Chapter III

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

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

LEEDS, _July 1st, 1917_.

"THE IDEAL MAN"

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

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

SEMER WATER.

TO THE COMING SPRING

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

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

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

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

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

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

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

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

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

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

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

PATELEY BRIDGE, NIDDERDALE,

QUESTION

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

THE DALES OF ARCADY

FIRST DAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SECOND DAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A WAR-TIME GRACE

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

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

NIDDERDALE.

QUEEN MAB'S AWAKENING

SCENE: _The Meeting of the Waters, in Bolton Woods, Wharfedale_.

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

QUEEN MAB (_almost peevishly for a Queen_):

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

THE THRUSH (_practising trills between each line and minor arpeggios after each verse_):

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

QUEEN MAB (_impetuously_):

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

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

THE THRUSH (_his voice a degree sweeter and surer_):

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

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

QUEEN MAB (_half opening her eyes_):

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

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

THE THRUSH (_louder and clearer_):

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

_The cuckoo calls wistfully from down-dale, but_ QUEEN MAB _does not hear him._

QUEEN MAB (_stretching her small white arms and yawning dreamily_):

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

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

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

From Barden Fell.

THE THRUSH (_his voice jubilantly strong_):

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

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

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

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

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

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

BOLTON WOODS, WHARFEDALE.

Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Dales of Arcady, by Dorothy Una Ratcliffe

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