Chapter VIII: Front Matter (8)

"Ah, dear and awful God, who chastenest me, How shall my soul to this be reconciled! It is the Saviour of the world," quoth she, "And to my child He cometh as a child." Then on her knees she fell by that vast stream-- Oh, it was sorrowful, this woman's dream!

For lo, that Elder Child drew nearer now, Fair as the light, and purer than the sun. The calms of heaven were brooding on his brow, And in his arms He took her little one, Her child, that knew her, but with sweet demur Drew back, nor held his hands to come to her.

With that in mother misery sore she wept-- "O Lamb of God, I love my child so MUCH! He stole away to Thee while we two slept, But give him back, for Thou hast many such; And as for me I have but one. O deign, Dear Pity of God, to give him me again."

His feet were on the river. Oh, his feet Had touched the river now, and it was great; And yet He hearkened when she did entreat, And turned in quietness as He would wait-- Wait till she looked upon Him, and behold, There lay a long way off a city of gold.

Like to a jasper and a sardine stone, Whelmed in the rainbow stood that fair man-child, Mighty and innocent, that held her own, And as might be his manner at home he smiled, Then while she looked and looked, the vision brake, And all amazed she started up awake.

And lo, her little child was gone indeed! The sleep that knows no waking he had slept, Folded to heaven's own heart; in rainbow brede Clothed and made glad, while they two mourned and wept, But in the drinking of their bitter cup The sweet voice spoke once more, and sighed, "Look up!"

They heard, and straightway answered, "Even so: For what abides that we should look on here? The heavens are better than this earth below, They are of more account and far more dear. We will look up, for all most sweet and fair, Most pure, most excellent, is garnered there."

A REVERIE.

When I do sit apart
And commune with my heart,
She brings me forth the treasures once my own;
Shows me a happy place
Where leaf-buds swelled apace,
And wasting rims of snow in sunlight shone.

Rock, in a mossy glade,
The larch-trees lend thee shade,
That just begin to feather with their leaves;
From out thy crevice deep
White tufts of snowdrops peep,
And melted rime drips softly from thine eaves.

Ah, rock, I know, I know
That yet thy snowdrops grow,
And yet doth sunshine fleck them through the tree,
Whose sheltering branches hide
The cottage at its side,
That nevermore will shade or shelter me.

I know the stockdoves' note
Athwart the glen doth float:
With sweet foreknowledge of her twins oppressed,
And longings onward sent,
She broods before the event,
While leisurely she mends her shallow nest.

Once to that cottage door,
In happy days of yore,
My little love made footprints in the snow.
She was so glad of spring,
She helped the birds to sing,
I know she dwells there yet--the rest I do not know.

They sang, and would not stop,
While drop, and drop, and drop,
I heard the melted rime in sunshine fall;
And narrow wandering rills,
Where leaned the daffodils,
Murmured and murmured on, and that was all.

I think, but cannot tell,
I think she loved me well,
And some dear fancy with my future twined.
But I shall never know,
Hope faints, and lets it go,
That passionate want forbid to speak its mind.

DEFTON WOOD.

I held my way through Defton Wood,
And on to Wandor Hall;
The dancing leaf let down the light,
In hovering spots to fall.
"O young, young leaves, you match me well,"
My heart was merry, and sung--
"Now wish me joy of my sweet youth;
My love--she, too, is young!
O so many, many, many
Little homes above my head!
O so many, many, many
Dancing blossoms round me spread!
O so many, many, many
Maidens sighing yet for none!
Speed, ye wooers, speed with any--
Speed with all but one."

I took my leave of Wandor Hall,
And trod the woodland ways.
"What shall I do so long to bear
The burden of my days?"
I sighed my heart into the boughs
Whereby the culvers cooed;
For only I between them went
Unwooing and unwooed.
"O so many, many, many
Lilies bending stately heads!
O so many, many, many
Strawberries ripened on their beds!
O so many, many, many
Maids, and yet my heart undone!
What to me are all, are any--
I have lost my--one."

THE LONG WHITE SEAM.

As I came round the harbor buoy,
The lights began to gleam,
No wave the land-locked water stirred,
The crags were white as cream;
And I marked my love by candle-light
Sewing her long white seam.
It's aye sewing ashore, my dear,
Watch and steer at sea,
It's reef and furl, and haul the line,
Set sail and think of thee.

I climbed to reach her cottage door;
O sweetly my love sings!
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,
My soul to meet it springs
As the shining water leaped of old,
When stirred by angel wings.
Aye longing to list anew,
Awake and in my dream,
But never a song she sang like this,
Sewing her long white seam.

Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights,
That brought me in to thee,
And peace drop down on that low roof
For the sight that I did see,
And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear
All for the love of me.
For O, for O, with brows bent low
By the candle's flickering gleam,
Her wedding gown it was she wrought,
Sewing the long white seam.

AN OLD WIFE'S SONG.

And what will ye hear, my daughters dear?--
Oh, what will ye hear this night?
Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide cheer,
Or of lovers and ladies bright?

"Thou shalt sing," they say (for we dwell far away
From the land where fain would we be),
"Thou shalt sing us again some old-world strain
That is sung in our own countrie.

