Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

BOSTON, LINCOLNSHIRE, ENG.

ST. BOTOLPH'S CHURCH IN THE DISTANCE.]

POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW

VOLUME II.

_TO JEAN INGELOW.

When youth was high, and life was new And days sped musical and fleet, She stood amid the morning dew, And sang her earliest measures sweet,-- Sang as the lark sings, speeding fair To touch and taste the purer air, To gain a nearer view of Heaven; 'Twas then she sang "The Songs of Seven."

Now, farther on in womanhood, With trainèd voice and ripened art, She gently stands where once she stood, And sings from out her deeper heart. Sing on, dear Singer! sing again; And we will listen to the strain, Till soaring earth greets bending Heaven, And seven-fold songs grow seventy-seven.

SUSAN COOLIDGE_

POEMS

BY

JEAN INGELOW

_IN TWO VOLUMES_

VOL. II.

BOSTON

ROBERTS BROTHERS

1896

AUTHOR'S COMPLETE EDITION.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

ROSAMUND ECHO AND THE FERRY PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING KISMET DORA SPERANZA THE BEGINNING IN THE NURSERY THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD LOSS AND WASTE ON A PICTURE THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND A MAID-MARTYR A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE THE WHITE MOON AN ARROW-SLIT WENDOVER THE LOVER PLEADS SONG IN THREE PARTS 'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM' NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE PERDITA

SERIOUS POEMS, AND SONGS AND POEMS OF LOVE AND CHILDHOOD.

LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN THE SHEPHERD LADY

POEMS ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN.
HENRY
SAMUEL
KATIE

THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL)

HYMNS.
THE MEASURELESS GULFS OF AIR ARE FULL OF THEE
THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT OF HEAVEN
THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE
SWEET ARE HIS WAYS WHO RULES ABOVE
O NIGHT OF NIGHTS
DEAR IS THE LOST WIFE TO A LONE MAN'S HEART
WEEPING AND WAILING NEEDS MUST BE
JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD
THOU HAST BEEN ALWAY GOOD TO ME
THOU THAT SLEEPEST NOT AFRAID
NOW WINTER PAST, THE WHITE-THORN BOWER
SUCH AS HAVE NOT GOLD TO BRING THEE
A MORN OF GUILT, AN HOUR OF DOOM
MARY OF MAGDALA
WOULD I, TO SAVE MY DEAR CHILD?

AT ONE AGAIN

SONNETS.
FANCY
COMPENSATION
LOOKING DOWN
WORK
WISHING
TO ----
ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE
AN ANCIENT CHESS KING
COMFORT IN THE NIGHT
THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS
A SNOW MOUNTAIN
SLEEP
PROMISING
LOVE
FAILURE

A BIRTHDAY WALK NOT IN VAIN I WAITED A GLEANING SONG WITH A DIAMOND MARRIED LOVERS A WINTER SONG BINDING SHEAVES THE MARINER'S CAVE A REVERIE DEFTON WOOD THE LONG WHITE SEAM AN OLD WIFE'S SONG COLD AND QUIET SLEDGE BELLS MIDSUMMER NIGHT, NOT DARK, NOT LIGHT THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE THE FAIRY WOMAN'S SONG ABOVE THE CLOUDS SLEEP AND TIME BEES AND OTHER-FELLOW-CREATURES THE GYPSY'S SELLING SONG A WOOING SONG A COURTING SONG LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY FEATHERS AND MOSS ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT SONG FOR A BABE GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE

THE TWO MARGARETS
MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE
MARGARET IN THE XEBEC

A STORY OF DOOM

POEMS

ROSAMUND.

_His blew His winds, and they were scattered._

'One soweth and another reapeth.' Ay, Too true, too true. One soweth--unaware Cometh a reaper stealthily while he dreams-- Bindeth the golden sheaf, and in his bosom As 't were between the dewfall and the dawn Bears it away. Who other was to blame? Is it I? Is it I?--No verily, not I, 'T was a good action, and I smart therefore; Oblivion of a righteous enmity Wrought me this wrong. I pay with my self ruth That I had ruth toward mine enemy; It needed not to slay mine enemy, Only to let him lie and succourless Drift to the foot o' the Everlasting Throne; Being mine enemy, he had not accused One of my nation there of unkind deeds Or ought the way of war forbids. Let be! I will not think upon it. Yet she was-- O, she was dear; my dutiful, dear child. One soweth--Nay, but I will tell this out, The first fyte was the best, I call it such For now as some old song men think on it.

