Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

_C._ Am I to bring you up to be a child?

_V._ Perhaps! Indeed, I have heard it said thou art.

_C._ Then when may I begin?

_V._ I'm busy, I say. Begin to-morrow an thou canst, my son, And mind to do it well.

[_Exit Vicar and Child._

_Enter a group of women, and some children._

_Mrs. Thorpe._ Fine lot o' lights!

_Mrs. Jillifer._ Should be! Would folk put on their Sunday best I' the week unless they looked to have it seen? What, you here, neighbour!

_Mrs. Smith._ Ay, you may say that. Old Madam called; said she, 'My son would feel So sorry if you did not come,' and slipped The penny in my hand, she did; said I, 'Ma'am, that's not it. In short, some say your last Was worth the penny and more. I know a man, A sober man, who said, and stuck to it, _Worth a good twopence_. But I'm strange, I'm shy.' 'We hope you'll come for once,' said she. In short, I said I would to oblige 'em.

_Mrs. Green_. Ah, 't was well.

_Mrs. S_. But I feel strange, and music gets i' my throat, It always did. And singers be so smart, Ladies and folk from other parishes, Candles and cheering, greens and flowers and all I was not used to such in my young day; We kept ourselves at home.

_Mrs. J_. Never say 'used,' The most of us have many a thing to do We were not used to. If you come to that, Why none of us are used to growing old, It takes us by surprise, as one may say, That work, when we begin 't, and yet 't is work That all of us must do.

_Mrs. G_. Nay, nay, not all.

_Mrs. J_. I ask your pardon, neighbour; you be right. Not all.

_Mrs. G_. And my sweet maid scarce three months dead.

_Mrs. J_. I ask your pardon truly.

_Mrs. G_. No, my dear, Thou'lt never see old days. I cannot stint To fret, the maiden was but twelve years old, So toward, such a scholar.

_Mrs. S._ Ay, when God,
That knows, comes down to choose, He'll take the best.

_Mrs. T._ But I'm right glad you came, it pleases _them_. My son, that loves his book, 'Mother,' said he, 'Go to the Reading when you have a chance, For there you get a change, and you see life.' But Reading or no Reading, I am slow To learn. When parson after comes his rounds, 'Did it,' to ask with a persuading smile, 'Open your mind?' the woman doth not live Feels more a fool.

_Mrs. J._ I always tell him 'Yes,' For he means well. Ay, and I like the songs. Have you heard say what they shall read to-night?

_Mrs. S._. Neighbour, I hear 'tis something of the East. But what, I ask you, is the East to us, And where d'ye think it lies?

_Mrs. J._ The children know, At least they say they do; there's nothing deep Nor nothing strange but they get hold on it.

_Enter Schoolmaster and a dozen children._

_S._ Now ladies, ladies, you must please to sit More close; the room fills fast, and all these lads And maidens either have to sing before The Reading, or else after. By your leave I'll have them in the front, I want them here.

[_The women make room._

_Enter ploughmen, villagers, servants, and children._

And mark me, boys, if I hear cracking o' nuts, Or see you flicking acorns and what not While folks from other parishes observe, You'll hear on it when you don't look to. Tom And Jemmy and Roger, sing as loud's ye can, Sing as the maidens do, are they afraid? And now I'm stationed handy facing you, Friends all, I'll drop a word by your good leave.

_Young ploughman._ Do, master, do, we like your words a vast. Though there be nought to back 'em up, ye see, As when we were smaller.

_S._ Mark me, then, my lads. When Lady Laura sang, 'I don't think much,' Says her fine coachman, 'of your manners here. We drove eleven miles in the dark, it rained, And ruts in your cross roads are deep. We're here, My lady sings, they sit all open-mouthed, And when she's done they never give one cheer.'

_Old man._ Be folks to clap if they don't like the song?

_S._ Certain, for manners.

_Enter_ VICAR, _wife, various friends with violins and a flute. They come to a piano, and one begins softly to tune his violin, while the Vicar speaks_.

_V_. Friends, since there is a place where you must hear When I stand up to speak, I would not now If there were any other found to bid You welcome. Welcome, then; these with me ask No better than to please, and in good sooth I ever find you willing to be pleased. When I demand not more, but when we fain Would lead you to some knowledge fresh, and ask Your careful heed, I hear that some of you Have said, 'What good to know, what good to us? He puts us all to school, and our school days Should be at end. Nay, if they needs must teach, Then let them teach us what shall mend our lot; The laws are strict on us, the world is hard.' You friends and neighbours, may I dare to speak? I know the laws are strict, and the world hard, For ever will the world help that man up That is already coming up, and still And ever help him down that's going down. Yet say, 'I will take the words out of thy mouth, O world, being yet more strict with mine own life. Thou law, to gaze shall not be worth thy while On whom beyond thy power doth rule himself.' Yet seek to know, for whoso seek to know They seek to rise, and best they mend their lot. Methinks, if Adam and Eve in their garden days Had scorned the serpent, and obediently Continued God's good children, He Himself Had led them to the Tree of Knowledge soon And bid them eat the fruit thereof, and yet Not find it apples of death.

_Vicar's wife (aside)._ Now, dearest John, We're ready. Lucky too! you always go Above the people's heads.

_Young farmer stands forward. Vicar presenting him._

SONG.

I.

