Lays and Legends (Second Series)

CHANGE

There's a little house by an orchard sideWhere the Spring wears pink and white;There's a garden with pansies and London pride,And a bush of lad's delight.Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seenAs trim as a garden can be,And the grass of the orchard is much more greenThan most of the grass you see.There used to be always a mother's smileAnd a father's face at the door,When one clambered over the orchard stile,So glad to be home once more.But now I never go by that way,For when I was there of late,A stranger was cutting the orchard hay,And a stranger leaned on the gate.

THE MILL

The wheel goes round – the wheel goes roundWith drip and whir and plash,It keeps all green the grassy ground,The alder, beech and ash.The ferns creep out 'mid mosses cool,Forget-me-nots are foundBlue in the shadow by the pool —And still the wheel goes round.Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel,The foam is white like cream,The merry waters dance and reelAlong the stony stream.The little garden of the mill,It is enchanted ground,I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still,And still the wheel goes round.The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round,And life's wheel too must go —But all their clamour has not drownedA voice I used to know.Her window's blank. The garden's bareAs her chill new-made mound,But still my heart's delight is there,And still the wheel goes round.

RONDEAU

A red, red rose, all wet with dew,With leaves of green by red shot through,And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that bringsDelicious memories of lost things,A red rose, sweet – yet sad as rue.'Twas a red rose you gave me – youWhose gifts so sacred were, and few —And that is why your lover singsA red, red rose.I sing – with lute untuned, untrue,And worse than other lovers do,Because perplexing memory stings —Because from your green grave there springs,With your spilt life-blood coloured through,A red, red rose.

A MÉSALLIANCE

I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear,I live in splendour and state;But I'd give it all to be young once more,And steal through the old low-lintelled door,To watch at the orchard gate.There are flowers by thousands these ball-rooms bear,Fair blossoms, wondrous and new;But all the flowers that a hot-house growsI would give for the scent of a certain roseThat a cottage garden grew!Oh, diamonds that sparkle on bosom and hair,Oh, rubies that glimmer and glow —I am tired of my bargain and tired of you!I would give you all for a daisy or twoFrom a little grave I know.

THE LAST THOUGHT

It's weary lying here,While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near,And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room,When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom —Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are —So far away, so far!They say that I shall die —And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by:But oh! my red-roofed village – I should die with more contentCould I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent,And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door,For one who comes no more.

APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ

(Herodotus, I. 157-160.)"What be these messengers who come fleet-footedBetween the images that guard our roadway,Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels —Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?""We come to crave the counsel of Apollo —The men of Cymé he has counselled often —Ask of the god an answer to our question,Ask of Apollo here in Branchĭdæ."Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian,Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection;The Persian bids us yield – our hearts bid shield him,What does Apollo bid his servants do?"The Oracle replied – and straight returningTo Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed,Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer:"Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will".So when the men of Cymé heard the answer,They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant,But Aristodicus, loved of the city,Withstood their will, – and thus to them spake he."Your messengers have lied – they have made merryIn their own homes, they have not sought Apollo;The god in Branchĭdæ had never counselledThat we should yield our suppliant to the foe."Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing,Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer,I would not yield the man who trusted Cymé —What – is the god of baser stuff than I?"So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens,A second time to Branchĭdæ they journeyed,A second time beneath the purple shadowsPassed through the laurels to Apollo's fane.Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To CyméComes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia —And she demands him, but we dare not yield him,Until we know what thou wouldst have us do."Our arm is weak against the power of Persia,The foe is strong, and our defences slender;Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to renderHim who has come, a suppliant, to our gates."So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered:"Yield ye your suppliant – yield him to the Persians".Then Aristodicus bethought him further,And in this fashion craftily he wrought.All round the temple, in the nooks and cranniesOf carven work made by man's love and labour,In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded,The swallows and the sparrows built their nests.And all day long their floating wings made beautyAbout the temple and the whispering laurels,And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur,Rose in sweet chorus to the great god's ears.Now round the temple went the men of Cymé,Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows,And a wild wind went moaning through the branches.The sun-light died, and all the sky grew gray.Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide,And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened,And, in the heart of every man beholding,The anger of the immortal gods made night.Then from the hid shrine of the inner templeCame forth a voice more beautiful than music,More terrible than thunder and wild waters,And more to be desired than summer sun."O thou most impious of all impious mortals,Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple,And torn away the homes of those who trust me,Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?"Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered:"Lord, is it thus thy suppliants are succoured,What time thy Oracle bids men of CyméTo yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?"Then on the hush of awful expectationFollowing the challenge of the too-bold mortals,Broke the god's voice, unspeakably melodiousWith all the song and sorrow of the world: —"Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinningAgainst the gods ye may the sooner perish —And come no more to question at my templeOf yielding suppliants who have trusted you!"

