our ending? And stirred the dens beneath, To see us eat of death, With all the scoffing heavens toward us bending? Help! powers of ill, see not us die!" But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply.

Her sisters, fallen on sleep, Fade in the upper deep, And their grim lord sits on, in doleful trance; Till her black veil she rends, And with her death-shriek bends Downward the terrors of her countenance; Then, whelmed in night and no more seen, They leave the world a doubt if ever such have been.

And the winged armies twain Their awful watch maintain; They mark the earth at rest with her Great Dead. Behold, from antres wide, Green Atlas heave his side; His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed, The swathing coif his front that cools, And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged pools.

Then like a heap of snow, Lying where grasses grow, See glimmering, while the moony lustres creep, Mild mannered Athens, dight In dewy marbles white, Among her goddesses and gods asleep; And swaying on a purple sea, The many moored galleys clustering at her quay.

Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade, Amid their camels laid, The pastoral tribes with all their flocks at rest; Like to those old-world folk, With whom two angels broke The bread of men at Abram's courteous 'quest, When, listening as they prophesied, His desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied.

Or from the Morians' land See worshipped Nilus bland, Taking the silver road he gave the world, To wet his ancient shrine With waters held divine, And touch his temple steps with wavelets curled, And list, ere darkness change to gray, Old minstrel-throated Memnon chanting in the day.

Moreover, Indian glades, Where kneel the sun-swart maids, On Gunga's flood their votive flowers to throw, And launch i' the sultry night Their burning cressets bright, Most like a fleet of stars that southing go, Till on her bosom prosperously She floats them shining forth to sail the lulled sea.

Nor bend they not their eyne Where the watch-fires shine, By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem: They mark, in goodly wise, The city of David rise, The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem; And hear the 'scaped Kedron fret, And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet.

But now the setting moon To curtained lands must soon, In her obedient fashion, minister; She first, as loath to go, Lets her last silver flow Upon her Master's sealed sepulchre; And trees that in the gardens spread, She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head,

Then 'neath the rim goes down; And night with darker frown Sinks on the fateful garden watched long; When some despairing eyes, Far in the murky skies, The unwished waking by their gloom foretell; And blackness up the welkin swings, And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings.

Last, with amazed cry, The hosts asunder fly, Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue; Whence straightway shooteth down, By the Great Father thrown, A mighty angel, strong and dread to view; And at his fall the rocks are rent, The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremblement;

The regions far and near Quail with a pause of fear, More terrible than aught since time began; The winds, that dare not fleet, Drop at his awful feet, And in its bed wails the wide ocean; The flower of dawn forbears to blow, And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow.

At stand, by that dread place, He lifts his radiant face, And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear; Then, while the welkin quakes, The muttering thunder breaks, And lightnings shoot and ominous meteors drear, And all the daunted earth doth moan, He from the doors of death rolls back the sealed stone.—

—In regal quiet deep, Lo, One new waked from sleep! Behold, He standeth in the rock-hewn door! Thy children shall not die,— Peace, peace, thy Lord is by! He liveth!—they shall live for evermore. Peace! lo, He lifts a priestly hand, And blesseth all the sons of men in every land.

Then, with great dread and wail, Fall down, like storms of hail, The legions of the lost in fearful wise; And they whose blissful race Peoples the better place, Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes, And through the waxing saffron brede, Till they are lost in light, recede, and yet recede.

So while the fields are dim, And the red sun his rim First heaves, in token of his reign benign, All stars the most admired, Into their blue retired, Lie hid,—the faded moon forgets to shine,— And, hurrying down the sphery way, Night flies, and sweeps her shadows from the paths of day.

But look! the Saviour blest, Calm after solemn rest, Stands in the garden 'neath His olive boughs; The earliest smile of day Doth on His vesture play, And light the majesty of His still brows; While angels hang with wings outspread, Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head.

SONG OF MARGARET.

Ay, I saw her, we have met,— Married eyes how sweet they be,— Are you happier, Margaret, Than you might have been with me? Silence! make no more ado! Did she think I should forget? Matters nothing, though I knew, Margaret, Margaret.

Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, Told a certain thing to mine; What they told me I put by, O, so careless of the sign. Such an easy thing to take, And I did not want it then; Fool! I wish my heart would break, Scorn is hard on hearts of men.

