Lays and Legends (Second Series)

TWO LULLABIES

ISleep, sleep, my little baby dear,Thee shall no want or pain come near;Sleep softly on thy downy nest,Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast.Thy cradle is all silken lined,Wrought roses on thy curtains twined,Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread,With soft white pillows for thy head.Much gold those little hands shall hold,And wealth about thy life shall fold,And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife,Nor the low ills of common life.These little feet shall never treadExcept on paths soft-carpeted,And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twineTo deck that darling head of thine.Thou shalt have overflowing measureOf wealth and joy and peace and pleasure,And thou shalt be right charitableWith all the crumbs that leave thy table.And thou shalt praise God every dayFor His good gifts that come thy way,And again thank Him, and again,That thou art not as other men.For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall —'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all;And when all's spent that life has given,Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.IISleep, little baby, sleep,Though the wind is cruel and cold,And my shawl that I've wrapped thee inIs old and ragged and thin;And my hand is too frozen to hold —Yet my bosom's still warm – so creepClose to thy mother, and sleep!Sleep, little baby, and rest,Though we wander alone through the night,And there is no food for me,No shelter for me and thee.Through the windows red fires shine bright,And tables show, heaped with the best —But there's naught for us there – so rest.Sleep, you poor little thing!Just as pretty and dearAs any fine lady's child.Oh, but my heart grows wild! —Is it worth while to stay here?What good thing from life will springFor you – you poor little thing?Sleep, you poor little thing!Mine, my treasure, my own —I clasp you, I hold you close,My darling, my bird, my rose!Rich mothers have hearts like stone,Or else some help they would bringTo you – you poor little thing!Sleep, little baby, sleep —If some good, rich mother would takeMy dear, I would kiss thee, and thenNever come near thee again —Not though my heart should break!I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake —For the river is dark and deep,And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!

BABY SONG

ISleep, baby, sleep!The greeny glow-worms creep,The pigeons to their cote are goneAnd, to their fold, the sheep.Rest, baby, rest!The sun sinks in the west,The daisies all have gone to sleep,The birds are in the nest.Sleep, baby, sleep!The sky grows dark and deep,The stars watch over all the world,God's angels guard thy sleep.IIWake, baby dear!The good, glad morning's here;The dove is cooing soft and low,The lark sings loud and clear.Wake, baby, wake!Long since the day did break,The daisy buds are all uncurled,The sun laughs in the lake.Wake, baby dear!Thy mother's waiting near,And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun,And all things bright and dear.

LULLABY

Sleep, my darling; mother will singSoft low songs to her little king,Nobody else must listen or hearThe pretty secrets I tell my dear.Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may —Sorrow dawns with the dawning day,Sleep, my baby, sleep, my dear,Soon enough will the day be here.Lie here quiet on mother's arm,Safe from harm;Nestled closely to mother's breast,Sleep and rest!Mother feels your breath's soft stirClose to her;Mother holds you, clasps you tight,All the night.When the little Jesus layOn the manger's hay,He was a Baby, if tales tell true,Just like you.And He had no crown to wearBut His bright hair;And such kisses as I give youHe had too.Mary never loved her SonMore than I love my little one;And her Baby never smiledMore divinely than my little child.Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may —Sorrow dawns with the dawning day;Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear,All too soon will the day be here.

AN EAST-END TRAGEDY

You said that you would never wed:"My love, my life's one work lie here,'Mid crowded alleys, dank and drear,Where all life's flower-petals are shed!"You said.I heard: I bowed to what I heard;I bowed my head and worshipped you —So brave, so beautiful, so true —How could I doubt a single wordI heard?My sweet, white lily! All the street,As you passed by, grew clean again;The fallen, blackened souls of menLooked heavenward when men heard your feet,My sweet.But one came, dared to woo, and won —He heard your vows, and laughed at them;He plucked my lily from its stem —Sacred to all men under sun,But one!

HERE AND THERE

Ah me, how hot and weary here in townThe days crawl by!How otherwise they go my heart records,Where the marsh meadows lieAnd white sheep crop the grass, and seagulls sailBetween the lovely earth and lovely sky.Here the sun grins along the dusty streetBeneath pale skies:Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet,Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries —Through these I hear the song that the sea singsTo the far meadowlands of Paradise.O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn —O long sweet days —O changing, unchanged skies, straight dykes all gayWith sedge and water mace —O fair marsh land desirable and dear —How far from you lie my life's weary ways!Yet in my darkest night there shines a starMore fair than day;There is a flower that blossoms sweet and whiteIn the sad city way.That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam,That star shines only when the skies are gray.For here fair peace and passionate pleasure waneBefore the lightOf radiant dreams that make our lives worth life,And turn to noon our night:We fight for freedom and the souls of men —Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!