AT THE PRIVATE VIEW

Yes, that's my picture. "Great," you say?The crowd says it will make my name —A name I'd gladly throw awayFor a certain unseen star's pure ray.I want success I've missed – not fame.You see the mother kneeling there,The child who cries for bread in vain.The hard straw bed, the window bare,The rags, the rat, the broken chair,The misery and cold and pain.But what you don't see – (never will!) —Is what was there while yet I drewThe lines – which are not drawn so ill,Put on the colours – worthy stillOf praise from critics such as you.I used to paint all day, to pourMy soul out as I painted – seeThere, to the life, the rotten floor,The rags, the damp, the broken door,For those your world will honour me.But, though if here my models were,You should not find a line drawn wrong,Yet there is food for my despair,But half my picture's finished fair;Words without music are not song.Sometimes I almost caught the tune,Then changing lights across the sky,Turned gray morn to red afternoon,I had to drop my brush too soon,Lay the transfigured palette by.That woman did not kneel on there,When once my back was turned, I know,She used to leave the broken chairAnd show her face and its despair:Oh – if I could have seen her so!About her neck child-arms clung close,Close to her heart the child-heart crept,My room could tell you – if it chose.There was a picture, then – God knows!And I – who might have painted – slept.Then when birds bade the world prepareFor dawn – ere yet the East grew wan,She stepped back to the canvas there,Wearing the look she will not wearWhen eyes like yours and mine look on.And when the mother kneeled once more,While birds grew shrill, and shadows faint,The child's white face the one look bore,Which to my eyes it never wore,Which I would give my soul to paint.Hung, as you see – upon the line —But when I laid the varnish onAnd left my two – Fate laughed, malign,"Farewell to that last hope of thine,Thy chance of painting them is gone!"

A DIRGE IN GRAY

Larranagas! Thank you, thank you!Not a knife. I never use one —I've the right thing on my watch-chainWhich some fool or other gave me —Takes the end off in a second —Sharp as life bites off our pleasures.See! The soft wreath upward curling,Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows;Blue as skies in mild October;Vague, elusive as delight is.Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow toWhen they're looked at by a dreamer!Waves that moan – cold, gray, and curling,On a shore where gray rocks break them;Skies where gray and blue are blendedAs our life blends joy and sorrow.Angel wings, and smoke of battles,Lines of beauty, curved perfection!Half-shut eyes see many marvels;Gazed at through one's half-closed lashesWreaths of smoke take shapes uncanny —Beckoning hands and warning fingers —But the gray cloud always somehowEnds by looking like a woman.Like a woman tall and slender,Gowned in gray, with eyes like twilight,Soft, and dreamy, and delicious.Through my half-shut eyes I see her —Through my half-dead life am consciousOf her pure, perpetual presence.Then the gray wreaths spread out broadlyTill they make a level landscape,Toneless, dull, and very rainy —And an open grave – I saw it.Through the rain I heard the fallingOf the tears the heart sheds inly.Oh, I saw it! I rememberLeafless branches, dripping, dripping,Through a chill not born of Autumn.To that grave tends all my dreaming —Oh, I saw it, I remember …By that grave all dreaming ended!

THE WOMAN'S WORLD

Oh! to be alone!To escape from the work, the play,The talking, everyday;To escape from all I have done,And all that remains to do.To escape, yes, even from you,My only love, and beAlone, and free.Could I only standBetween gray moor and gray skyWhere the winds and the plovers cry,And no man is at hand.And feel the free wind blowOn my rain-wet face, and knowI am free – not yours – but my own.Free – and alone!For the soft fire-lightAnd the home of your heart, my dear,They hurt – being always here.I want to stand up – uprightAnd to cool my eyes in the airAnd to see how my back can bearBurdens – to try, to know,To learn, to grow!I am only you!I am yours – part of you – your wife!And I have no other life.I cannot think, cannot do,I cannot breathe, cannot see;There is "us," but there is not "me" —And worst, at your kiss, I growContented so.