Scorn of self is bitter work,— Each of us has felt it now: Bluest skies she counted mirk, Self-betrayed of eyes and brow; As for me, I went my way, And a better man drew nigh, Fain to earn, with long essay, What the winner's hand threw by.

Matters not in deserts old, What was born, and waxed, and yearned, Year to year its meaning told, I am come,—its deeps are learned,— Come, but there is naught to say,— Married eyes with mine have met. Silence! O, I had my day, Margaret, Margaret.

SONG OF THE GOING AWAY.

"Old man, upon the green hillside, With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er, How long in silence wilt thou bide At this low stone door?

"I stoop: within 'tis dark and still; But shadowy paths methinks there be, And lead they far into the hill?" "Traveller, come and see."

"'Tis dark, 'tis cold, and hung with gloom; I care not now within to stay; For thee and me is scarcely room, I will hence away."

"Not so, not so, thou youthful guest, Thy foot shall issue forth no more: Behold the chamber of thy rest, And the closing door!"

"O, have I 'scaped the whistling ball, And striven on smoky fields of fight, And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall In the dangerous night;

"And borne my life unharmed still Through foaming gulfs of yeasty spray, To yield it on a grassy hill At the noon of day?"

"Peace! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep, Till some time, ONE my seal shall break, And deep shall answer unto deep, When He crieth, 'AWAKE!'"

A LILY AND A LUTE.

(Song of the uncommunicated Ideal.)

I.

I opened the eyes of my soul. And behold, A white river-lily: a lily awake, and aware,— For she set her face upward,—aware how in scarlet and gold A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering air, Lay over with fold upon fold, With fold upon fold.

And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her also ashamed, The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair; And over the far-away mountains that no man hath named, And that no foot hath trod, Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it were, A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them endure, Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep themselves pure, And look up to God. Then I said, "In rosy air, Cradled on thy reaches fair, While the blushing early ray Whitens into perfect day, River-lily, sweetest known, Art thou set for me alone? Nay, but I will bear thee far, Where yon clustering steeples are, And the bells ring out o'erhead, And the stated prayers are said; And the busy farmers pace, Trading in the market-place; And the country lasses sit, By their butter, praising it; And the latest news is told, While the fruit and cream are sold; And the friendly gossips greet, Up and down the sunny street. For," I said, "I have not met, White one, any folk as yet Who would send no blessing up, Looking on a face like thine; For thou art as Joseph's cup, And by thee might they divine.

"Nay! but thou a spirit art; Men shall take thee in the mart For the ghost of their best thought, Raised at noon, and near them brought; Or the prayer they made last night, Set before them all in white."

And I put out my rash hand, For I thought to draw to land The white lily. Was it fit Such a blossom should expand, Fair enough for a world's wonder, And no mortal gather it? No. I strove, and it went under, And I drew, but it went down; And the waterweeds' long tresses, And the overlapping cresses, Sullied its admired crown. Then along the river strand, Trailing, wrecked, it came to land, Of its beauty half despoiled, And its snowy pureness soiled: O! I took it in my hand,— You will never see it now, White and golden as it grew: No, I cannot show it you, Nor the cheerful town endow With the freshness of its brow.

If a royal painter, great With the colors dedicate To a dove's neck, a sea-bight, And the flickering over white Mountain summits far away,— One content to give his mind To the enrichment of mankind, And the laying up of light In men's houses,—on that day, Could have passed in kingly mood, Would he ever have endued Canvas with the peerless thing, In the grace that it did bring, And the light that o'er it flowed, With the pureness that it showed, And the pureness that it meant? Could he skill to make it seen As he saw? For this, I ween, He were likewise impotent.

II.

I opened the doors of my heart. And behold, There was music within and a song, And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it long. I opened the doors of my heart: and behold, There was music that played itself out in aeolian notes; Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals tolled, That murmurs and floats, And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold, And comes in all passion again, and a tremblement soft, That maketh the listener full oft To whisper, "Ah! would I might hear it for ever and aye, When I toil in the heat of the day, When I walk in the cold."

I opened the door of my heart. And behold, There was music within, and a song. But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, thick and strong, Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting was drowned, I could hear it no more; For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred on the shore, And trees in the dark all around Were shaken. It thundered. "Hark, hark! there is thunder to-night! The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes down with a will; The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars are all dead;— There is thunder! it thunders! and ladders of light Run up. There is thunder!" I said, "Loud thunder! it thunders! and up in the dark overhead, A down-pouring cloud, (there is thunder!) a down-pouring cloud Hails out her fierce message, and quivers the deep in its bed, And cowers the earth held at bay; and they mutter aloud, And pause with an ominous tremble, till, great in their rage, The heavens and earth come together, and meet with a crash; And the fight is so fell as if Time had come down with the flash, And the story of life was all read, And the Giver had turned the last page.