MOTHER

A little room with scanty graceOf drapery or ordered ease;White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards, —But there's a hum of summer bees,The sun sends through the quiet placeThe scent that honeysuckle hoards.Outside, the little garden glowsWith sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright;Beyond lie meadow, lane, and woodWhere trail the briony and wild rose,And where grow blossoms of delightIn an inviolate solitude.Through that green world there blows an airThat cools my forehead even hereIn this sad city's riotous roar —And from that room my ears can hearTears and the echo of a prayer,And the world's voice is heard no more.

A BALLAD OF CANTERBURY

Across the grim, gray, northern seaThe Danish warships went,Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty menOn blood and plunder bent;And they landed on a smiling land —The garden-land of Kent.They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn,They set the ricks aflame;They slew the men with axe and sword,They slew the maids with shame;Until, to Canterbury town,Made mad with blood, they came.Archbishop Alphege walked the wallAnd looked down on the foe."Now fly, my lord!" his monks implored,"While yet a man may go!""Shame on you, monks of mine," he cried,"To shame your bishop so!"What, would you have the shepherd flee,Like any hireling knave?What, leave my church, my poor – God's poor,To a dark and prayerless grave?No! by the body of my Lord,My skin I will not save!"And when men heard his true, strong word,They bore them as men should.For twenty nights and twenty daysThe foemen they withstood,And, day and night, shone tapers bright,And incense veiled the rood.The warriors manned the walls without,The monks prayed on within,Till Satan, wroth to see how prayerAnd valour fared to win,Whispered a traitor, who stole outAnd let the foemen in.Then through the quiet church there ranA sudden breath of fear;The monks made haste to bar the door,And hide the golden gear;And to their lord once more they cried,"Hide, hide! the foe is here!"Through all the church's windows showedThe sudden laugh of flame;Along the street went trampling feet,And through the smoke there cameThe voice of women, calling shrillUpon the Saviour's name.And "Hide! oh, hide!" the monks all cried,"Nor meet such foes as these!""Be still," he said, "hide if ye will,Live on, and take your ease!By my Lord's death, my latest breath,Like His, shall speak of peace!"He strode along the dusky aisle,And flung the church doors wide;Bright armour shone, and blazing homesLit up the world outside,And in the streets reeled to and froA bloody human tide.The mailed barbarians laughed aloudTo see the brave blood flow;They trampled on the breast and hairOf girls their swords laid low,And on the points of reeking spearsTossed babies to and fro.Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamedAgainst the dark red tide."Forbear, your cup of guilt is full!Your sins are red," he cried;"Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whomThe King of Heaven died!"Drunken with blood and lust of fight,Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane."Stand thou and see us shear thy sheepBefore thy foolish fane!Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep,That thou mayst know their pain!"He stood, and saw his monks all slain;The altar steps ran red;In horrid heaps men lay about,The dying with the dead;And the east brightened, and the skyGrew rosy overhead.Then from the church a tiny puffOf smoke rose 'gainst the sky,Out broke the fire, and flame on flameLeaped palely out on high,Till but the church's walls were leftFor men to know it by.And when the sweet sun laughed againO'er fields and furrows brown,The brave archbishop hid his eyes,Until the tears dropped downOn the charred blackness of the wreckOf Canterbury town."Now, Saxon shepherd, send a wordUnto thy timid sheep,And bid them greaten up their hearts,And to our feet dare creep,And bring a ransom here which we,Instead of thee, may keep!"Archbishop Alphege stood alone,Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed;Loaded with chains, with aching heart,And wounded in the side;And in his hour of utmost painThus to the Dane replied:"Ye men of blood, my blood shall flowBefore this thing shall be;If I be held till ransom come,I never shall be free;For by God's heart, God's poor shall neverBe robbed to ransom me!"They flung him in a dungeon dark,They heaped on him fresh chains,They promised him unnumbered illsAnd unimagined pains;But still he said, "No English shallBe taxed to profit Danes!"Six months passed by; no ransom came;Their threats had almost ceased,When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve,A great and brutal feast;And they sent and dragged the Christian manBefore the pagan beast.Down the great hall, from east to west,The long rough tables ran;They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer,And then the drink began —At last in all that mighty hallWas not one sober man.'Twas then they brought the bishop forthBefore the drunken throng;And "Send for ransom!" Thorkill cried,"You are weak, and we are strong,Or, by the hand of Thor, you die —We have borne with you too long!"The savage faces of the DanesLeered redly all around;The bones of beasts and empty cupsLay heaped upon the ground,And 'mid the crowd of howling wolvesThe Christian saint stood bound.He looked in Thorkill's angry eyesAnd knew what thing should be,Then spake: "By God, who died to saveThe poor, and me, and thee,Thou art not strong enough – God's poorShall not be taxed for me!""Gold! Give us gold, or die!" All roundThe rising tumult ran."I give my life, I give God's word,I give what gifts I can!Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves?Find you some other man!"And, as he spake, the whole crowd roseWith one fierce shout and yell;They flung at him the bones of beasts,They aimed right strong and well."O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!"The bishop cried – and fell.And so men call him "Saint," yet someDeemed this an unearned crown,Since 'twas not for the Church or faithHe laid his brave life down;But otherwise men deemed of itIn Canterbury town."Not for the Church he died," they said,"Yet he our saint shall be,Since for Christ's poor he gave his life,So for Christ's self died he.'Who does it to the least of these,Has done it unto Me!'"

