THE LETTER L.
ABSENT.
We sat on grassy slopes that meet
With sudden dip the level strand;
The trees hung overhead—our feet
Were on the sand.
Two silent girls, a thoughtful man,
We sunned ourselves in open light,
And felt such April airs as fan
The Isle of Wight;
And smelt the wall-flower in the crag
Whereon that dainty waft had fed,
Which made the bell-hung cowslip wag
Her delicate head;
And let alighting jackdaws fleet
Adown it open-winged, and pass
Till they could touch with outstretched feet
The warmèd grass.
The happy wave ran up and rang
Like service bells a long way off,
And down a little freshet sprang
From mossy trough,
And splashed into a rain of spray,
And fretted on with daylight's loss,
Because so many bluebells lay
Leaning across.
Blue martins gossiped in the sun,
And pairs of chattering daws flew by,
And sailing brigs rocked softly on
In company.
Wild cherry-boughs above us spread,
The whitest shade was ever seen,
And flicker, flicker, came and fled
Sun spots between.
Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom,
As babes will sigh for deep content
When their sweet hearts for peace make room,
As given, not lent.
And we saw on: we said no word,
And one was lost in musings rare,
One buoyant as the waft that stirred
Her shining hair.
His eyes were bent upon the sand,
Unfathomed deeps within them lay.
A slender rod was in his hand—
A hazel spray.
Her eyes were resting on his face,
As shyly glad, by stealth to glean
Impressions of his manly grace
And guarded mien;
The mouth with steady sweetness set,
And eyes conveying unaware
The distant hint of some regret
That harbored there.
She gazed, and in the tender flush
That made her face like roses blown,
And in the radiance and the hush,
Her thought was shown.
It was a happy thing to sit
So near, nor mar his reverie;
She looked not for a part in it,
So meek was she.
But it was solace for her eyes,
And for her heart, that yearned to him,
To watch apart in loving wise
Those musings dim.
Lost—lost, and gone! The Pelham woods
Were full of doves that cooed at ease;
The orchis filled her purple hoods
For dainty bees.
He heard not; all the delicate air
Was fresh with falling water-spray:
It mattered not—he was not there,
But far away.
Till with the hazel in his hand,
Still drowned in thought it thus befell;
He drew a letter on the sand—
The letter L.
And looking on it, straight there wrought
A ruddy flush about his brow;
His letter woke him: absent thought
Rushed homeward now.
And half-abashed, his hasty touch
Effaced it with a tell-tale care,
As if his action had been much,
And not his air.
And she? she watched his open palm
Smooth out the letter from the sand,
And rose, with aspect almost calm,
And filled her hand
With cherry-bloom, and moved away
To gather wild forget-me-not,
And let her errant footsteps stray
To one sweet spot,
As if she coveted the fair
White lining of the silver-weed,
And cuckoo-pint that shaded there
Empurpled seed.
She had not feared, as I divine,
Because she had not hoped. Alas!
The sorrow of it! for that sign
Came but to pass;
And yet it robbed her of the right
To give, who looked not to receive,
And made her blush in love's despite
That she should grieve.
A shape in white, she turned to gaze;
Her eyes were shaded with her hand,
And half-way up the winding ways
We saw her stand.
Green hollows of the fringèd cliff,
Red rocks that under waters show,
Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff,
Were spread below.
She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh,
Perhaps to think; but who can tell
How heavy on her heart must lie
The letter L!
* * * * *
She came anon with quiet grace;
And "What," she murmured, "silent yet!"
He answered, "'Tis a haunted place,
And spell-beset.
"O speak to us, and break the spell!"
"The spell is broken," she replied.
"I crossed the running brook, it fell,
It could not bide.
"And I have brought a budding world,
Of orchis spires and daisies rank,
And ferny plumes but half uncurled,
From yonder bank;
"And I shall weave of them a crown,
And at the well-head launch it free,
That so the brook may float it down,
And out to sea.
"There may it to some English hands
From fairy meadow seem to come;
The fairyest of fairy lands—
The land of home."
"Weave on," he said, and as she wove
We told how currents in the deep,
With branches from a lemon grove,
Blue bergs will sweep.
And messages from shipwrecked folk
Will navigate the moon-led main,
And painted boards of splintered oak
Their port regain.
Then floated out by vagrant thought,
My soul beheld on torrid sand
The wasteful water set at nought
Man's skilful hand,
And suck out gold-dust from the box,
And wash it down in weedy whirls,
And split the wine-keg on the rocks,
And lose the pearls.
"Ah! why to that which needs it not,"
Methought, "should costly things be given?
How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot,
On this side heaven!"
So musing, did mine ears awake
To maiden tones of sweet reserve,
And manly speech that seemed to make
The steady curve
Of lips that uttered it defer
Their guard, and soften for the thought:
She listened, and his talk with her
Was fancy fraught.
"There is not much in liberty"—
With doubtful pauses he began;
And said to her and said to me,
"There was a man—
"There was a man who dreamed one night
That his dead father came to him;
And said, when fire was low, and light
Was burning dim—
"'Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride,
Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam?