"Now their bar the pent water-floods lash, And the forest trees give out their language austere with great age; And there flieth o'er moor and o'er hill, And there heaveth at intervals wide, The long sob of nature's great passion as loath to subside, Until quiet drop down on the tide, And mad Echo had moaned herself still."

Lo! or ever I was 'ware, In the silence of the air, Through my heart's wide-open door, Music floated forth once more, Floated to the world's dark rim, And looked over with a hymn; Then came home with flutings fine, And discoursed in tones divine Of a certain grief of mine; And went downward and went in, Glimpses of my soul to win, And discovered such a deep That I could not choose but weep, For it lay, a land-locked sea, Fathomless and dim to me.

O, the song! it came and went, Went and came. I have not learned Half the lore whereto it yearned, Half the magic that it meant. Water booming in a cave; Or the swell of some long wave, Setting in from unrevealed Countries; or a foreign tongue, Sweetly talked and deftly sung, While the meaning is half sealed; May be like it. You have heard Also;—can you find a word For the naming of such song? No; a name would do it wrong. You have heard it in the night, In the dropping rain's despite, In the midnight darkness deep, When the children were asleep, And the wife,—no, let that be; SHE asleep! She knows right well What the song to you and me, While we breathe, can never tell; She hath heard its faultless flow, Where the roots of music grow.

While I listened, like young birds, Hints were fluttering; almost words,— Leaned and leaned, and nearer came;— Everything had changed its name.

Sorrow was a ship, I found, Wrecked with them that in her are, On an island richer far Than the port where they were bound. Fear was but the awful boom Of the old great bell of doom, Tolling, far from earthly air, For all worlds to go to prayer. Pain, that to us mortal clings, But the pushing of our wings, That we have no use for yet, And the uprooting of our feet From the soil where they are set, And the land we reckon sweet. Love in growth, the grand deceit Whereby men the perfect greet; Love in wane, the blessing sent To be (howsoe'er it went) Never more with earth content. O, full sweet, and O, full high, Ran that music up the sky; But I cannot sing it you, More than I can make you view, With my paintings labial, Sitting up in awful row, White old men majestical, Mountains, in their gowns of snow, Ghosts of kings; as my two eyes, Looking over speckled skies, See them now. About their knees, Half in haze, there stands at ease A great army of green hills, Some bareheaded; and, behold, Small green mosses creep on some. Those be mighty forests old; And white avalanches come Through yon rents, where now distils Sheeny silver, pouring down To a tune of old renown, Cutting narrow pathways through Gentian belts of airy blue, To a zone where starwort blows, And long reaches of the rose.

So, that haze all left behind, Down the chestnut forests wind, Past yon jagged spires, where yet Foot of man was never set; Past a castle yawning wide, With a great breach in its side, To a nest-like valley, where, Like a sparrow's egg in hue, Lie two lakes, and teach the true Color of the sea-maid's hair.

What beside? The world beside! Drawing down and down, to greet Cottage clusters at our feet,— Every scent of summer tide,— Flowery pastures all aglow (Men and women mowing go Up and down them); also soft Floating of the film aloft, Fluttering of the leaves alow. Is this told? It is not told. Where's the danger? where's the cold Slippery danger up the steep? Where yon shadow fallen asleep? Chirping bird and tumbling spray, Light, work, laughter, scent of hay, Peace, and echo, where are they?

Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold; Memory must their grace enfold Silently; and that high song Of the heart, it doth belong To the hearers. Not a whit, Though a chief musician heard, Could he make a tune for it.

Though a bird of sweetest throat, And some lute full clear of note, Could have tried it,—O, the lute For that wondrous song were mute, And the bird would do her part, Falter, fail, and break her heart,— Break her heart, and furl her wings, On those unexpressive strings.



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND.

(On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament.)

AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBTFUL MORAL.