MORNING

It was about the time of dayWhen all the lawns with dew are wet;I wandered down a steep wood-way,And there I met with Margaret —Her hands were full of boughs of may.It was the merest chance we met:I could not find a word to say,And she was silent too – and yetFor hand and lips I dared to pray —And Margaret did not say me nay.Still on my lips her kisses stay,Her eyes are like the violet;Will time take this joy, too, away,And ever teach me to forget —And to forget without regret —The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?

THE PRAYER

They talk of money and of fame,Would make a fortune or a name,And gold and laurel both must beFor ever out of reach of me.And if I asked of God or fateThe gift most gracious and most great,It would not be such gifts as theseThat I should pray for on my knees.No, I should ask a greater grace —A little, quiet, firelit place,Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where sheShould hold my baby on her knee.There she should sit and softly singThe songs my heart hears echoing;And I, made pure by joy, should comeNot all unworthy to our home.But if I dared to ask this grace,Would not God laugh out in my face?Since gold and fame indeed are HisTo give, but, ah! not this, not this!

THE RIVER MAIDENS

When autumn winds the river grieve,And autumn mists about it creep,The river maids all shivering leaveThe stream, and singing, sink to sleep.The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snowAlike are impotent to breakThe spell of sleep that laid them low —The lovely ladies will not wake.But when the spring with lavish graceStrews blossom on the river's breast,Flowers fall upon each sleeping faceAnd break the deep and dreamless rest.Then with white arms that gleam afarThrough alders green and willows gray,They rise where sedge and iris are,And laugh beneath the blossomed May.They lie beside the river's edge,By fields with buttercups a-blaze;They whisper in the whispering sedge,They say the spell the cuckoo says.And when they hear the nightingaleAnd see the blossomed hawthorn tree,What time the orchard pink grows pale —The river maidens beckon me.Through all the city's smoke appearWhite arms and golden hair a-gleam,And through the noise of life I hear"Come back – to the enchanted stream."Come back to water, wood and weir!See what the summer has to show!Come back, come back – we too are here."I hear them calling, and I go.But when once more my dripping oarMakes music on the dreaming air,I vainly look to stream and shoreFor those white arms that lured me there.I listen to the singing weir,I hold my breath where thrushes are,But I can never, never hearThe voice that called me from afar.Only when spring grows fair next year,Even where sin and cities be,I know what voices I shall hear,And what white arms will beckon me.