I dwell where England narrows running north; And while our hay was cut came rumours up Humming and swarming round our heads like bees:

'Drake from the bay of Cadiz hath come home, And they are forth, the Spaniards with a force Invincible.' 'The Prince of Parma, couched At Dunkirk, e'en by torchlight makes to toil His shipwright thousands--thousands in the ports Of Flanders and Brabant. An hundred hendes Transports to his great squadron adding, all For our confusion.' 'England's great ally Henry of France, by insurrection fallen, Of him the said Prince Parma mocking cries, He shall not help the Queen of England now Not even with his tears, more needing them To weep his own misfortune.' Was that all The truth? Not half, and yet it was enough (Albeit not half that half was well believed), For all the land stirred in the half belief As dreamers stir about to wake; and now Comes the Queen's message, all her lieges bid To rise, 'lieftenants, and the better sort Of gentlemen' whereby the Queen's grace meant, As it may seem the sort that willed to rise And arm, and come to aid her. Distance wrought Safety for us, my neighbours and near friends, The peril lay along our channel coast And marked the city, undefended fair Rich London. O to think of Spanish mail Ringing--of riotous conquerors in her street, Chasing and frighting (would there were no more To think on) her fair wives and her fair maids. --But hope is fain to deem them forth of her.

Then Spain to the sacking; then they tear away Arras and carvèd work. O then they break And toss, and mar her quaint orfèverie Priceless--then split the wine kegs, spill the mead, Trail out the pride of ages in the dust; Turn over with pikes her silken merchandise, Strip off the pictures of her kings, and spoil Their palaces that nigh five hundred years Have rued no alien footsteps on the floor, And work--for the days of miracle are gone-- All unimaginable waste and woe.

Some cried, 'But England hath the better cause; We think not those good days indeed are done; We look to Heaven for aid on England's side.' Then other, 'Nay, the harvest is above, God comforts there His own, and ill men leaves To run long scores up in this present world, And pay in another. Look not here for aid. Latimer, poor old saint, died in the street With nigh, men say, three hundred of his kind, All bid to look for worse death after death, Succourless, comfortless, unfriended, curst. Mary, and Gardiner, and the Pope's man Pole Died upon down, lulled in a silken shade, Soothed with assurance of a waiting heaven, And Peter peering through the golden gate, With his gold key in 's hand to let them in.'

'Nay, leave,' quoth I, 'the martyrs to their heaven, And all who live the better that they died. But look you now, a nation hath no heaven, A nation's life and work and wickedness And punishment--or otherwise, I say A nation's life and goodness and reward Are here. And in my nation's righteous cause I look for aid, and cry, SO HELP ME GOD As I will help my righteous nation now With all the best I have, and know, and am, I trust Thou wilt not let her light be quenched; I go to aid, and if I fall--I fall, And, God of nations, leave my soul to Thee.'

Many did say like words, and all would give Of gold, of weapons, and of horses that They had to hand or on the spur o' the time Could gather. My fair dame did sell her rings, So others. And they sent us well equipped Who minded to be in the coming fray Whether by land or sea; my hope the last, For I of old therewith was conversant.

Then as we rode down southward all the land Was at her harvesting. The oats were cut Ere we were three days down, and then the wheat, And the wide country spite of loathèd threat Was busy. There was news to hearten us: The Hollanders were coming roundly in With sixty ships of war, all fierce, and full Of spleen, for not alone our sake but theirs Willing to brave encounter where they might.

So after five days we did sight the Sound, And look on Plymouth harbour from the hill. Then I full glad drew bridle, lighted straight, Ran down and mingled with a waiting crowd.

Many stood gazing on the level deep That scarce did tremble; 't was in hue as sloes That hang till winter on a leafless bough, So black bulged down upon it a great cloud And probed it through and through with forkèd stabs Incessant, and rolled on it thunder bursts Till the dark water lowered as one afraid.

That was afar. The land and nearer sea Lay sweltering in hot sunshine. The brown beach Scarce whispered, for a soft incoming tide Was gentle with it. Green the water lapped And sparkled at all edges. The night-heavens Are not more thickly speckled o'er with stars Than that fair harbour with its fishing craft. And crowds of galleys shooting to and fro Did feed the ships of war with their stout crews, And bear aboard fresh water, furniture Of war, much lesser victual, sallets, fruit, All manner equipment for the squadron, sails, Long spars. Also was chaffering on the Hoe, Buying and bargaining, taking of leave With tears and kisses, while on all hands pushed Tall lusty men with baskets on their heads Piled of fresh bread, and biscuit newly drawn.

Then shouts, 'The captains!' Raleigh, Hawkins, Drake, Old Martin Frobisher, and many more; Howard, the Lord High Admiral, headed them-- They coming leisurely from the bowling green, Elbowed their way. For in their stoutness loth To hurry when ill news first brake on them, They playing a match ashore--ill news I say, 'The Spaniards are toward'--while panic-struck The people ran about them, Drake cries out, Knowing their fear should make the danger worse, 'Spaniards, my masters! Let the Spaniards wait. Fall not a-shouting for the boats; is time To play the match out, ay to win, and then To beat the Spaniards.' So the rest gave way At his insistance, playing that afternoon The bravest match (one saith) was ever scored.

'T was no time lost; nay, not a moment lost; For look you, when the winning cast was made, The town was calm, the anchors were all up, The boats were manned to row them each to his ship, The lowering cloud in the offing had gone south Against the wind, and all was work, stir, heed, Nothing forgot, nor grudged, nor slurred, and most Men easy at heart as those brave sailors seemed.

