The Dales of Arcady

ON EARLY RISING

THE LOVER:

    Why not rise with dawn, my Lady?
        Why miss these sweet hours?
    Come with me: the ghyll is shady,
        Carpeted with flowers;
        Why miss these sweet hours?

    Now thou liest a-bed, my jewel,
        How canst thou still sleep?
    To encase thyself is cruel—
        Beauty thus to keep.
        How canst thou still sleep?

HIS LADY:

    At this hour, my simple lover,
        I prefer to rest
    Than to watch the tireless plover
        Rise from dewy nest;
        I prefer to rest.

    Beauty such as mine, my lover,
        (This I know is right)
    Even thou wilt soon discover
        Is more meet for night
        (This I know is right).

THE SONG-MAKER:

    In the daytime chirp the thrushes;
        But the nightingale
    Waits until the moonlit hushes
        To pour forth her tale;
        Wiser nightingale!

JEWELS

O! Gold I lack; I am a man
Who cannot give as others can;
No costly gems of value rare
Are mine to give, my Lady Fair!

Yet would I give, and of my best,
So delve the kingdom of mine eyes:
What say'st thou to a rope of pearls
Strung from the cirro-clouded skies?

A sunlit beck, just after rain,
Should from its ripples lend a chain
Of sparkling diamonds, very meet
To grace thy wrist, my Lady Sweet.

A peaty tarn, lost 'mong the hills,
Of beryl tint should make a ring;
The moors should yield a coronet
Of amethyst, from summer ling.
*****
Rubies? Already thou hast two!
They are the gems for which I sue.

RIBBLESDALE.

BARGAINING

There are many, many forests lying north, south, east, and west,
    There are many, many rivers moving slowly to the sea,
    But there's a wood of budding beech that claims the heart of me,
And there's a little singing beck that falls from heathered crest.

O! I would give the universe to own that singing stream,
    And watch the stars a-hiding from the rosy-fingered morn,
    While cuckoos wake the fellside, and daffodils are born—
O! any one can have the world, so I may keep my stream—

Yet would I barter beechen wood and little singing beck
If I could fold my arms once more around my sweetheart's neck.

NIDDERDALE.

SONG OF GOOD-BYE

The ship is speeding fast from out the bay,
Instead of thine, I feel a kiss of spray;
My face is lashed by salt winds from the sea,
My eyes are wet with parting now from thee.
    O Husband Sweetheart! send to me a thought—
    Some loving word, perchance my lips have taught!

The evening fades to purple, darkly blue,
The air is chill, a few white stars creep through
The steely buckler of the northern sky;
One lonely sound recurs—a sew-mew's cry.
    O Husband Sweetheart! send thy heart to me
    Across this tireless, surging, tossing sea!

To-night we're severed, many miles apart:
I wonder, canst thou rest, my Dearest Heart?
In Court of Dreams perhaps we'll briefly meet
And kiss upon the Borderland of Sleep.
    O Husband Sweetheart! say for me a prayer—
    God give you peace, and have you in His care!

OFF THE YORKSHIRE COAST.

KING YESTERDAY

You and King Yesterday both have fled
To the Land-of-the-beautiful-days-that-are-dead.

How full of bird music the dewy-fair Morn
When Yesterday, King of the Past, was born;

How rosy with roses the passionate noon
When you and King Yesterday ruled sweet June;

How royal with splendour the crimsoning west
As Yesterday bravely grew old with zest;

And eve was a glamour of emerald light
When Yesterday greeted the world "Good-night."

Oh! You and King Yesterday gently wean
My thoughts to the Country-it-might-have-been.

KISSING

Thou canst not kiss without consent,
For know, dear Thief, a kiss is lent;
And if thou takest one to-day,
With interest must thou repay:
One now, next week I'll count in fives,—
Thou'lt owe some scores in Paradise!

TANFIELD, WENSLEYDALE.

PHILOSOPHY

Some tell me "Life is a weariful thing,
That Sorrow remains, while joy takes wing."
But Sorrow and I already have met:
His face is wan and his lips are set;
He cometh and goeth on silent feet,
Yet between his visits are moments sweet,
Moments that come like a blackbird's dart,
When Happiness holds me close to his heart;
When I sense the rapture of swinging skies
And know the thrill of the spring's surprise,
As I lie on the mothering Earth's deep breast
And clasp my tremulous bosom, lest
Some unknown loveliness I might miss,
Or forgetful be of the West Wind's kiss.