"Thou shalt mind us so of the times long ago,
When we walked on the upland lea,
While the old harbor light waxed faint in the white,
Long rays shooting out from the sea;

"While lambs were yet asleep, and the dew lay deep
On the grass, and their fleeces clean and fair.
Never grass was seen so thick nor so green
As the grass that grew up there!

"In the town was no smoke, for none there awoke--
At our feet it lay still as still could be;
And we saw far below the long river flow,
And the schooners a-warping out to sea.

"Sing us now a strain shall make us feel again
As we felt in that sacred peace of morn,
When we had the first view of the wet sparkling dew,
In the shyness of a day just born."

So I sang an old song--it was plain and not long--
I had sung it very oft when they were small;
And long ere it was done they wept every one:
Yet this was all the song--this was all:--

The snow lies white, and the moon gives light,
I'll out to the freezing mere,
And ease my heart with one little song,
For none will be nigh to hear.
And it's O my love, my love!
And it's O my dear, my dear!
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring,
When nobody's nigh to hear.

My love is young, she is young, is young;
When she laughs the dimple dips.
We walked in the wind, and her long locks blew
Till sweetly they touched my lips.
And I'll out to the freezing mere,
Where the stiff reeds whistle so low.
And I'll tell my mind to the friendly wind,
Because I have loved her so.

Ay, and she's true, my lady is true!
And that's the best of it all;
And when she blushes my heart so yearns
That tears are ready to fall.
And it's O my love, my love!
And it's O my dear, my dear!
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring,
When nobody's nigh to hear.

COLD AND QUIET.

Cold, my dear,--cold and quiet.
In their cups on yonder lea,
Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet;
So the moss enfoldeth thee.
"Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower--
Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree;
And when our children sleep," she sighed, "at the dusk hour,
And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me!"

Lost, my dear? Lost! nay deepest
Love is that which loseth least;
Through the night-time while thou sleepest,
Still I watch the shrouded east.
Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth,
"Lost" is no word for such a love as mine;
Love from her past to me a present giveth,
And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine.
Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth
That which was, and not in vain
Sacred have I kept, God knoweth,
Love's last words atween us twain.
"Hold by our past, my only love, my lover;
Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me!"
Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over.
Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee.

SLEDGE BELLS.

The logs burn red; she lifts her head,
For sledge-bells tinkle and tinkle, O lightly swung.
"Youth was a pleasant morning, but ah! to think 'tis fled,
Sae lang, lang syne," quo' her mother, "I, too, was young."

No guides there are but the North star,
And the moaning forest tossing wild arms before,
The maiden murmurs, "O sweet were yon bells afar,
And hark! hark! hark! for he cometh, he nears the door."

Swift north-lights show, and scatter and go.
How can I meet him, and smile not, on this cold shore?
Nay, I will call him, "Come in from the night and the snow,
And love, love, love in the wild wood, wander no more."

MIDSUMMER NIGHT, NOT DARK, NOT LIGHT.

Midsummer night, not dark, not light,
Dusk all the scented air,
I'll e'en go forth to one I love,
And learn how he doth fare.
O the ring, the ring, my dear, for me,
The ring was a world too fine,
I wish it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea,
Or ever thou mad'st it mine.

Soft falls the dew, stars tremble through,
Where lone he sits apart,
Would I might steal his grief away
To hide in mine own heart.
Would, would 'twere shut in yon blossom fair,
The sorrow that bows thy head,
Then--I would gather it, to thee unaware,
And break my heart in thy stead.

That charmèd flower, far from thy bower,
I'd bear the long hours through,
Thou should'st forget, and my sad breast
The sorrows twain should rue.
O sad flower, O sad, sad ring to me.
The ring was a world too fine;
And would it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea,
Ere the morn that made it mine.

THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE.

Fairest fair, best of good,
Too high for hope that stood;
White star of womanhood shining apart
O my liege lady,
And O my one lady,
And O my loved lady, come down to my heart.

Reach me life's wine and gold,
What is man's best all told,
If thou thyself withhold, sweet, from thy throne?
O my liege lady,
And O my loved lady,
And O my heart's lady, come, reign there alone.

THE FAIRY WOMAN'S SONG.

The fairy woman maketh moan,
"Well-a-day, and well-a-day,
Forsooth I brought thee one rose, one,
And thou didst cast my rose away."
Hark! Oh hark, she mourneth yet,
"One good ship--the good ship sailed,
One bright star, at last it set,
One, one chance, forsooth it failed."

Clear thy dusk hair from thy veiled eyes,
Show thy face as thee beseems,
For yet is starlight in the skies,
Weird woman piteous through my dreams.
"Nay," she mourns, "forsooth not now,
Veiled I sit for evermore,
Rose is shed, and charmèd prow
Shall not touch the charmèd shore."

There thy sons that were to be,
Thy small gamesome children play;
There all loves that men foresee
Straight as wands enrich the way.
Dove-eyed, fair, with me they worm
Where enthroned I reign a queen,
In the lovely realms foregone,
In the lives that might have been.

ABOVE THE CLOUDS.[1]

And can this be my own world?
'Tis all gold and snow,
Save where scarlet waves are hurled
Down yon gulf below.
'Tis thy world, 'tis my world,
City, mead, and shore,
For he that hath his own world
Hath many worlds more.