Sure home is best!' The son replied,
'I have no home.'
"'Shall not I speak?' his father said,
'Who early chose a youthful wife,
And worked for her, and with her led
My happy life.
"'Ay, I will speak, for I was young
As thou art now, when I did hold
The prattling sweetness of thy tongue
Dearer than gold;
"'And rosy from thy noonday sleep
Would bear thee to admiring kin,
And all thy pretty looks would keep
My heart within.
"'Then after, mid thy young allies—
For thee ambition flushed my brow—
I coveted the school-boy prize
Far more than thou.
"'I thought for thee, I thought for all
My gamesome imps that round me grew;
The dews of blessing heaviest fall
Where care falls too.
"'And I that sent my boys away,
In youthful strength to earn their bread,
And died before the hair was gray
Upon my head—
"'I say to thee, though free from care,
A lonely lot, an aimless life,
The crowning comfort is not there—
Son, take a wife.'
"'Father beloved,' the son replied,
And failed to gather to his breast,
With arms in darkness searching wide,
The formless guest.
"'I am but free, as sorrow is,
To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk;
And free, as sick men are, I wis
To rise and walk.
"'And free, as poor men are, to buy
If they have nought wherewith to pay;
Nor hope, the debt before they die,
To wipe away.
"'What 'vails it there are wives to win,
And faithful hearts for those to yearn,
Who find not aught thereto akin
To make return?
"'Shall he take much who little gives,
And dwells in spirit far away,
When she that in his presence lives
Doth never stray,
"But waking, guideth as beseems
The happy house in order trim,
And tends her babes; and sleeping, dreams
Of them and him?
"'O base, O cold,'"—while thus he spake
The dream broke off, the vision fled;
He carried on his speech awake
And sighing said—
"'I had—ah happy man!—I had
A precious jewel in my breast,
And while I kept it I was glad
At work, at rest!
"'Call it a heart, and call it strong
As upward stroke of eagle's wing;
Then call it weak, you shall not wrong
The beating thing.
"'In tangles of the jungle reed,
Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes,
In shipwreck drifting with the weed
'Neath rainy skies,
"'Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen,
At danger gazed with awed delight
As if sea would not drown, I ween,
Nor serpent bite.
"'I had—ah happy! but 'tis gone,
The priceless jewel; one came by,
And saw and stood awhile to con
With curious eye,
"'And wished for it, and faintly smiled
From under lashes black as doom,
With subtle sweetness, tender, mild,
That did illume
"'The perfect face, and shed on it
A charm, half feeling, half surprise,
And brim with dreams the exquisite
Brown blessèd eyes.
"'Was it for this, no more but this,
I took and laid it in her hand,
By dimples ruled, to hint submiss,
By frown unmanned?
"'It was for this—and O farewell
The fearless foot, the present mind,
And steady will to breast the swell
And face the wind!
"'I gave the jewel from my breast,
She played with it a little while
As I sailed down into the west,
Fed by her smile;
"'Then weary of it—far from land,
With sigh as deep as destiny,
She let it drop from her fair hand
Into the sea,
"'And watched it sink; and I—and I,—
What shall I do, for all is vain?
No wave will bring, no gold will buy,
No toil attain;
"'Nor any diver reach to raise
My jewel from the blue abyss;
Or could they, still I should but praise
Their work amiss.
"'Thrown, thrown away! But I love yet
The fair, fair hand which did the deed:
That wayward sweetness to forget
Were bitter meed.
"'No, let it lie, and let the wave
Roll over it for evermore;
Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave—
The sea her store.
"'My heart, my sometime happy heart!
And O for once let me complain,
I must forego life's better part—
Man's dearer gain.
"'I worked afar that I might rear
A peaceful home on English soil;
I labored for the gold and gear—
I loved my toil.
"'Forever in my spirit spake
The natural whisper, "Well 'twill be
When loving wife and children break
Their bread with thee!"
"'The gathered gold is turned to dross,
The wife hath faded into air,
My heart is thrown away, my loss
I cannot spare.
"'Not spare unsated thought her food—
No, not one rustle of the fold,
Nor scent of eastern sandal-wood,
Nor gleam of gold;
"'Nor quaint devices of the shawl,
Far less the drooping lashes meek;
The gracious figure, lithe and tall,
The dimpled cheek;
"'And all the wonders of her eyes,
And sweet caprices of her air,
Albeit, indignant reason cries,
Fool! have a care.
"'Fool! join not madness to mistake;
Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit;
Only that she thy heart might break—
She wanted it,
"'Only the conquered thing to chain
So fast that none might set it free,
Nor other woman there might reign
And comfort thee.
"'Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet;
Love dead outside her closèd door,
And passion fainting at her feet
To wake no more;
"'What canst thou give that unknown bride
Whom thou didst work for in the waste,
Ere fated love was born, and cried—
Was dead, ungraced?