Like the blackbird's notes in the early hours
Which fall like a peal of silver flowers,
Joy rings his bells in my waiting ears,
And Sorrow departs to his silent meres.
"And if he returns?"—my soul will sing
Remembering Joy who has taken wing!

RILSTONE FELL.

A THRUSH'S SONG

(To My First Love, Daddy)

A thrush's call
Has chanced to fall
Into my heart
Where dwell apart
Dear memories
Of summer skies,
Of heartsome days,
Of flower-fair ways,
Of kisses shy
With people high.
What did I ken
Of lovers then,
Of lover-laws,
Of lover-saws?
The sweet, sweet earth
Was giving birth
To lovely things
With songs and wings;
And yonder thrush
On yonder bush
Brings home to me
The little years of memory.

A FEBRUARY DAY

(There is a country saying that spring has not come until you can set your foot on seven daisies at once)

"O! How do you know
    When spring has come?
Still falls the snow
    And the birds are dumb."

The grass will wear
    A greener tone,
The thrush will dare
    To carol alone.

The silver rain
    Will warmly fall,
The woods will gain
    The blackbird's call.

But the way to tell,
    And the only way,
Is to find a dell
    Where the breezes play,

And seek and seek
    Where the daisy-bloom
Shows white and meek
    Like a baby moon.

And when your foot treads
    With tender fear
On seven white heads,—
    Then spring is here.

COXWOLD.

LAUS DEO

(For My Little God-son)

God Darling! Listen to my song,
The one I sing the whole day long,
Of thanks to Thee for every good,
Whether at home, in field, or wood.

I thank Thee for the lovely spring,
And for Thy little birds that sing;
I thank Thee for the summer's sun,
When 'mong the roses I can run.

I thank Thee for the sickle time,
When corn is ripe, and apples prime.
I thank Thee for the deep white snow,
When I tobogganing can go.

I thank Thee for the bright sweet day,
For hours of love and work and play;
I thank Thee for the deep blue night
When I and flower-buds fold up tight.

NIDDERDALE.

"PAST-TEN-O'CLOCK-LAND"

"It was Moonlight Land and Past-ten-o'clock Land and we were in it and of it."—KENNETH GRAHAM.

There's a lovely land that is all your own,
    If your years but number ten,
Where the cherryblossom's ever in flower,
    And found in "Past-ten-o'clock Glen."

There's a river with musical water-falls,
    You paddle as long as you please,
And the daisies don't die as you pick them,
    When found on "Past-ten-o'clock Leas."

And the rivulet leads to a harbour,
    Full of the quaintest of ships,
One wish will transport you to China,
    Or other "Past-ten-o'clock Trips."

Away in dim mountains of amber,
    Which drop sheer down to the waves,
Fierce brigands, be-weaponed and ear-ringed,
    Live in "Past-ten-o'clock Caves."

O! the folk understand you and love you,
    You never can do any wrong—
You can shoot the cat with a catapult,
    Or shout the "Past-ten-o'clock Song."

You can play you are really an otter,
    And get as wet as you like;
You can lie in wait as a Redskin does,
    In a deep "Past-ten-o'clock Dyke."

It's a lovely land that is all your own,
    If you're only ten years old,
But when you are more, you are apt to forget
    "Past-Ten-o'clock-Dreams of Gold!"

BARDEN FELL, WHARFEDALE.

TO MEMORY

Mem'ry, sweet witch! you brought him to my door.
    I heard you knock, and saw your fingers ope
    The rosy gateway of a lingering hope,
And I beheld his dear face as of yore.
You held him by the hand I oft caressed,
    And seemed so small a sprite by his tall side,
    As in his leathern coat you tried to hide,
The same old coat my cheek so often pressed.

Then searchingly his deep blue eyes found mine,
    As if to plead against forgetfulness,
    With all the old-time loving kindliness:
And then you led him back without one sign.
    Sweet little Mem'ry, lead him back once more,
    And, knocking, bring him in, and close the door.

A WAR PRAYER FOR A LITTLE BOY

Morning

The day is just beginning,
    But all the long night through,
The sailor-men were watching
    Out in the dark night blue.
        Dear God! when my turn comes,
        May my watch be as true.