O happy Gladys! I rejoice with her, For Gladys saw the island. It was thus: They gave a day for pleasure in the school Where Gladys taught; and all the other girls Were taken out, to picnic in a wood. But it was said, "We think it were not well That little Gladys should acquire a taste For pleasure, going about, and needless change. It would not suit her station: discontent Might come of it; and all her duties now She does so pleasantly, that we were best To keep her humble." So they said to her, "Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. Look, you are free; you need not sit at work: No, you may take a long and pleasant walk Over the sea-cliff, or upon the beach Among the visitors." Then Gladys blushed For joy, and thanked them. What! a holiday, A whole one, for herself! How good, how kind! With that, the marshalled carriages drove off; And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, Stole out beyond the groups upon the beach— The children with their wooden spades, the band That played for lovers, and the sunny stir Of cheerful life and leisure—to the rocks, For these she wanted most, and there was time To mark them; how like ruined organs prone They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes, And let the great white-crested reckless wave Beat out their booming melody. The sea Was filled with light; in clear blue caverns curled The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, As playing at some rough and dangerous game, While all the nearer waves rushed in to help, And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, And tossed the fishing boats. Then Gladys laughed, And said, "O, happy tide, to be so lost In sunshine, that one dare not look at it; And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm; And yet how lucky are the shadows, too, That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange, That in remembrance though I lay them up, They are forever, when I come to them, Better than I had thought. O, something yet I had forgotten. Oft I say, 'At least This picture is imprinted; thus and thus, The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, Layer on layer.' And I look—up—up— High, higher up again, till far aloft They cut into their ether,—brown, and clear, And perfect. And I, saying, 'This is mine, To keep,' retire; but shortly come again, And they confound me with a glorious change. The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them; They redden, and their edges drip with—what? I know not, but 't is red. It leaves no stain, For the next morning they stand up like ghosts In a sea-shroud and fifty thousand mews Sit there, in long white files, and chatter on, Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood.

"There is the boulder where we always turn. O! I have longed to pass it; now I will. What would THEY say? for one must slip and spring; 'Young ladies! Gladys! I am shocked. My dears, Decorum, if you please: turn back at once. Gladys, we blame you most; you should have looked Before you.' Then they sigh,—how kind they are!— 'What will become of you, if all your life You look a long way off?—look anywhere, And everywhere, instead of at your feet, And where they carry you!' Ah, well, I know It is a pity," Gladys said; "but then We cannot all be wise: happy for me, That other people are.

"And yet I wish,— For sometimes very right and serious thoughts Come to me,—I do wish that they would come When they are wanted!—when I teach the sums On rainy days, and when the practising I count to, and the din goes on and on, Still the same tune and still the same mistake, Then I am wise enough: sometimes I feel Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, 'Now my reflections do me credit! now I am a woman!' and I wish they knew How serious all my duties look to me. And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies, Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds, Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. But does it last? Perhaps, that very day, The front door opens: out we walk in pairs; And I am so delighted with this world, That suddenly has grown, being new washed, To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world, And with a tender face shining through tears, Looks up into the sometime lowering sky, That has been angry, but is reconciled, And just forgiving her, that I,—that I,— O, I forget myself: what matters how! And then I hear (but always kindly said) Some words that pain me so,—but just, but true; 'For if your place in this establishment Be but subordinate, and if your birth Be lowly, it the more behooves,—well, well, No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes! I am always sorry THEN; but now,—O, now, Here is a bight more beautiful than all."

"And did they scold her, then, my pretty one? And did she want to be as wise as they, To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind? Ay, you may crow; she did! but no, no, no, The night-time will not let her, all the stars Say nay to that,—the old sea laughs at her. Why, Gladys is a child; she has not skill To shut herself within her own small cell, And build the door up, and to say, 'Poor me! I am a prisoner'; then to take hewn stones, And, having built the windows up, to say, 'O, it is dark! there is no sunshine here; There never has been.'"

Strange! how very strange! A woman passing Gladys with a babe, To whom she spoke these words, and only looked Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls, And never looked at Gladys, never once. "A simple child," she added, and went by, "To want to change her greater for their less; But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she; We love her—don't we?—far too well for that."