THE LIGHTHOUSE

Above the rocks, above the wavesShines the strong light that warns and saves.So you, too high for storm or strife,Light up the shipwreck of my life.The lighthouse warns the wise, but theseNot only sail the stormy seas;Towards the light the foolish steerAnd, drowning, read its meaning, dear.And, if the lamp by chance allureSome foolish ship to death, be sureThe lamp will to itself protest:"His be the blame! I did my best!"

TO A YOUNG POET

Tired of work? Then drop awayFrom the land of cheerful day!Pen the muse, and drive the penIf you'd stay with living men.Fancy fails? Then pluck from thoseGardens where her blossom blows;Trim the buds and wire them well,And your bouquet's sure to sell.Write, write, write! Produce, produce!Write for sale, and not for use.This is a commercial age!Write! and fill your ledger page.If your soul should droop and die,Bury it with undimmed eye.Never mind what memory says —Soul's a thing that never pays!

THE TEMPTATION

Let me go! I cannot beAll you think me, pure and true:Those brave jewel-names crown you,They were trampled down by me.Horrid ghosts rise up betweenYou and me; I dare not pass!What might be is dead; what wasIs its poison, O my Queen!I should wither up your life,Blacken, blight its maiden flower;You would live to curse the hourWhen you made yourself my wife.Yet, your hand held out, your eyesPleading, longing, brimmed with tears …I have lived in hell for years:Do not show me Paradise.Lest I answer: "Take me, then!Take me, save me if you can,Worse than any other man,Loving more than other men."

THE BALLAD OF SIR HUGH

The castle had been held in siege,While thrice three weeks went past,And still the foe no vantage gainedAnd still our men stood fast.We held the castle for our kingAgainst our foes and his;Stout was our heart, as man's must beIn such brave cause as this.But Sir Hugh walked the castle wall,And oh! his heart was sore,For the foe held fast the only sonHis dead wife ever bore.The castle gates were firm and fast,Strong was the castle wall,Yet bore Sir Hugh an aching heartFor the thing that might befal.He looked out to the pearly east,Ere day began to break:"God save my boy till evensong,"He said, "for Mary's sake!"He looked out on the western skyWhen the sun sank, blood-red:"God keep my son till morning lightFor His son's sake," he said.And morn and eve, and noon and night,His heart one prayer did make:"God keep my boy, my little one,For his dear dead mother's sake!"At last, worn out with bootless siege —Our walls being tall and stout —The rebel captain neared our gatesWith a flag of truce held out."A word, Sir Hugh, a word with you,Ere yet it be too late;We have a prisoner and would knowWhat is to be his fate."Yield up your castle, or he dies!'Tis thus the bargain stands:His body in our hands we hold,His life is in your hands!"Sir Hugh looked down across the moatAnd, in the sunlight fair,He saw the child's blue, frightened eyesAnd tangled golden hair.He saw the little arms held out;The little voice rang thin:"O father dear, undo the gates!O father – let me in!"Sir Hugh leaned on the battlements;His voice rang strong and true:"My son – I cannot let thee in,As my heart bids me do;"If I should open and let thee in,I let in, with thee, shame:And that thing never shall be doneBy one who bears our name!"For honour and our king commandAnd we must needs obey;So bear thee as a brave man's son,As I will do this day."The boy looked up, his shoulders squared,Threw back his bright blond hair:"Father, I will not be the oneTo shame the name we bear."And, whatsoever they may do,Whether I live or die,I'll bear me as a brave man's son,For that, thank God, am I!"Then spake Sir Hugh unto the foe,He spake full fierce and free:"Ye cowards, deem ye, ye have affairWith cowards such as ye be?"What? I must yield my castle up,Or else my son be slain?I trow ye never had to doTill now with honest men!"'Tis but by traitors such as youThat such foul deeds be done;Not to betray his king and causeDid I beget my son!"My son was bred to wield the swordAnd hew down knaves like you,Or, at the least, die like a man,As he this day shall do!"And, since ye lack a weapon meetTo take so good a life(For your coward steel would stain his blood),Here – take his father's knife!"With that he flung the long knife downFrom off the castle wall,It glimmered and gleamed in the brave sunlight,Full in the sight of all.Sir Hugh passed down the turret stair,We held our breath in awe …May my tongue wither ere it tellThe damnèd work we saw!When all was done, a shout went upFrom that accursèd crew,And from the chapel's silence dimCame forth in haste Sir Hugh."And what may mean this clamour and din?""Sir Hugh, thy son is dead!""I deemed the foe had entered in,But God is good!" he said.We stood upon the topmost tower,Full in the setting sun;Shamed silence grew in the traitor's campNow that foul deed was done.See! on the hills the gleam of steel,Hark! threatening clarions ring,See! horse and foot and spear and shieldAnd the banner of the king!And in the camp of those without,Hot tumult and cold fear,For the traitor only dares be brave,Until his king be near!We armed at speed, we sallied forth,Sir Hugh was at our head;He set his teeth and he marked his pathBy a line of traitors, dead.He hacked his way straight to the churlWho did the boy to death,He swung his sword in his two strong handsAnd clove him to the teeth.And while the blade was held in the bone,The caitiffs round him pressed,And he died, as one of his line should die,With three blades in his breast.And when they told the king these things,He turned his head away,And said: "A braver man than IHas fallen for me this day!"