Evening

The long, still night is coming,
    But whilst I've been at play,
The soldier-men were fighting
    Thro' all the live-long day.
        Dear God! when my turn comes,
        Please keep me brave as they.

ROBIN HOOD'S BAY.

STAR-SCANDAL

One summer eve, my own dear love and I
    Sat arm-entwined beneath a rowan-tree.
A little wind flew past us with a sigh,
    And all the velvet leaves waved merrily.
Then, as mine eyes escaped his ardent glance,
    I saw a star peep o'er the purple hill
And climb up to the topmost branch and dance,
    And wink at its reflection in the rill.
"Come, kiss me once, O timorous-hearted Love.
    Full many thousand kisses dost thou owe.
Prithee but one, thy pretty love to prove;
    No one in all the world shall ever know."
No one? That spying star but told a poet,
    And in a song he let the whole world know it.

THE FIRST OF JULY 1916

For the Mothers, Wives, and Sweethearts
of the 15th West Yorks ("Leeds Pals")

I

'Tis passing wonderful that they,
The little boys of yesterday,
Should suddenly become such men
That England rings with praise of them.
But tho' their names are writ in blood
—Deepening crimson flood on flood—
Their impositions writ awry
And copybooks are hardly dry;
And Sweetheart Life had scarcely kissed
The boy to man, when the blue mist
Of twilight lifted; and the dawn
Announced that rosy day was born.

As pink-curled clouds lit up the sky
A little gentle breeze whisked by
Caressing all the poppy-heads—
Rippling fields of budding reds—
Splashes of yellow sunned the earth
Where mustard meadows flowered mirth;
And cornflowers blue ran out to meet
The blue around God's Mercy-seat.
O! all the world and all the sky
Made it a sacrifice to die.

II

'Tis passing wonderful that they,
The little boys of yesterday,
Who cuddled to dear Mother-hearts
With darling rosy-fingered arts,
Did cheer with strong expectancy
The shattering artillery;
And smilingly went o'er the top
Unflinchingly without a stop
Into the poppied "No Man's Land."
Wave after wave, band after band,
Through the terror of bursting shells,
Through the noise of a thousand hells,
Through th' unmanning groans of pain,
Through the blood of the splendid slain
Lying under a blue-cupped sky,
As wave after wave swept bravely by.
From flowers of blue to the Endless Blue
Hundreds of souls are passing thro',
And the poppies weep o'er the red-spilled lives:
O! at home are the mothers, the waiting wives.

III

'Tis passing wonderful that they,
The little boys of yesterday
Who played with us, who teased us too,
Should such tremendous actions do.
No praise, no honour is too high
For those who gave so cheerfully:
Gave up the wonder of the spring,
Gave up the wealth that summers bring,
Gave up the gold of autumn's store,
Leaving us richer than before.

Unflinching bravery of soul!
Ring out your splendid deathless toll,
Ring down the years untiringly
In the hearts of the children-yet-to-be.
The carillon of your ideals
You'll hear again in their sweet peals;
God grant that we may squarely fight
For all you held to be upright.

LEEDS, July 1st, 1917.

"THE IDEAL MAN"

He should be strong—as strong as Thor of old;
    And faults of strength 'twere better he possessed
    Than quavering mind or any lack of zest
When the time needs a right arm coolly bold.
Truth should to him be what the unpent song
    Is to the soaring lark; with kindly thought
    For everything that cold Misfortune's sought;
With earnest faith to fight a cause proved wrong.

A heart that finds the best in every man;
    Impatient he should be at all delay
    Or if not giv'n at once his own sweet way—
(But then a fault or two is Nature's plan),
    Yet I would wish his chiefest fault should be
    A wilfulness to see no fault in me!

SEMER WATER.

TO THE COMING SPRING

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

In my woodlands
    The primroses are peeping
With pale, sweet golden eyes,
    In spite of Winter's weeping.

In my woodlands
    A thrush has just swung, dipping,
In search of his spring voice;
    The trees stand dripping, dripping.

In my woodlands
    Harsh Winter coldly shivers;
The windflower, white adventurer,
    With hope of springtime quivers.

Soon my woodlands,
    Bearing bannerets of Spring,
Will be every moment musical
    With birds that, mating, sing.