Sparkle of snow and of frost,
Blythe air and the joy of cold,
Their grace and good they have lost,
As print o' her foot by the fold.
Let me back to yon desert sand,
Rose-lipped love--from the fold,
Flower-fair girl--from the fold,
Let me back to the sultry land.
The world is empty of cheer,
Forlorn, forlorn, and forlorn,
As the night-owl's sob of fear,
As Memnon moaning at morn.
For love of thee, my dear,
I have lived a better man,
O my Mary Anne,
My Mary Anne.

II.

Away, away, and away,
To an old palm-land of tombs,
Washed clear of our yesterday
And where never a snowdrop blooms,
Nor wild becks talk as they go
Of tender hope we had known,
Nor mosses of memory grow
All over the wayside stone.

III.

Farewell, farewell, and farewell,
As voice of a lover's sigh
In the wind let yon willow wave
'Farewell, farewell, and farewell.'
The sparkling frost-stars brave
On thy shrouded bosom lie;
Thou art gone apart to dwell,
But I fain would have said good-bye.
For love of thee in thy grave
I have lived a better man,
O my Mary Anne,
My Mary Anne.

_Mrs. Thorpe (aside)._ O hearts! why, what a song!
To think on it, and he a married man!

_Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Bless you, that makes for nothing, nothing at
all,
They take no heed upon the words. His wife,
Look you, as pleased as may be, smiles on him.

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Neighbours, there's one thing beats me. We've enough O' trouble in the world; I've cried my fill Many and many a time by my own fire: Now why, I'll ask you, should it comfort me And ease my heart when, pitiful and sweet, One sings of other souls and how they mourned? A body would have thought that did not know Songs must be merry, full of feast and mirth. Or else would all folk flee away from them.

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ 'Tis strange, and I too love the sad ones best.

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Ay, how they clap him! 'Tis as who should say, Sing! we were pleased; sing us another song; As if they did not know he loves to sing. Well may he, not an organ pipe they blow On Sunday in the church is half so sweet; But he's a hard man.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Mark me, neighbours all, Hard though he be--ay, and the mistress hard-- If he do sing 'twill be a sorrowful Sad tale of sweethearts, that shall make you wish Your own time would come over again, although Were partings in 't and tears. Hist! now he sings.

_Young farmer sings again._

'Come hither, come hither.' The broom was in blossom all over yon rise;
There went a wide murmur of brown bees about it with songs from the wood.
'We shall never be younger! O love, let us forth, for the world 'neath our
eyes,
Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and right fair is her youth and
right good.'

Then there fell the great yearning upon me, that never yet went into words;
While lovesome and moansome thereon spake and falter'd the dove to the
dove.
And I came at her calling, 'Inherit, inherit, and sing with the birds;'
I went up to the wood with the child of my heart and the wife of my love.

O pure! O pathetic! Wild hyacinths drank it, the dream light, apace
Not a leaf moved at all 'neath the blue, they hung waiting for messages
kind;
Tall cherry-trees dropped their white blossom that drifted no whit from
its place,
For the south very far out to sea had the lulling low voice of the
wind.

And the child's dancing foot gave us part in the ravishment almost a pain, An infinite tremor of life, a fond murmur that cried out on time, Ah short! must all end in the doing and spend itself sweetly in vain, And the promise be only fulfilment to lean from the height of its prime?

'We shall never be younger;' nay, mock me not, fancy, none call from yon
tree;
They have thrown me the world they went over, went up, and, alas! For
my part
I am left to grow old, and to grieve, and to change; but they change not
with me;
They will never be older, the child of my love, and the wife of my
heart.

_Mrs. J. I_ told you so!

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ That did you, neighbour. Ay,
Partings, said you, and tears: I liked the song.

_Mrs. G_. Who be these coming to the front to sing?

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Why, neighbour, these be sweethearts, so 'tis said, And there was much ado to make her sing; She would, and would not; and he wanted her, And, mayhap, wanted to be seen with her. 'Tis Tomlin's pretty maid, his only one.

_Mrs. G. (aside)._ I did not know the maid, so fair she looks.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ He's a right proper man she has at last; Walks over many a mile (and counts them nought) To court her after work hours, that he doth, Not like her other--why, he'd let his work Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love, While he would sit and look, and look and sigh. Her father sent him to the right-about. 'If love,' said he, 'won't make a man of you, Why, nothing will! 'Tis mainly that love's for. The right sort makes,' said he, 'a lad a man; The wrong sort makes,' said he, 'a man a fool.'

_Vicar presents a young man and a girl._

DUET.

_She_. While he dreams, mine old grand sire,
And yon red logs glow,
Honey, whisper by the fire,
Whisper, honey low.

_He_. Honey, high's yon weary hill,
Stiff's yon weary loam;
Lacks the work o' my goodwill,
Fain I'd take thee home.
O how much longer, and longer, and longer,
An' how much longer shall the waiting last?
Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,
Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past.

_She_. Honey, bide, the time's awry,
Bide awhile, let be.
_He_. Take my wage then, lay it by,
Till 't come back with thee.
The red money, the white money,
Both to thee I bring--
_She_. Bring ye ought beside, honey?
_He_. Honey, ay, the ring.

_Duet_. But how much longer, and longer, and longer,
O how much longer shall the waiting last?
Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,
Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past.

[_Applause._

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ O she's a pretty maid, and sings so small
And high, 'tis like a flute. And she must blush
Till all her face is roses newly blown.
How folks do clap. She knows not where to look.
There now she's off; he standing like a man
To face them.

_Mrs. G. (aside)._ Makes his bow, and after her;
But what's the good of clapping when they're gone?