"'No more but this, the partial care,
The natural kindness for its own,
The trust that waxeth unaware,
As worth is known:
"'Observance, and complacent thought
Indulgent, and the honor due
That many another man has brought
Who brought love too.
"'Nay, then, forbid it Heaven!' he said,
'The saintly vision fades from me;
O bands and chains! I cannot wed—
I am not free.'"
With that he raised his face to view;
"What think you," asking, "of my tale?
And was he right to let the dew
Of morn exhale,
"And burdened in the noontide sun,
The grateful shade of home forego—
Could he be right—I ask as one
Who fain would know?"
He spoke to her and spoke to me;
The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek;
The woven crown lay on her knee;
She would not speak.
And I with doubtful pause—averse
To let occasion drift away—
I answered—"If his case were worse
Than word can say,
"Time is a healer of sick hearts,
And women have been known to choose,
With purpose to allay their smarts,
And tend their bruise,
"These for themselves. Content to give,
In their own lavish love complete,
Taking for sole prerogative
Their tendance sweet.
"Such meeting in their diadem
Of crowning love's ethereal fire,
Himself he robs who robbeth them
Of their desire.
"Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried
Against his lot that even-song,
I judge him honest, and decide
That he was wrong."
"When I am judged, ah may my fate,"
He whispered, "in thy code be read!
Be thou both judge and advocate."
Then turned, he said—
"Fair weaver!" touching, while he spoke,
The woven crown, the weaving hand,
"And do you this decree revoke,
Or may it stand?
"This friend, you ever think her right—
She is not wrong, then?" Soft and low
The little trembling word took flight:
She answered, "No."
PRESENT.
A meadow where the grass was deep,
Rich, square, and golden to the view,
A belt of elms with level sweep
About it grew.
The sun beat down on it, the line
Of shade was clear beneath the trees;
There, by a clustering eglantine,
We sat at ease.
And O the buttercups! that field
O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam—
Where France set up his lilied shield,
His oriflamb,
And Henry's lion-standard rolled:
What was it to their matchless sheen,
Their million million drops of gold
Among the green!
We sat at ease in peaceful trust,
For he had written, "Let us meet;
My wife grew tired of smoke and dust,
And London heat,
"And I have found a quiet grange,
Set back in meadows sloping west,
And there our little ones can range
And she can rest.
"Come down, that we may show the view,
And she may hear your voice again,
And talk her woman's talk with you
Along the lane."
Since he had drawn with listless hand
The letter, six long years had fled,
And winds had blown about the sand,
And they were wed.
Two rosy urchins near him played,
Or watched, entranced, the shapely ships
That with his knife for them he made
Of elder slips.
And where the flowers were thickest shed,
Each blossom like a burnished gem,
A creeping baby reared its head,
And cooed at them.
And calm was on the father's face,
And love was in the mother's eyes;
She looked and listened from her place,
In tender wise.
She did not need to raise her voice
That they might hear, she sat so nigh;
Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice,
And soft reply.
Holding our quiet talk apart
Of household things; till, all unsealed,
The guarded outworks of the heart
Began to yield;
And much that prudence will not dip
The pen to fix and send away,
Passed safely over from the lip
That summer day.
"I should be happy," with a look
Towards her husband where he lay,
Lost in the pages of his book,
Soft did she say.
"I am, and yet no lot below
For one whole day eludeth care;
To marriage all the stories flow,
And finish there:
"As if with marriage came the end,
The entrance into settled rest,
The calm to which love's tossings tend,
The quiet breast.
"For me love played the low preludes,
Yet life began but with the ring,
Such infinite solicitudes
Around it cling.
"I did not for my heart divine
Her destiny so meek to grow;
The higher nature matched with mine
Will have it so.
"Still I consider it, and still
Acknowledge it my master made,
Above me by the steadier will
Of nought afraid.
"Above me by the candid speech;
The temperate judgment of its own;
The keener thoughts that grasp and reach
At things unknown.
"But I look up and he looks down,
And thus our married eyes can meet;
Unclouded his, and clear of frown,
And gravely sweet.
"And yet, O good, O wise and true!
I would for all my fealty,
That I could be as much to you
As you to me;
"And knew the deep secure content
Of wives who have been hardly won,
And, long petitioned, gave assent,
Jealous of none.
"But proudly sure in all the earth
No other in that homage shares,
Nor other woman's face or worth
Is prized as theirs."
I said: "And yet no lot below
For one whole day eludeth care.
Your thought." She answered, "Even so.
I would beware
"Regretful questionings; be sure
That very seldom do they rise,
Nor for myself do I endure—
I sympathize.
"For once"—she turned away her head,
Across the grass she swept her hand—
"There was a letter once," she said,
"Upon the sand."
"There was, in truth, a letter writ
On sand," I said, "and swept from view;
But that same hand which fashioned it
Is given to you.
"Efface the letter; wherefore keep
An image which the sands forego?"
"Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep,"
She answered low,
"I could not choose but wake it now;
For do but turn aside your face,
A house on yonder hilly brow
Your eyes may trace.