[Footnote 1: "Above the Clouds," and thirteen poems following, are from "Mopsa the Fairy."]

SLEEP AND TIME.

"Wake, baillie, wake! the crafts are out;
Wake!" said the knight, "be quick!
For high street, bye street, over the town
They fight with poker and stick."
Said the squire, "A fight so fell was ne'er
In all my bailliewick."
What said the old clock in the tower?
"Tick, tick, tick!"

"Wake, daughter, wake! the hour draws on;
Wake!" quoth the dame, "be quick!
The meats are set, the guests are coming,
The fiddler waxing his stick."
She said, "The bridegroom waiting and waiting
To see thy face is sick."
What said the new clock in her bower?
"Tick, tick, tick!"

BEES AND OTHER FELLOW-CREATURES.

The dove laid some little sticks,
Then began to coo;
The gnat took his trumpet up
To play the day through;
The pie chattered soft and long--
But that she always does;
The bee did all he had to do,
And only said, "Buzz."

THE GYPSY'S SELLING SONG.

My good man--he's an old, old man--
And my good man got a fall,
To buy me a bargain so fast he ran
When he heard the gypsies call:
"Buy, buy brushes,
Baskets wrought o' rushes.
Buy them, buy them, take them, try them,
Buy, dames all."

My old man, he has money and land,
And a young, young wife am I.
Let him put the penny in my white hand
When he hears the gypsies cry:
"Buy, buy laces,
Veils to screen your faces.
Buy them, buy them, take and try them.
Buy, maids, buy."

A WOOING SONG.

My fair lady's a dear, dear lady--
I walked by her side to woo.
In a garden alley, so sweet and shady,
She answered, "I love not you,
John, John Brady,"
Quoth my dear lady,
"Pray now, pray now, go your way now,
Do, John, do!"

Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady,
For I passed another day;
While making her moan, she sat all alone,
And thus, and thus did she say:
"John, John Brady,"
Quoth my dear lady,
"Do now, do now, once more woo now.
Pray, John, pray!"

A COURTING SONG.

"Master," quoth the auld hound
"Where will ye go?"
"Over moss, over muir,
To court my new jo."
"Master, though the night be merk,
I'se follow through the snow.

"Court her, master, court her,
So shall ye do weel;
But and ben she'll guide the house,
I'se get milk and meal.
Ye'se get lilting while she sits
With her rock and reel."

"For, oh! she has a sweet tongue,
And een that look down,
A gold girdle for her waist,
And a purple gown.
She has a good word forbye
Fra a' folk in the town."

LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD.

In the night she told a story,
In the night and all night through,
While the moon was in her glory,
And the branches dropped with dew.

'Twas my life she told, and round it
Rose the years as from a deep;
In the world's great heart she found it,
Cradled like a child asleep.

In the night I saw her weaving
By the misty moonbeam cold,
All the weft her shuttle cleaving
With a sacred thread of gold.

Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow,
Lulling tears so mystic sweet;
Then she wove my last to-morrow,
And her web lay at my feet.

Of my life she made the story:
I must weep--so soon 'twas told!
But your name did lend it glory,
And your love its thread of gold!

THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES.

Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes,
O honey-dew! drop from the tree.
Float up through your clear river shallows,
White lilies, beloved of the bee.

Let the people, O Queen! say, and bless thee,
Her bounty drops soft as the dew,
And spotless in honor confess thee,
As lilies are spotless in hue.

On the roof stands yon white stork awaking,
His feathers flush rosy the while,
For, lo! from the blushing east breaking,
The sun sheds the bloom of his smile.

Let them boast of thy word, "It is certain;
We doubt it no more," let them say,
"Than to-morrow that night's dusky curtain
Shall roll back its folds for the day."

THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY.

When I sit on market-days amid the comers and the goers,
Oh! full oft I have a vision of the days without alloy,
And a ship comes up the river with a jolly gang of towers,
And a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"

There is busy talk around me, all about mine ears it hummeth,
But the wooden wharves I look on, and a dancing, heaving buoy,
For 'tis tidetime in the river, and she cometh--oh, she cometh!
With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"

Then I hear the water washing, never golden waves were brighter,
And I hear the capstan creaking--'tis a sound that cannot cloy.
Bring her to, to ship her lading, brig or schooner, sloop or lighter,
With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"

"Will ye step aboard, my dearest? for the high seas lie before us."
So I sailed adown the river in those days without alloy.
We are launched! But when, I wonder, shall a sweeter sound float o'er us
Than yon "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"

FEATHERS AND MOSS.

The marten flew to the finch's nest,
Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay:
"The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast;
Low in the broom is thy mate to-day."

"Liest thou low, love? low in the broom?
Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,
Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom."
She beateth her wings, and away, away.

"Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told
(Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay)!
Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold.
O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!"

The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest,
Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,
Mine is the trouble that rent her breast,
And home is silent, and love is clay.

ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN.

On the rocks by Aberdeen, Where the whislin' wave had been, As I wandered and at e'en Was eerie;

There I saw thee sailing west, And I ran with joy opprest-- Ay, and took out all my best, My dearie.