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Why 'tis a London fashion as I'm told,
And means they'd have 'em back to sing again.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Neighbours, look where her father, red as fire, Sits pleased and 'shamed, smoothing his Sunday hat; And Parson bustles out. Clap on, clap on. Coming? Not she! There comes her sweetheart though.

_Vicar presents the young man again_.

SONG.

I.

Rain clouds flew beyond the fell,
No more did thunders lower,
Patter, patter, on the beck
Dropt a clearing shower.
Eddying floats of creamy foam
Flecked the waters brown,
As we rode up to cross the ford,
Rode up from yonder town.
Waiting on the weather,
She and I together,
Waiting on the weather,
Till the flood went down.

II.

The sun came out, the wet leaf shone,
Dripped the wild wood vine.
Betide me well, betide me woe,
That hour's for ever mine.
With thee Mary, with thee Mary,
Full oft I pace again,
Asleep, awake, up yonder glen,
And hold thy bridle rein.
Waiting on the weather,
Thou and I together,
Waiting on the weather,
Till the flood shall wane.

III.

And who, though hope did come to nought,
Would memory give away?
I lighted down, she leaned full low,
Nor chid that hour's delay.
With thee Mary, with thee Mary,
Methought my life to crown,
But we ride up, but we ride up,
No more from yonder town.
Waiting on the weather,
Thou and I together,
Waiting on the weather,
Till the flood go down.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Well, very well; but what of fiddler Sam? I ask you, neighbours, if't be not his turn. An honest man, and ever pays his score; Born in the parish, old, blind as a bat, And strangers sing before him; 't is a shame!

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ Ay, but his daughter--

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Why, the maid's a maid One would not set to guide the chant in church, But when she sings to earn her father's bread, The mildest mother's son may cry 'Amen.'

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ They say he plays not always true.

_Mrs. J. (aside)_ What then?

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Here comes my lady. She's too fat by half For love songs. O! the lace upon her gown, I wish I had the getting of it up, 'T would be a pretty penny in my pouch.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Be quiet now for manners.

_Vicar presents a lady, who sings_.

I

Dark flocks of wildfowl riding out the storm Upon a pitching sea, Beyond grey rollers vex'd that rear and form, When piping winds urge on their destiny, To fall back ruined in white continually. And I at our trysting stone, Whereto I came down alone, Was fain o' the wind's wild moan. O, welcome were wrack and were rain And beat of the battling main, For the sake of love's sweet pain, For the smile in two brown eyes, For the love in any wise, To bide though the last day dies; For a hand on my wet hair, For a kiss e'en yet I wear, For--bonny Jock was there.

II.

Pale precipices while the sun lay low
Tinct faintly of the rose,
And mountain islands mirror'd in a flow,
Forgotten of all winds (their manifold
Peaks, reared into the glory and the glow),
Floated in purple and gold.
And I, o'er the rocks alone,
Of a shore all silent grown,
Came down to our trysting stone,
And sighed when the solemn ray
Paled in the wake o' the day.
'Wellaway, wellaway,--
Comfort is not by the shore,
Going the gold that it wore,
Purple and rose are no more,
World and waters are wan,
And night will be here anon,
And--bonny Jock's gone.'

_[Moderate applause, and calls for fiddler Sam_.

_Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Now, neighbours, call again and be not shamed; Stand by the parish, and the parish folk, Them that are poor. I told you! here he comes. Parson looks glum, but brings him and his girl.

_The fiddler Sam plays, and his daughter sings_.

Touch the sweet string. Fly forth, my heart,
Upon the music like a bird;
The silvery notes shall add their part,
And haply yet thou shalt be heard.
Touch the sweet string.

The youngest wren of nine
Dimpled, dark, and merry,
Brown her locks, and her two eyne
Browner than a berry.

When I was not in love
Maidens met I many;
Under sun now walks but one,
Nor others mark I any.

Twin lambs, a mild-eyed ewe,
That would her follow bleating,
A heifer white as snow
I'll give to my sweet sweeting.

Touch the sweet string. If yet too young,
O love of loves, for this my song,
I'll pray thee count it all unsung,
And wait thy leisure, wait it long.
Touch the sweet string.

[_Much applause_.

_Vicar_. You hear them, Sam. You needs must play
again,
Your neighbours ask it.

_Fiddler_. Thank ye, neighbours all, I have my feelings though I be but poor; I've tanged the fiddle here this forty year, And I should know the trick on 't.

_The fiddler plays, and his daughter sings_.

For Exmoor-- For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart doth cry. She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall his. Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow sky. _(Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters_, _buy_.)

For Exmoor-- O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh, 'Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and yearling shy, Mid the shrouding vapours walk now like ghosts on high.' (_Buy my cherries, blackheart cherries, lads and lassies, buy_.)

For Exmoor-- Dear my dear, why did ye so? Evil days have I, Mark no more the antler'd stag, hear the curlew cry. Milking at my father's gate while he leans anigh. (_Buy my cherries, whiteheart, blackheart, golden girls, O buy._)

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ I've known him play that Exmoor
song afore.
'Ah me! and I'm from Exmoor. I could wish
To hear 't no more.

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ Neighbours, 't is mighty hot. Ay, now they throw the window up, that's well, A body could not breathe.

[_The fiddler and his daughter go away._

_Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ They'll hear no parson's preaching, no not they! But innocenter songs, I do allow, They could not well have sung than these to-night. That man knows just so well as if he saw They were not welcome.