"The chestnut shelters it; ah me,
That I should have so faint a heart!
But yester-eve, as by the sea
I sat apart,
"I heard a name, I saw a hand
Of passing stranger point that way—
And will he meet her on the strand,
When late we stray?
"For she is come, for she is there,
I heard it in the dusk, and heard
Admiring words, that named her fair,
But little stirred
"By beauty of the wood and wave,
And weary of an old man's sway;
For it was sweeter to enslave
Than to obey."
—The voice of one that near us stood,
The rustle of a silken fold,
A scent of eastern sandal wood,
A gleam of gold!
A lady! In the narrow space
Between the husband and the wife,
But nearest him—she showed a face
With dangers rife;
A subtle smile that dimpling fled,
As night-black lashes rose and fell:
I looked, and to myself I said,
"The letter L."
He, too, looked up, and with arrest
Of breath and motion held his gaze,
Nor cared to hide within his breast
His deep amaze;
Nor spoke till on her near advance
His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue;
And with his change of countenance
Hers altered too.
"Lenore!" his voice was like the cry
Of one entreating; and he said
But that—then paused with such a sigh
As mourns the dead.
And seated near, with no demur
Of bashful doubt she silence broke,
Though I alone could answer her
When first she spoke.
She looked: her eyes were beauty's own;
She shed their sweetness into his;
Nor spared the married wife one moan
That bitterest is.
She spoke, and lo, her loveliness
Methought she damaged with her tongue;
And every sentence made it less,
All falsely rung.
The rallying voice, the light demand,
Half flippant, half unsatisfied;
The vanity sincere and bland—
The answers wide.
And now her talk was of the East,
And next her talk was of the sea;
"And has the love for it increased
You shared with me?"
He answered not, but grave and still
With earnest eyes her face perused,
And locked his lips with steady will,
As one that mused—
That mused and wondered. Why his gaze
Should dwell on her, methought, was plain;
But reason that should wonder raise
I sought in vain.
And near and near the children drew,
Attracted by her rich array,
And gems that trembling into view
Like raindrops lay.
He spoke: the wife her baby took
And pressed the little face to hers;
What pain soe'er her bosom shook,
What jealous stirs
Might stab her heart, she hid them so,
The cooing babe a veil supplied;
And if she listened none might know,
Or if she sighed;
Or if forecasting grief and care
Unconscious solace thence she drew,
And lulled her babe, and unaware
Lulled sorrow too.
The lady, she interpreter
For looks or language wanted none,
If yet dominion stayed with her—
So lightly won;
If yet the heart she wounded sore
Could yearn to her, and let her see
The homage that was evermore
Disloyalty;
If sign would yield that it had bled,
Or rallied from the faithless blow,
Or sick or sullen stooped to wed,
She craved to know.
Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen,
Her asking eyes would round him shine;
But guarded lips and settled mien
Refused the sign.
And unbeguiled and unbetrayed,
The wonder yet within his breast,
It seemed a watchful part he played
Against her quest.
Until with accent of regret
She touched upon the past once more,
As if she dared him to forget
His dream of yore.
And words of little weight let fall
The fancy of the lower mind;
How waxing life must needs leave all
Its best behind;
How he had said that "he would fain
(One morning on the halcyon sea)
That life would at a stand remain
Eternally;
"And sails be mirrored in the deep,
As then they were, for evermore,
And happy spirits wake and sleep
Afar from shore:
"The well-contented heart be fed
Ever as then, and all the world
(It were not small) unshadowèd
When sails were furled.
"Your words"—a pause, and quietly
With touch of calm self-ridicule:
"It may be so—for then," said he,
"I was a fool."
With that he took his book, and left
An awkward silence to my care,
That soon I filled with questions deft
And debonair;
And slid into an easy vein,
The favorite picture of the year;
The grouse upon her lord's domain—
The salmon weir;
Till she could fain a sudden thought
Upon neglected guests, and rise,
And make us her adieux, with nought
In her dark eyes
Acknowledging or shame or pain;
But just unveiling for our view
A little smile of still disdain
As she withdrew.
Then nearer did the sunshine creep,
And warmer came the wafting breeze;
The little babe was fast asleep
On mother's knees.
Fair was the face that o'er it leant,
The cheeks with beauteous blushes dyed;
The downcast lashes, shyly bent,
That failed to hide
Some tender shame. She did not see;
She felt his eyes that would not stir,
She looked upon her babe, and he
So looked at her.
So grave, so wondering, so content,
As one new waked to conscious life,
Whose sudden joy with fear is blent,
He said, "My wife."
"My wife, how beautiful you are!"
Then closer at her side reclined,
"The bold brown woman from afar
Comes, to me blind.
"And by comparison, I see
The majesty of matron grace,
And learn how pure, how fair can be
My own wife's face:
"Pure with all faithful passion, fair
With tender smiles that come and go,
And comforting as April air
After the snow.
"Fool that I was! my spirit frets
And marvels at the humbling truth,
That I have deigned to spend regrets
On my bruised youth.