And specially the women had put by On a sudden their deep dread; yon Cornish coast Neared of his insolency by the foe, With his high seacastles numerous, seaforts Many, his galleys out of number, manned Each by three hundred slaves chained to the oar; All his strong fleet of lesser ships, but great As any of ours--why that same Cornish coast Might have lain farther than the far west land, So had a few stout-hearted looks and words Wasted the meaning, chilled the menace of That frightful danger, imminent, hard at hand.

'The captains come, the captains!' and I turned As they drew on. I marked the urgency Flashing in each man's eye: fain to be forth But willing to be held at leisure. Then Cried a fair woman of the better sort To Howard, passing by her pannier'd ass, 'Apples, Lord Admiral, good captains all, Look you, red apples sharp and sweet are these,'

Quoth he a little chafed, 'Let be, let be, No time is this for bargaining, good dame. Let be;' and pushing past, 'Beshrew thy heart (And mine that I should say it), bargain! nay. I meant not bargaining,' she falters; crying, 'I brought them my poor gift. Pray you now take, Pray you.' He stops, and with a childlike smile That makes the dame amend, stoops down to choose, While I step up that love not many words, 'What should he do,' quoth I, 'to help this need That hath a bag of money, and good will?' 'Charter a ship,' he saith, nor e'er looks up, 'And put aboard her victual, tackle, shot, Ought he can lay his hand on--look he give Wide sea room to the Spanish hounds, make sail For ships of ours, to ease of wounded men, And succour with that freight he brings withal.'

His foot, yet speaking, was aboard his boat, His comrades, each red apples in the hand, Come after, and with blessings manifold Cheering, and cries, 'Good luck, good luck!' they speed.

'T was three years three months past. O yet methinks I hear that thunder crash i' the offing; hear Their words who when the crowd melted away Gathered together. Comrades we of old, About to adventure us at Howard's best On the unsafe sea. For he, a Catholic, As is my wife, and therefore my one child, Detested and defied th' most Catholic King Philip. He, trusted of her grace--and cause She had, the nation following suit--he deemed, 'T was whisper'd, ay and Raleigh, and Francis Drake No less, the event of battle doubtfuller Than English tongue might own; the peril dread As ought in this world ever can be deemed That is not yet past praying for. So far So good. As birds awaked do stretch their wings The ships did stretch forth sail, full clad they towered And right into the sunset went, hull down E'en with the sun. To us in twilight left, Glory being over, came despondent thought That mocked men's eager act. From many a hill, As if the land complained to Heaven, they sent A towering shaft of murky incense high, Livid with black despair in lieu of praise. The green wood hissed at every beacon's edge That widen'd fear. The smell of pitchpots fled Far over the field, and tongues of fire leaped up, Ay, till all England woke, and knew, and wailed.

But we i' the night through that detested reek Rode eastward. Every mariner's voice was given 'Gainst any fear for the western shires. The cry Was all, 'They sail for Calais roads, and thence, The goal is London.' Nought slept, man nor beast. Ravens and rooks flew forth, and with black wings, Affrighted, swept our eyes. Pale eddying moths Came by in crowds and whirled them on the flames.

We rode till pierced those beacon fires the shafts O' the sun, and their red smouldering ashes dulled. Beside them, scorched, smoke-blackened, weary, leaned Men that had fed them, dropped their tired arms And dozed. And also through that day we rode, Till reapers at their nooning sat awhile On the shady side of corn-shocks: all the talk Of high, of low, or them that went or stayed Determined but unhopeful; desperate To strike a blow for England ere she fell.

And ever loomed the Spaniard to our thought, Still waxed the fame of that great Armament-- New horsemen joining, swelled it more and more-- Their bulky ship galleons having five decks, Zabraes, pataches, galleys of Portugal, Caravels rowed with oars, their galliasses Vast, and complete with chapels, chambers, towers. And in the said ships of free mariners Eight thousand, and of slaves two thousand more, An army twenty thousand strong. O then Of culverin, of double culverin, Ordnance and arms, all furniture of war, Victual, and last their fierceness and great spleen, Willing to founder, burn, split, wreck themselves, But they would land, fight, overcome, and reign.

Then would we count up England. Set by theirs, Her fleet as walnut shells. And a few pikes Stored in the belfries, and a few brave men For wielding them. But as the morning wore, And we went ever eastward, ever on, Poured forth, poured down, a marching multitude With stir about the towns; and waggons rolled With offerings for the army and the fleet. Then to our hearts valour crept home again, The loathèd name of Alva fanning it; Alva who did convert from our old faith With many a black deed done for a white cause (So spake they erewhile to it dedicate) Them whom not death could change, nor fire, nor sword, To thirst for his undoing.

Ay, as I am a Christian man, our thirst Was comparable with Queen Mary's. All The talk was of confounding heretics, The heretics the Spaniards. Yet methought, 'O their great multitude! Not harbour room On our long coast for that great multitude. They land--for who can let them--give us battle, And after give us burial. Who but they, For he that liveth shall be flying north To bear off wife and child. Our very graves Shall Spaniards dig, and in the daisied grass Trample them down.' Ay, whoso will be brave, Let him be brave beforehand. After th' event If by good pleasure of God it go as then He shall be brave an' liketh him. I say Was no man but that deadly peril feared.