Then Gladys, flushed with shame and keen surprise, "How could she be so near, and I not know? And have I spoken out my thought aloud? I must have done, forgetting. It is well She walks so fast, for I am hungry now, And here is water cantering down the cliff, And here a shell to catch it with, and here The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare To be alone!" So Gladys sat her down, Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank, Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, And thought the earth was happy, and she too Was going round with it in happiness, That holiday. "What was it that she said?" Quoth Gladys, cogitating; "they were kind, The words that woman spoke. She does not know! 'Her greater for their less,'—it makes me laugh,— But yet," sighed Gladys, "though it must be good To look and to admire, one should not wish To steal THEIR virtues, and to put them on, Like feathers from another wing; beside, That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth, When all is said, would little suit with me, Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born, Though they be good and humble, one should mind How they are reared, or some will go astray And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both Were only once removed from innocence. Why did I envy them? That was not good; Yet it began with my humility."

But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes, And right before her, on the horizon's edge, Behold, an island! First, she looked away Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore, For she was all amazed, believing not, And then she looked again, and there again Behold, an island! And the tide had turned, The milky sea had got a purple rim, And from the rim that mountain island rose, Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak The higher, and with fell and precipice, It ran down steeply to the water's brink; But all the southern line was long and soft, Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought, Covered with forest or with sward. But, look! The sun was on the island; and he showed On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. Then Gladys held her breath; she said, "Indeed, Indeed it is an island: how is this, I never saw it till this fortunate Rare holiday?" And while she strained her eyes, She thought that it began to fade; but not To change as clouds do, only to withdraw And melt into its azure; and at last, Little by little, from her hungry heart, That longed to draw things marvellous to itself, And yearned towards the riches and the great Abundance of the beauty God hath made, It passed away. Tears started in her eyes, And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone; The careless sea had quite forgotten it, And all was even as it had been before.

And Gladys wept, but there was luxury In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, "O, what a little while! I am afraid I shall forget that purple mountain isle, The lovely hollows atween her snow-clad peaks, The grace of her upheaval where she lay Well up against the open. O, my heart, Now I remember how this holiday Will soon be done, and now my life goes on Not fed; and only in the noonday walk Let to look silently at what it wants, Without the power to wait or pause awhile, And understand and draw within itself The richness of the earth. A holiday! How few I have! I spend the silent time At work, while all THEIR pupils are gone home, And feel myself remote. They shine apart; They are great planets, I a little orb; My little orbit far within their own Turns, and approaches not. But yet, the more I am alone when those I teach return; For they, as planets of some other sun, Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ring Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am! I have not got laid up in this blank heart Any indulgent kisses given me Because I had been good, or yet more sweet, Because my childhood was itself a good Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise, And comforting. An orphan-school at best Is a cold mother in the winter time ('Twas mostly winter when new orphans came), An unregarded mother in the spring.

"Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went To gather cowslips. How we thought on it Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street, To that one tree, the only one we saw From April,—if the cowslips were in bloom So early; or if not, from opening May Even to September. Then there came the feast At Epping. If it rained that day, it rained For a whole year to us; we could not think Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained.

"Ah, well, but I am here; but I have seen The gay gorse bushes in their flowering time; I know the scent of bean-fields; I have heard The satisfying murmur of the main."

The woman! She came round the rock again With her fair baby, and she sat her down By Gladys, murmuring, "Who forbade the grass To grow by visitations of the dew? Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, 'Thou shalt not wait for angel visitors To trouble thy still water?' Must we bide At home? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe Without? O, we shall draw to us the air That times and mystery feed on. This shall lay Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world, And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth, Delivering of a tune to make her youth More beautiful than wheat when it is green.

"What else?—(O, none shall envy her!) The rain And the wild weather will be most her own, And talk with her o' nights; and if the winds Have seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her In a mouthful of strange moans,—will bring from far, Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad Masterful tramping of the bison herds, Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes, In savage rifts of hair; the crack and creak Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry Of the white bears, all in a dim blue world Mumbling their meals by twilight; or the rock And majesty of motion, when their heads Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm, And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. No holidays," quoth she; "drop, drop, O, drop, Thou tired skylark, and go up no more; You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees, Nor give out your good smell. She will not look; No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in, For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought, "A most strange woman, and she talks of me." With that a girl ran up; "Mother," she said, "Come out of this brown bight, I pray you now, It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon thought, "The mother will not speak to me, perhaps The daughter may," and asked her courteously, "What do the fairies smell of?" But the girl With peevish pout replied, "You know, you know." "Not I," said Gladys; then she answered her, "Something like buttercups. But, mother, come, And whisper up a porpoise from the foam, Because I want to ride."