Then I busked mysel' wi' speed, And the neighbors cried "What need? 'Tis a lass in any weed Aye bonny!"

Now my heart, my heart is sair. What's the good, though I be fair, For thou'lt never see me mair, Man Johnnie!

LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT.

It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay. Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side.

What's the world, my lass, my love!--what can it do? I am thine, and thou art mine; life is sweet and new. If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by, For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try.

Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side. Take a kiss from me thy man; now the song begins: "All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins."

When the darker days come, and no sun will shine, Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I'll dry thine. It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away, Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day.

SONG FOR A BABE.

Little babe, while burns the west, Warm thee, warm thee in my breast; While the moon doth shine her best, And the dews distil not.

All the land so sad, so fair-- Sweet its toils are, blest its care. Child, we may not enter there! Some there are that will not.

Fain would I thy margins know, Land of work, and land of snow; Land of life, whose rivers flow On, and on, and stay not.

Fain would I thy small limbs fold, While the weary hours are told, Little babe in cradle cold. Some there are that may not.

GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE.

One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease; 'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!" And the lark sang, "Give us glory!" And the dove said, "Give us peace!"

Then I listened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove; When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!" When the wren sang, "Give us beauty!" She made answer, "Give us love!"

Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved; Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase, And my prayer goes up, "Oh, give us, crowned in youth with marriage glory, Give for all our life's dear story, Give us love, and give us peace!"

THE TWO MARGARETS.

I.

MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE.

Lying imbedded in the green champaign That gives no shadow to thy silvery face, Open to all the heavens, and all their train, The marshalled clouds that cross with stately pace, No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest, Nor waver with the dimpling of thy breast.

O, silent Mere! about whose marges spring Thick bulrushes to hide the reed-bird's nest; Where the shy ousel dips her glossy wing, And balanced in the water takes her rest: While under bending leaves, all gem-arrayed, Blue dragon-flies sit panting in the shade:

Warm, stilly place, the sundew loves thee well, And the green sward comes creeping to thy brink, And golden saxifrage and pimpernel Lean down to thee their perfumed heads to drink; And heavy with the weight of bees doth bend White clover, and beneath thy wave descend:

While the sweet scent of bean-fields, floated wide On a long eddy of the lightsome air Over the level mead to thy lone side, Doth lose itself among thy zephyrs rare, With wafts from hawthorn bowers and new-cut hay, And blooming orchards lying far away.

Thou hast thy Sabbaths, when a deeper calm Descends upon thee, quiet Mere, and then There is a sound of bells, a far off psalm From gray church towers, that swims across the fen; And the light sigh where grass and waters meet, Is thy meek welcome to the visit sweet.

Thou hast thy lovers. Though the angler's rod Dimple thy surface seldom; though the oar Fill not with silvery globes thy fringing sod, Nor send long ripples to thy lonely shore; Though few, as in a glass, have cared to trace The smile of nature moving on thy face;

Thou hast thy lovers truly. 'Mid the cold Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee, And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold, And shape their course, high soaring, till they see Down in the world, like molten silver, rest Their goal, and screaming plunge them in thy breast.

Fair Margaret, who sittest all day long On the gray stone beneath the sycamore, The bowering tree with branches lithe and strong, The only one to grace the level shore, Why dost thou wait? for whom with patient cheer Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere?

Thou canst not tell, thou dost not know, alas! Long watchings leave behind them little trace; And yet how sweetly must the mornings pass, That bring that dreamy calmness to thy face! How quickly must the evenings come that find Thee still regret to leave the Mere behind!

Thy cheek is resting on thy hand; thine eyes Are like twin violets but half unclosed, And quiet as the deeps in yonder skies. Never more peacefully in love reposed A mother's gaze upon her offspring dear, Than thine upon the long far-stretching Mere.

Sweet innocent! Thy yellow hair floats low In rippling undulations on thy breast, Then stealing down the parted love-locks flow, Bathed in a sunbeam on thy knees to rest, And touch those idle hands that folded lie, Having from sport and toil a like immunity.

Through thy life's dream with what a touching grace Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown; Her dimples linger yet upon thy face, Like dews upon a lily this day blown; Thy sighs are born of peace, unruffled, deep; So the babe sighs on mother's breast asleep.

It sighs, and wakes,--but thou! thy dream is all, And thou wert born for it, and it for thee; Morn doth not take thy heart, nor evenfall Charm out its sorrowful fidelity, Nor noon beguile thee from the pastoral shore, And thy long watch beneath the sycamore.

No, down the Mere as far as eye can see, Where its long reaches fade into the sky, Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly; But neither thou nor any can descry Aught but the grassy banks, the rustling sedge, And flocks of wild-fowl splashing at their edge.

And yet 'tis not with expectation hushed That thy mute rosy mouth doth pouting close; No fluttering hope to thy young heart e'er rushed, Nor disappointment troubled its repose; All satisfied with gazing evermore Along the sunny Mere and reedy shore.

The brooding wren flies pertly near thy seat, Thou wilt not move to mark her glancing wing; The timid sheep browse close before thy feet, And heedless at thy side do thrushes sing. So long amongst them thou hast spent thy days, They know that harmless hand thou wilt not raise.