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

Oh, Spring! Spring!
    Since the Autumn died in glory,
How I have yearned for your coming
    Thro' the cloistral fog-bound days,
Your beauty seemed a story
    That would never be told again.
Spring! of the pearly cloud-skies
    Soft-curled as a baby's hand,
Turquoise as children's eyes,
    Of rainbow-tinctured days
And twittering song of the eaves!

Spring! You desired vision,
    The wind in your primrose hair,
Your eyes, too, weepingly ready,
    Your face, an anemone fair;
Your train, a burgeoning pattern
    Be-sprent with woodland flowers,
Blackthorn, daffies, bluebells,
    Marking the flight of our hours.

Spring! Tho' it still is Winter,
In your mystic sleep you smile,
Yet the primroses and the thrush on wing
Know that even in sleep you sing;
You wondrous, envassaling, longed-for Maid!
Oh! If Death came now I should be afraid:
I have longed for you so the dark months thro',
That I must see the pulsing glory of you;
And your little hand-maidens in their turn—
For each at their 'pointed times I yearn.

    Virginal snowdrop,
    Firstling of Spring!
    Crocus, herald of purple and gold,
    Wistful windflowers,
    Celandined stars,
    Every one to my heart I fold.

    Snow-soft blackthorn,
    You wild, fair sweet,
    The scent of you brings
    A flutter of wings;
    And, almond blossom,
    You stole at dawn
    The pale dream vest
    Of the infant morn.

Of a pool of blue I dream—
Hyacinths, waving in ripples of blue.
There is nothing so fair the whole world thro'
As when quivering sun and quivering wind
Jocundly, joyously, leapingly find
A young green wood in a lazuli dream.

O Spring, if I lay on my dying bed
I should wait to die, till your glory had fled,
I could not go ere the cuckoo had cried
His impudent call to the countryside:
Not till the swallows had loyally come
To their nesting place, in my liefest home,
And then I should wait for the blackbird's note
To leap from his melody-stirring throat.
Ah! And to feel the April rain
Pattering on my face again.
God grant that I do not die in the Spring,
When my whole soul rebels to live and sing;
As we all must die, so let me die
When the grey November fogs are nigh;
Not for a longer space of heaven
Would I forfeit one day, nay, one single hour,
One sweet bird-cry, or one haunting flower,
Of my beautiful, longed-for, fleeting Spring.

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

'Tis Winter still,
    But you stir in sleep
Tho' the cold gusts blow
    And the bare trees weep.

But the early primrose
    And flitting thrush
Have watched you smile
    And have seen you blush.

And tho' it is long
    Ere yet you rise,
And the blue of your glance
    Reflect in the skies;

My heart is awake
    And ready to sing
The moment you beckon,
    Sweet, glorious Spring!

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

PATELEY BRIDGE, NIDDERDALE,

QUESTION

O Seats of ancient learning, Philosophers and Sages!
A child has put a question, which I cannot find in pages
Of any tome in any land: and so the answer's missed.
"Where do all the kisses go, after they are kissed?"

THE DALES OF ARCADY

FIRST DAY

    Hearken! The South Wind's voice.
My lover returns, and the valleys rejoice.
The bees fly upward to watch his flight,
The butterflies quiver with glad delight,
As he teasingly touches their jewelled wings.
O! at his bidding the whitethroat swings
In thrillant blue. A thrush's call
Blends with a blackbird's madrigal.

I steadily gazed at my silent pen,
Attempting to keep from my straying ken
An Eden of woods, of bosoming hills,
Of verdant hedges, of wandering rills.
            How can one work
When a Lover amid the flowers will lurk?
He tip-toes in thro' the window-door,
And whisks my papers on to the floor;
With flower-steeped hands he caresses my hair,
And whispers alluringly,

            "Fair, most Fair,
    Slip your slender hand in mine, my Sweeting,
    Hear! the skylarks cleave the blue with greeting,
    Hear the blackcap on the thorn at even
    Trill truths that echo to the highest heaven,
    Leave your world of carking care, time-haunted,
    For a country ever spring-enchaunted."