"Its idol mocked thee, seated nigh,
And shamed me for the mad mistake;
I thank my God he could deny,
And she forsake.
"Ah, who am I, that God hath saved
Me from the doom I did desire,
And crossed the lot myself had craved,
To set me higher?
"What have I done that He should bow
From heaven to choose a wife for me?
And what deserved, He should endow
My home with THEE?
"My wife!" With that she turned her face
To kiss the hand about her neck;
And I went down and sought the place
Where leaped the beck—
The busy beck, that still would run
And fall, and falter its refrain;
And pause and shimmer in the sun,
And fall again.
It led me to the sandy shore,
We sang together, it and I—
"The daylight comes, the dark is o'er,
The shadows fly."
I lost it on the sandy shore,
"O wife!" its latest murmurs fell,
"O wife, be glad, and fear no more
The letter L."
THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE.
(1571.)
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers ran by two, by three;
"Pull, if ye never pulled before;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.
"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells,
Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"
Men say it was a stolen tyde—
The Lord that sent it, He knows all;
But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall:
And there was nought of strange, beside
The nights of mews and peewits pied
By millions crouched on the old sea wall.
I sat and spun within the doore,
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;
The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies;
And dark against day's golden death
She moved where Lindis wandereth,
My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song.
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along;
Where the reedy Lindis floweth,
Floweth, floweth.
From the meads where melick groweth
Faintly came her milking song—
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
"For the dews will soone be falling;
Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
From the clovers lift your head;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed."
If it be long, ay, long ago,
When I beginne to think howe long,
Againe I hear the Lindis flow,
Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong;
And all the aire, it seemeth mee,
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),
That ring the tune of Enderby.
Alle fresh the level pasture lay,
And not a shadowe mote be seene,
Save where full fyve good miles away
The steeple towered from out the greene;
And lo! the great bell farre and wide
Was heard in all the country side
That Saturday at eventide.
The swanherds where their sedges are
Moved on in sunset's golden breath.
The shepherde lads I heard afarre,
And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;
Till floating o'er the grassy sea
Came downe that kyndly message free,
The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."
Then some looked uppe into the sky,
And all along where Lindis flows
To where the goodly vessels lie,
And where the lordly steeple shows.
They sayde, "And why should this thing be?
What danger lowers by land or sea?
They ring the tune of Enderby!
"For evil news from Mablethorpe,
Of pyrate galleys warping down;
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,
They have not spared to wake the towne
But while the west bin red to see,
And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"
I looked without, and lo! my sonne
Came riding downe with might and main
He raised a shout as he drew on,
Till all the welkin rang again,
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)
"The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe,
The rising tide comes on apace,
And boats adrift in yonder towne
Go sailing uppe the market-place."
He shook as one that looks on death:
"God save you, mother!" straight he saith;
"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"
"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away,
With her two bairns I marked her long;
And ere yon bells beganne to play
Afar I heard her milking song."
He looked across the grassy lea,
To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!"
They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"
With that he cried and beat his breast;
For, lo! along the river's bed
A mighty eygre reared his crest,
And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
It swept with thunderous noises loud;
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis backward pressed,
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;
Then madly at the eygre's breast
Flung uppe her weltering walls again.
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout—
Then beaten foam flew round about—
Then all the mighty floods were out.
So farre, so fast the eygre drave,
The heart had hardly time to beat,
Before a shallow seething wave
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:
The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,
And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sate that night,
The noise of bells went sweeping by;
I marked the lofty beacon light
Stream from the church tower, red and high—
A lurid mark and dread to see;
And awsome bells they were to mee,
That in the dark rang "Enderby."
They rang the sailor lads to guide
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;
And I—my sonne was at my side,
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;
And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
"O come in life, or come in death!
O lost! my love, Elizabeth."
And didst thou visit him no more?
Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare;
The waters laid thee at his doore,
Ere yet the early dawn was clear.
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
The lifted sun shone on thy face,
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!
To manye more than myne and me:
But each will mourn his own (she saith).
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;
I shall never hear her song,
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along
Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
Goeth, floweth;
From the meads where melick groweth,
When the water winding down,
Onward floweth to the town.
I shall never see her more
Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
Shiver, quiver;
Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling
To the sandy lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
"Leave your meadow grasses mellow.
Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;
Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
From your clovers lift the head;
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed."
AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE.
(THE PARSON'S BROTHER, SISTER, AND TWO CHILDREN)
Preface.
What wonder man should fail to stay
A nursling wafted from above,
The growth celestial come astray,
That tender growth whose name is Love!
It is as if high winds in heaven
Had shaken the celestial trees,
And to this earth below had given
Some feathered seeds from one of these.
O perfect love that 'dureth long!
Dear growth, that shaded by the palms.
And breathed on by the angel's song,
Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms!
How great the task to guard thee here,
Where wind is rough and frost is keen,
And all the ground with doubt and fear
Is checkered, birth and death between!