Thou wilt not lift it up--not e'en to take The foxglove bells that nourish in the shade, And put them in thy bosom; not to make A posy of wild hyacinth inlaid Like bright mosaic in the mossy grass, With freckled orchis and pale sassafras.

Gaze on;--take in the voices of the Mere. The break of shallow water at thy feet, Its plash among long weeds and grasses sere, And its weird sobbing,--hollow music meet For ears like thine; listen and take thy till, And dream on it by night when all is still.

Full sixteen years have slowly passed away, Young Margaret, since thy fond mother here Came down, a six month's wife, one April day, To see her husband's boat go down the Mere, And track its course, till, lost in distance blue, In mellow light it faded from her view.

It faded, and she never saw it more;-- Nor any human eye;--oh, grief! oh, woe! It faded,--and returned not to the shore; But far above it still the waters flow-- And none beheld it sink, and none could tell Where coldly slept the form she loved so well!

But that sad day, unknowing of her fate, She homeward turn'd her still reluctant feet; And at her wheel she spun, till dark and late The evening fell--the time when they should meet; Till the stars paled that at deep midnight burned-- And morning dawned, and he was not returned.

And the bright sun came up--she thought too soon-- And shed his ruddy light along the Mere; And day wore on too quickly, and at noon She came and wept beside the waters clear. "How could he be so late?"--and then hope fled; And disappointment darkened into dread.

He NEVER came, and she with weepings sore Peered in the water-nags unceasingly; Through all the undulations of the shore, Looking for that which most she feared to see. And then she took home sorrow to her heart, And brooded over its cold cruel smart.

And after, desolate she sat alone And mourned, refusing to be comforted, On the gray stone, the moss-embroidered stone, With the great sycamore above her head; Till after many days a broken oar Hard by her seat was drifted to the shore.

It came,--a token of his fate,--the whole, The sum of her misfortune to reveal; As if sent up in pity to her soul, The tidings of her widowhood to seal; And put away the pining hope forlorn, That made her grief more bitter to be borne.

And she was patient; through the weary day She toiled; though none was there her work to bless; And did not wear the sullen months away, Nor call on death to end her wretchedness, But lest the grief should overflow her breast, She toiled as heretofore, and would not rest.

But, her work done, what time the evening star Rose over the cool water, then she came To the gray stone, and saw its light from far Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame, And wondered whether there might be the place Where the soft ripple wandered o'er HIS face.

Unfortunate! In solitude forlorn She dwelt, and thought upon her husband's grave, Till when the days grew short a child was born To the dead father underneath the wave; And it brought back a remnant of delight, A little sunshine to its mother's sight;

A little wonder to her heart grown numb, And a sweet yearning pitiful and keen: She took it as from that poor father come, Her and the misery to stand between; Her little maiden babe, who day by day Sucked at her breast and charmed her woes away.

But years flew on; the child was still the same, Nor human language she had learned to speak: Her lips were mute, and seasons went and came, And brought fresh beauty to her tender cheek; And all the day upon the sunny shore She sat and mused beneath the sycamore.

Strange sympathy! she watched and wearied not, Haply unconscious what it was she sought; Her mother's tale she easily forgot, And if she listened no warm tears it brought; Though surely in the yearnings of her heart The unknown voyager must have had his part.

Unknown to her; like all she saw unknown, All sights were fresh as when they first began, All sounds were new; each murmur and each tone And cause and consequence she could not scan, Forgot that night brought darkness in its train, Nor reasoned that the day would come again.

There is a happiness in past regret; And echoes of the harshest sound are sweet. The mother's soul was struck with grief, and yet, Repeated in her child, 'twas not unmeet That echo-like the grief a tone should take Painless, but ever pensive for her sake.

For her dear sake, whose patient soul was linked By ties so many to the babe unborn; Whose hope, by slow degrees become extinct, For evermore had left her child forlorn, Yet left no consciousness of want or woe, Nor wonder vague that these things should be so.

Truly her joys were limited and few, But they sufficed a life to satisfy, That neither fret nor dim foreboding knew, But breathed the air in a great harmony With its own place and part, and was at one With all it knew of earth and moon and sun.

For all of them were worked into the dream,-- The husky sighs of wheat-fields in it wrought; All the land-miles belonged to it; the stream That fed the Mere ran through it like a thought. It was a passion of peace, and loved to wait 'Neath boughs with fair green light illuminate.

To wait with her alone; always alone: For any that drew near she heeded not, Wanting them little as the lily grown Apart from others in a shady plot, Wants fellow-lilies of like fair degree, In her still glen to bear her company.

Always alone: and yet, there was a child Who loved this child, and, from his turret towers, Across the lea would roam to where, in-isled And fenced in rapturous silence, went her hours, And, with slow footsteps drawn anear the place Where mute she sat, would ponder on her face,

And wonder at her with a childish awe, And come again to look, and yet again, Till the sweet rippling of the Mere would draw His longing to itself; while in her train The water-hen, come forth, would bring her brood From slumbering in the rushy solitude;

Or to their young would curlews call and clang Their homeless young that down the furrows creep; Or the wind-hover in the blue would hang, Still as a rock set in the watery deep. Then from her presence he would break away, Unmarked, ungreeted yet, from day to day.