He leads me on to the dewy grass,
Where maiden primroses troop and pass;
With a gleesome kiss in his arms he swings
Me up 'twixt his eagle-wide rainbow wings:
Over a willowy coppice he goes
Flicking the hedges of milk-white sloes,
Over the blazon of heralding gorse,
Deftly he steers his ethereal course
Over anemone hillocks, o'er leas,
Hyacinth-dimpled, o'er buttercupped leas,
Over the ings where forget-me-not eyes
Borrow the blue of azureal skies;
Over the meadow-flats, higher and higher,
Sweeping the strings of the cloud-strung lyre.
The lilt of the planets is in mine ear,
Crystal dropping on crystal clear:
            "O Wind, my Lover,
My mortal eyes must you surely cover:
Such beauty will make me beauty-blind,
Protect mine eyes, O my Lover Wind."
Then, as I lost my indrawn breath,
He swirled me down to the earth beneath,
Down thro' the depths of a forest of pine,
On to a carpet of celandine.
The goldcrests twittered, the squirrels chased,
While the lofty pines, brown arms enlaced,
Lisped a dryad-taught melody, sung by the sea.
Known in the valleys of Arcady.

For a little space did my Lover sleep,
While the gold-mailed sun with me did keep
A radiant watch; but when Eventide
In saffron-rose wrapped the woodland side,
He started up, and he kissed my neck,
Then, bidding me rise at his instant beck,
We passed where the sovran oak-trees nod,
Where never a human foot has trod,
Where birches sway in slenderest grace,
That never have seen a mortal's face;
Where rivulets hasten in sweet surprise,
A wonder beneath my wond'ring eyes;
A lakelet trembled beneath my glance,
The lily-white elfins ceased their dance;
A cherry-tree flung confetti down,
And framed for my head a loving crown.
            Soft-toned bells
Called to each other across the fells.
While music played on a reeded flute
Stilled the air, and the birds were mute.

"O leaf-loving Zephyr, whence cometh the mirth
Of this melody? Owns my mothering Earth
A piper who pipes so alluringly
Of beauty that is, of beauty to be?
Onward! o'er thousands of blushet-shy daisies,
To find this piper of beautiful phrases."

'Mong flocks of goats, and of leaping lambs,
The piper sat. Two fierce-horned rams
Made a fleecy cushion whereon he sat,
And a sleeping ewe made a creamy mat
For his hoofed feet. His music ceased.
Green were his eyes, and they seemed well pleased
As they lit on our forms:

                "O! Pan, great Pan!
This mortal thy kingdom of beauty would span,
And she would learn of the singing seasons'
Wonderful featness; of all the reasons.
The hill and the wood and the rippling rill
The air with different melodies fill;
Where bonnibel April latest was sent,
When May filled the world with her wonderment!
Who teaches the cuckoo his twin-bell call?
The opening notes of a festival
To jubilate the reign of the summer
Beauteous, queenliest, rosy-robed comer.
                O Pan! I bring
A mortal whose soul is afire to sing."

Pan smiled—a smile like a twisted oak—
Then beckoned to me, while the forest spoke,
"Evoë, great Pan," sang the lark on high,
"Evoë, great Pan," from the uttermost sky;
I drew near and stood beside his knee:
He handed his reeded flute to me,
And kept his eyes, of a forest green,
On my trembling hands. O! well, I ween,
He knew that my amateur hands were weak,
For the spirit of me was meek, so meek,
And his green eyes glimmered with rising glee.
My masterful Lover whispered to me,
"Put your lips to the flute with mine,
Heedless of self-hood, in song be divine."
And placing near mine his golden-sweet mouth,
A rondeau he sang of the forest's youth.

Pan spoke at last: "Child! wander and learn
The lilt of the bird and the song of the burn:
And when thou hast learned from the burn and the bird
Thou'lt find me again" (the forest heart stirred).
"Hail! child from the plaintful Kingdom of Man."
The mountain-tops shouted, "Evoë, great Pan!"
The rivers sang deeply, "Evoë, great Pan!"
And whisperingly I, "Evoë, great Pan!"

SECOND DAY

The rose-trees show but a tuft of green
Where a stern, cold pruning-knife has been,
But they promise a summer of fragrant wealth:
How the small buds come to the light by stealth
Like pixies shy; yet a pruning knife
Leads every browny-bare branch to life.
            Slowly I passed thro' the rustic gate,
Where wine-red roses will hold June fête;
The wind stole out from the blossoming row
Of the cherry-trees, and he whispered low:

"Are you content to be bound by a wall,
E'en tho' it boundeth things beautiful?
Tho' cherry and apple bloom over it fall,
Always it is, and it hath been, a wall.
'Tis true that thro' it there is a wicket,
But what can it know of the wild grown thicket
That grows where its pathway may never wander:
Out of this garden—the blue land yonder?"