Nights riding two. Scant rest. Days riding three, Then Foulkstone. Need is none to tell all forth The gathering stores and men, the charter'd ship That I, with two, my friends, got ready for sea. Ready she was, so many another, small But nimble; and we sailing hugged the shore, Scarce venturing out, so Drake had willed, a league, And running westward aye as best we might, When suddenly--behold them! On they rocked, Majestical, slow, sailing with the wind. O such a sight! O such a sight, mine eyes, Never shall you see more! In crescent form, A vasty crescent nigh two leagues across From horn to horn, the lesser ships within, The great without, they did bestride as 't were And make a township on the narrow seas.

It was about the point of dawn: and light. All grey the sea, and ghostly grey the ships; And after in the offing rocked our fleet, Having lain quiet in the summer dark.

O then methought, 'Flash, blessed gold of dawn, And touch the topsails of our Admiral, That he may after guide an emulous flock, Old England's innocent white bleating lambs. Let Spain within a pike's length hear them bleat, Delivering of their pretty talk in a tongue Whose meaning cries not for interpreter.'

And while I spoke, their topsails, friend and foe, Glittered--and there was noise of guns; pale smoke Lagged after, curdling on the sun-fleck'd main. And after that? What after that, my soul? Who ever saw weakling white butterflies Chasing of gallant swans, and charging them, And spitting at them long red streaks of flame? We saw the ships of England even so As in my vaunting wish that mocked itself With 'Fool, O fool, to brag at the edge of loss.' We saw the ships of England even so Run at the Spaniards on a wind, lay to, Bespatter them with hail of battle, then Take their prerogative of nimble steerage, Fly off, and ere the enemy, heavy in hand, Delivered his reply to the wasteful wave That made its grave of foam, race out of range, Then tack and crowd all sail, and after them Again. So harassed they that mighty foe, Moving in all its bravery to the east. And some were fine with pictures of the saints, Angels with flying hair and peakèd wings, And high red crosses wrought upon their sails; From every mast brave flag or ensign flew, And their long silken pennons serpented Loose to the morning. And the galley slaves, Albeit their chains did clink, sang at the oar.

The sea was striped e'en like a tiger skin With wide ship wakes. And many cried, amazed, 'What means their patience?' 'Lo you,' others said, 'They pay with fear for their great costliness. Some of their costliest needs must other guard; Once guarded and in port look to yourselves, They count one hundred and fifty. It behoves Better they suffer this long running fight-- Better for them than that they give us battle, And so delay the shelter of their roads.

'Two of their caravels we sank, and one (Fouled with her consort in the rigging) took Ere she could catch the wind when she rode free. And we have riddled many a sail, and split Of spars a score or two. What then? To-morrow They look to straddle across the strait, and hold Having aye Calais for a shelter--hold Our ships in fight. To-morrow shall give account For our to-day. They will not we pass north To meddle with Parma's flotilla; their hope Being Parma, and a convoy they would be For his flat boats that bode invasion to us; And if he reach to London--ruin, defeat.'

Three fleets the sun went down on, theirs of fame Th' Armada. After space old England's few; And after that our dancing cockle-shells, The volunteers. They took some pride in us, For we were nimble, and we brought them powder, Shot, weapons. They were short of these. Ill found, Ill found. The bitter fruit of evil thrift. But while obsequious, darting here and there, We took their messages from ship to ship, From ship to shore, the moving majesties Made Calais Roads, cast anchor, all their less In the middle ward; their greater ships outside Impregnable castles fearing not assault.

So did we read their thought, and read it wrong, While after the running fight we rode at ease, For many (as is the way of Englishmen) Having made light of our stout deeds, and light O' the effects proceeding, saw these spread To view. The Spanish Admiral's mighty host, Albeit not broken, harass'd. Some did tow Others that we had plagued, disabled, rent; Many full heavily damaged made their berths.

Then did the English anchor out of range. To close was not their wisdom with such foe, Rather to chase him, following in the rear. Ay, truly they were giants in our eyes And in our own. They took scant heed of us, And we looked on, and knew not what to think, Only that we were lost men, a lost Isle, In every Spaniard's mind, both great and small.

But no such thought had place in Howard's soul, And when 't was dark, and all their sails were furled, When the wind veered a few points to the west, And the tide turned ruffling along the roads, He sent eight fireships forging down to them.

Terrible! Terrible! Blood-red pillars of reek They looked on that vast host and troubled it, As on th' Egyptian host One looked of old.

Then all the heavens were rent with a great cry, The red avengers went right on, right on, For none could let them; then was ruin, reek, flame; Against th' unwieldy huge leviathans They drave, they fell upon them as wild beasts, And all together they did plunge and grind, Their reefed sails set a-blazing, these flew loose And forth like banners of destruction sped. It was to look on as the body of hell Seething; and some, their cables cut, ran foul Of one the other, while the ruddy fire Sped on aloft. One ship was stranded. One Foundered, and went down burning; all the sea Red as an angry sunset was made fell With smoke and blazing spars that rode upright, For as the fireships burst they scattered forth Full dangerous wreckage. All the sky they scored With flying sails and rocking masts, and yards Licked of long flames. And flitting tinder sank In eddies on the plagued mixed mob of ships That cared no more for harbour, and were fain At any hazard to be forth, and leave Their berths in the blood-red haze.