Space is against thee—it can part;
Time is against thee—it can chill;
Words—they but render half the heart;
Deeds—they are poor to our rich will.
* * * * *
Merton. Though she had loved me, I had never bound
Her beauty to my darkness; that had been
Too hard for her. Sadder to look so near
Into a face all shadow, than to stand
Aloof, and then withdraw, and afterwards
Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her.
I think so, and I loved her; therefore I
Have no complaint; albeit she is not mine:
And yet—and yet, withdrawing I would fain
She would have pleaded duty—would have said
"My father wills it"; would have turned away,
As lingering, or unwillingly; for then
She would have done no damage to the past:
Now she has roughly used it—flung it down
And brushed its bloom away. If she had said,
"Sir, I have promised; therefore, lo! my hand"—
Would I have taken it? Ah no! by all
Most sacred, no!
I would for my sole share
Have taken first her recollected blush
The day I won her; next her shining tears—
The tears of our long parting; and for all
The rest—her cry, her bitter heart-sick cry,
That day or night (I know not which it was,
The days being always night), that darkest night.
When being led to her I heard her cry,
"O blind! blind! blind!"
Go with thy chosen mate:
The fashion of thy going nearly cured
The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak
That half my thoughts go after thee; but not
So weak that I desire to have it so.
JESSIE, seated at the piano, sings.
When the dimpled water slippeth,
Full of laughter, on its way,
And her wing the wagtail dippeth,
Running by the brink at play;
When the poplar leaves atremble
Turn their edges to the light,
And the far-up clouds resemble
Veils of gauze most clear and white;
And the sunbeams fall and flatter
Woodland moss and branches brown.
And the glossy finches chatter
Up and down, up and down:
Though the heart be not attending,
Having music of her own,
On the grass, through meadows wending,
It is sweet to walk alone.
When the falling waters utter
Something mournful on their way,
And departing swallows flutter,
Taking leave of bank and brae;
When the chaffinch idly sitteth
With her mate upon the sheaves,
And the wistful robin flitteth
Over beds of yellow leaves;
When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder
Evil fate, float by and frown,
And the listless wind doth wander
Up and down, up and down:
Though the heart be not attending,
Having sorrows of her own,
Through the fields and fallows wending,
It is sad to walk alone.
Merton. Blind! blind! blind!
Oh! sitting in the dark for evermore,
And doing nothing—putting out a hand
To feel what lies about me, and to say
Not "This is blue or red," but "This is cold,
And this the sun is shining on, and this
I know not till they tell its name to me."
O that I might behold once more my God!
The shining rulers of the night and day;
Or a star twinkling; or an almond-tree,
Pink with her blossom and alive with bees,
Standing against the azure! O my sight!
Lost, and yet living in the sunlit cells
Of memory—that only lightsome place
Where lingers yet the dayspring of my youth:
The years of mourning for thy death are long.
Be kind, sweet memory! O desert me not!
For oft thou show'st me lucent opal seas,
Fringed with their cocoa-palms and dwarf red crags,
Whereon the placid moon doth "rest her chin",
For oft by favor of thy visitings
I feel the dimness of an Indian night,
And lo! the sun is coming. Red as rust
Between the latticed blind his presence burns,
A ruby ladder running up the wall;
And all the dust, printed with pigeons' feet,
Is reddened, and the crows that stalk anear
Begin to trail for heat their glossy wings,
And the red flowers give back at once the dew,
For night is gone, and day is born so fast,
And is so strong, that, huddled as in flight,
The fleeting darkness paleth to a shade,
And while she calls to sleep and dreams "Come on,"
Suddenly waked, the sleepers rub their eyes,
Which having opened, lo! she is no more.
O misery and mourning! I have felt—
Yes, I have felt like some deserted world
That God had done with, and had cast aside
To rock and stagger through the gulfs of space,
He never looking on it any more—
Untilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired,
Nor lighted on by angels in their flight
From heaven to happier planets, and the race
That once had dwelt on it withdrawn or dead
Could such a world have hope that some blest day
God would remember her, and fashion her
Anew?
Jessie. What, dearest? Did you speak to me?
Child. I think he spoke to us.
M. No, little elves, You were so quiet that I half forgot Your neighborhood. What are you doing there?
J. They sit together on the window-mat Nursing their dolls.
C. Yes, Uncle, our new dolls— Our best dolls, that you gave us.
M. Did you say The afternoon was bright?
J. Yes, bright indeed! The sun is on the plane-tree, and it flames All red and orange.
C. I can see my father— Look! look! the leaves are falling on his gown.
M. Where?
C. In the churchyard, Uncle—he is gone: He passed behind the tower.
M. I heard a bell: There is a funeral, then, behind the church.
2d Child. Are the trees sorry when their leaves drop off?
1st Child. You talk such silly words;—no, not at all. There goes another leaf.
2d Child. I did not see.
1st Child. Look! on the grass, between the little hills. Just where they planted Amy.
J. Amy died— Dear little Amy! when you talk of her, Say, she is gone to heaven.
2d Child. They planted her— Will she come up next year?