And a cuckoo called; and the echo ran,
"Evoë, Evoë, Evoë, great Pan!"

Then my Lover lifted me up in his arms,
And swiftly arose. How the grey-roofed farms
Receded into the cup-like earth!
And I chanted a canzone of Springtime and Birth,
Which called o'er the sea to the firstling swallow,
Who flew beside us o'er height and hollow,
Till others came from their home of the Sun,
And the farm-folk cried, "Dear Summer's begun."
Hundreds and thousands followed our flight—
ALL ENGLAND WILL HAVE A SWALLOW TO-NIGHT.

By the old elm's portal of Arcady
My Lover alighted and whispered to me,
"O lily of laughter! O sister of flowers!
Wander alone in Arcadian bowers,
And I will return when the sun goes down,
And wing you home to your grey, grey town.
I kiss your little white hands and feet:
Farewell!" And he rose, on wings so fleet
Over the nests in the cradling larch,
Over the bow of the rainbow's arch.

Where conifers grow in fine profusion,
And birches quiver in sweet confusion,
Where hawthorn waits with a danseuse grace
To burst on the scene with her milk-white face,
And pirouette near some stately spruce,
Scattering around him pearly dews,
Where rabbits scamper thro' grasses lush,
And a pheasant's screech breaks the noon-day hush,
I journeyed on, till the sun began
His westering course.

                "Evoë, great Pan!
Never a note of your pipings to-day
Has guided my steps thro' the sylvan way.
O! where must I seek in this Paradise?"
"Evoë, Evoë," a linnet sighs,
"Seek where the sisterly marshes are,
Where the marigold twinkles, a golden star,
Where willow and alder hide the river,
Where timid reed-warblers tremble and shiver."
The sky showed pink thro' the branches grey,
And then I heard, as if far away,
A tremulous song, a music of fears
That was strung together by trills of tears,
A quivering star glowed, curtained by leaves,
And the hullets called from some distant eaves.

I found Pan crouched by the river's edge,
His hoofed feet hid by the rushy sedge,
And I listened his plaint.

                "O great god Pan,
You sing with the broken heart of a man!
Your song is of Syrinx, who, æons ago,
Escaped from your loving. Alas! that you know
The music of love, and the music of lack,
And you mourn for the hours that cannot come back,—
But I would learn of merrier things:
The melody murmurs of fluttering wings,
The secrets that fill the nightingaled glades,
The music that stirs in the leaf-colonnades."

He piped for a minute, then, turning to me,
With a wry, queer smile, said: "In Arcady
No song goes forth to the listening earth
That comes not thro' travail and tears to birth:
The river weeps as it leaves the fell,
And the note cries out as it mourns the bell;
The bird that praises the young, fair dawn,
Sings of his loss on the twilit lawn,
And those that hymn of the coming spring
Lament for her too, when she taketh wing.
The song of songs is of Death and of Love—
I sing of Syrinx, my own ... lost ... love."
He piped again, and the blue mists frail
Swayed in the dusk to the tender wail,
And I dreamed—till I felt on my damp, moist hair,
My Love's cool hand, and his whisper, "Fair,"
Then I felt his arms, and I knew the skies,
Whilst over the mountains I saw Dawn arise,
And another sweet day its course began,
While the hidden stars sang, "Evoë, great Pan!"
And the lark in the blue, "Evoë, great Pan!"
And wistfully I, "Evoë, great Pan!"

A WAR-TIME GRACE

Dear God, your rain and shining sun
Have all their lovely duties done:
The rain makes grow the golden wheat
And so provides the bread we eat.

The cow gives us the milk we drink
Because she loves your sun, I think.
Please, grant that other children may
Have milk and bread enough this day.

NIDDERDALE.

QUEEN MAB'S AWAKENING

SCENE: The Meeting of the Waters, in Bolton Woods, Wharfedale.

QUEEN MAB lies sleepily in a mossy hollow, guarded by a quivering frond of last year's bracken. After a little yawn she discontentedly gazes at THE THRUSH who is singing continuously, whilst balancing himself on a twig of the leafless hawthorn above her.