It was at twelve O' the clock when this fell out, for as the eight Were towed, and left upon the friendly tide To stalk like evil angels over the deep And stare upon the Spaniards, we did hear Their midnight bells. It was at morning dawn After our mariners thus had harried them I looked my last upon their fleet,--and all, That night had cut their cables, put to sea, And scattering wide towards the Flemish coast Did seem to make for Greveline.

As for us, The captains told us off to wait on them, Bearers of wounded enemies and friends, Bearers of messages, bearers of store.

We saw not ought, but heard enough: we heard (And God be thanked) of that long scattering chase And driving of Sidonia from his hope, Parma, who could not ought without his ships And looked for them to break the Dutch blockade, He meanwhile chafing lion-like in his lair. We heard--and he--for all one summer day, Fenning and Drake and Raynor, Fenton, Cross, And more, by Greveline, where they once again Did get the wind o' the Spaniards, noise of guns. For coming with the wind, wielding themselves Which way they listed (while in close array The Spaniards stood but on defence), our own Went at them, charged them high and charged them sore, And gave them broadside after broadside. Ay, Till all the shot was spent both great and small. It failed; and in regard of that same want They thought it not convenient to pursue Their vessels farther. They were huge withal, And might not be encountered one to one, But close conjoined they fought, and poured great store Of ordnance at our ships, though many of theirs, Shot thorow and thorow, scarce might keep afloat.

Many were captured fighting, many sank. This news they brought returned perforce, and left The Spaniards forging north. Themselves did watch The river mouth, till Howard, his new store Gathered, encounter coveting, once more Made after them with Drake. And lo! the wind Got up to help us. He yet flying north (Their doughty Admiral) made all his wake To smoke, and would not end to fight, but strewed The ocean with his wreckage. And the wind Drave him before it, and the storm was fell, And he went up to th' uncouth northern sea. There did our mariners leave him. Then did joy Run like a sunbeam over the land, and joy Rule in the stout heart of a regnant Queen.

But now the counsel came, 'Every man home, For after Scotland rounded, when he curves Southward, and all the batter'd armament, What hinders on our undefended coast To land where'er he listeth? Every man Home.' And we mounted and did open forth Like a great fan, to east, to north, to west, And rumour met us flying, filtering Down through the border. News of wicked joy, The wreckers rich in the Faroes, and the Isles Orkney, and all the clansmen full of gear Gathered from helpless mariners tempted in To their undoing; while a treacherous crew Let the storm work upon their lives its will, Spoiled them and gathered all their riches up. Then did they meet like fate from Irish kernes, Who dealt with them according to their wont.

In a great storm of wind that tore green leaves And dashed them wet upon me, came I home. Then greeted me my dame, and Rosamund, Our one dear child, the heir of these my fields-- That I should sigh to think it! There, no more.

Being right weary I betook me straight To longed-for sleep, and I did dream and dream Through all that dolourous storm; though noise of guns Daunted the country in the moonless night, Yet sank I deep and deeper in the dream And took my fill of rest. A voice, a touch, 'Wake.' Lo! my wife beside me, her wet hair She wrung with her wet hands, and cried, 'A ship! I have been down the beach. O pitiful! A Spanish ship ashore between the rocks, And none to guide our people. Wake.' Then I Raised on mine elbow looked; it was high day; In the windy pother seas came in like smoke That blew among the trees as fine small rain, And then the broken water sun-besprent Glitter'd, fell back and showed her high and fast A caravel, a pinnace that methought To some great ship had longed; her hap alone Of all that multitude it was to drive Between this land of England her right foe, And that most cruel, where (for all their faith Was one) no drop of water mote they drink For love of God nor love of gold. I rose And hasted; I was soon among the folk, But late for work. The crew, spent, faint, and bruised Saved for the most part of our men, lay prone In grass, and women served them bread and mead, Other the sea laid decently alone Ready for burial. And a litter stood In shade. Upon it lying a goodly man, The govourner or the captain as it seemed, Dead in his stiff gold-broider'd bravery, And epaulet and sword. They must have loved That man, for many had died to bring him in, Their boats stove in were stranded here and there. In one--but how I know not--brought they him, And he was laid upon a folded flag, Many times doubled for his greater ease, That was our thought--and we made signs to them He should have sepulture. But when they knew They must needs leave him, for some marched them off For more safe custody, they made great moan.

After, with two my neighbours drawing nigh, One of them touched the Spaniard's hand and said, 'Dead is he but not cold;' the other then, 'Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead.' Again the first, 'An' if he breatheth yet He lies at his last gasp.' And this went off, And left us two, that by the litter stayed, Looking on one another, and we looked (For neither willed to speak), and yet looked on. Then would he have me know the meet was fixed For nine o' the clock, and to be brief with you He left me. And I had the Spaniard home. What other could be done? I had him home. Men on his litter bare him, set him down In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall.