But older grown, the Mere he haunted yet, And a strange joy from its sweet wildness caught; Whilst careless sat alone maid Margaret, And "shut the gates" of silence on her thought, All through spring mornings gemmed with melted rime, All through hay-harvest and through gleaning time.

O pleasure for itself that boyhood makes, O happiness to roam the sighing shore, Plough up with elfin craft the water-flakes, And track the nested rail with cautious oar; Then floating lie and look with wonder new Straight up in the great dome of light and blue.

O pleasure! yet they took him from the wold, The reedy Mere, and all his pastime there, The place where he was born, and would grow old If God his life so many years should spare; From the loved haunts of childhood and the plain And pasture-lands of his own broad domain.

And he came down when wheat was in the sheaf, And with her fruit the apple-branch bent low, While yet in August glory hung the leaf, And flowerless aftermath began to grow; He came from his gray turrets to the shore, And sought the maid beneath the sycamore.

He sought her, not because her tender eyes Would brighten at his coming, for he knew Full seldom any thought of him would rise In her fair breast when he had passed from view; But for his own love's sake, that unbeguiled Drew him in spirit to the silent child.

For boyhood in its better hour is prone To reverence what it hath not understood; And he had thought some heavenly meaning shone From her clear eyes, that made their watchings good: While a great peacefulness of shade was shed Like oil of consecration on her head.

A fishing wallet from his shoulder slung, With bounding foot he reached the mossy place, A little moment gently o'er her hung, Put back her hair and looked upon her face, Then fain from that deep dream to wake her yet, He "Margaret!" low murmured, "Margaret!

"Look at me once before I leave the land, For I am going,--going, Margaret." And then she sighed, and, lifting up her hand, Laid it along his young fresh cheek, and set Upon his face those blue twin-deeps, her eyes, And moved it back from her in troubled wise,

Because he came between her and her fate, The Mere. She sighed again as one oppressed; The waters, shining clear, with delicate Reflections wavered on her blameless breast; And through the branches dropt, like flickerings fair, And played upon her hands and on her hair.

And he, withdrawn a little space to see, Murmured in tender ruth that was not pain, "Farewell, I go; but sometimes think of me, Maid Margaret;" and there came by again A whispering in the reed-beds and the sway Of waters: then he turned and went his way.

And wilt thou think on him now he is gone? No; thou wilt gaze: though thy young eyes grow dim, And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan, Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no thought on him; There is no sweetness in his laugh for thee--No beauty in his fresh heart's gayety.

But wherefore linger in deserted haunts? Why of the past, as if yet present, sing? The yellow iris on the margin flaunts, With hyacinth the banks are blue in spring, And under dappled clouds the lark afloat Pours all the April-tide from her sweet throat.

But Margaret--ah! thou art there no more, And thick dank moss creeps over thy gray stone Thy path is lost that skirted the low shore, With willow-grass and speedwell overgrown; Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine ear Drinks in no more the music of the Mere.

The boy shall come--shall come again in spring, Well pleased that pastoral solitude to share, And some kind offering in his hand will bring To cast into thy lap, O maid most fair-- Some clasping gem about thy neck to rest, Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast.

And he shall wonder why thou art not here The solitude with "smiles to entertain," And gaze along the reaches of the Mere; But he shall never see thy face again-- Shall never see upon the reedy shore Maid Margaret beneath her sycamore.

II.

MARGARET IN THE XEBEC.

["Concerning this man (Robert Delacour), little further is known than that he served in the king's army, and was wounded in the battle of Marston Moor, being then about twenty-seven years of age. After the battle of Nazeby, finding himself a marked man, he quitted the country, taking with him the child whom he had adopted; and he made many voyages between the different ports of the Mediterranean and Levant."]

Resting within his tent at turn of day, A wailing voice his scanty sleep beset: He started up--it did not flee away-- 'Twas no part of his dream, but still did fret And pine into his heart, "Ah me! ah me!" Broken with heaving sobs right mournfully.

Then he arose, and, troubled at this thing, All wearily toward the voice he went Over the down-trod bracken and the ling, Until it brought him to a soldier's tent, Where, with the tears upon her face, he found A little maiden weeping on the ground;

And backward in the tent an aged crone Upbraided her full harshly more and more, But sunk her chiding to an undertone When she beheld him standing at the door, And calmed her voice, and dropped her lifted hand, And answered him with accent soft and bland.

No, the young child was none of hers, she said, But she had found her where the ash lay white About a smouldering tent; her infant head All shelterless, she through the dewy night Had slumbered on the field,--ungentle fate For a lone child so soft and delicate.

"And I," quoth she, "have tended her with care, And thought to be rewarded of her kin, For by her rich attire and features fair I know her birth is gentle: yet within The tent unclaimed she doth but pine and weep, A burden I would fain no longer keep."

Still while she spoke the little creature wept, Till painful pity touched him for the flow Of all those tears, and to his heart there crept A yearning as of fatherhood, and lo! Reaching his arms to her, "My sweet," quoth he, "Dear little madam, wilt thou come with me?"