FEBRUARY

The Spring's in the air —Here, there,Everywhere!Though there's scarce a green tip to a bud,Spring laughs over hill and plain,As the sunlight turns the lane's mudTo a splendour of copper one way, of silver the other;And longings one cannot smother,And delight that sings through the brain,Turn all one's life into glory —'Tis the old new ravishing story —The Spring's here again!When the leaves grew redAnd dead,We said:"See how much more fairThan the green leaves shimmeringAre the mists and the tints of decay!"In the dainty dreamings that lighted the gray November,Did our hearts not rememberThe green woods – and linnets that sing?Ah, we knew Spring was lost, and pretended'Twas Autumn we loved. Lies are ended;Thank God for the Spring!

APRIL

Who calls the Autumn season drear?It was in Autumn that we met,When under foot dead leaves lay wetIn the black London gardens, dear.The fog was yellow everywhere,And very thick in Finsbury Square,Where in those days we used to meet.I used to buy you violets sweetFrom flower-girls down by Moorgate Street.'Twas Autumn then – can we forget? —When first we met.Who says that Spring is dear and fair?It is in Spring-time that we part,And weary heart from weary heartTurns, as the birds begin to pair.The sun shines on the golden dome,The primroses in baskets come,With daffodils in sheaves, to cheerThe town with dreams of the crownèd year.We're both polite and insincere:Though neither says it, yet – at heart —We mean to part.

JUNE

Oh, I'm weary of the town,Where life's too hard for smiling – and the dreary houses frown,And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beatsUpon the miles of dusty roofs – the dreary squares and streets;This sun that gilds the great St. Paul's – the golden cross and dome,Is this the same that shines upon our little church at home?Our little church is gray,It stands upon a hill-side – you can see it miles away,The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor.I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door,When all the wood and meadow with June's sunshine were ablaze, —Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn't nowadays.There are elm trees all aroundWhere the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound,And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar,And you hear the low of cattle – where the red farm buildings are;Oh! on that grass to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune,And forget the cruel city – on this first blue day of June!The grass is high – I know;And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow;But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day —It would only be to count my dead – whom God has taken away.That graveyard where the daisies grow – not yet my heart can bearTo pass that way – but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there!

JULY

The night hardly covers the face of the sky,But the darkness is drawnLike a veil o'er the heaven these nights in July,A veil rent at dawn,When with exquisite tremors the poplar leaves quiver,And a breeze like a kiss wakes the slumbering river,And the light in the east keener grows – clearer grows,Till the edge of the clouds turn from pearl into rose,And o'er the hill's shoulder – the night wholly past —The sun peeps at last!Come out! there's a freshness that thrills like a song,That soothes like a sleep;And the scent of wild thyme on the air borne along,Where the downs slope up steep.There's such dew on the earth and such lights in the heaven,Lost joys are forgotten, old sorrows forgiven,And the old earth looks new – and our hearts seem new-born,And stripped of the cere-clothes which long they have worn —And hope and brave purpose awaken anew'Mid the sunshine and dew.

NOVEMBER

Low lines of leaden clouds sweep byAcross the gold sun and blue sky,Which still are there eternally.Above the sodden garden-bedDroop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead,Where the tall lily bent its headOver carnations white and red.The leafless poplars, straight and tall,Stand by the gray-green garden wall,From which such rare fruit used to fall.In the verandah, where of oldSweet August spent the roses' gold,Round the chill pillars, shivering, foldGarlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold.And we, by cosy fireside, museOn what the Fates grant, what refuse;And what we waste and what we use.Summer returns – despite the rainThat weeps against the window-pane.Who'd weep – 'mid fame and golden gain —For youth, that does not come again?