_The Vicar stands up, on the point of beginning to read, when the tuning and twang of the fiddle is heard close outside the open window, and the daughter sings in a clear cheerful voice. A little tittering is heard in the room, and the Vicar pauses discomfited_.

I.

O my heart! what a coil is here! Laurie, why will ye hold me dear? Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail, With a wiser lass ye'll sure prevail, For ye sing like a woodland nightingale. And there's no sense in it under the sun; For of three that woo I can take but one, So what's to be done--what's to be done? And There's no sense in it under the sun.

II.

Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign parts Come home you'll choose among kinder hearts. Forget, forget, you're too good to hold A fancy 't were best should faint, grow cold, And fade like an August marigold; For of three that woo I can take but one, And what's to be done--what's to be done? There's no sense in it under the sun, And Of three that woo I can take but one.

III.

Geordie, Geordie, I count you true, Though language sweet I have none for you. Nay, but take me home to the churning mill When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill Hang over the tufts o' the daffodil. For what's to be done--what's to be done? Of three that woo I must e'en take one, Or there's no sense in it under the sun, And What's to be done--what's to be done?

_V_. (_aside_). What's to be done, indeed!

_Wife_ (_aside_). Done! nothing, love. Either the thing has done itself, or _they_ Must undo. Did they call for fiddler Sam? Well, now they have him.

[_More tuning heard outside_.

_Mrs. J_. (_aside_). Live and let live's my motto.

_Mrs. T_. So 't is mine. Who's Sam, that he must fly in Parson's face? He's had his turn. He never gave these lights, Cut his best flowers--

_Mrs. S_. (_aside_). He takes no pride in us.
Speak up, good neighbour, get the window shut.

_Mrs. J_. (_rising_). I ask your pardon truly, that I do-- La! but the window--there's a parlous draught; The window punishes rheumatic folk-- We'd have it shut, sir.

_Others_. Truly, that we would.

_V_. Certainly, certainly, my friends, you shall.

[_The window is shut, and the Reading begins amid marked
attention_.

KISMET.

Into the rock the road is cut full deep,
At its low ledges village children play,
From its high rifts fountains of leafage weep,
And silvery birches sway.

The boldest climbers have its face forsworn,
Sheer as a wall it doth all daring flout;
But benchlike at its base, and weather-worn,
A narrow ledge leans out.

There do they set forth feasts in dishes rude
Wrought of the rush--wild strawberries on the bed
Left into August, apples brown and crude,
Cress from the cold well-head.

Shy gamesome girls, small daring imps of boys,
But gentle, almost silent at their play--
Their fledgling daws, for food, make far more noise
Ranged on the ledge than they.

The children and the purple martins share
(Loveliest of birds) possession of the place;
They veer and dart cream-breasted round the fair
Faces with wild sweet grace.

Fresh haply from Palmyra desolate,
Palmyra pale in light and storyless--
From perching in old Tadmor mate by mate
In the waste wilderness.

These know the world; what do the children know?
They know the woods, their groaning noises weird,
They climb in trees that overhang the slow
Deep mill-stream, loved and feared.

Where shaken water-wheels go creak and clack,
List while a lorn thrush calls and almost speaks;
See willow-wrens with elderberries black
Staining their slender beaks.

They know full well how squirrels spend the day;
They peeped when field-mice stole and stored the seed,
And voles along their under-water way
Donned collars of bright beads.

Still from the deep-cut road they love to mark
Where set, as in a frame, the nearer shapes
Rise out of hill and wood; then long downs dark
As purple bloom on grapes.

But farms whereon the tall wheat musters gold,
High barley whitening, creases in bare hills,
Reed-feathered, castle-like brown churches old,
Nor churning water-mills,

Shall make ought seem so fair as that beyond--
Beyond the down, which draws their fealty;
Blow high, blow low, some hearts do aye respond
The wind is from the sea.

Above the steep-cut steps as they did grow,
The children's cottage homes embowered are seen;
Were this a world unfallen, they scarce could show
More beauteous red and green.

Milk-white and vestal-chaste the hollyhock
Grows tall, clove, sweetgale nightly shed forth spice,
Long woodbines leaning over scent the rock
With airs of Paradise.

Here comforted of pilot stars they lie
In charmèd dreams, but not of wold nor lea.
Behold a ship! her wide yards score the sky;
She sails a steel-blue sea.

As turns the great amassment of the tide,
Drawn of the silver despot to her throne,
So turn the destined souls, so far and wide
The strong deep claims its own.

Still the old tale; these dreaming islanders,
Each with hot Sunderbunds a somewhat owns
That calls, the grandsire's blood within them stirs
Dutch Java guards his bones.

And these were orphan'd when a leak was sprung
Far out from land when all the air was balm;
The shipmen saw their faces as they hung,
And sank in the glassy calm.

These, in an orange-sloop their father plied,
Deck-laden deep she sailed from Cadiz town,
A black squall rose, she turned upon her side,
Drank water and went down.

They too shall sail. High names of alien lands
Are in the dream, great names their fathers knew;
Madras, the white surf rearing on her sands,
E'en they shall breast it too.

See threads of scarlet down fell Roa creep,
When moaning winds rend back her vapourous veil;
Wild Orinoco wedge-like split the deep,
Raging forth passion-pale;

Or a blue berg at sunrise glittering tall,
Great as a town adrift come shining on
With sharp spires, gemlike as the mystical
Clear city of Saint John.