Then she left off her crying, and a look Of wistful wonder stole into her eyes. The sullen frown her dimpled face forsook, She let him take her, and forgot her sighs, Contented in his alien arms to rest, And lay her baby head upon his breast.

Ah, sure a stranger trust was never sought By any soldier on a battle-plain. He brought her to his tent, and soothed his voice, Rough with command; and asked, but all in vain, Her story, while her prattling tongue rang sweet, She playing, as one at home, about his feet.

Of race, of country, or of parentage, Her lisping accents nothing could unfold;-- No questioning could win to read the page Of her short life;--she left her tale untold, And home and kin thus early to forget, She only knew,--her name was--Margaret.

Then in the dusk upon his arm it chanced That night that suddenly she fell asleep; And he looked down on her like one entranced, And listened to her breathing still and deep, As if a little child, when daylight closed, With half-shut lids had ne'er before reposed.

Softly he laid her down from off his arm, With earnest care and new-born tenderness: Her infancy, a wonder-working charm, Laid hold upon his love; he stayed to bless The small sweet head, then went he forth that night And sought a nurse to tend this new delight.

And day by day his heart she wrought upon, And won her way into its inmost fold-- A heart which, but for lack of that whereon To fix itself, would never have been cold; And, opening wide, now let her come to dwell Within its strong unguarded citadel.

She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden springs Of his past thoughts, and set their current free To talk with him of half-forgotten things-- The pureness and the peace of infancy, "Thou also, thou," to sigh, "wert undefiled (O God, the change!) once, as this little child."

The baby-mistress of a soldier's heart, She had but friendlessness to stand her friend, And her own orphanhood to plead her part, When he, a wayfarer, did pause, and bend, And bear with him the starry blossom sweet Out of its jeopardy from trampling feet.

A gleam of light upon a rainy day, A new-tied knot that must be sever'd soon, At sunrise once before his tent at play, And hurried from the battle-field at noon, While face to face in hostile ranks they stood, Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood.

But ere the fight, when higher rose the sun, And yet were distant far the rebel bands, She heard at intervals a booming gun, And she was pleased, and laughing clapped her hands; Till he came in with troubled look and tone, Who chose her desolate to be his own.

And he said, "Little madam, now farewell, For there will be a battle fought ere night. God be thy shield, for He alone can tell Which way may fall the fortune of the fight. To fitter hands the care of thee pertain, My dear, if we two never meet again."

Then he gave money shortly to her nurse, And charged her straitly to depart in haste, And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curse Of war should light with ruin, death, and waste, And all the ills that must its presence blight, E'en if proud victory should bless the right.

"But if the rebel cause should prosper, then It were not good among the hills to wend; But journey through to Boston in the fen, And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send; And if my life is spared, I will essay," Quoth he, "to join you there as best I may."

So then he kissed the child, and went his way; But many troubles rolled above his head; The sun arose on many an evil day, And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed; And hope was lost, and loyal hearts were fain In dust to hide,--ere they two met again.

So passed the little child from thought, from view-- (The snowdrop blossoms, and then is not there, Forgotten till men welcome it anew), He found her in his heavy days of care, And with her dimples was again beguiled, As on her nurse's knee she sat and smiled.

And he became a voyager by sea, And took the child to share his wandering state; Since from his native land compelled to flee, And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate; For all was lost that might have made him pause, And, past a soldier's help, the royal cause.

And thus rolled on long days, long months and years, And Margaret within the Xebec sailed; The lulling wind made music in her ears, And nothing to her life's completeness failed. Her pastime 'twas to see the dolphins spring, And wonderful live rainbows glimmering.

The gay sea-plants familiar were to her, As daisies to the children of the land; Red wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner Raised from its bed to glisten in her hand; The vessel and the sea were her life's stage-- Her house, her garden, and her hermitage.

Also she had a cabin of her own, For beauty like an elfin palace bright, With Venice glass adorned, and crystal stone That trembled with a many-colored light; And there with two caged ringdoves she did play, And feed them carefully from day to day.

Her bed with silken curtains was enclosed, White as the snowy rose of Guelderland; On Turkish pillows her young head reposed, And love had gathered with a careful hand Fair playthings to the little maiden's side, From distant ports, and cities parted wide.

She had two myrtle-plants that she did tend, And think all trees were like to them that grew; For things on land she did confuse and blend, And chiefly from the deck the land she knew, And in her heart she pitied more and more The steadfast dwellers on the changeless shore.

Green fields and inland meadows faded out Of mind, or with sea-images were linked; And yet she had her childish thoughts about The country she had left--though indistinct And faint as mist the mountain-head that shrouds, Or dim through distance as Magellan's clouds.

And when to frame a forest scene she tried, The ever-present sea would yet intrude, And all her towns were by the water's side, It murmured in all moorland solitude, Where rocks and the ribbed sand would intervene, And waves would edge her fancied village green;

Because her heart was like an ocean shell, That holds (men say) a message from the deep, And yet the land was strong, she knew its spell, And harbor lights could draw her in her sleep; And minster chimes from piercèd towers that swim, Were the land-angels making God a hymn.