ROCHESTER CASTLE

Blue sky, gray arches, and white, white cloud;Gray eyes, white hands, and a free, white crowdOf wheeling, whirling, fluttering things —Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings.Thousands of pigeons all the yearFly in and out of the arches here.What prisoned hands have torn at the stoneWhere your soft hand lies – oh my heart! – alone?What prisoned eyes have grown blind with tearsTo see what we see after all these years —The free, broad river go smoothly byAnd the free, blithe birds 'neath the free, blue sky?And now – O Time, how you work your will!– The pitiless walls are standing still,But the wall-flowers blossom on every ledge,And the wild rose garlands the walls' sheer edge,And where once the imprisoned heart beat low,The beautiful pigeons fly to and fro!In the sad, stern arches they build and pair,As happy as dreams and as free as air,And sorrow and longing and life-long painMan brings not into these walls again;And yet – O my love, with the face of flowers —What do we bring in these hearts of ours?

RUCKINGE CHURCH

"And we said how dreary and desolate and forlorn the church was, and how long it was since any music but that of the moth-eaten harmonium and the heartless mixed choir had sounded there. And we said: 'Poor old church! it will never hear any true music any more'. Then she turned to us from the door of the Lady Chapel, which was plastered and whitewashed, and had a stove and the Evangelical Almanac in it, and her eyes were full of tears. And, standing there, she sang 'Ave Maria' – it was Gounod's music, I think – with her voice and her face like an angel's. And while she sang a stranger came to the church door and stood listening, but he did not see us. Only we saw that he loved her singing. And he went away as soon as the hymn was ended, we also soon following, and the church was left lonely as before." —Extract from our Diary.