Still the old tale; but they are children yet;
O let their mothers have them while they may!
Soon it shall work, the strange mysterious fret
That mars both toil and play.

The sea will claim its own; and some shall mourn;
They also, they, but yet will surely go;
So surely as the planet to its bourne,
The chamois to his snow.

'Father, dear father, bid us now God-speed; We cannot choose but sail, it thus befell.' 'Mother, dear mother--' 'Nay, 't is all decreed. Dear hearts, farewell, farewell!'

DORA.

A waxing moon that, crescent yet, In all its silver beauty set, And rose no more in the lonesome night To shed full-orbed its longed-for light. Then was it dark; on wold and lea, In home, in heart, the hours were drear. Father and mother could no light see, And the hearts trembled and there was fear. --So on the mount, Christ's chosen three, Unware that glory it did shroud, Feared when they entered into the cloud.

She was the best part of love's fair Adornment, life's God-given care, As if He bade them guard His own, Who should be soon anear His throne. Dutiful, happy, and who say When childhood smiles itself away, 'More fair than morn shall prove the day.' Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest, How shall be bettering of your best! That promise heaven alone shall view, That hope can ne'er with us come true, That prophecy life hath not skill, No, nor time leave that it fulfil.

There is but heaven, for childhood never Can yield the all it meant, for ever. Or is there earth, must wane to less What dawned so close by perfectness.

How guileless, sweet, by gift divine, How beautiful, dear child, was thine-- Spared all their grief of thee bereaven. Winner, who had not greatly striven, Hurts of sin shall not thee soil, Carking care thy beauty spoil. So early blest, so young forgiven.

Among the meadows fresh to view, And in the woodland ways she grew, On either side a hand to hold, Nor the world's worst of evil knew, Nor rued its miseries manifold, Nor made discovery of its cold. What more, like one with morn content. Or of the morrow diffident, Unconscious, beautiful she stood, Calm, in young stainless maidenhood. Then, with the last steps childhood trod, Took up her fifteen years to God.

Farewell, sweet hope, not long to last, All life is better for thy past. Farewell till love with sorrow meet, To learn that tears are obsolete.

SPERANZA.

_Her younger sister, that Speranza hight_.

England puts on her purple, and pale, pale With too much light, the primrose doth but wait To meet the hyacinth; then bower and dale Shall lose her and each fairy woodland mate. April forgets them, for their utmost sum Of gift was silent, and the birds are come.

The world is stirring, many voices blend, The English are at work in field and way; All the good finches on their wives attend, And emmets their new towns lay out in clay; Only the cuckoo-bird only doth say Her beautiful name, and float at large all day.

Everywhere ring sweet clamours, chirrupping, Chirping, that comes before the grasshopper; The wide woods, flurried with the pulse of spring, Shake out their wrinkled buds with tremor and stir; Small noises, little cries, the ear receives Light as a rustling foot on last year's leaves.

All in deep dew the satisfied deep grass
Looking straight upward stars itself with white,
Like ships in heaven full-sailed do long clouds pass
Slowly o'er this great peace, and wide sweet light.
While through moist meads draws down yon rushy mere
Influent waters, sobbing, shining, clear.

Almost is rapture poignant; somewhat ails The heart and mocks the morning; somewhat sighs, And those sweet foreigners, the nightingales, Made restless with their love, pay down its price, Even the pain; then all the story unfold Over and over again--yet 't is not told.

The mystery of the world whose name is life (One of the names of God) all-conquering wends And works for aye with rest and cold at strife. Its pedigree goes up to Him and ends. For it the lucent heavens are clear o'erhead, And all the meads are made its natal bed.

Dear is the light, and eye-sight ever sweet, What see they all fair lower things that nurse, No wonder, and no doubt? Truly their meat, Their kind, their field, their foes; man's eyes are more; Sight is man's having of the universe, His pass to the majestical far shore.

But it is not enough, ah! not enough To look upon it and be held away, And to be sure that, while we tread the rough, Remote, dull paths of this dull world, no ray Shall pierce to us from the inner soul of things, Nor voice thrill out from its deep master-strings.

'To show the skies, and tether to the sod! A daunting gift!' we mourn in our long strife. And God is more than all our thought of God; E'en life itself more than our thought of life, And that is all we know--and it is noon, Our little day will soon be done--how soon!

O let us to ourselves be dutiful: We are not satisfied, we have wanted all, Not alone beauty, but that Beautiful; A lifted veil, an answering mystical. Ever men plead, and plain, admire, implore, 'Why gavest Thou so much--and yet--not more?

We are but let to look, and Hope is weighed.' Yet, say the Indian words of sweet renown, 'The doomèd tree withholdeth not her shade From him that bears the axe to cut her down;' Is hope cut down, dead, doomed, all is vain: The third day dawns, she too has risen again

(For Faith is ours by gift, but Hope by right), And walks among us whispering as of yore: 'Glory and grace are thrown thee with the light; Search, if not yet thou touch the mystic shore; Immanent beauty and good are nigh at hand, For infants laugh and snowdrops bloom in the land.

Thou shalt have more anon.' What more? in sooth, The mother of to-morrow is to-day, And brings forth after her kind. There is no ruth On the heart's sigh, that 'more' is hidden away, And man's to-morrow yet shall pine and yearn; He shall surmise, and he shall not discern,

But list the lark, and want the rapturous cries And passioning of morning stars that sing Together; mark the meadow-orchis rise And think it freckled after an angel's wing; Absent desire his land, and feel this, one With the great drawing of the central sun.