And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon, Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds Of that great ensign covered store of gold, Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare, And other gear. I locked it for my part Into an armoury, and that fair flag (While we did talk full low till he should end) Spread over him. Methought, the man shall die Under his country's colours; he was brave, His deadly wound to that doth testify.

And when 't was seemly order'd, Rosamund, My daughter, who had looked not yet on death, Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread-- Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers, White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast. Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard, But while with daunted heart she moved anigh, His eyelids quiver'd, quiver'd then the lip, And he, reviving, with a sob looked up And set on her the midnight of his eyes.

Then she, in act to place the burial gift Bending above him, and her flaxen hair Fall'n to her hand, drew back and stood upright Comely and tall, her innocent fair face Cover'd with blushes more of joy than shame. 'Father,' she cried, 'O father, I am glad. Look you! the enemy liveth.' ''T is enough, My maiden,' quoth her mother, 'thou may'st forth, But say an Avè first for him with me.'

Then they with hands upright at foot o' his bed Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them, Till as I think for wonder at them, more Than for his proper strength, he could not die.

So in obedient wise my daughter risen, And going, let a smile of comforting cheer Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her For many a night and day that he beheld.

And then withal my dame, a leech of skill, Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound, Her women aiding at their best. And he 'Twixt life and death awaken'd in the night Full oft in his own tongue would make his moan, And when he whisper'd any word I knew, If I was present, for to pleasure him, Then made I repetition of the same. 'Cordova,' quoth he faintly, 'Cordova,' 'T was the first word he mutter'd. 'Ay, we know,' Quoth I, 'the stoutness of that fight ye made Against the Moors and their Mahometry, And dispossess'd the men of fame, the fierce Khalifs of Cordova--thy home belike, Thy city. A fair city Cordova.'

Then after many days, while his wound healed, He with abundant seemly sign set forth His thanks, but as for language had we none, And oft he strove and failed to let us know Some wish he had, but could not, so a week, Two weeks went by. Then Rosamund my girl, Hearing her mother plain on this, she saith, 'So please you, madam, show the enemy A Psalter in our English tongue, and fetch And give him that same book my father found Wrapped in the ensign. Are they not the same Those holy words? The Spaniard being devout, He needs must know them.' 'Peace, thou pretty fool! Is this a time to teach an alien tongue?' Her mother made for answer. 'He is sick, The Spaniard.' 'Cry you mercy,' quoth my girl, 'But I did think 't were easy to let show How both the Psalters are of meaning like; If he know Latin, and 't is like he doth, So might he choose a verse to tell his thought.'

Then said I (ay, I did!) 'The girl shall try,' And straight I took her to the Spaniard's side, And he, admiring at her, all his face Changed to a joy that almost showed as fear, So innocent holy she did look, so grave Her pitiful eyes. She sat beside his bed, He covered with the ensign yet; and took And showed the Psalters both, and she did speak Her English words, but gazing was enough For him at her sweet dimple, her blue eyes That shone, her English blushes. Rosamund, My beautiful dear child. He did but gaze, And not perceive her meaning till she touched His hand, and in her Psalter showed the word.

Then was all light to him; he laughed for joy, And took the Latin Missal. O full soon, Alas, how soon, one read the other's thought! Before she left him, she had learned his name Alonzo, told him hers, and found the care Made night and day uneasy--Cordova, There dwelt his father, there his kin, nor knew Whether he lived or died, whether in thrall To the Islanders for lack of ransom pined Or rued the galling yoke of slavery.

So did he cast him on our kindness. I-- And care not who may know it--I was kind, And for that our stout Queen did think foul scorn To kill the Spanish prisoners, and to guard So many could not, liefer being to rid Our country of them than to spite their own, I made him as I might that matter learn, Eking scant Latin with my daughter's wit, And told him men let forth and driven forth Did crowd our harbours for the ports of Spain, By one of whom, he, with good aid of mine, Should let his tidings go, and I plucked forth His ducats that a meet reward might be. Then he, the water standing in his eyes, Made old King David's words due thanks convey.

Then Rosamund, this all made plain, arose And curtsey'd to the Spaniard. Ah, methinks I yet behold her, gracious, innocent, And flaxen-haired, and blushing maidenly, When turning she retired, and his black eyes, That hunger'd after her, did follow on; And I bethought me, 'Thou shalt see no more, Thou goodly enemy, my one ewe lamb.'

O, I would make short work of this. The wound Healed, and the Spaniard rose, then could he stand, And then about his chamber walk at ease.

Now we had counsell'd how to have him home, And that same trading vessel beating up The Irish Channel at my will, that same I charter'd for to serve me in the war, Next was I minded should mine enemy Deliver to his father, and his land. Daily we looked for her, till in our cove, Upon that morn when first the Spaniard walked, Behold her rocking; and I hasted down And left him waiting in the house. Woe 's me! All being ready speed I home, and lo My Rosamund, that by the Spaniard sat Upon a cushion'd settle, book in hand. I needs must think how in the deep alcove Thick chequer'd shadows of the window-glass Did fall across her kirtle and her locks, For I did see her thus no more. She held Her Psalter, and he his, and slowly read Till he would stop her at the needed word. 'O well is thee,' she read, my Rosamund, 'O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be. Thy wife--' and there he stopped her, and he took And kissed her hand, and show'd in 's own a ring, Taking no heed of me, no heed at all.