1st Child. No, not so soon;
But some day God will call her to come up,
And then she will. Papa knows everything—
He said she would before he planted her.
2d Child. It was at night she went to heaven. Last night We saw a star before we went to bed.
1st Child. Yes, Uncle, did you know? A large bright star, And at her side she had some little ones— Some young ones.
M. Young ones! no, my little maid, Those stars are very old.
1st Child. What! all of them?
M. Yes.
1st Child. Older than our father?
M. Older, far.
2d Child. They must be tired of shining there so long. Perhaps they wish they might come down.
J. Perhaps!
Dear children, talk of what you understand.
Come, I must lift the trailing creepers up
That last night's wind has loosened.
1st Child. May we help? Aunt, may we help to nail them?
J. We shall see. Go, find and bring the hammer, and some shreds.
[Steps outside the window, lifts a branch, and sings.]
Should I change my allegiance for rancor
If fortune changes her side?
Or should I, like a vessel at anchor,
Turn with the turn of the tide?
Lift! O lift, thou lowering sky;
An thou wilt, thy gloom forego!
An thou wilt not, he and I
Need not part for drifts of snow.
M. [within] Lift! no, thou lowering sky, thou wilt not lift—
Thy motto readeth, "Never."
Children. Here they are! Here are the nails! and may we help?
J. You shall, If I should want help.
1st Child. Will you want it, then? Please want it—we like nailing.
2d Child. Yes, we do.
J. It seems I ought to want it: hold the bough, And each may nail in turn.
[Sings.]
Like a daisy I was, near him growing:
Must I move because favors flag,
And be like a brown wall-flower blowing
Far out of reach in a crag?
Lift! O lift, thou lowering sky;
An thou canst, thy blue regain!
An thou canst not, he and I
Need not part for drops of rain.
1st Child. Now, have we nailed enough?
J. [trains the creepers] Yes, you may go; But do not play too near the churchyard path.
M. [within] Even misfortune does not strike so near
As my dependence. O, in youth and strength
To sit a timid coward in the dark,
And feel before I set a cautious step!
It is so very dark, so far more dark
Than any night that day comes after—night
In which there would be stars, or else at least
The silvered portion of a sombre cloud
Through which the moon is plunging.
J. [entering] Merton!
M. Yes
J. Dear Merton, did you know that I could hear?
M. No: e'en my solitude is not mine now,
And if I be alone is ofttimes doubt.
Alas! far more than eyesight have I lost;
For manly courage drifteth after it—
E'en as a splintered spar would drift away
From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I complain—
Like a weak ailing woman I complain.
J. For the first time.
M. I cannot bear the dark.
J. My brother! you do bear it—bear it well—
Have borne it twelve long months, and not complained
Comfort your heart with music: all the air
Is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands.
You like to feel them on you. Come and play.
M. My fate, my fate is lonely!
J. So it is— I know it is.
M. And pity breaks my heart.
J. Does it, dear Merton?
M. Yes, I say it does.
What! do you think I am so dull of ear
That I can mark no changes in the tones
That reach me? Once I liked not girlish pride
And that coy quiet, chary of reply,
That held me distant: now the sweetest lips
Open to entertain me—fairest hands
Are proffered me to guide.
J. That is not well?
M. No: give me coldness, pride, or still disdain,
Gentle withdrawal. Give me anything
But this—a fearless, sweet, confiding ease,
Whereof I may expect, I may exact,
Considerate care, and have it—gentle speech,
And have it. Give me anything but this!
For they who give it, give it in the faith
That I will not misdeem them, and forget
My doom so far as to perceive thereby
Hope of a wife. They make this thought too plain;
They wound me—O they cut me to the heart!
When have I said to any one of them,
"I am a blind and desolate man;—come here,
I pray you—be as eyes to me?" When said,
Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet
To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands
That clasp a lifelong captive's through the grate,
And who will ever lend her delicate aid
To guide me, dark encumbrance that I am!—
When have I said to her, "Comforting voice,
Belonging to a face unknown, I pray
Be my wife's voice?"
J. Never, my brother—no, You never have!
M. What could she think of me If I forgot myself so far? or what Could she reply?
J. You ask not as men ask
Who care for an opinion, else perhaps,
Although I am not sure—although, perhaps,
I have no right to give one—I should say
She would reply, "I will"
* * * * *
Afterthought.
Man dwells apart, though not alone,
He walks among his peers unread;
The best of thoughts which he hath known.
For lack of listeners are not said.
Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles,
He saith "They dwell not lone like men,
Forgetful that their sunflecked smiles
Flash far beyond each other's ken."
He looks on God's eternal suns
That sprinkle the celestial blue,
And saith, "Ah! happy shining ones,
I would that men were grouped like you!"
Yet this is sure, the loveliest star
That clustered with its peers we see,
Only because from us so far
Doth near its fellows seem to be.
SONGS OF SEVEN.
SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION.