But not to all such dower, for there be eyes Are colour-blind, and souls are spirit-blind. Those never saw the blush in sunset skies, Nor the others caught a sense not made of words As if were spirits about, that sailed the wind And sank and settled on the boughs like birds.

Yet such for aye divided from us are As other galaxies that seem no more Than a little golden millet-seed afar. Divided; swarming down some flat lee shore, Then risen, while all the air that takes no word Tingles, and trembles as with cries not heard.

For they can come no nearer. There is found No meeting point. We have pierced the lodging-place Of stars that cluster'd with their peers lie bound, Embedded thick, sunk in the seas of space, Fortunate orbs that know not night, for all Are suns;--but we have never heard that call,

Nor learned it in our world, our citadel With outworks of a Power about it traced; Nor why we needs must sin who would do well, Nor why the want of love, nor why its waste, Nor how by dying of One should all be sped, Nor where, O Lord, thou hast laid up our dead.

But Hope is ours by right, and Faith by gift. Though Time be as a moon upon the wane, Who walk with Faith far up the azure lift Oft hear her talk of lights to wax again. 'If man be lost,' she cries, 'in this vast sea Of being,--lost--he would be lost with Thee

Who for his sake once, as he hears, lost all. For Thou wilt find him at the end of the days: Then shall the flocking souls that thicker fall Than snowflakes on the everlasting ways Be counted, gathered, claimed.--Will it be long? Earth has begun already her swan-song.

Who, even that might, would dwell for ever pent In this fair frame that doth the spirit inhearse, Nor at the last grow weary and content, Die, and break forth into the universe, And yet man would not all things--all--were new.' Then saith the other, that one robed in blue:

'What if with subtle change God touch their eyes When he awakes them,--not far off, but here In a new earth, this: not in any wise Strange, but more homely sweet, more heavenly dear, Or if He roll away, as clouds disperse Somewhat, and lo, that other universe.

O how 't were sweet new waked in some good hour, Long time to sit on a hillside green and high There like a honeybee domed in a flower To feed unneath the azure bell o' the sky, Feed in the midmost home and fount of light Sown thick with stars at noonday as by night

To watch the flying faultless ones wheel down, Alight, and run along some ridged peak, Their feet adust from orbs of old renown, Procyon or Mazzaroth, haply;--when they speak Other-world errands wondrous, all discern That would be strange, there would be much to learn.

Ay, and it would be sweet to share unblamed Love's shining truths that tell themselves in tears, Or to confess and be no more ashamed The wrongs that none can right through earthly years; And seldom laugh, because the tenderness Calm, perfect, would be more than joy--would bless.

I tell you it were sweet to have enough, And be enough. Among the souls forgiven In presence of all worlds, without rebuff To move, and feel the excellent safety leaven With peace that awe must loss and the grave survive-- But palpitating moons that are alive

Nor shining fogs swept up together afar, Vast as a thought of God, in the firmament; No, and to dart as light from star to star Would not long time man's yearning soul content: Albeit were no more ships and no more sea, He would desire his new earth presently.

Leisure to learn it. Peoples would be here; They would come on in troops, and take at will The forms, the faces they did use to wear With life's first splendours--raiment rich with skill Of broidery, carved adornments, crowns of gold; Still would be sweet to them the life of old.

Then might be gatherings under golden shade, Where dust of water drifts from some sheer fall, Cooling day's ardour. There be utterance made Of comforted love, dear freedom after thrall, Large longings of the Seer, through earthly years An everlasting burden, but no tears.

Egypt's adopted child might tell of lore They taught him underground in shrines all dim, And of the live tame reptile gods that wore Gold anklets on their feet. And after him, With fairest eyes ere met of mortal ken, Glorious, forgiven, might speak the mother of men.

Talk of her apples gather'd by the marge Of lapsing Gihon. 'Thus one spoke, I stood, I ate.' Or next the mariner-saint enlarge Right quaintly on his ark of gopher wood To wandering men through high grass meads that ran Or sailed the sea Mediterranean.

It might be common--earth afforested
Newly, to follow her great ones to the sun,
When from transcendent aisles of gloom they sped
Some work august (there would be work) now done.
And list, and their high matters strive to scan
The seekers after God, and lovers of man,

Sitting together in amity on a hill, The Saint of Visions from Greek Patmos come-- Aurelius, lordly, calm-eyed, as of will Austere, yet having rue on lost, lost Rome, And with them One who drank a fateful bowl, And to the unknown God trusted his soul.

The mitred Cranmer pitied even there (But could it be?) for that false hand which signed O, all pathetic--no. But it might bear To soothe him marks of fire--and gladsome kind The man, as all of joy him well beseemed Who 'lighted on a certain place and dreamed.'

And fair with the meaning of life their divine brows, The daughters of well-doing famed in song; But what! could old-world love for child, for spouse, For land, content through lapsing eons long? Oh for a watchword strong to bridge the deep And satisfy of fulness after sleep.

What know we? Whispers fall, '_And the last first, And the first last._' The child before the king? The slave before that man a master erst? The woman before her lord? Shall glory fling The rolls aside--time raze out triumphs past? They sigh, '_And the last first, and the first last._'

Answers that other, 'Lady, sister, friend, It is enough, for I have worshipped Life; With Him that is the Life man's life shall blend, E'en now the sacred heavens do help his strife. There do they knead his bread and mix his cup, And all the stars have leave to bear him up.