Then I burst forth, the choler red i' my face When I did see her blush, and put it on. 'Give me,' quoth I, and Rosamund, afraid, Gave me the ring. I set my heel on it, Crushed it, and sent the rubies scattering forth, And did in righteous anger storm at him. 'What! what!' quoth I, 'before her father's eyes, Thou universal villain, thou ingrate, Thou enemy whom I shelter'd, fed, restored, Most basest of mankind!' And Rosamund, Arisen, her forehead pressed against mine arm, And 'Father,' cries she, 'father.' And I stormed At him, while in his Spanish he replied As one would speak me fair. 'Thou Spanish hound!' 'Father,' she pleaded. 'Alien vile,' quoth I, 'Plucked from the death, wilt thou repay me thus? It is but three times thou hast set thine eyes On this my daughter.' 'Father,' moans my girl; And I, not willing to be so withstood, Spoke roughly to her. Then the Spaniard's eyes Blazed--then he stormed at me in his own tongue, And all his Spanish arrogance and pride Broke witless on my wrathful English. Then He let me know, for I perceived it well, He reckon'd him mine equal, thought foul scorn Of my displeasure, and was wroth with me As I with him. 'Father,' sighed Rosamund. 'Go, get thee to thy mother, girl,' quoth I. And slowly, slowly, she betook herself Down the long hall; in lowly wise she went And made her moans. But when my girl was gone I stood at fault, th' occasion master'd me; Belike it master'd him, for both felt mute. I calmed me, and he calmed him as he might. For I bethought me I was yet an host, And he bethought him on the worthiness Of my first deeds. So made I sign to him. The tide was up, and soon I had him forth, Delivered him his goods, commended him To the captain o' the vessel, then plucked off My hat, in seemly fashion taking leave, And he was not outdone, but every way Gave me respect, and on the deck we two Parted, as I did hope, to meet no more.

Alas! my Rosamund, my Rosamund! She did not weep, no. Plain upon me, no. Her eyes mote well have lost the trick of tears: As new-washed flowers shake off the down-dropt rain, And make denial of it, yet more blue And fair of favour afterward, so they. The wild woodrose was not more fresh of blee Than her soft dimpled cheek: but I beheld, Come home, a token hung about her neck, Sparkling upon her bosom for his sake, Her love, the Spaniard, she denied it not, All unaware, good sooth, such love was bale.

And all that day went like another day, Ay, all the next; then was I glad at heart; Methought, 'I am glad thou wilt not waste thy youth Upon an alien man, mine enemy, Thy nation's enemy. In truth, in truth, This likes me very well. My most dear child, Forget yon grave dark mariner. The Lord Everlasting,' I besought, 'bring it to pass.'

Stealeth a darker day within my hall, A winter day of wind and driving foam. They tell me that my girl is sick--and yet Not very sick. I may not hour by hour, More than one watching of a moon that wanes, Make chronicle of change. A parlous change When he looks back to that same moon at full.

Ah! ah! methought, 't will pass. It did not pass, Though never she made moan. I saw the rings Drop from her small white wasted hand. And I, Her father, tamed of grief, I would have given My land, my name to have her as of old. Ay, Rosamund I speak of with the small White face. Ay, Rosamund. O near as white, And mournfuller by much, her mother dear Drooped by her couch; and while of hope and fear Lifted or left, as by a changeful tide, We thought 'The girl is better,' or we thought 'The girl will die,' that jewel from her neck She drew, and prayed me send it to her love; A token she was true e'en to the end. What matter'd now? But whom to send, and how To reach the man? I found an old poor priest, Some peril 't was for him and me, she writ My pretty Rosamund her heart's farewell, She kissed the letter, and that old poor priest, Who had eaten of my bread, and shelter'd him Under my roof in troublous times, he took, And to content her on this errand went, While she as done with earth did wait the end.

Mankind bemoan them on the bitterness Of death. Nay, rather let them chide the grief Of living, chide the waste of mother-love For babes that joy to get away to God; The waste of work and moil and thought and thrift And father-love for sons that heed it not, And daughters lost and gone. Ay, let them chide These. Yet I chide not. That which I have done Was rightly done; and what thereon befell Could make no right a wrong, e'en were 't to do Again. I will be brief. The days drag on, My soul forebodes her death, my lonely age. Once I despondent in the moaning wood Look out, and lo a caravel at sea, A man that climbs the rock, and presently The Spaniard! I did greet him, proud no more. He had braved durance, as I knew, ay death, To land on th' Island soil. In broken words Of English he did ask me how she fared. Quoth I, 'She is dying, Spaniard; Rosamund My girl will die;' but he is fain, saith he, To talk with her, and all his mind to speak; I answer, 'Ay, my whilome enemy, But she is dying.' 'Nay, now nay,' quoth he, 'So be she liveth,' and he moved me yet For answer; then quoth I, 'Come life, come death, What thou wilt, say.' Soon made we Rosamund Aware, she lying on the settle, wan As a lily in the shade, and while she not Believed for marvelling, comes he roundly in, The tall grave Spaniard, and with but one smile, One look of ruth upon her small pale face, All slowly as with unaccustom'd mouth, Betakes him to that English he hath conned, Setting the words out plain: 'Child! Rosamund! Love! An so please thee, I would be thy man. By all the saints will I be good to thee. Come.' Come! what think you, would she come? Ay, ay. They love us, but our love is not their life. For the dark mariner's love lived Rosamund. Soon for his kiss she bloomed, smiled for his smile. (The Spaniard reaped e'en as th' Evangel saith, And bore in 's bosom forth my golden sheaf.) She loved her father and her mother well, But loved the Spaniard better. It was sad To part, but she did part; and it was far To go, but she did go. The priest was brought, The ring was bless'd that bound my Rosamund, She sailed, and I shall never see her more.