There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven:
I've said my "seven times" over and over,
Seven times one are seven.
I am old, so old, I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done;
The lambs play always, they know no better;
They are only one times one.
O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing
And shining so round and low;
You were bright! ah bright! but your light is failing—
You are nothing now but a bow.
You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven
That God has hidden your face?
I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.
O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow,
You've powdered your legs with gold!
O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold!
O columbine, open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!
O cuckoo pint, toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell!
And show me your nest with the young ones in it;
I will not steal them away;
I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet—
I am seven times one to-day.
SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE.
You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,
How many soever they be,
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges
Come over, come over to me.
Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling
No magical sense conveys,
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling
The fortune of future days.
"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily,
While a boy listened alone;
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily
All by himself on a stone.
Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,
And mine, they are yet to be;
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover:
You leave the story to me.
The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,
And hangeth her hoods of snow;
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:
O, children take long to grow.
I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster,
Nor long summer bide so late;
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,
For some things are ill to wait.
I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head;
"The child is a woman, the book may close over,
For all the lessons are said."
I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it,
Not one, as he sits on the tree;
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it!
Such as I wish it to be.
SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE.
I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover,
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate;
"Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover—
Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait
Till I listen and hear
If a step draweth near,
For my love he is late!
"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?
Let the star-clusters glow,
Let the sweet waters flow,
And cross quickly to me.
"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;
You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep.
Ah, my sailor, make haste,
For the time runs to waste,
And my love lieth deep—
"Too deep for swift telling: and yet my one lover
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."
By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover,
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight:
But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.
SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY.
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall!
When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses,
And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small!
Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses,
Eager to gather them all.
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups!
Mother shall thread them a daisy chain;
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow,
That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain;
Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow"—
Sing once, and sing it again.
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow;
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters,
And haply one musing doth stand at her prow.
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters,
Maybe he thinks on you now!
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall—
A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,
And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall!
Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure,
God that is over us all!
SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD.
I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan
Before I am well awake;
"Let me bleed! O let me alone,
Since I must not break!"
For children wake, though fathers sleep
With a stone at foot and at head:
O sleepless God, forever keep,
Keep both living and dead!
I lift mine eyes, and what to see
But a world happy and fair!
I have not wished it to mourn with me—
Comfort is not there.
O what anear but golden brooms,
And a waste of reedy rills!
O what afar but the fine glooms
On the rare blue hills!
I shall not die, but live forlore—
How bitter it is to part!
O to meet thee, my love, once more!
O my heart, my heart!
No more to hear, no more to see!
O that an echo might wake
And waft one note of thy psalm to me
Ere my heart-strings break!
I should know it how faint soe'er,
And with angel voices blent;
O once to feel thy spirit anear,
I could be content!
Or once between the gates of gold,
While an angel entering trod,
But once—thee sitting to behold
On the hills of God!
SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGE.
To bear, to nurse, to rear,
To watch, and then to lose:
To see my bright ones disappear,
Drawn up like morning dews—
To bear, to nurse, to rear,
To watch, and then to lose:
This have I done when God drew near
Among his own to choose.
To hear, to heed, to wed,
And with thy lord depart
In tears that he, as soon as shed,
Will let no longer smart.—
To hear, to heed, to wed,
This while thou didst I smiled,
For now it was not God who said,
"Mother, give ME thy child."
O fond, O fool, and blind,
To God I gave with tears;
But when a man like grace would find,
My soul put by her fears—
O fond, O fool, and blind,
God guards in happier spheres;
That man will guard where he did bind
Is hope for unknown years.
To hear, to heed, to wed,
Fair lot that maidens choose,
Thy mother's tenderest words are said,
Thy face no more she views;
Thy mother's lot, my dear,
She doth in nought accuse;
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear,
To love—and then to lose.
SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME.
I.
A song of a boat:—
There was once a boat on a billow:
Lightly she rocked to her port remote,
And the foam was white in her wake like snow,
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow
And bent like a wand of willow.
II.
I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat
Went curtseying over the billow,
I marked her course till a dancing mote
She faded out on the moonlit foam,
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home;
And my thoughts all day were about the boat,
And my dreams upon the pillow.
III.
I pray you hear my song of a boat,
For it is but short:—
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat,
In river or port.
Long I looked out for the lad she bore,
On the open desolate sea,
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore,
For he came not back to me—
Ah me!
IV.
A song of a nest:—
There was once a nest in a hollow:
Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed,
Soft and warm, and full to the brim—
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim,
With buttercup buds to follow.
V.
I pray you hear my song of a nest,
For it is not long:—
You shall never light, in a summer quest
The bushes among—
Shall never light on a prouder sitter,
A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender twitter
That wind-like did come and go.
VI.
I had a nestful once of my own,
Ah happy, happy I!
Right dearly I loved them: but when they were grown
They spread out their wings to fly—
O, one after one they flew away
Far up to the heavenly blue,
To the better country, the upper day,
And—I wish I was going too.