QUEEN MAB (almost peevishly for a Queen):

Thou saucy bird, to wake me from my slumber,
The spring still tarries, and I would not wake
To live thro' cloud-spun days, thro' endless nights;
To watch the weeping rain, until I too
Would mix my tears with hers. To see the hills
Bow their nude forms beneath the lashing hail,
To hear the strong trees groan.
            I will not wake.

THE THRUSH (practising trills between each line and minor arpeggios after each verse):

Queen Mab! Queen Mab!
    Listen my lay!
A windflower leapt
    In the hedge to-day.
One of thy dimples
    Lent its mirth
To lessen the gloom
    Of the snow-tired earth.
A white-faced flower's
    In the hedge to-day,
Queen Mab! Queen Mab!
    Listen my lay!

QUEEN MAB (impetuously):

Please, hush thy noisy song a little while.
Maybe a windflower shows her shy white face,
But I have seen anemones in snow,
Hiding their eyes (false messengers of Spring),
Justly ashamed of their own perfidy.
Therefore, sing softly.

QUEEN MAB curls herself up among her emerald cushions, closes her azure eyes, and sleeps for several days.

THE THRUSH (his voice a degree sweeter and surer):

Queen Mab! Queen Mab!
    Awake! Awake!
A primrose blooms
    In the woodland brake.
From thy sleepy lips
    Has tumbled a smile
Which lies a-blossoming
    Near the stile.
A primrose blooms
    In the woodland brake!
Queen Mab! Queen Mab!
    Awake! Awake!

A blue tit from a neighbourly silver birch softly mimics the trills after the last line.

QUEEN MAB (half opening her eyes):

O tiresome bird, one primrose does not bring
The warm sweet days for which I yearning wait.
Know, I have seen the hillside amber-pied
With primroses, and yet a fierce gale swept
Adown the dale. Primroses are brave,
But, tho' they blossom, leave me to my dreams.

Once more she nestles among the jade-green moss and sleeps for a week.

THE THRUSH (louder and clearer):

Queen Mab! Queen Mab!
    From thy faerie dream
Has sped a laugh
    Like a sunny gleam
Which springs to earth
    A daffy-down-dill
That merrily flouts
    At the purling rill,
Thy laugh has sped
    O'er the hillside grey:
Queen Mab! Queen Mab!
    Listen my lay!

The cuckoo calls wistfully from down-dale, but QUEEN MAB does not hear him.

QUEEN MAB (stretching her small white arms and yawning dreamily):

Methinks the air feels warmer, and the sky
Seems bluer, yet mine eyes are loath to ope.
I will not wake at once:
                How the birds sing!
I did not think the world held so much song.
That note's a blackbird's; that's a finch's call;
A wren has whispered secrets to his mate;
Two doves are cooing where green curtains hang,
Half shyly, lest their love-songs should be heard;
Yet, 'tis not spring until the cuckoo cries.

The cuckoo's voice is heard nearer, coming from Bolton Abbey, and a second voice answers,

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

From Barden Fell.

THE THRUSH (his voice jubilantly strong):

Queen Mab! Queen Mab!
    Thy hyacinth eyes
Have filled the coppice
    With azure sighs.
My loved little queen
    Of windflower feet,
Of daffodil-laughter
    So primrose-sweet!
The rippling wood
    Is a bluey lake.
Queen Mab! Queen Mab!
    Awake! Awake!

QUEEN MAB (wide awake now, springs from her couch and curtsies to the World, north, south, east, and west, then raises her arms to the Sun):

Gold Sun, I greet thee; do not hide thy face
Too soon behind the wistful little hills.
Thou art my lover, faithless, fickle, fair,
And leav'st me all too soon; my kingdom's naught
Without thy splendid presence; stay awhile.

Old World, old wrinkled granddame, thee I greet;
Thy loving smile renews thy youth once more.
For months I slept upon thy broad brown breast;
I thank thee, granddame, for so good a rest.

Ye birds that whistle, hares that limping run,
And little soft-eared rabbits, velvet shod,
Great wayward mortals, with unseeing eyes,
I greet you one and all, for Spring has come.
Laugh with the sun, muse with the silver showers;
Laugh and make merry, Spring is all too fleet,
And soon will dance away on flower-loved feet.

Exit QUEEN MAB in search of her court of butterflies. Above the bird-music is heard the insistent cry of the cuckoo, till the fells re-echo with his calling.

BOLTON WOODS, WHARFEDALE.