Yet must he sink and fall away to a sleep, As did his Lord. This Life his worshipped Religion, Life. The silence may be deep, Life listening, watching, waiting by His dead, Till at the end of days they wake full fain Because their King, the Life, doth love and reign.

I know the King shall come to that new earth, And His feet stand again as once they stood, In His man's eyes will shine Time's end and worth The chiefest beauty and the chiefest good, And all shall have the all and in it bide, And every soul of man be satisfied.

THE BEGINNING.

They tell strange things of the primeval earth, But things that be are never strange to those Among them. And we know what it was like, Many are sure they walked in it; the proof This, the all gracious, all admired whole Called life, called world, called thought, was all as one. Nor yet divided more than that old earth Among the tribes. Self was not fully come-- Self was asleep, embedded in the whole.

I too dwelt once in a primeval world, Such as they tell of, all things wonderful; Voices, ay visions, people grand and tall Thronged in it, but their talk was overhead And bore scant meaning, that one wanted not Whose thought was sight as yet unbound of words, This kingdom of heaven having entered through Being a little child.

Such as can see, Why should they doubt? The childhood of a race. The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt Nor fear. Where all is super-natural The guileless heart doth feed on it, no more Afraid than angels are of heaven.

Who saith Another life, the next one shall not have Another childhood growing gently thus, Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take The rich long awful measure of its peace, Endure the presence sublime.

I saw Once in that earth primeval, once--a face, A little face that yet I dream upon.'

'Of this world was it?' 'Not of this world--no, In the beginning--for methinks it was In the beginning but an if you ask How long ago, time was not then, nor date For marking. It was always long ago, E'en from the first recalling of it, long And long ago.

And I could walk, and went, Led by the hand through a long mead at morn, Bathed in a ravishing excess of light. It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven, Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sun Gave every blade a bright and a dark side, Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slipped To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay. The wide oaks in their early green stood still And took delight in it. Brown specks that made Very sweet noises quivered in the blue; Then they came down and ran along the brink Of a long pool, and they were birds.

The pool Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint, A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers And flags blue-green was lying below. This all Was sight it condescended not to words Till memory kissed the charmed dream.

The mead Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair With dropping roses fell away to it, A strange sweet place; upon its further side Some people gently walking took their way Up to a wood beyond; and also bells Sang, floated in the air, hummed--what you will.'

'Then it was Sunday?' 'Sunday was not yet; It was a holiday, for all the days Were holy. It was not our day of rest (The earth for all her rolling asks not rest, For she was never weary).

It was sweet, Full of dear leisure and perennial peace, As very old days when life went easily, Before mankind had lost the wise, the good Habit of being happy.

For the pool A beauteous place it was as might be seen, That led one down to other meads, and had Clouds and another sky. I thought to go Deep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope.

Then she who led me reached the brink, her foot Staying to talk with one who met her there. Here were fresh marvels, sailing things whose vans Floated them on above the flowering flags. We moved a little onward, paused again, And here there was a break in these, and here There came the vision; for I stooped to gaze So far as my small height would let me--gaze Into that pool to see the fishes dart, And in a moment from her under hills Came forth a little child who lived down there, Looked up at me and smiled. We could not talk, But looked and loved each other. I a hand Held out to her, so she to me, but ah, She would not come. Her home, her little bed, Was doubtless under that soft shining thing The water, and she wanted not to run Among red sorrel spires, and fill her hand In the dry warmed grass with cowslip buds. Awhile our feeding hearts all satisfied, Took in the blue of one another's eyes, Two dimpled creatures, rose-lipped innocent. But when we fain had kissed--O! the end came, For snatched aloft, held in the nurse's arms, She parting with her lover I was borne Far from that little child.

And no one knew She lived down there, but only I; and none Sought for her, but I yearned for her and left Part of myself behind, as the lambs leave Their wool upon a thorn.'

'And was she seen
Never again, nor known for what she was?'

'Never again, for we did leave anon The pasture and the pool. I know not where They lie, and sleep a heaven on earth, but know From thenceforth yearnings for a lost delight; On certain days I dream about her still.'

IN THE NURSERY.

Where do you go, Bob, when you 're fast asleep?' 'Where? O well, once I went into a deep Mine, father told of, and a cross man said He'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread. I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near. She said, "You rude boy, Bob, how came you here?"'

'Was it like mother's boudoir?'

'Grander far,
Gold chairs and things--all over diamonds--Ah!'

'You're sure it was the Queen?' 'Of course, a crown Was on her, and a spangly purple gown.'

'I went to heaven last night.'

'O Lily, no,
How could you?'

'Yes I did, they told me so, And my best doll, my favourite, with the blue Frock, Jasmine, I took her to heaven too.' 'What was it like?'

'A kind of--I can't tell-- A sort of orchard place in a long dell, With trees all over flowers. And there were birds Who could do talking, say soft pretty words; They let me stroke them, and I showed it all To Jasmine. And I heard a blue dove call, "Child, this is heaven." I was not frightened when It spoke, I said "Where are the angels then?"'

'Well.'

'So it said, "Look up and you shall see." There were two angels sitting in the tree, As tall as mother; they had long gold hair. They let drop down the fruit they gather'd there And little angels came for it--so sweet. Here they were beggar children in the street, And the dove said they had the prettiest things, And wore their best frocks every day.'

'And wings,
Had they no wings?'

'O yes, and lined with white Like swallow wings, so soft--so very light Fluttering about.'

'Well.'