Full slowly, then, The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes Upon her little child. "You freakish maid," Said she, "now mark me, if I call you one, You shall not scold nor make him take you far."

"I only want,—you know I only want," The girl replied, "to go and play awhile Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned And muttered low, "Mother, is this the girl Who saw the island?" But the mother frowned. "When may she go to it?" the daughter asked. And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind To hear the answer. "When she wills to go; For yonder comes to shore the ferry boat." Then Gladys turned to look, and even so It was; a ferry boat, and far away Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks Of her loved island.

Then she raised her arms, And ran toward the boat, crying out, "O rare, The island! fair befall the island; let Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, And after her stepped in the freakish maid And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child; And this one took the helm, and that let go The sail, and off they flew, and furrowed up A flaky hill before, and left behind A sobbing snake-like tail of creamy foam; And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot Toward the island; then, when Gladys looked, Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid Whistled a wind to come and rock the craft, And would be leaning down her head to mew At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own Rebuked her in good English, after cried, "Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." "I will not luff," Sobbed the fair mischief; "you are cross to me." "For shame!" the mother shrieked; "luff, luff, my dear; Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish With the curly tail to ride on." So she did, And presently a dolphin bouncing up, She sprang upon his slippery back,—"Farewell," She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm.

Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware In the smooth weather that this woman talked Like one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughts Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. She nodded, "Yes, the girl is going now To her own island. Gladys poor? Not she! Who thinks so? Once I met a man in white, Who said to me, 'The thing that might have been Is called, and questioned why it hath not been; And can it give good reason, it is set Beside the actual, and reckoned in To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so The possible stands by us ever fresh, Fairer than aught which any life hath owned, And makes divine amends. Now this was set Apart from kin, and not ordained a home; An equal;—and not suffered to fence in A little plot of earthly good, and say, 'Tis mine'; but in bereavement of the part, O, yet to taste the whole,—to understand The grandeur of the story, not to feel Satiate with good possessed, but evermore A healthful hunger for the great idea, The beauty and the blessedness of life.

"Lo, now, the shadow!" quoth she, breaking off, "We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn, And, O, the mountain with the purple peaks Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, And they were in it: and she saw the snow, And under that the rocks, and under that The pines, and then the pasturage; and saw Numerous dips, and undulations rare, Running down seaward, all astir with lithe Long canes, and lofty feathers; for the palms And spice trees of the south, nay, every growth, Meets in that island.

So that woman ran The boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose; Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, "It all belongs to Gladys"; and she ran And hid herself among the nearest trees And panted, shedding tears.

So she looked round, And saw that she was in a banyan grove, Full of wild peacocks,—pecking on the grass, A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high They sat in rows along the boughs. No tree Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped Lower on azure stars. The air was still, As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep, And Gladys was the only thing that moved, Excepting,—no, they were not birds,—what then? Glorified rainbows with a living soul? While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen, Not otherwhere, but they were present yet In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit That lay about removing,—purple grapes, That clustered in the path, clearing aside. Through a small spot of light would pass and go, The glorious happy mouth and two fair eyes Of somewhat that made rustlings where it went; But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down, Behold them! they had wings, and they would pass One after other with the sheeny fans, Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen, Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows, Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashed With purple glooms. And they had feet, but these Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed Not to disturb the waiting quietness; Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams; Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek paws laid Across her little drowsy cubs; nor swans, That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool; Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds, With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know, Was Eden. She was passing through the trees That made a ring about it, and she caught A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen Was nothing to them; but words are not made To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow, And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace. Why? One was working in a valley near, And none might look that way. It was understood That He had nearly ended that His work; For two shapes met, and one to other spake, Accosting him with, "Prince, what worketh He?" Who whispered, "Lo! He fashioneth red clay." And all at once a little trembling stir Was felt in the earth, and every creature woke, And laid its head down, listening. It was known Then that the work was done; the new-made king Had risen, and set his feet upon his realm, And it acknowledged him.

But in her path Came some one that withstood her, and he said, "What doest thou here?" Then she did turn and flee, Among those colored spirits, through the grove, Trembling for haste; it was not well with her Till she came forth of those thick banyan-trees, And set her feet upon the common grass, And felt the common wind.

Yet once beyond, She could not choose but cast a backward glance. The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, And means of entering were not evident,— The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy: She said, "Remoteness and a multitude Of years are counted nothing here. Behold, To-day I have been in Eden. O, it blooms In my own island."