ON THE MEDWAY

IIn summer evening, love,We glide by grassy meadows,Red sun is shining,Day is declining,Peace is around, above.The poplar folds on highDark wings against the sky;Through dreaming shadowsOn we move,Silently, you and I.And seaward still we row,By sedge and bulrush sliding,Breezes are sendingRipples unendingOver the way we go.Above the poplar treeThe moon sails white and free,The boat goes glidingSwift or slow,But ever towards the sea.IIDip, drip, in and outThe rhythmic oars move slowly,Mist-kissed, round aboutThe pale sky reddens wholly;Chill, still, through waxing lightMystical and tender,Morn, born of starlit night,Clothes herself with splendour.Rose-glows in eastern sky,In the north faint flushes;Boat, float idly byPast the sedge and rushes!Here, near the willow screenRiver-gods bathe gaily;White, bright against the green,Poets see them daily.See, we, we aloneGreet this fresh sun-waking,Too few, who hail day done,See it in the making!Sad, glad, we two seeDawn the earth adorning,Sigh: "Why can no noon beWorth so gold a morning?"IIIIt was beside a wide, white weir,Where the foam dances in the sun,The butterflies are fair this year,And o'er the weir there hovered one —A far-off cottage curled its smokeAgainst a blue and perfect sky;There love triumphant laughed and woke,And we were silent – you and I.Love stirred in sleep, reached out his hands,And sighed, and smiled, and stood upright,Then fell the careful cobweb bandsWith which our will had bound his might;His royal presence made us still,Our will was water, matched with his;Like water-spray he broke our willAnd joined our lips in our first kiss.IVLook out! The stars are shining,The dew makes gray the meadow!The jasmine stars are twiningAbout your window bright;The glow-worms green are creepingOn lawns all dressed in shadow,The roses all are sleeping —Good-night, my heart, good-night!The nightingale is singingHer song of ceaseless sorrow,The night's slow feet pass, bringingThe day when I rejoice;Belovèd beyond measure,Our bridal is to-morrow —Oh, thrill the night with pleasure!Oh, let me hear thy voice!From cloudy confines sliding,The moon sails white and splendid;No roses now are hidingThe glory of their grace;So, if my song thou hearest —For thee begun and ended —Light up the night, my dearest,And let me see thy face!VO gleaming, gliding river,Where ash and alder lean,Where sighing sedges shiverBy willows gray and green;Upon thy shifting shadowsThe yellow lily lies,And all along thy meadowsGrow flowers of Paradise.The red-roofed village sleeping,Soft sounds of farm and fold,The dappled shadows creeping,The sunset's rose and gold,Twilight of mist and glamour,Noontide of sunlit ease,How, 'mid life's sordid clamour,Our hearts will long for these!Yet, since at heart we treasureThese weirs and woods and fields,This crown of lovely leisureWhich Kentish country yields —These, these are ours for ever,Though dream-sweet days be done;Through all our dreams our riverWill evermore flow on.VIWhen all is over, lay me downFar from this dull and jaded town,Not in a churchyard's ordered bound,But in some wide green meadow-ground.No stone upon me! Above allLet no cold railing's shadows fallAcross my rest. Dead, let me beWhat no one may be living – free.Let no one mourning garments wear,And if you love me, shed no tear;Don't weight me with a clay-built heap,But plant the daisies where I sleep.There is a certain field I know,I met my dear there, years ago;Perhaps, if you should speak them fair,They'd let you lay her lover there.Laid there, perhaps my ears would hearThe ceaseless singing of the weir,The soft wind sighing thro' the grass,And hear the little children pass.Or, if my ears were stopped with clayFrom all sweet sounds of night and day,I should at least (so lay me there)Sleep better there than anywhere!

THE BETROTHAL

There is none anywhereSo beautiful as she nor half so dear;My heart sings ever when she draweth near,Because she is so good and sweet and fair.I may not be the oneTo break the cloistered stillness of her life,To teach her passion and love and grief and strife,And lead her through the garden of the sun.For I am sad and wise;I have no hopes, no dreams, no fancies – none;Yet she has taught me that I am alone,And what men mean who talk of Paradise.But, when her joybells ring,I think, perhaps, that I shall hear and sighAnd wish the roses did not have to die,And that the birds might never cease to sing.

A TRAGEDY

IAmong his books he sits all dayTo think and read and write;He does not smell the new-mown hay,The roses red and white.I walk among them all alone,His silly, stupid wife;The world seems tasteless, dead and done —An empty thing is life.At night his window casts a squareOf light upon the lawn;I sometimes walk and watch it thereUntil the chill of dawn.I have no brain to understandThe books he loves to read;I only have a heart and handHe does not seem to need.He calls me "Child" – lays on my hairThin fingers, cold and mild;Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer,I wish I were a child!And no one sees and no one knows(He least would know or see)That ere Love gathers next year's roseDeath will have gathered me;And on my grave will bindweed pinkAnd round-faced daisies grow;He still will read and write and think,And never, never know!IIIt's lonely in my study here aloneNow you are gone;I loved to see your white gown 'mid the flowers,While, hours on hours,I studied – toiled to weave a crown of fameAbout your name.I liked to hear your sweet, low laughter ring;To hear you singAbout the house while I sat reading here,My child, my dear;To know you glad with all the life-joys fairI dared not share.I thought there would be time enough to showMy love, to throwSome day with crowns of laurel at your feetLove's roses sweet;I thought I could taste love when fame was won —Now both are done!Thank God, your child-heart knew not how to missThe passionate kissWhich I dared never give, lest love should riseMighty, unwise,And bind me, with my life-work incomplete,Beside your feet.You never knew, you lived and were content;My one chance went;You died, my little one, and are at rest —And I, unblest,Look at these broken fragments of my life,My child, my wife.