One soweth and another reapeth. Ay, Too true! too true!

ECHO AND THE FERRY.

Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven; He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood. They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven! A small guest at the farm); but he said, 'Oh, a girl was no good!' So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl--only seven! At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flash'd about, And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven? I thought so. Yes, everyone else was eleven--eleven!

So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was litter'd; And under and over the branches those little birds twitter'd, While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven. A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven.

But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet, And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. Then I knew! for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold! Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter; And then some one else--oh, how softly!--came after, came after With laughter--with laughter came after.

And no one was near us to utter that sweet mocking call, That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. But this was the country--perhaps it was close under heaven; Oh, nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even. I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings not at all. Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver: She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small, Then flashed down her hole like a dart--like a dart from the quiver. And I waded atween the long grasses and felt it was bliss.

--So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall-- A little low wall--and looked over, and there was the river, The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river Clear shining and slow, she had far far to go from her snow; But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow, And she murmur'd, methought, with a speech very soft--very low. 'The ways will be long, but the days will be long,' quoth the river, 'To me a long liver, long, long!' quoth the river--the river.

I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky, The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under. But at last--in a day or two namely--Eleven and I Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. He said that was Echo. 'Was Echo a wise kind of bee That had learned how to laugh: could it laugh in one's ear and then fly And laugh again yonder?' 'No; Echo'--he whispered it low-- 'Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he, But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. Yet I that had money--a shilling, a whole silver shilling-- We might cross if I thought I would spend it.' 'Oh yes, I was willing'-- And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry When they called for the ferry; but oh! she was very--was very Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried, 'Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry--the ferry!' By the still water's side she was heard far and wide--she replied And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, 'You man of the ferry, You man of--you man of the ferry!'

'Hie over!' he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling, Across the clear reed-border'd river he ferried us fast;-- Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpass'd All measure her doubling--so close, then so far away falling, Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware, And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there!), Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical countenance fair.

We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead; In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead; By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow deep-nested, in brown-- Not Echo, fair Echo! for Echo, sweet Echo! was flown. So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call. The church was among them, grey moss over roof, over wall. Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green grassy mound And looked in at a window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round Might have come in to hide there. But no; every oak-carven seat Was empty. We saw the great Bible--old, old, very old, And the parson's great Prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle and then waver and play On the low chancel step and the railing, and Oliver said, 'Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown; And she stepped upon flowers they strew'd for her.' Then quoth small Seven: 'Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?' All doubtful: 'It takes a long time to grow up,' quoth Eleven; 'You're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never Last on till you're tall.' And in whispers--because it was old And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told, Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk, Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we spoke. Then we went from it softly and ran hand in hand to the strand, While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter the land. And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the ferry, 'O Katie!' 'O Katie!' 'Come on, then!' 'Come on, then!' 'For, see, The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree'--'by the tree.' 'By the tree.' Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry: 'Hie over!' 'Hie over!' 'You man of the ferry'--'the ferry.' 'You man of the ferry-- You man of--you man of--the ferry.'

Ay, here--it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon? Will it all seem an echo from childhood pass'd over--pass'd on? Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in the dim failing light I hear her! As then the child's voice clear and high, sweet and merry Now she mocks the man's tone with 'Hie over! Hie over the ferry!' 'And, Katie.' 'And, Katie.' 'Art out with the glow-worms to-night, My Katie?' 'My Katie?' For gladness I break into laughter And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years; Again, some one else--oh, how softly!--with laughter comes after, Comes after--with laughter comes after.

PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING.

_A Schoolroom._

_SCHOOLMASTER (_not certificated_), VICAR, _and_ CHILD.

_VICAR_. Why did you send for me? I hope all's
right?

_Schoolmaster_. Well, sir, we thought this end o' the room
was dark.

_V_. Indeed! So 't is. There's my new study lamp--

_S_. 'T would stand, sir, well beside yon laurel wreath.
Shall I go fetch it?

_V._ Do, we must not fail.
Bring candles also.

[_Exit Schoolmaster. Vicar arranges chairs._

Now, small six years old,
And why may you be here?

_Child._ I'm helping father;
But, father, why d'you take such pains?

_V._ Sweet soul,
That's what I'm for!

_C._ What, and for nothing else?

_V._ Yes! I'm to bring thee up to be a man.

_C._ And what am I for?

_V._ There, I'm busy now.