And she wandered on, Thinking, until she reached a place of palms, And all the earth was sandy where she walked,— Sandy and dry,—strewed with papyrus leaves, Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids Of mummies (for perhaps it was the way That leads to dead old Egypt), and withal Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear The hot prone pillars, and the carven plinths,— Stone lotus cups, with petals dipped in sand, And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, who sat And smiled upon the ruin. O how still! Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leaves Of palm-trees never rustled, and the soul Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. She was above her ankles in the sand, When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo! It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels, Which erst had carried to their pagan prayers The brown old Pharaohs; for the ruts led on To a great cliff, that either was a cliff Or some dread shrine in ruins,—partly reared In front of that same cliff, and partly hewn Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps Of sand and stones on either side there lay; And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each, As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest, Dog-headed, and behind them winged things Like angels; and this carven multitude Hedged in, to right and left, the rocky road.

At last, the cliff,—and in the cliff a door Yawning: and she looked in, as down the throat Of some stupendous giant, and beheld No floor, but wide, worn, flights of steps, that led Into a dimness. When the eyes could bear That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight, Flight after flight, the worn long stair go down, Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. So she did enter; also she went down Till it was dark, and yet again went down, Till, gazing upward at that yawning door, It seemed no larger, in its height remote, Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, She doubted of the end, yet farther down A slender ray of lamplight fell away Along the stair, as from a door ajar: To this again she felt her way, and stepped Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light; But fear fell on her, fear; and she forbore Entrance, and listened. Ay! 'twas even so,— A sigh; the breathing as of one who slept And was disturbed. So she drew back awhile, And trembled; then her doubting hand she laid Against the door, and pushed it; but the light Waned, faded, sank; and as she came within— Hark, hark! A spirit was it, and asleep? A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared A flickering speck of light, and disappeared; Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes, That fell on some one resting, in the gloom,— Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white, Breathing and languid through prolonged repose.

Was it a heifer? all the marble floor Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled, And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed.

But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out,— The whiteness,—and asleep again! but now It was a woman, robed, and with a face Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed Murmured, "O terrible! I am afraid To breathe among these intermittent lives, That fluctuate in mystic solitude, And change and fade. Lo! where the goddess sits Dreaming on her dim throne; a crescent moon She wears upon her forehead. Ah! her frown Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast? A baby god with finger on his lips, Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway? Thy son. Hush, hush; he knoweth all the lore And sorcery of old Egypt; but his mouth He shuts; the secret shall be lost with him, He will not tell."

The woman coming down! "Child, what art doing here?" the woman said; "What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn?" (Ay, ay, we see thee breathing in thy shroud,— pretty shroud, all frilled and furbelowed.) The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier Of painted coffers fills it. What if we, Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst,— Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie, Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings, And all the gear they took to bed with them! Horrible! Let us hence.

And Gladys said, "O, they are rough to mount, those stairs"; but she Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight Shot like a meteor with her. "There," said she; "The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, Down in unholy heathen gloom; farewell." She pointed to a gateway, strong and high, Reared of hewn stones; but, look! in lieu of gate, There was a glittering cobweb drawn across, And on the lintel there were writ these words: "Ho, every one that cometh, I divide What hath been from what might be, and the line Hangeth before thee as a spider's web; Yet, wouldst thou enter thou must break the line, Or else forbear the hill."

The maiden said, "So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed Among some oak-trees on the farther side, And waded through the bracken round their bolls, Until she saw the open, and drew on Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. Here she put up a creature, that ran on Before her, crying, "Tint, tint, tint," and turned, Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes, Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, The wizard that wonned somewhere underground, With other talk enough to make one fear To walk in lonely places. After passed A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine; He shook his head, "An' if I list to tell," Quoth he, "I know, but how it matters not"; Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap Of thunder, and a shape in amice gray, But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, "Tint, Tint, tint." "There shall be wild work some day soon," Quoth he, "thou limb of darkness: he will come, Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp, And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie."

Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran, And got away, towards a grassy down, Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy To tend them. 'Twas the boy who wears that herb Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang So sweetly to his flock, that she stole on Nearer to listen. "O Content, Content, Give me," sang he, "thy tender company. I feed my flock among the myrtles; all My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, From the other side the river, where their harps Thou hast been helping them to tune. O come, And pitch thy tent by mine; let me behold Thy mouth,—that even in slumber talks of peace,— Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance."