LOVE

ITHE DESIRE OF THE MOTH FOR THE STARThe wide, white woods are still as death or sleep,Silent with snow and sunshine and crisp air,Save when the brief, keen, sudden breezes sweepThrough frozen fern-leaves rustling everywhere.No leaves are here, nor buds for gathering,But in her garden – risen from Summer's tombTo bear the gospel of eternal Spring —The Christmas roses bloom.O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of daysPure from all sordid soil and worldly stain,Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways —Ah that such dreams should always be in vain!We, too, in bitterest sorrow's wintry hour,Too chill to let the redder roses blow,We, too, had our delicious hidden flowerThat blossomed in life's snow.O heart, if we again might hope to bePure as the snow or Christmas roses white!If dreams and deeds might but be one to me,And one to thee be duty and delight!If that may ever be, one hand we knowMust beckon us along the way she goes,The hand of her – as pure as any snow,And sweet as any rose.IIWORSHIPI passed beneath the stately Norman portal,I trod the stones that pilgrim feet have trod,I passed between the pillars tall and slender,That yearn to heaven as man's soul yearns to God.The coloured glory of the pictured windowsFell on me as I kneeled before the shrineWhere, round the image of the Mother-maiden,The countless flames of love-lit tapers shine.The hymn rose on the wings of children's voices,The incense thrilled my soul to voiceless prayerWith scent of dear dead days, and years forgotten —And all the soul of all the past was there.But in my heart as there I kneeled before her,Not to the Mother-maid the winged prayers flew —They passed her by and sought, instead, your presence;The incense of my soul was burned for you.For you, for you were all the tapers lighted,For you the flowers were on the altar laid,For you the hymn rose thrilling through the chancelTo the clerestory's mysteries of shade.To you the anthems of a thousand churchesRose where the taper-pointed flames burned clear;To you – through all these leagues of deathly distance,To you – as unattainable as dear.Dear as the dreams life never brings to blossom,Lost as the seeds hope sowed, which never grew,Pure as the love which only you could waken,Prayer, incense, tears, and love were all for you!IIISPLENDIDE MENDAXWhen God some day shall call my nameAnd scorch me with a blaze of shame,Bringing to light my inmost thoughtAnd all the evil I have wrought,Tearing away the veils I woveTo hide my foulness from my love,And leaving my transgressions bareTo the whole heaven's clear, cold air —When all the angels weep to seeThe branded, outcast soul of me,One saint at least will hide her face —She will not look at my disgrace."At least, O God, O God Most High,He loved me truly!" she will cry,And God will pause before He sendMy soul to find its fitting end.Then, lest heaven's light should leave her faceTo think one loved her and was base,I will speak out at judgment day —"I never loved her!" I will say.

LOVE SONG

Light of my life! though far away,My sun, you shine,Your radiance warms me every dayLike fire or wine.Life of my heart! in every beatThis sad heart gives,It owns your sovereignty complete,By which it lives.Heart of my soul! serene and strong,Eyes of my sight!Together we can do no wrong,Apart, no right.

THE QUARREL

Come down, my dear, from this high, wind-swept hill,Where the wild plovers scream against the sky;Down in the valley everything is still —We also will be silent, you and I.Come down, and hold my hand as we go down.A gleam of sun has dyed the west afar;The lights come out down in the little town,'Neath the first glimmer of the evening star.Did my heart forge the bitter words I said?Did your heart breed those bitterer replies —Spoken with plovers wheeling overheadIn the gray pallor of the cheerless skies?Is it worth while to quarrel and upbraid,Life being so little and love so great a thing?The price of all life's follies has been paidWhen we, true lovers, fall to quarrelling.Here is the churchyard; swing the gate and passWhere the sharp needles of the pines are shed.Tread here between the mounds of flowered grass;Tread softly over these forgotten dead.We are alive, and here – O love! O wife!While life is ours, and we are yours and mine,How dare we crush the blossom of our life?How dare we spill love's sacramental wine?Kiss me! Forget! We two are living now,And life is all too short for love, my dear.When one of us beneath these flowers lies low,The other will remember we kissed here.Some one some day will come here all aloneAnd look out on the desolated years,With bitter tears of longing for the oneWho will not then be here to dry the tears!