So she grew on, the idol of one heart, And the delight of many--and her face, Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex apart, Was touched with a most deep and tender grace-- A look that never aught but nature gave, Artless, yet thoughtful; innocent, yet grave.

Strange her adornings were, and strangely blent: A golden net confined her nut-brown hair; Quaint were the robes that divers lands had lent, And quaint her aged nurse's skill and care; Yet did they well on the sea-maiden meet, Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled feet.

The sailor folk were glad because of her, And deemed good fortune followed in her wake; She was their guardian saint, they did aver-- Prosperous winds were sent them for her sake; And strange rough vows, strange prayers, they nightly made, While, storm or calm, she slept, in nought afraid.

Clear were her eyes, that daughter of the sea, Sweet, when uplifted to her aged nurse, She sat, and communed what the world could be; And rambling stories caused her to rehearse How Yule was kept, how maidens tossed the hay, And how bells rang upon a wedding day.

But they grew brighter when the evening star First trembled over the still glowing wave, That bathed in ruddy light, mast, sail, and spar; For then, reclined in rest that twilight gave, With him who served for father, friend, and guide, She sat upon the deck at eventide.

Then turned towards the west, that on her hair And her young cheek shed down its tender glow, He taught her many things with earnest care That he thought fitting a young maid should know, Told of the good deeds of the worthy dead, And prayers devout, by faithful martyrs said.

And many psalms he caused her to repeat And sing them, at his knees reclined the while, And spoke with her of all things good and meet, And told the story of her native isle, Till at the end he made her tears to flow, Rehearsing of his royal master's woe.

And of the stars he taught her, and their names, And how the chartless mariner they guide; Of quivering light that in the zenith flames, Of monsters in the deep sea caves that hide; Then changed the theme to fairy records wild, Enchanted moor, elf dame, or changeling child.

To her the Eastern lands their strangeness spread, The dark-faced Arab in his long blue gown, The camel thrusting down a snake-like head To browse on thorns outside a walled white town. Where palmy clusters rank by rank upright Float as in quivering lakes of ribbed light.

And when the ship sat like a broad-winged bird Becalmed, lo, lions answered in the night Their fellows, all the hollow dark was stirred To echo on that tremulous thunder's flight, Dying in weird faint moans;--till look: the sun And night, and all the things of night, were done.

And they, toward the waste as morning brake, Turned, where, in-isled in his green watered land, The Lybian Zeus lay couched of old, and spake, Hemmed in with leagues of furrow-faced sand-- Then saw the moon (like Joseph's golden cup Come back) behind some ruined roof swim up.

But blooming childhood will not always last, And storms will rise e'en on the tideless sea; His guardian love took fright, she grew so fast, And he began to think how sad 'twould be If he should die, and pirate hordes should get By sword or shipwreck his fair Margaret.

It was a sudden thought; but he gave way, For it assailed him with unwonted force; And, with no more than one short week's delay, For English shores he shaped the vessel's course; And ten years absent saw her landed now, With thirteen summers on her maiden brow.

And so he journeyed with her, far inland, Down quiet lanes, by hedges gemmed with dew, Where wonders met her eye on every hand, And all was beautiful and strange and new-- All, from the forest trees in stately ranks, To yellow cowslips trembling on the banks.

All new--the long-drawn slope of evening shades, The sweet solemnities of waxing light, The white-haired boys, the blushing rustic maids, The ruddy gleam through cottage casements bright, The green of pastures, bloom of garden nooks, And endless bubbling of the water-brooks.

So far he took them on through this green land, The maiden and her nurse, till journeying They saw at last a peaceful city stand On a steep mount, and heard its clear bells ring. High were the towers and rich with ancient state, In its old wall enclosed and massive gate.

There dwelt a worthy matron whom he knew, To whom in time of war he gave good aid, Shielding her household from the plundering crew When neither law could bind nor worth persuade, And to her house he brought his care and pride, Aweary with the way and sleepy-eyed.

And he, the man whom she was fain to serve, Delayed not shortly his request to make, Which was, if aught of her he did deserve, To take the maid, and rear her for his sake, To guard her youth, and let her breeding be In womanly reserve and modesty.

And that same night into the house he brought The costly fruits of all his voyages-- Rich Indian gems of wandering craftsmen wrought, Long ropes of pearls from Persian palaces, With ingots pure and coins of Venice mould, And silver bars and bags of Spanish gold;

And costly merchandise of far-off lands, And golden stuffs and shawls of Eastern dye, He gave them over to the matron's hands, With jewelled gauds, and toys of ivory, To be her dower on whom his love was set,-- His dearest child, fair Madam Margaret.

Then he entreated, that if he should die, She would not cease her guardian mission mild. Awhile, as undecided, lingered nigh, Beside the pillow of the sleeping child, Severed one wandering lock of wavy hair, Took horse that night, and left her unaware.

And it was long before he came again-- So long that Margaret was woman grown; And oft she wished for his return in vain, Calling him softly in an undertone; Repeating words that he had said the while, And striving to recall his look and smile.

If she had known--oh, if she could have known-- The toils, the hardships of those absent years-- How bitter thraldom forced the unwilling groan-- How slavery wrung out subduing tears, Not calmly had she passed her hours away, Chiding half pettishly the long delay.