And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, Till she had rested; then did ask the boy, For it was afternoon, and she was fain To reach the shore, "Which is the path, I pray, That leads one to the water?" But he said, "Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, The path that leads one to the golden gate Across the river." So she wandered on; And presently her feet grew cool, the grass Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. The air was full of voices, and the scent Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts; For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount, And reared in such a sort that it looked down Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, And richest plains o' the island. It was set Midway between the snows majestical And a wide level, such as men would choose For growing wheat; and some one said to her, "It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear The calling of an unseen multitude To some upon the mountain, "Give us more"; And others said, "We are tired of this old world: Make it look new again." Then there were some Who answered lovingly—(the dead yet speak From that high mountain, as the living do); But others sang desponding, "We have kept The vision for a chosen few: we love Fit audience better than a rough huzza From the unreasoning crowd."

Then words came up: "There was a time, you poets, was a time When all the poetry was ours, and made By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. O, it grows obsolete! Be you as they: Our heroes die and drop away from us; Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, That many of us think scorn of honest trade, And take no pride in our own shops; who care Only to quit a calling, will not make The calling what it might be; who despise Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work Dull, and degrade them."

Then did Gladys smile: "Heroes!" quoth she; "yet, now I think on it, There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks I see him burnishing of golden gear, Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, 'London is thirsty'—(then he weighs a chain): ''Tis an ill thing, my masters. I would give The worth of this, and many such as this, To bring it water.'

"Ay, and after him There came up Guy of London, lettered son O' the honest lighterman. I'll think on him, Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves, After his shop was closed: a still, grave man, With melancholy eyes. 'While these are hale,' He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd Cheerily working; where the river marge Is blocked with ships and boats; and all the wharves Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise,— 'While these are hale, 'tis well, 'tis very well. But, O good Lord,' saith he, 'when these are sick,— I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. Ay, ay, my hearties! many a man of you, Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away, And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid, Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' Well, we have heard the rest.

"Ah, next I think Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart To dare and to endure. 'Robert,' saith he, (The navigator Knox to his manful son,) 'I sit a captive from the ship detained; This heathenry doth let thee visit her. Remember, son, if thou, alas! shouldst fail To ransom thy poor father, they are free As yet, the mariners; have wives at home, As I have; ay, and liberty is sweet To all men. For the ship, she is not ours, Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on the mate This my command, to leave me, and set sail. As for thyself—' 'Good father,' saith the son; 'I will not, father, ask your blessing now, Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate We two shall meet again.' And so they did. The dusky men, peeling off cinnamon, And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree, Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship sailed,— The son returned to share his father's cell.

"O, there are many such. Would I had wit Their worth to sing!" With that, she turned her feet, "I am tired now," said Gladys, "of their talk Around this hill Parnassus." And, behold, A piteous sight—an old, blind, graybeard king Led by a fool with bells. Now this was loved Of the crowd below the hill; and when he called For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age, And plained on his unkind daughters, they were known To say, that if the best of gold and gear Could have bought him back his kingdom, and made kind The hard hearts which had broken his erewhile, They would have gladly paid it from their store Many times over. What is done is done, No help. The ruined majesty passed on. And look you! one who met her as she walked Showed her a mountain nymph lovely as light Her name Oenone; and she mourned and mourned, "O Mother Ida," and she could not cease, No, nor be comforted.

And after this, Soon there came by, arrayed in Norman cap And kirtle, an Arcadian villager, Who said, "I pray you, have you chanced to meet One Gabriel?" and she sighed; but Gladys took And kissed her hand: she could not answer her, Because she guessed the end.

With that it drew To evening; and as Gladys wandered on In the calm weather, she beheld the wave, And she ran down to set her feet again On the sea margin, which was covered thick With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red As wine. The water played among bare ribs Of many wrecks, that lay half buried there In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto To ask her way, and one so innocent Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute, She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes, For in them beamed the untaught ecstasy Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, And love just born.

She could not choose but name her shipwrecked prince, All blushing. She told Gladys many things That are not in the story,—things, in sooth, That Prospero her father knew. But now 'Twas evening, and the sun drooped; purple stripes In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay Out in the west. And lo! the boat, and more, The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm: "Peace, peace!" she said; "be good: you shall not steer, For I am your liege lady." Then she sang The sweetest songs she knew all the way home.

So Gladys set her feet upon the sand; While in the sunset glory died away The peaks of that blest island.