'Well, I did not stay,
So that was all.'

'They made you go away?'

'I did not go--but--I was gone.'

'I know.'

'But it's a pity, Bob, we never go Together.'

'Yes, and have no dreams to tell,
But the next day both know it all quite well.'

'And, Bob, if I could dream you came with me You would be there perhaps.'

'Perhaps--we'll see.'

THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD.

Toll-- Toll.' 'The bell-bird sounding far away, Hid in a myall grove.' He raised his head, The bush glowed scarlet in descending day, A masterless wild country--and he said, My father ('Toll.') 'Full oft by her to stray, As if a spirit called, have I been led; Oft seems she as an echo in my soul ('Toll.') from my native towers by Avon ('Toll').

('Toll.') Oft as in a dream I see full fain The bell-tower beautiful that I love well, A seemly cluster with her churches twain. I hear adown the river faint and swell And lift upon the air that sound again, It is, it is--how sweet no tongue can tell, For all the world-wide breadth of shining foam, The bells of Evesham chiming "Home, sweet home."

The mind hath mastery thus--it can defy The sense, and make all one as it DID HEAR-- Nay, I mean more; the wraiths of sound gone by Rise; they are present 'neath this dome all clear. ONE, sounds the bird--a pause--then doth supply Some ghost of chimes the void expectant ear; Do they ring bells in heaven? The learnedest soul Shall not resolve me such a question. ('Toll.')

('Toll.') Say I am a boy, and fishing stand By Avon ('Toll.') on line and rod intent, How glitters deep in dew the meadow land-- What, dost thou flit, thy ministry all spent, Not many days we hail such visits bland, Why steal so soon the rare enravishment? Ay gone! the soft deceptive echoes roll Away, and faint into remoteness.' ('Toll.')

While thus he spoke the doom'd sun touched his bed In scarlet, all the palpitating air Still loyal waited on. He dipped his head, Then all was over, and the dark was there; And northward, lo! a star, one likewise red But lurid, starts from out her day-long lair, Her fellows trail behind; she bears her part, The balefullest star that shines, the Scorpion's heart

Or thus of old men feigned, and then did fear, Then straight crowd forth the great ones of the sky In flashing flame at strife to reach more near. The little children of Infinity, They next look down as to report them 'Here,' From deeps all thoughts despair and heights past high, Speeding, not sped, no rest, no goal, no shore, Still to rush on till time shall be no more.

'Loved vale of Evesham, 'tis a long farewell, Not laden orchards nor their April snow These eyes shall light upon again; the swell And whisper of thy storied river know, Nor climb the hill where great old Montfort fell In a good cause hundreds of years ago; So fall'n, elect to live till life's ally, The river of recorded deeds, runs dry.

This land is very well, this air,' saith he, 'Is very well, but we want echoes here. Man's past to feed the air and move the sea; Ages of toil make English furrows dear, Enriched by blood shed for his liberty, Sacred by love's first sigh and life's last fear, We come of a good nest, for it shall yearn Poor birds of passage, but may not return,

Spread younger wings, and beat the winds afar. There sing more poets in that one small isle Than all isles else can show--of such you are; Remote things come to you unsought erewhile, Near things a long way round as by a star. Wild dreams!' He laughed, 'A sage right infantile; With sacred fear behold life's waste deplored, Undaunted by the leisure of the Lord.

Ay go, the island dream with eyes make good, Where Freedom rose, a lodestar to your race; And Hope that leaning on her anchor stood Did smile it to her feet: a right small place. Call her a mother, high such motherhood, Home in her name and duty in her face; Call her a ship, her wide arms rake the clouds, And every wind of God pipes in her shrouds.

Ay, all the more go you. But some have cried "The ship is breaking up;" they watch amazed While urged toward the rocks by some that guide; Bad steering, reckless steering, she all dazed Tempteth her doom; yet this have none denied Ships men have wrecked and palaces have razed, But never was it known beneath the sun, They of such wreckage built a goodlier one.

God help old England an't be thus, nor less God help the world.' Therewith my mother spake, 'Perhaps He will! by time, by faithlessness, By the world's want long in the dark awake, I think He must be almost due: the stress Of the great tide of life, sharp misery's ache, In a recluseness of the soul we rue Far off, but yet--He must be almost due.

God manifest again, the coming King.' Then said my father, 'I beheld erewhile, Sitting up dog-like to the sunrising, The giant doll in ruins by the Nile, With hints of red that yet to it doth cling, Fell, battered, and bewigged its cheeks were vile, A body of evil with its angel fled, Whom and his fellow fiends men worshipped.

The gods die not, long shrouded on their biers, Somewhere they live, and live in memory yet; Were not the Israelites for forty years Hid from them in the desert to forget-- Did they forget? no more than their lost feres Sons of to-day with faces southward set, Who dig for buried lore long ages fled, And sift for it the sand and search the dead.

Brown Egypt gave not one great poet birth, But man was better than his gods, with lay He soothed them restless, and they zoned the earth, And crossed the sea; there drank immortal praise; Then from his own best self with glory and worth And beauty dowered he them for dateless days. Ever "their sound goes forth" from shore to shore, When was there known an hour that they lived more.

Because they are beloved and not believed, Admired not feared, they draw men to their feet; All once, rejected, nothing now, received Where once found wanting, now the most complete; Man knows to-day, though manhood stand achieved, His cradle-rockers made a rustling sweet; That king reigns longest which did lose his crown, Stars that by poets shine are stars gone down.