The boat crept slowly through the water-weedsThat greenly cover all the waterways,Between high banks where ranks of sedge and reedsSigh one sad secret all their quiet days,Through grasses, water-mint and rushes greenAnd flags and strange wet blossoms, only seenWhere man so seldom comes, so briefly stays.From the high bank the sheep looked calmly down,Unscared to see my boat and me go by;The elm trees showed their dress of golden brownTo winds that should disrobe them presently;And a marsh sunset flamed across the wold,And the still water caught the lavished gold,The primrose and the purple of the sky.The boat pressed ever through the weeds and sedgeWhich, rustling, clung her steadfast prow around;The iris nodded at the water's edge,Bats in the elm trees made a ghostly sound;With whirring wings a wild duck sprang to sightAnd flew, black-winged, towards the crimson light,Leaving my solitude the more profound.We moved towards the church, my boat and I —The church that at the marsh edge stands alone;It caught the reflex of the sunset skyOn golden-lichened roof and gray-green stone.Through snow and shower and sunshine it had stoodIn the thronged graveyard's infinite solitude,While many a year had come, and flowered, and gone.From the marsh-meadow to the field of gravesBut just a step, across a lichened wall.Thick o'er the happy dead the marsh grass waves,And cloudy wreaths of marsh mist gather and fall,And the marsh sunsets shed their gold and redOver still hearts that once in torment fedAt Life's intolerable festival.The plaster of the porch has fallen awayFrom the lean stones, that now are all awry,And through the chinks a shooting ivy sprayCreeps in – sad emblem of fidelity —And wreathes with life the pillars and the beamsHewn long ago – with, ah! what faith and dreams! —By men whose faith and dreams have long gone by.The rusty key, the heavy rotten door,The dead, unhappy air, the pillars greenWith mould and damp, the desecrated floorWith bricks and boards where tombstonesshould have beenAnd were once; all the musty, dreary chill —They strike a shudder through my being stillWhen memory lights again that lightless scene.And where the altar stood, and where the ChristReached out His arms to all the world, there stoodLaw-tables, as if love had not sufficedTo all the world has ever known of good!Our Lady's chapel was a lightless shrine;There was no human heart and no divine,No odour of prayer, no altar, and no rood.There was no scent of incense in the air,No sense of all the past breathed through the aisle,The white glass windows turned to mocking glareThe lovely sunset's gracious rosy smile.A vault, a tomb wherein was laid to sleepAll that a man might give his life to keepIf only for an instant's breathing while!Cold with my rage against the men who heldAt such cheap rate the labours of the dead,My heart within me sank, while o'er it swelledA sadness that would not be comforted;An awe came on me, and I seemed to faceThe invisible spirit of the dreary place,To hear the unheard voice of it, which said: —"Is love, then, dead upon earth?Ah! who shall tell or be toldWhat my walls were once worthWhen men worked for love, not for gold?Each stone was made to holdA heartful of love and faith;Now love and faith are dead,Dead are the prayers that are said,Nothing is living but Death!"Oh for the old glad days,Incense thick in the air,Passion of thanks and of praise,Passion of trust and of prayer!Ah! the old days were fair,Love on the earth was then,Strong were men's souls, and brave:Those men lie in the grave,They will live not again!"Then all my arches rangWith music glorious and sweet,Men's souls burned as they sang,Tears fell down at their feet,Hearts with the Christ-heart beat,Hands in men's hands held fast;Union and brotherhood were!Ah! the old days were fair,Therefore the old days passed."Then, when later there cameHatred, anger and strife,The sword blood-red and the flameAnd the stake and contempt of life,Husband severed from wife,Hearts with the Christ-heart bled:Through the worst of the fightStill the old fire burned bright,Still the old faith was not dead."Though they tore my Christ from the cross,And mocked at the Mother of Grace,And broke my windows across,Defiling the holy place —Children of death and disgrace!They spat on the altar stone,They tore down and trampled the rood,Stained my pillars with blood,Left me lifeless, alone —"Yet, when my walls were leftRobbed of all beauty and bare,Still God cancelled the theft,The soul of the thing was there.In my damp, unwindowed airFugitives stopped to pray,And their prayers were splendid to hear,Like the sound of a storm that is near —And love was not dead that day."Then the birds of the air built nestsIn these empty shadows of mine,And the warmth of their brooding breastsStill warmed the untended shrine.His creatures are all divine;He is praised by the woodland throng,And my old walls echoed and heardThe passionate praising word,And love still lived in their song."Then came the Protestant crewAnd made me the thing you have known —Whitewashed and plastered me new,Covered my marble and stone —Could they not leave me alone?Vain was the cry, for they trodOver my tombs, and I sawBooks and the Tables of LawSet in the place of my God."And love is dead, so it seems!Shall I never hear againThe music of heaven and of dreams,Songs of ideals of men?Great dreams and songs we had then,Now I but hear from the woodCry of a bat or a bird.Oh for love's passionate wordSent from men's hearts to the Good!"Sometimes men come, and they sing,But I know not their song nor their voice;They have no hearts they can bring,They have no souls to rejoice,Theirs is but folly and noise.Oh for a voice that could singSongs to the Queen of the blest,Hymns to the Dearest and Best,Songs to our Master, her King!"The church was full of silence. I shut inIts loss and loneliness, and went my way.Its sadness was not less its walls withinBecause I wore it in my heart that day,And many a day since, when I see againMarsh sunsets, and across the golden plainThe church's golden roof and arches gray.Along wet roads, all shining with late rain,And through wet woods, all dripping, brown and sere,I came one day towards the church again.It was the spring-time of the day and year;The sky was light and bright and flecked with cloudThat, wind-swept, changeful, through bright rents allowedSun and blue sky to smile and disappear.The sky behind the old gray church was gray —Gray as my memories, and gray as I;The forlorn graves each side the grassy wayCalled to me "Brother!" as I passed them by.The door was open. "I shall feel again,"I thought, "that inextinguishable painOf longing loss and hopeless memory."When – O electric flash of ecstasy!No spirit's moan of pain fell on my ear —A human voice, an angel's melody,God let me in that perfect moment hear.Oh, the sweet rush of gladness and delight,Of human striving to the heavenly light,Of great ideals, permanent and dear!All the old dreams linked with the newer faith,All the old faith with higher dreams enwound,Surged through the very heart of loss and deathIn passionate waves of pure and perfect sound.The past came back: the Christ, the Mother-maid,The incense of the hearts that praised and prayed,The past's peace, and the future's faith profound."Ave Maria,Gratiâ plena,Dominus tecum:Benedicta tuIn mulieribus,Et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus.Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,Ora pro nobis peccatoribusNunc et in horâ mortis nostræ. Amen."And all the soul of all the past was here —A human heart that loved the great and good,A heart to which the great ideals were dear,One that had heard and that had understood,As I had done, the church's desolate moan,And answered it as I had never done,And never willed to do and never could.I left the church, glad to the soul and strong,And passed along by fresh earth-scented ways;Safe in my heart the echo of that songLived, as it will live with me all my days.The church will never lose that echo, norBe quite as lonely ever any more;Nor will my soul, where too that echo stays.